Random Frerard Fluff [ONE SHOTS] [COMPLETED]

Vinyls

AU FIC

Every Friday, Gerard ventured out of the confines of his shared flat, and into the world; on a quest for what he'd be hasty to call 'musical enlightenment'. It was what he'd also call 'an excuse', for that was only the term he'd give Mikey – when questioned about his routinely post-noon departure, as he was every Goddamn Friday. Gerard recognised that in was in his younger brother's nature to be curious, but he did wish that Mikey would stop pestering him about it.

He knew, of course, that it was also in his younger brother's nature to take this curiosity into the field of investigation, but Gerard had embarked on this 'quest' with the knowledge that Mikey was bound to find out sometime. It was far too plausible for his liking, but there wasn't much he could do – the act of snooping was merely in a brother's job description – Mikey would find out, and Gerard would just have to deal with it when the time came.

In spite of Mikey's frequent interrogation sessions, however, on every Friday afternoon Gerard continued to drive the familiar hour journey in a strange kind of solace – his destination: the old record store on the outskirts of town. The store's sign – a large, rectangular piece of rotten wood with peeling grey paint that sat above the grubby glass door and sported faded lettering that barely spelt out a name anymore – pretty much exhibited the store's atmosphere, inside and out. To describe it in one word, the store was simply dead; it had emerged in the early sixties, and had scarcely thrived – with the exception of regulars, mainly referring to Jersey's collectors and a handful from interstate – since the invention of cassette tapes, CD's, and MP3 players (in chronological order). It was a mystery that they hadn't been evicted as of yet.

On the inside, the store was dusty and hay-fever inducing; the air stale and overused; the front door kept shut far too often; the shelves hadn't been restacked for almost ten years; and there was only ever one person in there besides Gerard, the person manning the counter, so the expanse of the store felt far greater than it was in reality. On the outside, the store was decorated by its frame of insipid red bricks, one convex slither of a murky window, and the adjacent garden of cigarette butts that constantly littered the shady, utterly grey street.

Another word accurate in describing the store was indeed grey: it felt grey in nature, and matched in aesthetic features – the sign outside was grey, the interior walls and linoleum were grey, and Hell, even the plastic record sleeves were grey. The place just seemed to radiate a certain greyness, but it was an example of one particularly dull shade, thus it fit right in with its habitat and surroundings – it was the dangerous district of New Jersey, after all.

Gerard had discovered Iero's Vinyls on an angst-ridden getaway, after an argument with his then-girlfriend. He had simply driven aimlessly and continuously, until he found himself upon the doorstep of the interestingly uninhabited little brick form, looming over him and casting a chilly shadow that taunted the heat of the summer day. A post-it note had been precariously stuck to the door, flapping despondently in the slight breeze, and Gerard had to squint in order to read the messy cursive. He could make out something about a vacation, and something about the shop being closed for a few days – not that it mattered of course, because Gerard had already decided that he would definitely drop in again someday, though the date would be spontaneous. He had promptly returned to his car, and in turn, his cloud of angered thoughts – although, his day had been mysteriously brightened by the mysteriously dim and darkened building.

An odd eight months later, Gerard pushes the glass door to Iero's open, causing the bell above him to resonate throughout the room in a uniquely unenthusiastic way that only it could. He makes his way to the counter, where the manager has a book laid out in front of him. The man turns his page slowly, a look of concentration plastered to his stubbly face.