Playground [Frerard AU]

THREE

He won't be there, I told myself, putting one foot in front of the other and trying to remember the way to that abandoned playground. The guy I saw the first time had probably only been there as a one time thing. It wasn't exactly the nicest of places, even if it was quiet.

I turned down two wrong alleyways before I found the route I took accidentally the other day. But when I did find the playground, I found it to be blissfully empty of life.

It was beautiful. The washed-out colours of the metal toys and the rust adorning their frames. The leaves blanketing the tarmac and the muted hues of dying flowers in the ground. An atmosphere of something surrounded the place, not quite dead but still not alive. The air was almost poetic.

A graveyard for childhood.

I picked a bench at random and sat down, crossing my legs - with slight difficulty due to my jeans - and taking a book from out of my satchel. The novel was one I'd read at least five times throughout the course of my life; The Virgin Suicides. Flicking to the page I'd last finished reading, I settled into the words and the silence.

I was getting tired and considering going home when I heard the yelp.

"Wh-what are you doing h-here?"

My head snapped up and I stared at the owner of the voice, jaw slack. It was the boy who had been here the other day, sketchbook in hand and biting his lip as he looked me up and down. It made me very uncomfortable but he looked just as nervous as I felt, which funnily enough made me feel a little better.

"My, uh, grandma had people over again and I, um, wanted to be alone," I said hesitantly. Why was I telling this stranger this? He nodded slowly after breaking eye contact with me. I was grateful for that. I don't know why I find looking into people's eyes stressful and difficult, I just do. Glances are fine, but any longer I just can't do.

"H-how," the stranger started, voice wavery and high-pitched. He cleared his throat. "How did you find this place?"

"By accident," I said, holding my left hand with my right and driving my thumb against my palm again and again, my eyes trained on my movements. Nervous habit.

I looked at the boy in time to see him nod again. "Who are you?" He squinted at me briefly and I looked down again.

"I'm Frank," I answered quietly. "Who are you?"

The boy sighed. "I'm Gerard. I come here to, uh, draw." My gaze flicked back down to the sketchbook in his hand. It was a sizeable thing, with worn edges and a cup ring on the cover. A sudden, overwhelming urge to look at his work rushed through me but I swallowed the question down. That was personal.

I held up my book for him to see. "I come here for peace and quiet."

"Me too." Gerard turned away from me and sat down on a different bench, not saying another word. I watched him pull his knees up to his chest with his converse on the wood and lean his sketchbook against his thighs. He then began to draw and I returned to reading. We didn't speak again.