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Britain vs Jersey Part 1 (Taster)
Mar. 7th, 2012 09:16 pmTitle: Britain vs Jersey Part 1
Fandom: frerard
Author:
Rating: R
Summary: Gerard hates Weddings. He also hates England. Posh losers. Nowhere fun to go here. The punk scene probably doesn't even exist. What is the POINT.
Warnings: Mild Violence
Disclaimer: I'm a liar, Umbridge told me so.
The walls were black. The ceiling was black. The door was black. Most of the objects littered on the floor, identifiable only by the luminous glow coming from a digital clock, were black. The clothes draped around the room were shades of black and grey. The artwork was dark, disturbing, and painted with thick black lines.
It was, all things considered, a rather depressing room.
"Gerard?" A voice sounded from the other side of the door. The dark bedsheets ruffled and moaned. "Gee, I'm coming in." The door cracked open and a sliver of light entered the room.
"Mmpharrghh..." The bedsheets repeated.
"Gee, you're doing it again." A skinny boy of about sixteen walked into the room and stood next to the bed, allowing the door to open fully behind him and let in a wave of artificial light. "You're doing the 'I don't want to do anything ever' voice. I know why, Gee, but we promised. We promised." He leaned in, throwing his angular features into shadow, and whispered; "So you better start to pack."
Gerard sat up, sharply, narrowly missed headbutting his younger brother into next week. Jesus, that kid knew how to wake him. Yelling? He could stand. Kicking? Fine. Whispering? That shit scared the living daylights out of him, especially in a hangover induced nightmare.
By the time he'd come to terms with being awake (which he was, he wasn't still asleep, like he'd dreamed only moments before) Mikey had sneaked his way out of the room and back into the safety of the basement landing. Damn. He'd have to find some other way to punish him. What was that he'd said, anyway? Better start to pack? What the Hell?
Oh. Shit.
Mom's friend and her stupid, stupid wedding, taking up his precious time off. His first holiday out of Art School, and stupid Josyphine (was it Josyphine? It could have been Joanne... who gives a fuck, anyway?) was getting married. In England.
Of all the places in the world, Gerard would not have picked going to England in his first holiday from College. He knew about England- all posh bastards sitting in gingham and tartan and drinking tea, going to bed at eight and listening to the Queen. Not even Queen the band- THE actual QUEEN. There was nothing for him there.
He sat staring at the wall for a long moment, wondering morbidly what Joanne would look like if her head where smashed on it. Bitch.
Moodily, he got up. His morning hair was as bad as it's ever been- he could feel the black tendrils sticking out nearly horizontally, just as his friend Ray's hair did regularly. He chuckled for a moment, wondering what Ray's bedhead must look like.
Ray- his eyes widened. Fuck, he'd completely forgotten. They had a spare plane ticket (Joannes nephew Pete was ill, and they had been taking him- there was totally something going on with him and Mikey) and Ray was meant to fill the gap and come with them. But he'd forgotten to ask. The one thing, the one thing that made this whole fucking escapade alright, he'd forgotten. Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot.
"Gee?" Mikeys voice broke through the thoughts of oh, God, this is just like the time we forgot him at the zoo on that school trip, "Gee, I asked Ray. It's okay, calm down, I did it." Relief washed over him. Thank God for Mikey Way.
"Was I... saying that out loud?" Not quite sure why he was asking that. Of course he was. Idiot.
Mikey giggled. "Why, yes, yes you were."
Gerard leaned his head back and groaned. First sign of motherfucking madness. He was going to be admitted to an English Loony Bin. This holiday was going to be great.
Fandom: frerard
Author:
Rating: R
Summary: Gerard hates Weddings. He also hates England. Posh losers. Nowhere fun to go here. The punk scene probably doesn't even exist. What is the POINT.
Warnings: Mild Violence
Disclaimer: I'm a liar, Umbridge told me so.
The walls were black. The ceiling was black. The door was black. Most of the objects littered on the floor, identifiable only by the luminous glow coming from a digital clock, were black. The clothes draped around the room were shades of black and grey. The artwork was dark, disturbing, and painted with thick black lines.
It was, all things considered, a rather depressing room.
"Gerard?" A voice sounded from the other side of the door. The dark bedsheets ruffled and moaned. "Gee, I'm coming in." The door cracked open and a sliver of light entered the room.
"Mmpharrghh..." The bedsheets repeated.
"Gee, you're doing it again." A skinny boy of about sixteen walked into the room and stood next to the bed, allowing the door to open fully behind him and let in a wave of artificial light. "You're doing the 'I don't want to do anything ever' voice. I know why, Gee, but we promised. We promised." He leaned in, throwing his angular features into shadow, and whispered; "So you better start to pack."
Gerard sat up, sharply, narrowly missed headbutting his younger brother into next week. Jesus, that kid knew how to wake him. Yelling? He could stand. Kicking? Fine. Whispering? That shit scared the living daylights out of him, especially in a hangover induced nightmare.
By the time he'd come to terms with being awake (which he was, he wasn't still asleep, like he'd dreamed only moments before) Mikey had sneaked his way out of the room and back into the safety of the basement landing. Damn. He'd have to find some other way to punish him. What was that he'd said, anyway? Better start to pack? What the Hell?
Oh. Shit.
Mom's friend and her stupid, stupid wedding, taking up his precious time off. His first holiday out of Art School, and stupid Josyphine (was it Josyphine? It could have been Joanne... who gives a fuck, anyway?) was getting married. In England.
Of all the places in the world, Gerard would not have picked going to England in his first holiday from College. He knew about England- all posh bastards sitting in gingham and tartan and drinking tea, going to bed at eight and listening to the Queen. Not even Queen the band- THE actual QUEEN. There was nothing for him there.
He sat staring at the wall for a long moment, wondering morbidly what Joanne would look like if her head where smashed on it. Bitch.
Moodily, he got up. His morning hair was as bad as it's ever been- he could feel the black tendrils sticking out nearly horizontally, just as his friend Ray's hair did regularly. He chuckled for a moment, wondering what Ray's bedhead must look like.
Ray- his eyes widened. Fuck, he'd completely forgotten. They had a spare plane ticket (Joannes nephew Pete was ill, and they had been taking him- there was totally something going on with him and Mikey) and Ray was meant to fill the gap and come with them. But he'd forgotten to ask. The one thing, the one thing that made this whole fucking escapade alright, he'd forgotten. Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot.
"Gee?" Mikeys voice broke through the thoughts of oh, God, this is just like the time we forgot him at the zoo on that school trip, "Gee, I asked Ray. It's okay, calm down, I did it." Relief washed over him. Thank God for Mikey Way.
"Was I... saying that out loud?" Not quite sure why he was asking that. Of course he was. Idiot.
Mikey giggled. "Why, yes, yes you were."
Gerard leaned his head back and groaned. First sign of motherfucking madness. He was going to be admitted to an English Loony Bin. This holiday was going to be great.
