[A/N: 'Tis time for Pirelli's never-ending song! Oh YouTube, how I love thee! I hopes you enjoys! Much love, Teeny Sweeney xxx.]
"So, why am I needed up here again?" Gerard asked.
He hadn't really been listening the first time when Sweeney had explained.
"You need to help me carry him," He pointed at the box by the door. "Down to the bakehouse."
"You mean the worst fake Italian ever?" Gerard asked.
"Yes, the worst fake Italian ever." The barber clarified, rolling his sleeves up.
Gerard wrinkled his nose up a little and did the same, not going over to the box just yet; it wasn't going to be pleasant. All the same, an amusing idea swam into his head.
"I am Adolfo Pirelli the king of the barbers, the barber of kings…!" He sang enthusiastically.
The barber stared at him and dropped the lid of the box experimentally and as he expected, Gerard stopped singing and giggled at his glare.
"Don't be stupid." Sweeney told him firmly, opening the chest again.
"E buon giorno, good day! I blow you a kiss!" Gerard continued wholeheartedly.
The barber glared coldly at him again. Making him giggle a second time as he mustered up all of the flirtatiousness he could, then blew him a kiss, and Gerard essentially had flirtatiousness on tap. For a second or two, it looked as though Sweeney was going to crack a smile; unsurprisingly, he didn't.
"Are you quite finished?" He asked, eyebrows raised.
Gerard nodded, still grinning. The barber looked slightly relieved; he clearly didn't want that song haunting him forever.
"Good, now come here and help." He demanded.
Gerard had learned long ago that it was wise to be useful if you wanted someone to like you and he followed the order. He didn't really need to be told what to do, so it was silence until about halfway down the stairs when he started complaining.
"Why do I get head and shoulders? It's all bloody." He whined.
"You should have thought about that upstairs."
Gerard grumbled, not wanting to carry the body anymore. Yes, the blood was dry, but that didn't make it any more pleasant. Fortunately for Gerard, the trip was short.
"That was…a bit gross." He mumbled, wiping his hands on his trousers, even though there was nothing there.
By that, he meant that his stomach was churning a little bit.
"It's only blood. You're full of it, so I don't know what your problem is." The barber shrugged.
"Because when it's in your body it's not all disgusting and…just…ew." Gerard replied, shuddering a little bit.
"Okay Gerard." The barber snorted. "I'm leaving; it's burning hot. I don't understand how you can work down here."
Gerard followed him as he turned and headed towards the stairs.
"I tend to ditch my waistcoat. Because my shirts fit me." He said pointedly.
"My shirt fits me, but it's foreign so it has oversized sleeves."
Gerard tutted.
"You and your fancy shirts."
"Speaking of shirts, what did you buy earlier?" The barber asked curiously, changing the subject slightly.
"Oh yeah, you'll see. I got mum a new dress though." Gerard smiled, going to get the bag and taking the dress out, holding it up to show him.
"She'll like that." He nodded.
Gerard grinned, and then it vanished for a second and he stood on tiptoes, pressing his lips to Sweeney's for a fleeting moment, before going into the living room.
"Mum! I got you something!" He yelled.
Sweeney flinched; why did Gerard have to shout when he was only about seven feet away from people? He shook his head and went back upstairs, sitting down and picking Oliver up when he got there. If he had been asked, he would have shrugged his shoulders and said little or nothing, but honestly, he'd had a pleasant day. Not that it was bad now, though Oliver was barking at him.
"What is it? Are you hungry?" He asked, in his usual drawl.
Oliver jumped down from his lap and wagged his little tail furiously, growling playfully at him.
"Okay then. Dinner time."
Oliver followed him while he put some food into the bowl he'd managed to sneak out of the kitchen. He put the bowl down by the wardrobe and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots off before grabbing the book that had been on the bedside table for weeks and lying down with it. He had picked it up on his way back to London and it had two stories by the same author, one named 'The Tell-Tale Heart', and the other 'The Black Cat'. He wasn't sure where his mind was when he bought them, he'd never been a huge fan of reading, but they seemed interesting enough.