Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Fourth story. Totally unrelated to any of my other projects (despite similar content material), this is to serve as a stand alone. Contains Waycest. If you don't like it, don't read it. Enjoy!
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Survive, Subsist
Survive: to remain alive after the death of someone, the cessation of something, or the occurrence of some event; continue to live.
Subsist: to have existence in, or by reason of, something or someone.
Survive. Subsist. Survive. Subsist. Survive. Subsist.
The air is musty, reeking of a year's worth of touring. Sweat and filth coat every surface of the bus, the carpet is sticky with a year's worth of midnight snack crumbs, stale beer and Diet Pepsi, all spilled across the patterned fibers. The lights are out, the generator's off, the bus is empty.
Almost.
Two figures, wrapped up in a sheen of sweat and a tangle of limbs move frenetically along the floor, atop a blanket that's been thrown hastily down. They move quickly, biting back hisses and moans, bodies gyrating together. Naked, they're entangled into one another so deeply they've become ingrained.
Hands, two pairs, curl frantically over their heated flesh, digging in, smoothing out, gripping hard and letting go. Their fingers each skim over the other, as if the tactile sensation of the skin was a drug. They acted as addicts, unable to relinquish their hold. They held on, legs wrapping around, arms bumping, chests pressed close as they lay in a tangle on the floor.
Whimpers, little gasps, the occasional spluttered curse, eschewed from their conjoined bodies as they moved together, arching, pressing, twisting back and forth, in a frenzy of heat. Slippery with sweat, they clung to one another as if they could never conceive letting go.
A strangled grunt from the one on top, a choked groan from the one in bottom, their pace increased frantically. They moved together, faster and faster, fingers clawing at one another, lips crushing together, tongues tangled, teeth clanked, gasping wildly. They tore at one anothers' flesh as they built up, higher and higher, faster and faster, arching into the other, toes curled, eyes rolled back, hoarse groans and spluttered grunts echoed through the bus as they exploded together, in perfect unison.
"M-Mikey!"
"Gerard!"
Heads thrown back, necks locked, eyes closed, foreheads pressed tightly to one another, they rode out their fiercely needed release. Neither could move for a moment. They panted as one, breathing as one, breath mixing. Two sets of fingers knotted into two heads of hair, one fiery red, the other muted blond. They trembled, gasping, whimpering a little coming down.
"I love you Mikey."
His voice was cracked, coming straight from the bottom of his stomach, sounding weak. He was whispering.
"I love you too Gerard."
His own tone, quiet and breathless, poured out of him. He tugged at the hair between his fingers, dragging the fiery red-head down to his mouth. He pressed a hard kiss to the others' mouth, running his tongue along the flushed flesh he found there.
Gerard's mouth slipped open and he slid his tongue in, flicking it gently against Gerard's own. Gerard replied in kind, running his along Mikey's gum line.
They took precious care to taste and to savor the flavor of the others' mouths. The feel of the others' skin. They strained their ears to catch every sound the other made, transcribing it to memory. Sucking in breath, they memorized the scent of the other, trying desperately to cling to some remnant of this. Something they could tuck away inside themselves to tire them over. Something to hold them over, until the next tour, the next bus, the next go round.
Neither knew how it started, really. Somewhere in the haze of 'van days', at the end of their first tour, they'd found themselves in a state of intoxicated, frenzied, lust. They found themselves wrapped up tight, naked and sticky, the next day. The mortification alone had made them both vomit.
They couldn't believe what they'd done. They said they'd never talk about it, it was a mistake, it wasn't supposed to happen. They were sorry. So fucking sorry. It could never, ever, ever, happen again.
It happened again. This time though, neither could claim drunken lust as an excuse. They'd fallen all over each other without even the aid of a single beer. They couldn't explain why, but they couldn't stop. They told themselves over and over, stop, it's wrong, it's sick, stop. But still, they couldn't help clinging to one another that night.
The next morning, they couldn't look at one another. They couldn't look at one another for a very long time afterward. But then, another tour came up on the docket. Without even needing to talk it over, they both vowed to not do it again. To avoid one another. And it worked, until the very last night of the tour.
Ray, Frank and the guys were gone, leaving them alone in the backseat of the van. They talked awkwardly about vocals or riffs or something stupid like that. And when the conversation inevitably died, they were left staring into one anothers eyes. Eyes that nearly matched. And then they were all over one another, hands everywhere, clothes falling off and lips crushing together.
It took three more tours for them to realize, they couldn't stop. They could not fucking stop themselves. The confusion was what damaged them the most. They shouldn't even be doing it in the first place, and they both knew that. So why couldn't they stop?
The question was maddening. It frustrated them to no end. Gerard fell into the mouth of a bottle to try and find some answers swimming in there. Nothing did he find. Mikey started shutting down, pulling back, losing weight and making little incisions along the insides of his ankles with a pocket knife. He didn't find any answers either.
No one noticed as both fell away from who they'd been. Gerard lived in a chemical haze, fueled by handfuls of pills and rivers of booze. Mikey lived in a world where the constant hunger gnawing his stomach was so intense it left him light-headed and the blade of a knife somehow felt right. They both knew they were living some kind of fucked up cliche existence, but they couldn't help it.
But on the last night of the tour, when they always inevitably found themselves falling into one another, all that cleared up. They felt like humans again, despite the depravity of their actions. Somehow, what had made it wrong made it right again. They found themselves living a cliche.
They couldn't live like that. They knew it. They knew it couldn't last forever. Mikey passed out on-stage during a show in Tulsa, suffering from what the ER doctor referred to as "acute malnutrition". In other words, starvation. Gerard overdosed on Xanax after their set in Newark, where another ER doctor somberly announced he was "in serious liver trouble" if he didn't quit now.
So they worked out a compromise. A deal. A plan. A fucking contingency. Somehow, they worked it out. Worked out their fucked up little needs into something they could control. They didn't know why they couldn't stop, why they couldn't just fucking quit it. What they were doing was sick. And illegal in most places. But somehow, they needed it to survive. To subsist.
Survive. Subsist.
The last day or night of a tour, the bus was always abandoned. Returned to the company for refurbishing, cleaning, fixing up, until it needed to be used again. And there was always a window of time where there was no one in the bus. Right between the time the band unpacked and headed home until the company arrived to drive it back.
It was in this window they found their home. Where they found each other, in the dark, on the floor, buried into one another so deeply they couldn't even breathe.
This was their sanity. This was their bane. This was where they found themselves again. Somehow, being tangled so tightly to someone so akin to themselves made them feel like they were their own selves again.
The road, the responsibility, the rock-star life, sucked them dry. It bled them of who they were. Everyone idolized them, put them on pedestals as gods, dehumanized them. Somehow, living their lives like this managed to bleed them of their identities. They felt like shadows. When they woke up, they didn't feel like Gerard and Mikey anymore. They felt empty.
And it was only them, not Ray, or Frank, or Bob or anyone else. Maybe something of how they grew up made them so much more fragile, so much more susceptible to this bleeding effect. Made them need this. Got them addicted to this. They'd gotten to the point where the only way they could feel like their real selves was to bury themselves into the body of the other.
Survive. Subsist.
They had no choice. They would never have chosen this. The fear of being caught, the shame of the taboo, the lies to wives and family and band members, the pain of knowing that it could never work. They could never 'work'. Because, somewhere along in the physical necessity, they'd fallen for each other.
Love, in its most mangled form. But still, love. They couldn't deny it, could only hide it. Not the love of a brother, but the love of a lover. They loved one another, and they knew they could never do a fucking thing about it. Society could accept two men who loved like this. But not two brothers. It wasn't right to love like this.
A physical relationship, to keep them sane, could be justified. Had been justified. But love? There was no justification enough for something sick like this. Sex was one thing, love was quite another. So they lived on sex alone, denying their feelings over and over until it was a robotic chant in their heads. Only when they were like this, raw from physical release, could that love seep out into them.
Survive. Subsist.
They lived on like this, forcing their love down. On tour, at home, everywhere, they denied this thing between them existed. They only allowed it on the last day of a tour. Only then. They couldn't risk anything more. Couldn't risk anything more than they already had, because it already cost too much.
They'd risked something, and ended up in love. They couldn't risk anything more, because it would end up destroying everything they'd worked so hard to preserve. People would think them sick, think them freaks, single out and ostracize them. Family, friends, the band and their wives would abandon them.
So they hid their actions, denied their feelings and lived from one tour to the next, constantly in fear of being discovered but simply, inexplicably, unable to stop. They would survive after this night, white-knuckling through their daily lives until the next. They would subsist until they could once again hold one another and feel whole.
Survive. Subsist.
---
Thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it and would pretty, pretty please leave a review or a rating? :)
---
Survive, Subsist
Survive: to remain alive after the death of someone, the cessation of something, or the occurrence of some event; continue to live.
Subsist: to have existence in, or by reason of, something or someone.
Survive. Subsist. Survive. Subsist. Survive. Subsist.
The air is musty, reeking of a year's worth of touring. Sweat and filth coat every surface of the bus, the carpet is sticky with a year's worth of midnight snack crumbs, stale beer and Diet Pepsi, all spilled across the patterned fibers. The lights are out, the generator's off, the bus is empty.
Almost.
Two figures, wrapped up in a sheen of sweat and a tangle of limbs move frenetically along the floor, atop a blanket that's been thrown hastily down. They move quickly, biting back hisses and moans, bodies gyrating together. Naked, they're entangled into one another so deeply they've become ingrained.
Hands, two pairs, curl frantically over their heated flesh, digging in, smoothing out, gripping hard and letting go. Their fingers each skim over the other, as if the tactile sensation of the skin was a drug. They acted as addicts, unable to relinquish their hold. They held on, legs wrapping around, arms bumping, chests pressed close as they lay in a tangle on the floor.
Whimpers, little gasps, the occasional spluttered curse, eschewed from their conjoined bodies as they moved together, arching, pressing, twisting back and forth, in a frenzy of heat. Slippery with sweat, they clung to one another as if they could never conceive letting go.
A strangled grunt from the one on top, a choked groan from the one in bottom, their pace increased frantically. They moved together, faster and faster, fingers clawing at one another, lips crushing together, tongues tangled, teeth clanked, gasping wildly. They tore at one anothers' flesh as they built up, higher and higher, faster and faster, arching into the other, toes curled, eyes rolled back, hoarse groans and spluttered grunts echoed through the bus as they exploded together, in perfect unison.
"M-Mikey!"
"Gerard!"
Heads thrown back, necks locked, eyes closed, foreheads pressed tightly to one another, they rode out their fiercely needed release. Neither could move for a moment. They panted as one, breathing as one, breath mixing. Two sets of fingers knotted into two heads of hair, one fiery red, the other muted blond. They trembled, gasping, whimpering a little coming down.
"I love you Mikey."
His voice was cracked, coming straight from the bottom of his stomach, sounding weak. He was whispering.
"I love you too Gerard."
His own tone, quiet and breathless, poured out of him. He tugged at the hair between his fingers, dragging the fiery red-head down to his mouth. He pressed a hard kiss to the others' mouth, running his tongue along the flushed flesh he found there.
Gerard's mouth slipped open and he slid his tongue in, flicking it gently against Gerard's own. Gerard replied in kind, running his along Mikey's gum line.
They took precious care to taste and to savor the flavor of the others' mouths. The feel of the others' skin. They strained their ears to catch every sound the other made, transcribing it to memory. Sucking in breath, they memorized the scent of the other, trying desperately to cling to some remnant of this. Something they could tuck away inside themselves to tire them over. Something to hold them over, until the next tour, the next bus, the next go round.
Neither knew how it started, really. Somewhere in the haze of 'van days', at the end of their first tour, they'd found themselves in a state of intoxicated, frenzied, lust. They found themselves wrapped up tight, naked and sticky, the next day. The mortification alone had made them both vomit.
They couldn't believe what they'd done. They said they'd never talk about it, it was a mistake, it wasn't supposed to happen. They were sorry. So fucking sorry. It could never, ever, ever, happen again.
It happened again. This time though, neither could claim drunken lust as an excuse. They'd fallen all over each other without even the aid of a single beer. They couldn't explain why, but they couldn't stop. They told themselves over and over, stop, it's wrong, it's sick, stop. But still, they couldn't help clinging to one another that night.
The next morning, they couldn't look at one another. They couldn't look at one another for a very long time afterward. But then, another tour came up on the docket. Without even needing to talk it over, they both vowed to not do it again. To avoid one another. And it worked, until the very last night of the tour.
Ray, Frank and the guys were gone, leaving them alone in the backseat of the van. They talked awkwardly about vocals or riffs or something stupid like that. And when the conversation inevitably died, they were left staring into one anothers eyes. Eyes that nearly matched. And then they were all over one another, hands everywhere, clothes falling off and lips crushing together.
It took three more tours for them to realize, they couldn't stop. They could not fucking stop themselves. The confusion was what damaged them the most. They shouldn't even be doing it in the first place, and they both knew that. So why couldn't they stop?
The question was maddening. It frustrated them to no end. Gerard fell into the mouth of a bottle to try and find some answers swimming in there. Nothing did he find. Mikey started shutting down, pulling back, losing weight and making little incisions along the insides of his ankles with a pocket knife. He didn't find any answers either.
No one noticed as both fell away from who they'd been. Gerard lived in a chemical haze, fueled by handfuls of pills and rivers of booze. Mikey lived in a world where the constant hunger gnawing his stomach was so intense it left him light-headed and the blade of a knife somehow felt right. They both knew they were living some kind of fucked up cliche existence, but they couldn't help it.
But on the last night of the tour, when they always inevitably found themselves falling into one another, all that cleared up. They felt like humans again, despite the depravity of their actions. Somehow, what had made it wrong made it right again. They found themselves living a cliche.
They couldn't live like that. They knew it. They knew it couldn't last forever. Mikey passed out on-stage during a show in Tulsa, suffering from what the ER doctor referred to as "acute malnutrition". In other words, starvation. Gerard overdosed on Xanax after their set in Newark, where another ER doctor somberly announced he was "in serious liver trouble" if he didn't quit now.
So they worked out a compromise. A deal. A plan. A fucking contingency. Somehow, they worked it out. Worked out their fucked up little needs into something they could control. They didn't know why they couldn't stop, why they couldn't just fucking quit it. What they were doing was sick. And illegal in most places. But somehow, they needed it to survive. To subsist.
Survive. Subsist.
The last day or night of a tour, the bus was always abandoned. Returned to the company for refurbishing, cleaning, fixing up, until it needed to be used again. And there was always a window of time where there was no one in the bus. Right between the time the band unpacked and headed home until the company arrived to drive it back.
It was in this window they found their home. Where they found each other, in the dark, on the floor, buried into one another so deeply they couldn't even breathe.
This was their sanity. This was their bane. This was where they found themselves again. Somehow, being tangled so tightly to someone so akin to themselves made them feel like they were their own selves again.
The road, the responsibility, the rock-star life, sucked them dry. It bled them of who they were. Everyone idolized them, put them on pedestals as gods, dehumanized them. Somehow, living their lives like this managed to bleed them of their identities. They felt like shadows. When they woke up, they didn't feel like Gerard and Mikey anymore. They felt empty.
And it was only them, not Ray, or Frank, or Bob or anyone else. Maybe something of how they grew up made them so much more fragile, so much more susceptible to this bleeding effect. Made them need this. Got them addicted to this. They'd gotten to the point where the only way they could feel like their real selves was to bury themselves into the body of the other.
Survive. Subsist.
They had no choice. They would never have chosen this. The fear of being caught, the shame of the taboo, the lies to wives and family and band members, the pain of knowing that it could never work. They could never 'work'. Because, somewhere along in the physical necessity, they'd fallen for each other.
Love, in its most mangled form. But still, love. They couldn't deny it, could only hide it. Not the love of a brother, but the love of a lover. They loved one another, and they knew they could never do a fucking thing about it. Society could accept two men who loved like this. But not two brothers. It wasn't right to love like this.
A physical relationship, to keep them sane, could be justified. Had been justified. But love? There was no justification enough for something sick like this. Sex was one thing, love was quite another. So they lived on sex alone, denying their feelings over and over until it was a robotic chant in their heads. Only when they were like this, raw from physical release, could that love seep out into them.
Survive. Subsist.
They lived on like this, forcing their love down. On tour, at home, everywhere, they denied this thing between them existed. They only allowed it on the last day of a tour. Only then. They couldn't risk anything more. Couldn't risk anything more than they already had, because it already cost too much.
They'd risked something, and ended up in love. They couldn't risk anything more, because it would end up destroying everything they'd worked so hard to preserve. People would think them sick, think them freaks, single out and ostracize them. Family, friends, the band and their wives would abandon them.
So they hid their actions, denied their feelings and lived from one tour to the next, constantly in fear of being discovered but simply, inexplicably, unable to stop. They would survive after this night, white-knuckling through their daily lives until the next. They would subsist until they could once again hold one another and feel whole.
Survive. Subsist.
---
Thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it and would pretty, pretty please leave a review or a rating? :)
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