Frank walked under bright sunlight not to reach his destination but to delay finding himself home. Well, it wasn't exactly home. It was an apartment owned by a friend of his family on the outskirts of New York City, and being a new arrival, Frank didn't feel comfortable spending too much time there. It was another person's home, so any time Frank occupied it, he maintained a fear that he would do something wrong.
The boy was 20 now, and he was glad to finally be somewhere away from home. He had meant to come to New York the year before, but with the attacks, it was clear that 2001 was not the year to arrive. He supposed that he could have just settled for going to college. Hell, he could have gone on scholarship, but he wanted to properly celebrate getting out of high school before sending his new freedom to an early grave. A new city seemed like the perfect break from his old life, proof that he really was free to leave and do what he wanted.
However, on that particular day, he didn't know what he wanted other than to avoid the apartment, so he wandered. Checking out shops kept him occupied, but a lot were touristy. The number of people who apparently wanted Empire State Building statuettes was truly astounding. In any store that wasn't geared toward tourists, though, Frank felt out of place. Actually, he was aching for something familiar to make him feel like he belonged; his guitar would be nice. He knew it was trapped in the apartment, but it would be so nice, he thought, if he had something to do with his hands.
Frank turned the corner onto yet another unfamiliar street, taking in the buildings that lined it. There was a small café, another generic tourist shop, and – well, this was worth seeing. A black, boxy building stood out against the rest. There was no sign above the door to indicate the name of the establishment, but the marquee in its place gave the building's purpose away.
'Playing Tonight: Silvertongue.'
Curiosity pulled Frank across the street to get a closer look. He had maintained an affinity for the underground band scene throughout his teenage years, even trying to form some bands himself; the people, the clubs, and the feelings when he found some really incredible music were invigorating. He absentmindedly nudged the front doors of the black building. They were locked, as expected, for it was still early afternoon.
Frank moved away down the sidewalk with the intention to come back later. However, in the narrow alleyway between the black-painted club and the next building over, Frank caught sight of an open door. He hesitated only a moment before deciding to peer inside from that one doorway. It wasn't as if he expected to get anything out of just looking at the closed venue, but he also wasn't going to get much from looking at a shop less-than-cleverly called "I Love New York" either.
For a few years now, Frank had been stuck at a height of five feet and six inches, but it had its perks, especially then when he easily walked down the alley unnoticed. Upon approaching the door and catching his first glimpse at the building's interior, he heard voices. It nearly made him turn around and go back. Nearly.
"Look, we're booked for months, and honestly I'm not sure I can take a risk on someone as new as you right now," asserted the first voice, one of a woman.
"C'mon, I'm here all the time. You know me, and you know I wouldn't give you a terrible act to work with. We've got solid drums, a kickass guitarist – we're even recording in a couple weeks," This second voice was male, and it was the one that made Frank stay, though he wasn't sure why.
The second voice was high for a man and a little nasal, but it was compelling, suddenly making Frank feel more like he was supposed to be there in that doorway than anywhere else in the city. It didn't make sense to Frank why such a voice couldn't convince this one woman to give him a gig. Listening to the argument, Frank barely noticed that he had stepped inside the doorway. He was far removed from the two voices, but he could now make out the bodies to which they belonged.
"I see you take chances on young bands every night," the male voice persisted.
"But we have an unprecedented number of people who want to play this month, and this would be your first gig, Gerard." The woman continued, but Frank was deaf to the rest of her reasoning.
Gerard. Was it the same Gerard? It would explain why the voice felt so familiar, soothing even. It was a stretch, Frank guessed. Didn't that Gerard go off to art school? Nonetheless, Frank's memories of a summer years ago moved him farther into the building, determined to confirm or negate the discovery. From what Frank could tell, the man was clad in leather jacket, but that didn't prove anything.
The authoritative woman turned to pick something up, and the man named Gerard followed her, desperate to win his battle. In that change of direction, though, his face was revealed. It was more defined than anything Frank remembered, but he supposed that came with age. The Gerard from all those years ago would be what? Twenty-five? The bone structure may have been more pronounced, but it was framed by stark black hair, long for a guy. A delicate nose marked the profile of his pale face, and his eyes could just barely be made out as greenish…
"Holy shit," Frank breathed.