Yeah, burlesque mime.
“Well I miss my mom, will they give me the chair, or lethal injection, or swing from a rope if you dare… ah, nobody knows all the trouble I've seen”
He puts every fibre of his being into his performance. He looks insane. Not good insane, insane insane. “Lock him up, he’s a danger to society” insane. Something about this song always does this to him; he becomes a different person. He is no longer innocent, quiet little Gerard who spends his life drawing, he becomes this animal of insanity and… well… sex appeal. Half the time he fucking grinds against the mic stand.
Maybe I could be the mic stand for once.
“To your room, what they ask of you will make you want to say so long… well I don’t remember, why remember you?” He belted out, turning around for just a second to give me that sexy little smirk of his.
Perfectly normal to be this attracted to someone dripping in sweat, singing like it’s a fucking murder chant, and humping mic stands. Perfectly normal.
He turned around again, this time holding the glance and I, being an idiot, almost forgot that I have a guitar to play.
“Life is just a dream for the dead…”
He turned around again, this time not just glancing at me, but heading towards me. His steps were sloppy and almost drunk.
“And well I, I won’t go down by myself, but I’ll go down with my friends.”
He grabbed my shoulder roughly and flashed that smirk my way once again.
And before I even had a chance to fully grasp what had just happened, he grabbed the fabric on my shirt, pulled me in, and forced his lips against mine. The crowd exploded in screams, but how was I supposed to hear when Gerard Way’s tongue was inside my mouth? The sweat dangling off long strands of black hair rubbed off on my forehead as he thrust into me, and for those few seconds until he pulled away, it was just me, him, and shitloads of raging hormones.
“You guys are brilliant, y’know?” Ray laughed, pouring himself his routine post-show bowl of cereal. “That’s gonna be all over the place, just like last time. 400,000 views since last week in Singapore, imagine what this’ll get.”
“Brotherfucker.” Mikey said in sing-song. He stared up at me from his spot on the couch with those stupid puppy dog eyes of his.
What am I supposed to say…? I don’t have a clue in heaven or hell why he did it, and I ain’t doing it for publicity. I’m doing it because I’m a stupid little schoolboy with a crush on Gerard.
Hoping to God that I wasn’t expected to reply, I slid towards the back of the bus with all the agility and stealth of a tap-dancing dinosaur. Past the kitchen, past the bathroom, until our four little bunks stood in front of me. Gerard lay in his, staring up at the bottom of Mikey’s bunk. He often does this after shows, he just disappears back into his own little world for a while. It’s like as soon as he steps off stage, the life is sucked out of him. The sex-radiating animal we all know and love (well, I love) becomes a child. A little child, who spends his time chasing dreams and catching stars inside his head, because the real world is just too much to handle.
Sometimes I worry about him, to be honest. I worry that his little wonderland isn’t the best for him. There is a very fine line between creativity and insanity, and in the back of my mind, I’m always watching out for him, making sure he doesn’t tiptoe across that line. Because knowing him, if we were to cross it, we would never get him back. He would live in his own world, wherever or whatever it is, and we would have to dispose of the lifeless corpse left behind in our dimension.
“Hey, Gee.” I responded, honestly surprised that he broke his daze in order to say my name, even.
“How do you think the show went?”
Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you fucking dare, Frank.
“I think it went great. Listen to the crowd, I always say.”
His glance didn’t leave the top of Mikey’s bunk. He stared and stared, almost as if half of him was somewhere else. Probably was, come to think of it.
“It was missing something, don’t you think?” he said hesitantly.
I sat down on the edge of his bunk and somehow fought the urge to stroke his long, dark hair and comb it in between my fingers.
He seems so fragile tonight. More so than usual when he gets into these moods. Something in his face is missing; something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“We did everything right. We’ve toured before, we know what we’re doing. Did you hear the way they screamed?” I chuckled. “You’re just second guessing youself.”
But Gerard never second guesses. Gerard is Gerard, strong and resilient, unchanged by any circumstance. Always pushing through and turning life around in our favour.
He made some noise in his throat which I’m guessing was one of consent.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He answered in monotone. “I really don’t know.”
I looked down on his pale, steady face. Always there, always predictable. But something, something is missing.
Hearing footsteps behind us, I turned around and Ray stood in the doorway, his eyes seemingly fixated on the opposite side of the small bunk room. Damn he looks tired.
“You guys should get to bed.” He said, his voice croaking as he spoke.
“Are you and Mikey coming?”
“Well I am, Mikey’s being a dick and won’t shut off the fucking Xbox. Let him die of sleep deprivation.”
“Asshole.” I joked, then turned my attention back to Gerard. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” He said in a near whisper. “’Night, Frank.”
Gerard’s just tired, of course the show went fine. Listen to the crowd, listen to the crowd. They cheer, we’re good, right? They scream our own lyrics back at us, and we get to play another show the next night, right? We all could stand some sleep, if I’m being honest. Ray looks like the walking dead, Mikey is so overtired he is continually high (and consequently needs to be on watch 24/7), and I’m just plain tired. Really I’d be perfectly happy to go to sleep tonight, and hibernate for a little while. Just not wake up. And when I would wake up, it’d be kinda nice to wake up to Gerard right beside me, his hands around my waist and that cute little half-smile spread across his face. How about that for Nicholas Sparks material? I should be a fucking author.
This is what Gerard does to me. I, Frank Iero, tattoo-covered and piercing-inflicted, am a poet.
I’m a tour zombie, and I’m gonna eat brains. Gerard’s brains, because he’s a sexy little animal.
Far too tired to write, I’m out for the night.