live through this and you won't look back
live through this and you won’t look back
Pairings: past Bob/Jepha, MCR gen
Other Stuff: PG, ~2,500 words
This is a gift for octette with a playlist here. Thanks to gl0ry_gl0ry for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine. Oh yeah. It’s not real, it didn’t happen, probably. Though it should have, GERARD WAY. Refers to this NME video.
***
Bob doesn’t like to think of joining My Chem as choosing these guys over the Used. And, at first, it wasn’t like that. Sure, Quinn flipped him some shit and Bert pouted in his general direction and Jepha just looked at him with big eyes that Bob tried to ignore. He knows that the Used loved him, knows that Bert’s whining “But who else will make us sound this good?” was about fixing more than their levels.
But it wasn’t like there was a Problem. The bands still toured together often enough that he got to see the guys all the time and there was always Brian, tying them together.
Then the Bert and Gerard thing imploded (way later, if Bob was honest, than he expected it to) and leaving and joining My Chem retroactively became a Choice to the Used guys, a stepping away from fixing them. It became a Choice that he couldn’t step back from even if he wanted to.
And, although he sometimes remembers Jepha’s hands smoothing over his belly, laughter and pain and desire sparking in his eyes, Bob knows that he wouldn’t want to.
He wouldn’t step back.
***
He didn’t come into the band blind. They weren’t going to save him, despite their press. But they were a fucking tight band with a great sound and a serious need for a drummer.
And, yeah Bob wasn’t new to them, their fucked-upness didn’t take him by surprise. It’s not like he was some session drummer who had only seen the band on their best behavior (if they even had a best behavior) and it’s not like he didn’t see them for who they were.
But it’s different, being a part of things in this way, being a part of the band instead of on the periphery. Now it’s his job, his role to keep the beat, hold it steady, pull the music together. It makes it easier to see how fucking fragile they all are, how much they need a firm backbeat.
It’s harder to do that, so much fucking harder, when Mikey’s not around.
“What?” Brian laughs a little over the phone. Bob can hear the inhale on the end of the word, almost smell Brian’s Malboro Reds. “You thought it would all be fixed because Gerard got sober?”
“Um.” Yeah, actually. Bob had kind of thought that.
Brian laughs again. “It’ll get better when Mikey’s back.”
“Yeah,” Bob says. “But when the fuck will that be?”
He shouldn’t be able to feel Brian’s helpless shrug over the phone, but Bob is certain that he just did.
***
So it’s not like they are fixed. Mikey is just fucking gone and as much as Bob knows it’s good for him, necessary, it’s hard to have that hole there. Gerard is still overwhelming half the time and half the time the basement-dwelling geek who is surprised that people talk to him instead of punching him. Frankie is alternating between mania and sleeping for fifteen hours at a time, usually seesawing against Gerard’s moods and driving him nuts.
Even with two buses, they somehow manage to drive each other crazy.
Cortez is quiet, strong, willing to fill in without stepping in because he really does know his place (a thought that still makes Bob, the other replacement, wince a little). Ray has stepped into his own world, like self-defense, like writing and listening to music and reading comics is a lifeline.
And hell, maybe it is.
Bob slumps down next to Frank in one of his quieter moments while Frank is curled up in the corner of the back lounge in pink pajama pants and a ratty Converge sweatshirt that he probably stole from Jamia.
They’re both kind of staring in the general direction of the TV, where This is Spinal Tap is playing, but he knows that the movie is more an excuse for staring than something either of them is watching. The air is heavy with exhaustion and Bob is just.
Tired.
“Was it like this before?” Bob didn’t really expect to say that out loud, but he’s not sorry that he did.
Frank tilts his head to the side, exerting the minimum energy needed to communicate. “You were here. Was it like this?”
Bob blinks. He kind of expected that Frank would at least pretend not to understand what he was saying. “I wasn’t here like this, though.”
Frank nods, turning back toward the TV and rubbing his eyes. They watch the TV in silence and Bob thinks the conversation has been dropped.
“It wasn’t like this,” Frank says quietly. “But it wasn’t too different.”
***
Bob doesn’t know that Mikey’s back until he sees him step on the stage. He feels a wave of relief wash over him at the same time he starts to feel anger bubble up in his throat. Because, what, he doesn’t need to fucking know shit?
It’s only when he sees the look of glee and shock on Frank’s face and Ray’s big, stupid smile that he gets that nobody knew.
Except Gerard. Maybe. But who can tell shit when Gerard is in the middle playing to a crowd? Even if he didn’t know that Mikey was back, he’d never show that to a crowd of thousands.
So Bob really doesn’t have any other choice than to grin and twirl his sticks while Gerard screams and Ray and Frank kiss Mikey on the cheek.
“Everybody welcome my brother, Mikey. Fucking. Way!”
There’s something appropriate about the song being “I’m Not Okay,” but Bob is damned if he can figure out what it is.
He does bang the everliving shit out of those drums, though.
***
Mikey’s back and everything is kind of the same, but kind of changed. Bob sees both Gerard’s and Frank’s moods swinging less, Ray’s coming out of his bunk more, and Mikey’s … well, he’s smiling. And married. And smiling all the damn time.
Bob doesn’t even fucking care if it’s the Lasik or taking a break or Alicia or the Celexa and the Klonopin. He’s just fucking thrilled that he gets to see a smiling Mikeyway.
It’s actually morning, which is weird enough, and Gerard is visiting Mikey, Frank, and Bob’s bus, which is less weird but notable.
“Ew. Married sex that isn’t mine is gross,” he’d said as he came on the bus, which gives Bob a damn good idea of what might have chased him away.
Bob is kind of zoning out, drinking his coffee and listening to the sounds of Ray and Mikey half-heartedly arguing over Mario Kart.
He has no idea what makes him look up, but it’s worth breaking his sleepy morning ritual of doing absolutely nothing to catch Gerard looking at Mikey with a pencil dangling from his fingers, forgotten, and a soft, happy smile.
Gerard feels Bob’s look and his glance shifts to the right. He blushes a little and tips his head down, returning to what his was doing before.
***
Things are getting better. The shows are tighter, the guys seem happier, and Bob is almost ready to relax for the first time in the history of knowing this band.
And then Gerard does his fucking NME interview.
Bob rides along with him, partially because Jamia, Krista, and Alicia are all visiting at the same fucking time and, as much as he loves his bandmates, he actually has less than zero desire hearing all three of them fucking their respective partners.
Also, NME has pretty decent coffee.
Bob can’t hear most of the interview, even though it’s just in the connecting room, but when Gerard gets passionate about something, he really does get loud. Bob’s hand clenches tighter and tighter around his paper coffee cup, spilling the coffee down his hand.
He shoves Gerard up against the wall after the interview.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He knows that his voice is a little scary, that kind of quiet that always stopped fights in the bars the he bounced in, that would stop Bert’s temper tantrums in a heartbeat.
He’s never used this voice on Gerard, never needed to, never wanted to.
He means it, though.
Gerard’s eyes are wide, wider than usual, and he looks like a little kid.
“What?” his voice shakes and his hands scrabble at the wall behind his back. Bob knows he took Gerard by surprise - it was on purpose, he meant to.
Bob stares at Gerard, at his wide eyes and his hands fisted against the wall, his body arched against Bob’s like an apology he doesn’t know he’s making. Bob waits it out, waiting for the break that shows Gerard’s colors, the moment when shit gets clearer.
It comes fast. Because Gerard doesn’t play these games, doesn’t know these moves, doesn’t know what else he would do. His eyes stay wide, his body relaxes, he just kind of gives in.
And it’s then that Bob knows that he really doesn’t know.
Bob doesn’t let go of Gerard’s shoulders, but his hands loosen slightly, his face probably softens a little. He’s pissed, but it’s different if Gee doesn’t know.
Gerard is just waiting, those years of getting beaten up in high school coming out now in the rock star, his shoulders pulling in a little in anticipation of a punch.
“Gerard.” Gerard winces and Bob almost wishes he had punched him, that he could have given Gerard something that he could expect. “Did you even listen to yourself in there?”
Gerard obviously doesn’t get it, it’s like Bob can see him running through the interview in his head until he gets toward the end and then … then he obviously replays his own words about medication and people needing to “feel their feelings.”
“Oh god,” Gerard says, huffing out a frustrated, scared breath. “Oh God. I didn’t mean. I didn’t mean him or anyone but me, but I just …”
“Yeah,” Bob says, still pissed, still holding on. “But you said ‘people,’ because you like to speak in these big fucking statements because it gives more impact that way. But it gives more impact to people, Gerard. To Mikey, to your mom, to us, to every fucking fan who finally went out and got themselves on the meds they need and you just …”
Bob finally lets go of Gerard’s shoulders, slumping back against the other wall in the hall and just staring at him. He could keep going forever, but he can’t keep going for another sentence and he just has to. He has to stop.
Gerard looks, again, like Bob punched him. He kind of still wants to.
“Fix it,” Bob says, turning around to leave.
Even as he’s shutting the door, he kind of wishes that he still spoke with fists and not words. He also knows that he wouldn’t have the chance to be this guy to call Gerard on his shit in the first place if he still was that guy, but …
Fuck.
Punching was easier.
***
Gerard is strong in a lot of ways now, so Bob kind of forgets sometimes that he’s still weak in a lot of the same ways that he was when he was using.
He’s backstage the night after the NME interview, a few hours after Gerard had taken Mikey out for coffee, a day before the interview will hit the internet. He’s taping his wrists and trying really fucking hard to let other people take care of their own damn problems when Gerard slinks into the room with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.
For about half a second, Bob thinks that he’s relapsed. Then Gerard raises his eyes to meet Bob’s and they’re just as sad and red as Bob had feard, but the irises are clear.
“We talked.” Gerard’s voice is quiet and scratchy. Bob winces, not able to forget that they have a show in two hours.
“And?” he asks noncommittally, flexing his hand to test the wrap on the right before moving on to the left.
“He’s pissed,” Gerard says as he leans against a wall and lights a cigarette. “He’s pissed and he’s hurt and Bob, he yelled at me.” Gerard sounds incredulous and maybe a little proud.
Bob nods. “Doesn’t do that a lot?”
“Not since we were kids and I fell on his sandcastle.”
Bob looks up from his wrists again to Gerard, sad and slumped in the corner, body trying to fold into itself.
“Maybe he should yell at you more,” Bob says quietly, smiling just a little.
Gerard looks up at that, probably to see if he’s being made fun of. His mouth opens and then stretches in a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Probably.”
Bob taps the Velcro on his left wrist and flexes both hands. He puts his arms out and pulls Gerard against his side, ruffling his hair.
“He’ll deal with it,” Bob says quietly, into Gerard’s head.
Gerard butts his head gently against Bob’s chest. “Yeah. Who could stay mad at me?”
Besides Bert? Bob grins and pulls away. “Not many people, man.”
***
The show that night is a little subdued, but Bob isn’t sure that even their most dedicated fans would notice. Gerard is still campy and Toro still shreds and Frankie still writhes and spins and generally acts like an idiot. Mikey is still bopping in the background, grounding them.
Bob plays on because, at the end of the day, it’s what you do.
And maybe there’s some of Gerard’s ridiculousness missing, fewer feather boas and more earnest clutching at the microphone.
But at the end of the show, he and Mikey walk offstage with their arms around each other’s shoulders, holding on like it’s the most important thing that they could do.
And really, Bob knows, it is.
He feels ice-cold washing over his head and turns quickly, blinking away ice water and what better not be fucking Gatorade.
Frank grins and giggles and takes off.
Bob shakes his hair out and runs after him.
It’s what you do.
Pairings: past Bob/Jepha, MCR gen
Other Stuff: PG, ~2,500 words
This is a gift for octette with a playlist here. Thanks to gl0ry_gl0ry for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine. Oh yeah. It’s not real, it didn’t happen, probably. Though it should have, GERARD WAY. Refers to this NME video.
***
Bob doesn’t like to think of joining My Chem as choosing these guys over the Used. And, at first, it wasn’t like that. Sure, Quinn flipped him some shit and Bert pouted in his general direction and Jepha just looked at him with big eyes that Bob tried to ignore. He knows that the Used loved him, knows that Bert’s whining “But who else will make us sound this good?” was about fixing more than their levels.
But it wasn’t like there was a Problem. The bands still toured together often enough that he got to see the guys all the time and there was always Brian, tying them together.
Then the Bert and Gerard thing imploded (way later, if Bob was honest, than he expected it to) and leaving and joining My Chem retroactively became a Choice to the Used guys, a stepping away from fixing them. It became a Choice that he couldn’t step back from even if he wanted to.
And, although he sometimes remembers Jepha’s hands smoothing over his belly, laughter and pain and desire sparking in his eyes, Bob knows that he wouldn’t want to.
He wouldn’t step back.
***
He didn’t come into the band blind. They weren’t going to save him, despite their press. But they were a fucking tight band with a great sound and a serious need for a drummer.
And, yeah Bob wasn’t new to them, their fucked-upness didn’t take him by surprise. It’s not like he was some session drummer who had only seen the band on their best behavior (if they even had a best behavior) and it’s not like he didn’t see them for who they were.
But it’s different, being a part of things in this way, being a part of the band instead of on the periphery. Now it’s his job, his role to keep the beat, hold it steady, pull the music together. It makes it easier to see how fucking fragile they all are, how much they need a firm backbeat.
It’s harder to do that, so much fucking harder, when Mikey’s not around.
“What?” Brian laughs a little over the phone. Bob can hear the inhale on the end of the word, almost smell Brian’s Malboro Reds. “You thought it would all be fixed because Gerard got sober?”
“Um.” Yeah, actually. Bob had kind of thought that.
Brian laughs again. “It’ll get better when Mikey’s back.”
“Yeah,” Bob says. “But when the fuck will that be?”
He shouldn’t be able to feel Brian’s helpless shrug over the phone, but Bob is certain that he just did.
***
So it’s not like they are fixed. Mikey is just fucking gone and as much as Bob knows it’s good for him, necessary, it’s hard to have that hole there. Gerard is still overwhelming half the time and half the time the basement-dwelling geek who is surprised that people talk to him instead of punching him. Frankie is alternating between mania and sleeping for fifteen hours at a time, usually seesawing against Gerard’s moods and driving him nuts.
Even with two buses, they somehow manage to drive each other crazy.
Cortez is quiet, strong, willing to fill in without stepping in because he really does know his place (a thought that still makes Bob, the other replacement, wince a little). Ray has stepped into his own world, like self-defense, like writing and listening to music and reading comics is a lifeline.
And hell, maybe it is.
Bob slumps down next to Frank in one of his quieter moments while Frank is curled up in the corner of the back lounge in pink pajama pants and a ratty Converge sweatshirt that he probably stole from Jamia.
They’re both kind of staring in the general direction of the TV, where This is Spinal Tap is playing, but he knows that the movie is more an excuse for staring than something either of them is watching. The air is heavy with exhaustion and Bob is just.
Tired.
“Was it like this before?” Bob didn’t really expect to say that out loud, but he’s not sorry that he did.
Frank tilts his head to the side, exerting the minimum energy needed to communicate. “You were here. Was it like this?”
Bob blinks. He kind of expected that Frank would at least pretend not to understand what he was saying. “I wasn’t here like this, though.”
Frank nods, turning back toward the TV and rubbing his eyes. They watch the TV in silence and Bob thinks the conversation has been dropped.
“It wasn’t like this,” Frank says quietly. “But it wasn’t too different.”
***
Bob doesn’t know that Mikey’s back until he sees him step on the stage. He feels a wave of relief wash over him at the same time he starts to feel anger bubble up in his throat. Because, what, he doesn’t need to fucking know shit?
It’s only when he sees the look of glee and shock on Frank’s face and Ray’s big, stupid smile that he gets that nobody knew.
Except Gerard. Maybe. But who can tell shit when Gerard is in the middle playing to a crowd? Even if he didn’t know that Mikey was back, he’d never show that to a crowd of thousands.
So Bob really doesn’t have any other choice than to grin and twirl his sticks while Gerard screams and Ray and Frank kiss Mikey on the cheek.
“Everybody welcome my brother, Mikey. Fucking. Way!”
There’s something appropriate about the song being “I’m Not Okay,” but Bob is damned if he can figure out what it is.
He does bang the everliving shit out of those drums, though.
***
Mikey’s back and everything is kind of the same, but kind of changed. Bob sees both Gerard’s and Frank’s moods swinging less, Ray’s coming out of his bunk more, and Mikey’s … well, he’s smiling. And married. And smiling all the damn time.
Bob doesn’t even fucking care if it’s the Lasik or taking a break or Alicia or the Celexa and the Klonopin. He’s just fucking thrilled that he gets to see a smiling Mikeyway.
It’s actually morning, which is weird enough, and Gerard is visiting Mikey, Frank, and Bob’s bus, which is less weird but notable.
“Ew. Married sex that isn’t mine is gross,” he’d said as he came on the bus, which gives Bob a damn good idea of what might have chased him away.
Bob is kind of zoning out, drinking his coffee and listening to the sounds of Ray and Mikey half-heartedly arguing over Mario Kart.
He has no idea what makes him look up, but it’s worth breaking his sleepy morning ritual of doing absolutely nothing to catch Gerard looking at Mikey with a pencil dangling from his fingers, forgotten, and a soft, happy smile.
Gerard feels Bob’s look and his glance shifts to the right. He blushes a little and tips his head down, returning to what his was doing before.
***
Things are getting better. The shows are tighter, the guys seem happier, and Bob is almost ready to relax for the first time in the history of knowing this band.
And then Gerard does his fucking NME interview.
Bob rides along with him, partially because Jamia, Krista, and Alicia are all visiting at the same fucking time and, as much as he loves his bandmates, he actually has less than zero desire hearing all three of them fucking their respective partners.
Also, NME has pretty decent coffee.
Bob can’t hear most of the interview, even though it’s just in the connecting room, but when Gerard gets passionate about something, he really does get loud. Bob’s hand clenches tighter and tighter around his paper coffee cup, spilling the coffee down his hand.
He shoves Gerard up against the wall after the interview.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He knows that his voice is a little scary, that kind of quiet that always stopped fights in the bars the he bounced in, that would stop Bert’s temper tantrums in a heartbeat.
He’s never used this voice on Gerard, never needed to, never wanted to.
He means it, though.
Gerard’s eyes are wide, wider than usual, and he looks like a little kid.
“What?” his voice shakes and his hands scrabble at the wall behind his back. Bob knows he took Gerard by surprise - it was on purpose, he meant to.
Bob stares at Gerard, at his wide eyes and his hands fisted against the wall, his body arched against Bob’s like an apology he doesn’t know he’s making. Bob waits it out, waiting for the break that shows Gerard’s colors, the moment when shit gets clearer.
It comes fast. Because Gerard doesn’t play these games, doesn’t know these moves, doesn’t know what else he would do. His eyes stay wide, his body relaxes, he just kind of gives in.
And it’s then that Bob knows that he really doesn’t know.
Bob doesn’t let go of Gerard’s shoulders, but his hands loosen slightly, his face probably softens a little. He’s pissed, but it’s different if Gee doesn’t know.
Gerard is just waiting, those years of getting beaten up in high school coming out now in the rock star, his shoulders pulling in a little in anticipation of a punch.
“Gerard.” Gerard winces and Bob almost wishes he had punched him, that he could have given Gerard something that he could expect. “Did you even listen to yourself in there?”
Gerard obviously doesn’t get it, it’s like Bob can see him running through the interview in his head until he gets toward the end and then … then he obviously replays his own words about medication and people needing to “feel their feelings.”
“Oh god,” Gerard says, huffing out a frustrated, scared breath. “Oh God. I didn’t mean. I didn’t mean him or anyone but me, but I just …”
“Yeah,” Bob says, still pissed, still holding on. “But you said ‘people,’ because you like to speak in these big fucking statements because it gives more impact that way. But it gives more impact to people, Gerard. To Mikey, to your mom, to us, to every fucking fan who finally went out and got themselves on the meds they need and you just …”
Bob finally lets go of Gerard’s shoulders, slumping back against the other wall in the hall and just staring at him. He could keep going forever, but he can’t keep going for another sentence and he just has to. He has to stop.
Gerard looks, again, like Bob punched him. He kind of still wants to.
“Fix it,” Bob says, turning around to leave.
Even as he’s shutting the door, he kind of wishes that he still spoke with fists and not words. He also knows that he wouldn’t have the chance to be this guy to call Gerard on his shit in the first place if he still was that guy, but …
Fuck.
Punching was easier.
***
Gerard is strong in a lot of ways now, so Bob kind of forgets sometimes that he’s still weak in a lot of the same ways that he was when he was using.
He’s backstage the night after the NME interview, a few hours after Gerard had taken Mikey out for coffee, a day before the interview will hit the internet. He’s taping his wrists and trying really fucking hard to let other people take care of their own damn problems when Gerard slinks into the room with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.
For about half a second, Bob thinks that he’s relapsed. Then Gerard raises his eyes to meet Bob’s and they’re just as sad and red as Bob had feard, but the irises are clear.
“We talked.” Gerard’s voice is quiet and scratchy. Bob winces, not able to forget that they have a show in two hours.
“And?” he asks noncommittally, flexing his hand to test the wrap on the right before moving on to the left.
“He’s pissed,” Gerard says as he leans against a wall and lights a cigarette. “He’s pissed and he’s hurt and Bob, he yelled at me.” Gerard sounds incredulous and maybe a little proud.
Bob nods. “Doesn’t do that a lot?”
“Not since we were kids and I fell on his sandcastle.”
Bob looks up from his wrists again to Gerard, sad and slumped in the corner, body trying to fold into itself.
“Maybe he should yell at you more,” Bob says quietly, smiling just a little.
Gerard looks up at that, probably to see if he’s being made fun of. His mouth opens and then stretches in a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Probably.”
Bob taps the Velcro on his left wrist and flexes both hands. He puts his arms out and pulls Gerard against his side, ruffling his hair.
“He’ll deal with it,” Bob says quietly, into Gerard’s head.
Gerard butts his head gently against Bob’s chest. “Yeah. Who could stay mad at me?”
Besides Bert? Bob grins and pulls away. “Not many people, man.”
***
The show that night is a little subdued, but Bob isn’t sure that even their most dedicated fans would notice. Gerard is still campy and Toro still shreds and Frankie still writhes and spins and generally acts like an idiot. Mikey is still bopping in the background, grounding them.
Bob plays on because, at the end of the day, it’s what you do.
And maybe there’s some of Gerard’s ridiculousness missing, fewer feather boas and more earnest clutching at the microphone.
But at the end of the show, he and Mikey walk offstage with their arms around each other’s shoulders, holding on like it’s the most important thing that they could do.
And really, Bob knows, it is.
He feels ice-cold washing over his head and turns quickly, blinking away ice water and what better not be fucking Gatorade.
Frank grins and giggles and takes off.
Bob shakes his hair out and runs after him.
It’s what you do.