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Sep. 16th, 2011 06:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gala_applesTitle: Double Kick
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gala_apples khereselle
Character: Gerard
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 2426
Series: Slantverse
Summary: Gabe's birthday party is really the shit candle on top of the shit cake that has been Gerard's week.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Author's Note: Gerard/Pedicone was going to be a major pairing for our verse. And then failicone, well, failed, and we had to get creative.
While he won’t say it out loud for fear of sounding like that children’s book, Gerard’s been having a bad week. A bad, no good, very terrible week. Yeah, it sounds pathetic in his head too.
It was maybe understandable for his friends to miss the inaugural meeting. Gerard’s willing to admit that it’s possible he didn’t impress upon everyone how important it was that active people as well as non-active people join. The first alliance meeting wasn’t a complete disaster-- a living breathing questioning girl showed up. Which of course brings up the question: should they change ANAA to ANAQA?
He grabs a pen from the plastic box magneted on the fridge and writes the acronym on his arm. He’ll ask Lyn-Z if she shows up tonight, or on Monday. There’s obviously no point in asking anyone here. None of them care about the atmosphere towards non-actives at their school. He spent the whole week trying to explain how important a large membership was, and not a single one of them bothered to show up to the second meeting. Excuses ran from work to detention to Carden’s obvious bullshit about getting propositioned by a blond guy. The entire table knew he only said it to get to Tom, but judging by the scowl from the latter for the rest of lunch, it worked.
Things only went downhill from there. On Tuesday Mikey went out for a group scene. Tuesday is Doctor Who night. Gerard's been watching Doctor Who with Mikey since they were kids. It's a tradition, like Thanksgiving. Or breathing. Well maybe that's an obligation, not a tradition, but still. Doctor Who is a fucking obligation too, just in a nice way. For thirteen weeks a year Gerard and Mikey demand an hour one night a week from each other. When Gerard tried to remind him Mikey said they could just download it. Entirely not the point.
Then on Wednesday, Gerard realized his brown rat was missing. He kept his rat collection in the art room so he’d have references for the series he was drawing. He isn’t sure, but he thought he gave it to someone. He can’t remember who it might have been, or if they ever gave it back. But Pedicone had given him the brown one for his birthday last year, and Gerard can’t find it anywhere.
Thursday, Pedicone was missing.
Gerard figured at first that he was sick, though Pedicone usually texted him with instructions or reminders-- keep rants to 3 min or less-- when he wasn’t going to be around. Gee texted him-- u ok?-- but all he got back was ok. busy cant talk. He tried calling after school. There was no answer.
Gerard isn’t paranoid. He isn’t usually aware enough of the world outside his head to be paranoid. But this seemed weird, and not like fun Twilight-Zone weird, but off-kilter weird, like the ground had tilted just a little bit and things weren’t where they should be.
Today is Friday. Pedicone still wasn’t in school. Mikey won’t indulge his concerns of Pedicone being in the hospital, or kidnapped by some sort of alien life form. All Mikey cares about is creating mixed drinks for everyone. Mikey’s not technically the bartender for tonight; no one gave him the job, but he claims if he doesn’t mix everyone will just resort to shots, or even drinking straight from the bottle like barbarians. And there are a lot of bottles. Victoria took a moment while Gabe was in the bathroom on Tuesday to instruct everyone to get him liquor for his birthday. So far Brendon’s the only one that hasn’t come in with an awkwardly wrapped fifth, or a long bottle in a gift bag, or a case of beer with a ribbon strung through the handle holes. Gerard doesn’t have to ask to know that Tom brought that.
So Mikey is in the living room with all the containers on the old square tv, and half the group is clustered around him, and Gerard is alone in the kitchen. Every thirty seconds someone bursts into another rendition of Happy Birthday To You, and every minute Gerard listens to the clicking his phone makes when he types in Pedicone’s number. It’s not even ringing anymore. It must have run out of battery. It’s concerning, because his parents probably wouldn’t have thought to bring the charger to the hospital.
“Hey.” Sisky comes into the kitchen holding a red plastic cup. He hands it to Gerard. “Everything okay? I figured you’d want something to drink.”
Gerard sniffs the cup. “What is it?”
“Raspberry vodka and pineapple juice.” Gerard just looks at him. “It’s got a paper umbrella,” Sisky points out. “You like little paper umbrellas.”
Gerard looks down at his phone again. No texts in the last ten seconds. He takes a swig of his drink, coughs, splutters. There’s a lot less pineapple juice in it than he anticipated. The burn in his throat and stomach feels good, though. He takes another gulp. “If you went to the hospital,” he asks Sisky, “would you bring your phone with you?”
“I’d have to,” says Sisky. “Pete would want to know how I was doing. Probably like every couple minutes or so.”
Gerard feels the burn rise back up in his throat, and swallows it down. “Okay. Thanks.” It’s a dismissal of sorts, and Sisky nods and goes back into the living room. Gerard calls Pedicone again. Again, there’s no answer. “Hey,” he says to the voicemail. “It’s, uh, it’s me. I know I’ve been calling a lot, but I’m just, I’m just really worried. I really hope you’re okay. Call me, okay? Please?”
He shuts his phone and looks into his cup. Half gone. He drains the rest and goes back into the living room. Spencer is dealing out cards on one patch of floor. Whatever it is, he’s apparently figured on six players, even though only Brendon is sitting beside him. Gerard deftly walks around them to get to the television. A clear trash bag at Mikey’s feet already has two bottles and a dozen cups in it.
“I need another one,” he demands, holding his cup over Butcher’s shoulder.
“The same mix, or...?”
“I don’t care. If it has alcohol, it’s my friend.”
“I thought we were your friends?” Gabe’s breath smells like nothing but rum when his face presses against Gerard’s ear.
“Booze is your true love too, don’t front,” Nate answers for him.
“Can someone call Pedicone, ask if he’s busy?” It hurts to think, but maybe he’s just not answering his texts. Maybe he did something to make Pedicone mad, really really mad. Gerard knows he’s been ranting about his friends’ lack of participation for the last few days, and maybe Pedicone is punishing him. Pete punishes Sisky by telling him he’s disappointed, and the one time it came up with the trio Gabe refused to call Nate pup for three days, but Pedicone’s method has always been ignoring him.
“Sure thing. Fucker knows it’s my birthday. Since he’s not here he can go get me some Kahlua. There is a distinct lack of Kahlua on the counter of bliss over here. Victoria, where the hell is my phone? Do you have it? I thought you liked it when I drunk tweet?”
Victoria might be answering Gabe, but Gerard doesn’t hear it. Everything in the world becomes background when his phone vibrates. He raises it to his face and reads srry i didnt call. i’m in virginia. we had to move. i didn't want to hear ur rant. it's not like it could have changed what my parents decided.
Time stops. Gerard can’t move. He can’t breathe. He reads it again. It says the same thing. Everything is cold, and the words blur in front of him. He blinks. His hands are shaking. The world is dark around the edges.
Here’s your drink floats into his brain, and hey you don’t look very good and Gee, hey, are you okay?
When time starts up again, Frank’s standing there, and he plucks the phone from Gerard’s hand. Gerard doesn’t stop staring at where the phone used to be. “The fuck? Jesus, you look like shit, what--” Frank gets quiet. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, fuck me.”
“What?” asks Gabe, already halfway to sloshed. “Why’re you so quiet all of a--”
Frank spins and hurls the phone at the brick fireplace. It hits with a crash and falls to the floor in shards of plastic.
“You’re buying him a new one,” Ray says calmly. Gerard notes with the detached part of his brain that Ray is sort of like Frank’s Matt, when Frank doesn’t have a Matt. That’s very nice for Frank. Frank gets one and a half doms, and Gerard is going to die alone. Mikey will find a harem, and Gerard doesn’t like the responsibility of pets, so he won’t even have a cat to eat him after he dies. Alone.
Frank digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. This time he throws it with specific direction; Ray catches it an instant before it would crash into his forehead. Ray doesn’t check any of the compartments, just calmly slides it into his own jeans.
“Fucking happy?”
Ray bites his lip, tamping down on his instinctive irritation at Frank’s attitude. Gerard doesn’t even bother to shrug. He doesn’t want Frank’s money. He doesn’t need a phone. No one will call him.
“Would someone seriously tell me why the fuck Frank threw a phone at me?”
“Shut up Carden. This pretty fucking clearly is not about you. Also it missed by a mile, and I’m sure Frank has better aim if he did want to hit you.”
“Son of a bitch bastard fuckhead!” yells Frank. “I’m gonna cut that bullet-headed motherfucker’s ears off and feed them to his dog, I’m gonna cut off his dick and feed it to him, I’m gonna--”
“FRANK.” Ray’s voice is probably the only thing that could cut through Frank’s rage. “Calm down and tell us what the hell is going on.”
Frank throws a hand in the general direction of the phone. “Pedicone,” he spits. “Didn’t come see him, didn’t even call, he fucking texted him from four states away, no fucking warning or goodbye or-- FUCK!” Frank throws his full cup into the fireplace, then kicks the bricks.
“We broke up,” says Gerard woodenly.
“He broke up,” says Frank. “I’m going to find him. Ray, get the car. We’re going to hunt him down and murder him.” He starts for the door.
Travis raises his hand rhetorically before speaking. “Not that he doesn’t deserve a good kick in the face, but do you even know where you’re going?”
“It said Virginia.”
“Where in Virginia?”
“Virginia’s not the biggest state in the United States. Let’s fucking go!”
“So you’re just going to look all over the state then?”
Gerard could tell Travis it’s the wrong way to go about things. No one has ever logicked Frank Iero out of anything in his life. Except he doesn’t really care right now.
“I won’t have to. I’ll just look for the giant flaming asshole, and there he’ll be!”
Frank storms through the door, slamming it behind him. Everyone’s gaze is torn between Gerard and the curtain swaying on the door. Gerard looks at the cartoon on the tv. It’s not bad. He could draw better. He could go work for a cartoon company in New York. He would live in a high rise, and at least there would be neighbours to smell his rotting corpse.
Ray runs a hand through his curls, then reaches out and takes one of the bottles. “We’re gonna need this. Have a good night, Gabe.” With that he follows Frank, closing the door gently behind him.
“You know what? Fuck that. No one has a miserable night on Gabe Saporta’s birthday. This is officially not my birthday. It is now Drown Gerard’s Miseries day. Mikey, pour out the shots.”
Mikey doesn’t say a word. His face is stone as he lines up sixteen cups and pours them half-full of whatever he can lay his hands on, then hands them out. “No,” says Spencer, “not Brendon, Brendon’s not drinking.”
“Then Gerard gets two,” says Gabe. He puts the cups into Gerard’s hands. Gerard wonders if he can manage to succumb to alcohol poisoning tonight. He’d die surrounded by friends, and that has to be better than being alone the rest of his life.
When everyone has downed theirs, Gabe picks up the fifth and thrusts it into Gerard’s hand. “You should finish this. It’s been a rough evening. That’ll make it better.”
Gerard takes the bottle. It doesn’t look like enough to kill him, but he starts in on it anyway. Gabe’s an experienced drinker, he knows what he’s talking about. He’s only had a few burning gulps when the front door opens. It’s not Ray and Frank; it’s way too early for Frank to be calm. A duffel bag comes through the doorway before the body. He doesn’t recognise the duffel but he knows the legs. It’s Lyn-Z.
“Hey. I’m Lyn-Z. Gerard’s friend? I couldn’t find any alcohol to rip from my elders, so I brought like a dozen skirts. I figure we’ll find a way to make it fun. Happy birthday Gabe, wherever you are!”
Gabe is on the floor, whispering in Nate’s ear what cards to play. It’s probably distracting, considering he’s playing Snap against Jon. He yells half into Nate’s ear before twisting, “Nooo! It’s not my birthday anymore!”
She drops the duffel and squats. Gerard’s not even on the carpet and he can see up her skirt. “You have an objection to turning eighteen? Crossdressing can totally soothe what ails ya.”
Keltie shakes her head. “Not right now, hon. Let’s go talk.”
Gerard doesn’t see the need for Keltie to lead LynZ into the other room to talk. It’s not like he doesn’t know what’s going on. But protesting implies caring, and there’s no reason to do that any more. He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them when someone puts their hand on his thigh. Let them try to comfort him if they want, if it makes them feel better. He doesn’t want anything, from anyone.
Authors:
gala_apples khereselleCharacter: Gerard
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 2426
Series: Slantverse
Summary: Gabe's birthday party is really the shit candle on top of the shit cake that has been Gerard's week.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Author's Note: Gerard/Pedicone was going to be a major pairing for our verse. And then failicone, well, failed, and we had to get creative.
While he won’t say it out loud for fear of sounding like that children’s book, Gerard’s been having a bad week. A bad, no good, very terrible week. Yeah, it sounds pathetic in his head too.
It was maybe understandable for his friends to miss the inaugural meeting. Gerard’s willing to admit that it’s possible he didn’t impress upon everyone how important it was that active people as well as non-active people join. The first alliance meeting wasn’t a complete disaster-- a living breathing questioning girl showed up. Which of course brings up the question: should they change ANAA to ANAQA?
He grabs a pen from the plastic box magneted on the fridge and writes the acronym on his arm. He’ll ask Lyn-Z if she shows up tonight, or on Monday. There’s obviously no point in asking anyone here. None of them care about the atmosphere towards non-actives at their school. He spent the whole week trying to explain how important a large membership was, and not a single one of them bothered to show up to the second meeting. Excuses ran from work to detention to Carden’s obvious bullshit about getting propositioned by a blond guy. The entire table knew he only said it to get to Tom, but judging by the scowl from the latter for the rest of lunch, it worked.
Things only went downhill from there. On Tuesday Mikey went out for a group scene. Tuesday is Doctor Who night. Gerard's been watching Doctor Who with Mikey since they were kids. It's a tradition, like Thanksgiving. Or breathing. Well maybe that's an obligation, not a tradition, but still. Doctor Who is a fucking obligation too, just in a nice way. For thirteen weeks a year Gerard and Mikey demand an hour one night a week from each other. When Gerard tried to remind him Mikey said they could just download it. Entirely not the point.
Then on Wednesday, Gerard realized his brown rat was missing. He kept his rat collection in the art room so he’d have references for the series he was drawing. He isn’t sure, but he thought he gave it to someone. He can’t remember who it might have been, or if they ever gave it back. But Pedicone had given him the brown one for his birthday last year, and Gerard can’t find it anywhere.
Thursday, Pedicone was missing.
Gerard figured at first that he was sick, though Pedicone usually texted him with instructions or reminders-- keep rants to 3 min or less-- when he wasn’t going to be around. Gee texted him-- u ok?-- but all he got back was ok. busy cant talk. He tried calling after school. There was no answer.
Gerard isn’t paranoid. He isn’t usually aware enough of the world outside his head to be paranoid. But this seemed weird, and not like fun Twilight-Zone weird, but off-kilter weird, like the ground had tilted just a little bit and things weren’t where they should be.
Today is Friday. Pedicone still wasn’t in school. Mikey won’t indulge his concerns of Pedicone being in the hospital, or kidnapped by some sort of alien life form. All Mikey cares about is creating mixed drinks for everyone. Mikey’s not technically the bartender for tonight; no one gave him the job, but he claims if he doesn’t mix everyone will just resort to shots, or even drinking straight from the bottle like barbarians. And there are a lot of bottles. Victoria took a moment while Gabe was in the bathroom on Tuesday to instruct everyone to get him liquor for his birthday. So far Brendon’s the only one that hasn’t come in with an awkwardly wrapped fifth, or a long bottle in a gift bag, or a case of beer with a ribbon strung through the handle holes. Gerard doesn’t have to ask to know that Tom brought that.
So Mikey is in the living room with all the containers on the old square tv, and half the group is clustered around him, and Gerard is alone in the kitchen. Every thirty seconds someone bursts into another rendition of Happy Birthday To You, and every minute Gerard listens to the clicking his phone makes when he types in Pedicone’s number. It’s not even ringing anymore. It must have run out of battery. It’s concerning, because his parents probably wouldn’t have thought to bring the charger to the hospital.
“Hey.” Sisky comes into the kitchen holding a red plastic cup. He hands it to Gerard. “Everything okay? I figured you’d want something to drink.”
Gerard sniffs the cup. “What is it?”
“Raspberry vodka and pineapple juice.” Gerard just looks at him. “It’s got a paper umbrella,” Sisky points out. “You like little paper umbrellas.”
Gerard looks down at his phone again. No texts in the last ten seconds. He takes a swig of his drink, coughs, splutters. There’s a lot less pineapple juice in it than he anticipated. The burn in his throat and stomach feels good, though. He takes another gulp. “If you went to the hospital,” he asks Sisky, “would you bring your phone with you?”
“I’d have to,” says Sisky. “Pete would want to know how I was doing. Probably like every couple minutes or so.”
Gerard feels the burn rise back up in his throat, and swallows it down. “Okay. Thanks.” It’s a dismissal of sorts, and Sisky nods and goes back into the living room. Gerard calls Pedicone again. Again, there’s no answer. “Hey,” he says to the voicemail. “It’s, uh, it’s me. I know I’ve been calling a lot, but I’m just, I’m just really worried. I really hope you’re okay. Call me, okay? Please?”
He shuts his phone and looks into his cup. Half gone. He drains the rest and goes back into the living room. Spencer is dealing out cards on one patch of floor. Whatever it is, he’s apparently figured on six players, even though only Brendon is sitting beside him. Gerard deftly walks around them to get to the television. A clear trash bag at Mikey’s feet already has two bottles and a dozen cups in it.
“I need another one,” he demands, holding his cup over Butcher’s shoulder.
“The same mix, or...?”
“I don’t care. If it has alcohol, it’s my friend.”
“I thought we were your friends?” Gabe’s breath smells like nothing but rum when his face presses against Gerard’s ear.
“Booze is your true love too, don’t front,” Nate answers for him.
“Can someone call Pedicone, ask if he’s busy?” It hurts to think, but maybe he’s just not answering his texts. Maybe he did something to make Pedicone mad, really really mad. Gerard knows he’s been ranting about his friends’ lack of participation for the last few days, and maybe Pedicone is punishing him. Pete punishes Sisky by telling him he’s disappointed, and the one time it came up with the trio Gabe refused to call Nate pup for three days, but Pedicone’s method has always been ignoring him.
“Sure thing. Fucker knows it’s my birthday. Since he’s not here he can go get me some Kahlua. There is a distinct lack of Kahlua on the counter of bliss over here. Victoria, where the hell is my phone? Do you have it? I thought you liked it when I drunk tweet?”
Victoria might be answering Gabe, but Gerard doesn’t hear it. Everything in the world becomes background when his phone vibrates. He raises it to his face and reads srry i didnt call. i’m in virginia. we had to move. i didn't want to hear ur rant. it's not like it could have changed what my parents decided.
Time stops. Gerard can’t move. He can’t breathe. He reads it again. It says the same thing. Everything is cold, and the words blur in front of him. He blinks. His hands are shaking. The world is dark around the edges.
Here’s your drink floats into his brain, and hey you don’t look very good and Gee, hey, are you okay?
When time starts up again, Frank’s standing there, and he plucks the phone from Gerard’s hand. Gerard doesn’t stop staring at where the phone used to be. “The fuck? Jesus, you look like shit, what--” Frank gets quiet. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, fuck me.”
“What?” asks Gabe, already halfway to sloshed. “Why’re you so quiet all of a--”
Frank spins and hurls the phone at the brick fireplace. It hits with a crash and falls to the floor in shards of plastic.
“You’re buying him a new one,” Ray says calmly. Gerard notes with the detached part of his brain that Ray is sort of like Frank’s Matt, when Frank doesn’t have a Matt. That’s very nice for Frank. Frank gets one and a half doms, and Gerard is going to die alone. Mikey will find a harem, and Gerard doesn’t like the responsibility of pets, so he won’t even have a cat to eat him after he dies. Alone.
Frank digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. This time he throws it with specific direction; Ray catches it an instant before it would crash into his forehead. Ray doesn’t check any of the compartments, just calmly slides it into his own jeans.
“Fucking happy?”
Ray bites his lip, tamping down on his instinctive irritation at Frank’s attitude. Gerard doesn’t even bother to shrug. He doesn’t want Frank’s money. He doesn’t need a phone. No one will call him.
“Would someone seriously tell me why the fuck Frank threw a phone at me?”
“Shut up Carden. This pretty fucking clearly is not about you. Also it missed by a mile, and I’m sure Frank has better aim if he did want to hit you.”
“Son of a bitch bastard fuckhead!” yells Frank. “I’m gonna cut that bullet-headed motherfucker’s ears off and feed them to his dog, I’m gonna cut off his dick and feed it to him, I’m gonna--”
“FRANK.” Ray’s voice is probably the only thing that could cut through Frank’s rage. “Calm down and tell us what the hell is going on.”
Frank throws a hand in the general direction of the phone. “Pedicone,” he spits. “Didn’t come see him, didn’t even call, he fucking texted him from four states away, no fucking warning or goodbye or-- FUCK!” Frank throws his full cup into the fireplace, then kicks the bricks.
“We broke up,” says Gerard woodenly.
“He broke up,” says Frank. “I’m going to find him. Ray, get the car. We’re going to hunt him down and murder him.” He starts for the door.
Travis raises his hand rhetorically before speaking. “Not that he doesn’t deserve a good kick in the face, but do you even know where you’re going?”
“It said Virginia.”
“Where in Virginia?”
“Virginia’s not the biggest state in the United States. Let’s fucking go!”
“So you’re just going to look all over the state then?”
Gerard could tell Travis it’s the wrong way to go about things. No one has ever logicked Frank Iero out of anything in his life. Except he doesn’t really care right now.
“I won’t have to. I’ll just look for the giant flaming asshole, and there he’ll be!”
Frank storms through the door, slamming it behind him. Everyone’s gaze is torn between Gerard and the curtain swaying on the door. Gerard looks at the cartoon on the tv. It’s not bad. He could draw better. He could go work for a cartoon company in New York. He would live in a high rise, and at least there would be neighbours to smell his rotting corpse.
Ray runs a hand through his curls, then reaches out and takes one of the bottles. “We’re gonna need this. Have a good night, Gabe.” With that he follows Frank, closing the door gently behind him.
“You know what? Fuck that. No one has a miserable night on Gabe Saporta’s birthday. This is officially not my birthday. It is now Drown Gerard’s Miseries day. Mikey, pour out the shots.”
Mikey doesn’t say a word. His face is stone as he lines up sixteen cups and pours them half-full of whatever he can lay his hands on, then hands them out. “No,” says Spencer, “not Brendon, Brendon’s not drinking.”
“Then Gerard gets two,” says Gabe. He puts the cups into Gerard’s hands. Gerard wonders if he can manage to succumb to alcohol poisoning tonight. He’d die surrounded by friends, and that has to be better than being alone the rest of his life.
When everyone has downed theirs, Gabe picks up the fifth and thrusts it into Gerard’s hand. “You should finish this. It’s been a rough evening. That’ll make it better.”
Gerard takes the bottle. It doesn’t look like enough to kill him, but he starts in on it anyway. Gabe’s an experienced drinker, he knows what he’s talking about. He’s only had a few burning gulps when the front door opens. It’s not Ray and Frank; it’s way too early for Frank to be calm. A duffel bag comes through the doorway before the body. He doesn’t recognise the duffel but he knows the legs. It’s Lyn-Z.
“Hey. I’m Lyn-Z. Gerard’s friend? I couldn’t find any alcohol to rip from my elders, so I brought like a dozen skirts. I figure we’ll find a way to make it fun. Happy birthday Gabe, wherever you are!”
Gabe is on the floor, whispering in Nate’s ear what cards to play. It’s probably distracting, considering he’s playing Snap against Jon. He yells half into Nate’s ear before twisting, “Nooo! It’s not my birthday anymore!”
She drops the duffel and squats. Gerard’s not even on the carpet and he can see up her skirt. “You have an objection to turning eighteen? Crossdressing can totally soothe what ails ya.”
Keltie shakes her head. “Not right now, hon. Let’s go talk.”
Gerard doesn’t see the need for Keltie to lead LynZ into the other room to talk. It’s not like he doesn’t know what’s going on. But protesting implies caring, and there’s no reason to do that any more. He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them when someone puts their hand on his thigh. Let them try to comfort him if they want, if it makes them feel better. He doesn’t want anything, from anyone.