We Can Run, Or We Can Die [Frerard]

One|Be Careful What You Wish For

But he froze, with his finger halfway to his mouth, his eyebrows drawing together. Who would leave a perfectly good chocolate cake lying around, especially in times like these when such foods were rare and considered a delicacy? He wiped his finger on his already filthy jeans and grabbed a soda, before slowly closing the fridge door.

He glanced around, opening the can. The sound was scarily loud in the scarily quiet room, and he froze momentarily once more. He raised the can to his lips, sniffing at the contents before taking a sip. He ended up downing half the can, burping noisily afterwards and giggling to himself as he set the can on the table. He then checked every cupboard in turn, checking for any food that he could find, and what he did find he took and stuffed into his bag.

He licked his lips before picking up his bag and leaving the room, heading up the dusty staircase to see what would be up there. He expected a bathroom, maybe a couple of bedrooms, and that was essentially what he got. There was a small bathroom - no water, obviously - and two bedrooms; one with a double bed, and one with a single bed that held a suspicious smell and a human-sized lump under the sheets.

He swallowed heavily, backing out of the room and chewing on his lower lip. He wouldn't be surprised if there was a dead body in there - after all, it had happened before - but that was something he didn't want to investigate. Instead, he set himself in the living room with a book, and he began to read the hours away.

~

Gerard couldn't sleep that night.

He often found sleep difficult to come by; whether it was because he was alone, or he was so full of fear it was impossible to completely shut down, he didn't know. He wouldn't be surprised if it was both, but he'd be much less scared during the day if he could fucking sleep at night. His nerves were all jittery and on edge, and he jumped at every little noise.

He'd taken the double bed upstairs, deciding almost immediately that he'd sleep there because there was no way he'd be sleeping on the floor. He tossed and turned, getting tangled up in the duvet, his backpack hung upon the bedpost and his gun on the nightstand and his clothes on. There was no more stripping naked, no more sinking into the pillows with promises of decent dreams and a good night's sleep, no more comfort.

It was dark, the light of the moon streaming through the curtainless window and illuminating the closed door, and it was quiet and still. He couldn't smell the suspicious smell from next door, but he thought about it, and it made his stomach churn. The thought of something in that bed - dead or soon-to-be undead - honestly scared him, because even after all these years he was still pathetically squeamish.

Gerard probably hated being alone most of all, because he hated having nobody to talk to, he hated not having his younger brother around. The two of them would stay up late into the night, talking about anything and everything, and after the outbreak, they'd protect each other. They'd take shifts, or if neither could sleep, they'd guard together. But then he disappeared, and Gerard had nobody.

He just wanted someone to talk to.

Mikey was all he'd had, after his parents had died, and he was nothing, if not loyal, to his brother. He'd looked after the younger Way all his life, guided him, helped him, taught him. They'd relied heavily on each other and the day Mikey disappeared was the worst day of his life.

He wanted to go looking for his brother, but he didn't know where to go and didn't know who to ask. There wasn't anyone to ask. He was alone.

He just wished for some company.

The sound of the door creaking downstairs made him shoot up, throwing the duvet back and stuffing his feet in his shoes, which took him less than ten seconds. It was a well-practised action, something he'd needed to learn how to do - it had gotten him out of some very tricky situations before. He picked up his gun, and with his left hand, he slowly and carefully opened the bedroom door.

Maybe he wasn't as alone as he'd anticipated. Or as alone as he could be, with that suspicious smell in the next room.

Be careful what you wish for, Gerard, he thought.

There was shuffling downstairs, and his heart raced uncomfortably in his chest. Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck - he took a few steps across the landing, as quietly as he possibly could, before peering over the banister. His shoes were near-enough silent on the staircase, and he thought it was all good until -

On the third step from the bottom, there was a surprisingly loud creak, and Gerard's blood ran cold. His hands were sweaty around the gun, and he tried to listen out for any sounds, but there were none. A stupid fucking scary silence that sent chills down his spine.

After two minutes - he counted - he continued down the stairs. The front door was where he'd left it, the windows were still boarded up, and everything seemed...normal. He peered in the rooms on the way to the kitchen, where he noticed the fridge door ajar. He frowned, stepping forward to investigate further, maybe even close the damn thing - he probably hadn't even closed it properly, knowing him - when he was knocked to the floor.

A knee was digging into his ribs and a foot was pressed against his throat - more alarmingly, he could feel the tip of a knife against his cheek. The smell of tobacco and filth and probably some sort of shit filled his nostrils, and he screwed his nose up, struggling to move beneath his apparent captor. And then there was a voice, hissing, furious:

"Who the fuck are you?!"

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