Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Searching
“Okay, I’m not fucking around anymore; who the fuck has my goddamn drumsticks?” I roar through the tour bus, not giving a shit that it’s only three in the morning.
I’ve been searching high and low for those smooth sticks of silence destruction since one AM, since I realised that they were missing. It’s not so much the fact that it’s my property that’s gone missing, normally I just wave it off whenever my shit disappears, it’s more the fact that these drumsticks aren’t just any old pieces of waxed wood. They were a Christmas present.
From Mikey.
The cute little bassist who is my polar opposite; he has the patience of a statue, the wiry frame of a willow tree and the intricate shyness that currently seem to be inflicting my beloved drumsticks. I, on the other hand, have the hot-headedness of salamander, a similar body structure to that of a teddy bear and am more than willing to let people know when I’m not happy about something. Apart from around him it’s like I’m a different person, I’m patient with his quiet words and secrecy; if he does something to upset me then I just suck it up through fear of making him even more introverted. Why? Because Mikey’s different from the others. He really is.
He isn’t in this band for his own personal gain, or through a want to show off his amazing bass skills; he’s in this band because he wanted to help his big brother realise his dream. I know that he gets terrified of going on stage every night, but he still does it because that’s what his big brother wants. I know he gets stage fright because we always wait together before shows, we’re both willing to just sit in silence and wait, but the first time that arrangement came into play he had been shaking. Really, badly shaking. Like a rattle in the hands of a hyperactive toddler. Bemused, I’d asked him why and he’d replied with a teary glance up at me. So, in return, doing the only thing that I could think to do, I sat down next to him and asked again. And again. And again. Until he finally accepted that I really am as stubborn as I look. He told me that he gets like this before every show and I’d almost wanted to cry then; I thought that I noticed pretty much everything, yet I never noticed how scared the poor little bassist was getting at the prospect of walking out in front of hundreds of screaming teenagers. So now I sit with him before shows, as opposed to him slinking off on his own like he used to, and let him know that it’s going to be an awesome show, like always.
We’ve had the little unspoken arrangement for a few months now and I think that he really is starting to believe me when I tell him that he’s the best bassist I know. I’ve definitely made a great friend out of it, as has he; someone to give him small smiles whenever he sees his brother too drunk to stand up. Because Mikey is the baby of the band, a band that he wouldn’t even be in if his brother hadn’t wanted it, and he’s meant to have Gerard looking after him. Not the other way around. So I try my hardest to keep an eye on the meek little bassist. The meek little bassist who deserves a fuck of a lot more credit than he gets.
Who deserved something better than socks for Christmas when he got me those beautifully handmade drumsticks.
“Seriously, this has gone beyond a fucking joke. I want my drumsticks and I want them right fucking now!”
It’s only then that I realise, rather idiotically, that I’m actually the only one on the bus. Gerard’s out at some all-night bar, Frank’s out with him to make sure he doesn’t end up in a ditch and Ray’s out for the count in the back bunk, snoring his afro-clad head off. Hang on.
Where’s Mikey?
I look around the bunks, sticking my head into every single one, not including the one containing a sound asleep Ray, and find no sign of him. He never goes out after a show, not even when Gerard’s begging him to go and have a ‘good time’ out on the town with him and Frank. I don’t know why, but the idea of not knowing where neither my precious drumsticks nor my precious little bassist are makes me panic like a teenage anarchist does at the threat of homework.
‘My precious little bassist’, what the fuck?
Yeah, actually. He is my precious little bassist. Mine because no one else will look after him; Gerard’s too wrapped up in living the ‘rock-and-roll lifestyle’ and the other two guitarists are too busy trying to stop him from drowning in his own vomit to notice this whole thing is killing Mikey. Precious because he’s too sweet and kind for anything to be allowed to hurt him. Little because he really is the tiniest little slip of a person, like his quiet personality matches his body. Bassist because, well, he plays the bass. Really fucking fantastically.
God, I sound like I’m head-over-heels for the younger Way brother. I am.
But that, somewhat expected, revelation that isn’t really a revelation at all can be put on hold until I find out where Mikey is. I know that I’m probably just overreacting, but he’s so little and naïve that the thought of him alone in the dark is more than enough to make me want to find him. Not want to; have to. What if he’s gone and gotten himself lost? I know how frightened he gets in the dark, he must be terrified if he’s out there all alone. What if he’s actually gone out with Gerard and Frank? I know how seeing his big brother much worse for wear kills him, making him watch Gerard get intoxicated would just be unspeakably cruel. What if he’s finally decided that he’s had enough of living out his big brother’s dream and run off? I think that ‘what if’ scares me the most; I don’t want to have to play each show without the flawless pounding of his bass fleshing out the speedy beating of my drum kit. What if-
What if that’s him I can hear sniffling in the living room area of the bus?
I walk forward, feeling more than a little stupid, and enter the living room area to see my little bassist curled up on the carpet; hair all messed up and eyeliner running down his sorrow-reddened face.
If he were anyone else I would quite possibly walk on, respecting the fact that he has the right to cry alone if he wants to. If he were anyone else I would most likely ask what was wrong, get him a glass of water and just leave him to it. If he were anyone else I would feel sympathetic, but I wouldn’t feel my heart splinter and smash like it is right now. Because he isn’t anyone else; he’s Mikey Way. And he’s crying.
“Mikey?” My voice is soft, so soft that it doesn’t suit the depth of it nor my appearance, and the addressed looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. Eyes that are screaming for the kind of attention that nobody ever gives him even if doesn’t consciously care about being noticed. “Mikey, what’s wrong?”
I walk to flop down next to him on the carpet and playfully nudge his shoulder with my fist, immediately dropping my faux relaxed mood when he doesn’t respond; just starts crying harder. Starts crying harder and leaning on me. Leaning into me so that my arms have somehow wrapped around him of their own accord and his face has hidden itself from the ugly world in my black t-shirt.
“Mikes. Talk to me, man, tell me what’s gotten you all upset, huh?” My voice drips like honey into his ears and he burrows even further into me, making blush like some phased teenage girl meeting Gerard. “C’mon, talk to me. Just like before shows.”
“Gerard’s gone out to get drunk. Again.” He sounds so genuinely miserable that I can’t help but hold him tighter, like I can squeeze out all of his anguish. I wish that I could. “Why does he do it, Bob?”
He looks up at me with huge, moon-like eyes all aglow with agonizing sorrow at the thought of his big brother slowly self-destructing right before his very eyes. Eyes too kind and pure to be pouring out tears like a black cloud pours out torrential spits of rain; eyes that are too enchantingly sweet, kind of like dark honey, to reflect the kind of emotions that they are at the moment. And he wants me to answer him, wants me to make it all better like I always do before shows. But now I’m the one with stage fright and I don’t know how to recite the correct answer to make his tears evaporate.
It really does hurt me to see him like this, one of the; no. The nicest person I’ve ever had the pure good fortune to meet being dragged down by his caring concern for his big brother and best friend; by the person who dragged him away from his hometown to pursue someone else’s dreams. It’s only fair for me to make him feel better; it’s the least the meek little bassist deserves. I wish that I could show Gerard how much he’s hurting his little brother right now, I know Gee well enough to know that seeing Mikes like this would be more than enough to make him stop drinking. But Mikey’s too nice to openly be upset, it’s just honest luck that I’ve caught him out this time and so I will be making it better. I have to; I’m the only one who will right now.
“I dunno, Mikes.”
Bravo, Bob! How very profound of you. And you reckon you’re in love with the kid? You need to do better than that.
“And I don’t think that he does either. He just wants to go out and have fun, he doesn’t mean any harm. In fact, I bet if you told him how bad it’s making you feel he’d give it all up.”
Even I will admit that that was a pretty good save; and I’m so fucking glad that it was. I can’t bear the thought of making things even worse for my little bassist, the little bassist who is currently cuddled so tightly into me that I’m half tempted to just scoop him up and carry him to his bunk. And lie in it with him, have this close contact but in a much more comforting setting, a setting away from the cluttered living area. But I can’t do that. Because he’s my friend and I’m his; if I push cuddling him into something more I might jeopardise him having at least one person to trust and run to. I could never do that, not to him.
“Why? It’s not like he cares about me. He wouldn’t do this if he did.” He mumbles so heartbrokenly that I feel my own heart break for him, he doesn’t deserve this; doesn’t deserve to feel like his big brother, whom I know loves him dearly, doesn’t care about him at all. “Nobody cares.”
Shit, that hurt.
Does he really think that I don’t care? How can he even consider thinking something like that? We all care about him, about each other; it’s just that the others forget to show it amidst Gerard’s antics. And now he feels uncared for. I know exactly how he can think something like that; Gerard, his big brother, has been acting careless and so, by Mikey’s logic, if his own big brother doesn’t care then why should anyone else?
I do though; I care about him a lot. So much so that it physically hurts to see him like this; like he wants to melt into me and never be seen again. I feel so stupid for getting wound up about some stupid drumsticks when poor Mikes has been missing something way more important and for so much longer; the feeling of being cared for.
“I care about you, Mikes.”
“You have to say that, Bob.”
Fuck this, there’s only one thing that I can do that has even the slightest shot at making him feel cared for and I’m going to do it; I, Bob Bryar, am going to kiss Mikey Way.
But what if he doesn’t like it? What if it freaks him out and he becomes even more withdrawn? What if it makes him cry even harder after I’ve just managed to rub the tears from him? What if he hates it and he tells Gerard and Gerard kicks me out? What if-
What if he likes it? Then it’ll have been well worth the risk.
So I lean my face down to his, which is already facing upwards to peer into my forget-me-not eyes with his own bottomless pits of soulfulness, and softly touch my lips to his. It’s just a short dusting of love, like icing sugar brushing on top of a cake, but I can tell that he liked it when I tilt my head back up. How can I tell?
Because his arms are around my neck and pulling me in for more. More which I am more than willing to give him if it makes him smile like he is at the moment.
Smiling because he knows that someone cares. That I care.
Because he’s my precious little bassist.
All mine.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading; I hope that this was alright! Sorry that the ending was shitty and that the dialogue probably bored the hell out of all whom read it; please let me know how to improve. Thank you for reading and please review! :)
“Okay, I’m not fucking around anymore; who the fuck has my goddamn drumsticks?” I roar through the tour bus, not giving a shit that it’s only three in the morning.
I’ve been searching high and low for those smooth sticks of silence destruction since one AM, since I realised that they were missing. It’s not so much the fact that it’s my property that’s gone missing, normally I just wave it off whenever my shit disappears, it’s more the fact that these drumsticks aren’t just any old pieces of waxed wood. They were a Christmas present.
From Mikey.
The cute little bassist who is my polar opposite; he has the patience of a statue, the wiry frame of a willow tree and the intricate shyness that currently seem to be inflicting my beloved drumsticks. I, on the other hand, have the hot-headedness of salamander, a similar body structure to that of a teddy bear and am more than willing to let people know when I’m not happy about something. Apart from around him it’s like I’m a different person, I’m patient with his quiet words and secrecy; if he does something to upset me then I just suck it up through fear of making him even more introverted. Why? Because Mikey’s different from the others. He really is.
He isn’t in this band for his own personal gain, or through a want to show off his amazing bass skills; he’s in this band because he wanted to help his big brother realise his dream. I know that he gets terrified of going on stage every night, but he still does it because that’s what his big brother wants. I know he gets stage fright because we always wait together before shows, we’re both willing to just sit in silence and wait, but the first time that arrangement came into play he had been shaking. Really, badly shaking. Like a rattle in the hands of a hyperactive toddler. Bemused, I’d asked him why and he’d replied with a teary glance up at me. So, in return, doing the only thing that I could think to do, I sat down next to him and asked again. And again. And again. Until he finally accepted that I really am as stubborn as I look. He told me that he gets like this before every show and I’d almost wanted to cry then; I thought that I noticed pretty much everything, yet I never noticed how scared the poor little bassist was getting at the prospect of walking out in front of hundreds of screaming teenagers. So now I sit with him before shows, as opposed to him slinking off on his own like he used to, and let him know that it’s going to be an awesome show, like always.
We’ve had the little unspoken arrangement for a few months now and I think that he really is starting to believe me when I tell him that he’s the best bassist I know. I’ve definitely made a great friend out of it, as has he; someone to give him small smiles whenever he sees his brother too drunk to stand up. Because Mikey is the baby of the band, a band that he wouldn’t even be in if his brother hadn’t wanted it, and he’s meant to have Gerard looking after him. Not the other way around. So I try my hardest to keep an eye on the meek little bassist. The meek little bassist who deserves a fuck of a lot more credit than he gets.
Who deserved something better than socks for Christmas when he got me those beautifully handmade drumsticks.
“Seriously, this has gone beyond a fucking joke. I want my drumsticks and I want them right fucking now!”
It’s only then that I realise, rather idiotically, that I’m actually the only one on the bus. Gerard’s out at some all-night bar, Frank’s out with him to make sure he doesn’t end up in a ditch and Ray’s out for the count in the back bunk, snoring his afro-clad head off. Hang on.
Where’s Mikey?
I look around the bunks, sticking my head into every single one, not including the one containing a sound asleep Ray, and find no sign of him. He never goes out after a show, not even when Gerard’s begging him to go and have a ‘good time’ out on the town with him and Frank. I don’t know why, but the idea of not knowing where neither my precious drumsticks nor my precious little bassist are makes me panic like a teenage anarchist does at the threat of homework.
‘My precious little bassist’, what the fuck?
Yeah, actually. He is my precious little bassist. Mine because no one else will look after him; Gerard’s too wrapped up in living the ‘rock-and-roll lifestyle’ and the other two guitarists are too busy trying to stop him from drowning in his own vomit to notice this whole thing is killing Mikey. Precious because he’s too sweet and kind for anything to be allowed to hurt him. Little because he really is the tiniest little slip of a person, like his quiet personality matches his body. Bassist because, well, he plays the bass. Really fucking fantastically.
God, I sound like I’m head-over-heels for the younger Way brother. I am.
But that, somewhat expected, revelation that isn’t really a revelation at all can be put on hold until I find out where Mikey is. I know that I’m probably just overreacting, but he’s so little and naïve that the thought of him alone in the dark is more than enough to make me want to find him. Not want to; have to. What if he’s gone and gotten himself lost? I know how frightened he gets in the dark, he must be terrified if he’s out there all alone. What if he’s actually gone out with Gerard and Frank? I know how seeing his big brother much worse for wear kills him, making him watch Gerard get intoxicated would just be unspeakably cruel. What if he’s finally decided that he’s had enough of living out his big brother’s dream and run off? I think that ‘what if’ scares me the most; I don’t want to have to play each show without the flawless pounding of his bass fleshing out the speedy beating of my drum kit. What if-
What if that’s him I can hear sniffling in the living room area of the bus?
I walk forward, feeling more than a little stupid, and enter the living room area to see my little bassist curled up on the carpet; hair all messed up and eyeliner running down his sorrow-reddened face.
If he were anyone else I would quite possibly walk on, respecting the fact that he has the right to cry alone if he wants to. If he were anyone else I would most likely ask what was wrong, get him a glass of water and just leave him to it. If he were anyone else I would feel sympathetic, but I wouldn’t feel my heart splinter and smash like it is right now. Because he isn’t anyone else; he’s Mikey Way. And he’s crying.
“Mikey?” My voice is soft, so soft that it doesn’t suit the depth of it nor my appearance, and the addressed looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. Eyes that are screaming for the kind of attention that nobody ever gives him even if doesn’t consciously care about being noticed. “Mikey, what’s wrong?”
I walk to flop down next to him on the carpet and playfully nudge his shoulder with my fist, immediately dropping my faux relaxed mood when he doesn’t respond; just starts crying harder. Starts crying harder and leaning on me. Leaning into me so that my arms have somehow wrapped around him of their own accord and his face has hidden itself from the ugly world in my black t-shirt.
“Mikes. Talk to me, man, tell me what’s gotten you all upset, huh?” My voice drips like honey into his ears and he burrows even further into me, making blush like some phased teenage girl meeting Gerard. “C’mon, talk to me. Just like before shows.”
“Gerard’s gone out to get drunk. Again.” He sounds so genuinely miserable that I can’t help but hold him tighter, like I can squeeze out all of his anguish. I wish that I could. “Why does he do it, Bob?”
He looks up at me with huge, moon-like eyes all aglow with agonizing sorrow at the thought of his big brother slowly self-destructing right before his very eyes. Eyes too kind and pure to be pouring out tears like a black cloud pours out torrential spits of rain; eyes that are too enchantingly sweet, kind of like dark honey, to reflect the kind of emotions that they are at the moment. And he wants me to answer him, wants me to make it all better like I always do before shows. But now I’m the one with stage fright and I don’t know how to recite the correct answer to make his tears evaporate.
It really does hurt me to see him like this, one of the; no. The nicest person I’ve ever had the pure good fortune to meet being dragged down by his caring concern for his big brother and best friend; by the person who dragged him away from his hometown to pursue someone else’s dreams. It’s only fair for me to make him feel better; it’s the least the meek little bassist deserves. I wish that I could show Gerard how much he’s hurting his little brother right now, I know Gee well enough to know that seeing Mikes like this would be more than enough to make him stop drinking. But Mikey’s too nice to openly be upset, it’s just honest luck that I’ve caught him out this time and so I will be making it better. I have to; I’m the only one who will right now.
“I dunno, Mikes.”
Bravo, Bob! How very profound of you. And you reckon you’re in love with the kid? You need to do better than that.
“And I don’t think that he does either. He just wants to go out and have fun, he doesn’t mean any harm. In fact, I bet if you told him how bad it’s making you feel he’d give it all up.”
Even I will admit that that was a pretty good save; and I’m so fucking glad that it was. I can’t bear the thought of making things even worse for my little bassist, the little bassist who is currently cuddled so tightly into me that I’m half tempted to just scoop him up and carry him to his bunk. And lie in it with him, have this close contact but in a much more comforting setting, a setting away from the cluttered living area. But I can’t do that. Because he’s my friend and I’m his; if I push cuddling him into something more I might jeopardise him having at least one person to trust and run to. I could never do that, not to him.
“Why? It’s not like he cares about me. He wouldn’t do this if he did.” He mumbles so heartbrokenly that I feel my own heart break for him, he doesn’t deserve this; doesn’t deserve to feel like his big brother, whom I know loves him dearly, doesn’t care about him at all. “Nobody cares.”
Shit, that hurt.
Does he really think that I don’t care? How can he even consider thinking something like that? We all care about him, about each other; it’s just that the others forget to show it amidst Gerard’s antics. And now he feels uncared for. I know exactly how he can think something like that; Gerard, his big brother, has been acting careless and so, by Mikey’s logic, if his own big brother doesn’t care then why should anyone else?
I do though; I care about him a lot. So much so that it physically hurts to see him like this; like he wants to melt into me and never be seen again. I feel so stupid for getting wound up about some stupid drumsticks when poor Mikes has been missing something way more important and for so much longer; the feeling of being cared for.
“I care about you, Mikes.”
“You have to say that, Bob.”
Fuck this, there’s only one thing that I can do that has even the slightest shot at making him feel cared for and I’m going to do it; I, Bob Bryar, am going to kiss Mikey Way.
But what if he doesn’t like it? What if it freaks him out and he becomes even more withdrawn? What if it makes him cry even harder after I’ve just managed to rub the tears from him? What if he hates it and he tells Gerard and Gerard kicks me out? What if-
What if he likes it? Then it’ll have been well worth the risk.
So I lean my face down to his, which is already facing upwards to peer into my forget-me-not eyes with his own bottomless pits of soulfulness, and softly touch my lips to his. It’s just a short dusting of love, like icing sugar brushing on top of a cake, but I can tell that he liked it when I tilt my head back up. How can I tell?
Because his arms are around my neck and pulling me in for more. More which I am more than willing to give him if it makes him smile like he is at the moment.
Smiling because he knows that someone cares. That I care.
Because he’s my precious little bassist.
All mine.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading; I hope that this was alright! Sorry that the ending was shitty and that the dialogue probably bored the hell out of all whom read it; please let me know how to improve. Thank you for reading and please review! :)
Sign up to rate and review this story