Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Anatomy


by aiIenzo 4 reviews

I Don't Love You; Lincoln shows his face

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: R - Genres: Angst, Drama, Romance, Sci-fi - Characters: Bob Bryar, Frank Iero, Gerard Way, Mikey Way, Ray Toro - Warnings: [!] - Published: 2006-12-25 - Updated: 2006-12-26 - 1481 words

He's been sauntering on the stage now.

He'll sing low and smile nefariously during the entrance, until the chorus hits and he pulls this new shit he has going--like he's trying to seduce the audience (as if they weren't hypnotized by him in the first place). Sometimes, I honestly think he's trying to kill them.

I'm not one to pay attention to anything else around me while performing, but... it's becoming increasingly difficult--especially when his poisoned-honey voice is sliding around my fingers as I play, and whipping around my body as I move; he is all around me, and it's obvious that it's getting harder for me to ignore it.

It's too hot in here; the amphitheatre is swelling from all the kids inside, and the sound seems to only add to the thick atmosphere. And I'm playing rapidly and hard, almost to distract myself, before Ray starts up "I Don't Love You," and I can relax.

Whether I want to or not is still the question lingering over me.

Gerard reaches out and grabs the microphone stand and leans it towards him, and the crowd screams. They'll scream for anything. He smiles, they scream. He flips someone off, they scream. He moves, they scream, he breaths, they scream, he exists, and they simply sit there and bask.

"Well when you go

Don't ever think I'll make you try to stay,"

He leans down and sings to a couple girls in the audience, smirking. Despite the lyrics, they gasp and giggle and squirm. He pulls away, taking the mic with him.

"And maybe when you get back,

I'll be off to find another way"

He's closer to Ray, but he suddenly flips around and stares in my direction. I'm too out of it to wonder if he's staring at me or beyond, but I avoid his gaze and watch my fingers as they strum quietly nonetheless, trying not to care.

"And after all the blood that you still owe,

You're still the good-for-nothing I don't know,"

There's a small pause before he continues, but I still don't look up.

"So take your gloves and get out,

Better get out

While you can,"

The chorus hits, and I brave the chance to glance in his direction. He meets it from across the stage, but turns to the audience to sing. Curiously relieved, I continue to watch him through the lyrics.

"When you go

Would you even turn to say

"I don't love you"

Like I did


And before I have the chance, he turns to face me again, his eyes gleaming. He's closer than he was before. I string along quietly.

"Sometimes I cry so hard from pleading,

So sick and tired of all the needless beating,"

Look away, look away. Please, Gee, look away. In response, he steps closer. He's only six or seven feet away from me...and he won't look away.

"But baby when they knock you

Down and out

It's where you oughta stay,"

He's sung to me before onstage; we've sung together on stage; he's had me pinned between him and mic at points, but I had always been too wrapped up in keeping the rhythm to notice. I never notice. I've never had to meet his eyes.

He steps closer. He's only a few feet away. I look around to Ray, but he's concentrating; I look at Mikey, but he's staring at the ground, blocking my view of Bob. I hit string after string from pure habit, trying desperately for something to distract...anyone.

"And after all the blood that you still owe,

Another dollar's just another blow

So fix your eyes and get up,"

I raise my eyes to meet his, and he's close now. He keeps staring straight at me, as if trying to say something, but I don't understand. I just...I can't concentrate. Please. Look away.

"Better get up,

While you can..."

He vocalizes into the microphone, and the crowd screams and shrieks in delight, their voices barely reaching the amplified stage. And for once, in all the years I've seen Gerard steal the spotlight, he ignores their please of attention and simply loosens the mic from the stand and curls the cord around his wrist, dropping the stand against the floor.

"When you go

Would you even turn to say

"I don't love you

Like I did"

His eyes flash, and I swallow.


Ray rips into the guitar solo, as I keep up the steady beat with the drums to ground him down, but once again, I'm doing it automatically because my mind is locked on the singer that's now only a few steps away. I don't remember how he got that close. I was watching his eyes, not his feet.

That was my first mistake.

My heartbeat picks up dangerously. The crowd noise and music swirls together to create my own personal vertigo, and my throat is dry and my hands are shaking. But he won't look away. He won't look away. I can see the beads of sweat on his face, and the line that one has made through the black makeup underneath his eyes. He steps behind me, and I know that the fans see this at all the shows. We're an intimate band. But nonetheless, my heart skips and my breath quickens and I'm almost as nervous as I had been last night.

The solo is ending. He brings the microphone to his mouth and, to my horror, leans over next to my ear, crooning into the mic.

"And when you go

Would you have the guts to say"

I shiver involuntarily at the emphasis he places on the words. He doesn't touch me, but I feel his voice and breath against my neck, vibrating and shaking my entire form. The lights from the ceiling are swirling and I'm breathing heavily; I can barely make out the crowd; I can barely make out the music.

All I hear is him. His vocals. His /eyes/. I can hear the green leaking into my very core.

I almost jump when his hand touches my lower back, and I know his face is just left of mine and, despite how I try and keep my thoughts on the music, I can imagine perfectly what he must look like right now. What I must look like. What we...

"I don't love you,

Like I loved you..."

I want to scream. I don't know what I'm feeling. Fear. Frustration. Anger. Desire. ...It's something overwhelming. His fingers are curling around my hip. I take in a shaky breath.


And he's gone, screaming the last part of the word into the microphone clenched in his hand, both of which are several feet away and increasing in distance. I look past him, my face twisted in what I figure is an amusing expression to onlookers, to where Ray is grinning at me. Grinning in that "ohwowwe'reonstageisn'tthisamazing?!" sort of way, and I immediately knew that no one had given a second thought about what they may or may not have witnessed. The crowd is screaming for him. I'm screaming at him. My mind is stopping and starting rapidly.

Was I being paranoid?

Sweat dripped from my drooping hair and fell on my arm, but I barely felt it.

Was I taking this too far?

I looked at him, but he never looked back.


It was nearly pitch dark outside by the time the show was over. I could barely see the smoke from the cigarette in front of me as I made my way towards the lights of the venue, hoping to find the bus lodged between vans somewhere. I had signed enough autographs tonight.

The streetlight across from me flickered and went out, casting more darkness and making the lights in the distance even further. I shivered, despite the warmth in my jacket. Something was humming, almost like a whisper. Feedback?

The streetlight flickered back on, and I jumped in surprise and alarm. There was someone standing in the pool of fake light, smiling faintly. A kid? A fan? Stalker?

I waved to him, but he did nothing, only smiled. He looked typical enough--converse, skinny jeans, thick jacket--but he felt out of place. The light breeze ruffled his hair gently, and I dropped my cigarette on the ground, snuffing it out, before picking up my pace. I was alone; I felt genuinely uncomfortable.

When I crossed into the threshold of light and commotion that was the buses, I looked back at the lone streetlight.

The kid stared back.

It was around then that I began to reevaluate my choices for make-up and stage costumes; they seemed to attract attention--one entirely unwanted, one...well, that I still had to think about.

I closed the door behind me and prepared for another sleepless night.

Or so I had assumed.
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