“Perfection doesn’t exist for man, but we strive for it anyways, ache for it with every fibre of our being-“

Gerard reads the sentence fluidly, like water in a creek, and just as cool and clean as creek water too. He’s got Frank pressed to one side and Mikey on the other as he reads, while Bob drives and Ray naps a few feet away, using someone’s (honestly nobody’s really sure who’s clothing is who’s anymore) hoodie as a pillow. Frank’s almost asleep, his eyelids drooping, closing, then slowly opening again every few minutes, and Mikey’s been repeating after Gerard in soft, almost unintelligible mumbling for half an hour.

”But no matter what is done by man to reach perfection, it remains nonexistent to us. But some have attained their own form of this ‘perfection’; their own view on it-“

Mikey stopped mumbling, finally slipping away into the embrace of sleep and Frank followed shortly after, leaving Gerard to read aloud to nobody, except maybe Bob, who was driving the van and responsible for making sure they made it to the rest stop. From where he was sitting Gerard could vaguely hear an Iron Maiden song playing and Bob singing along quietly, trying not to wake his exhausted bandmates. He closed the book and set it aside before wrapping his arms around his brother and Frank, pulling their unconscious forms closer to him.

’This,’ He decides, closing his eyes and relaxing against the interior wall of the van, ‘is perfect to me.’

Notes