the beginning of a bert/gerard fic
Kevin Lyman had been begging them to join the Taste of Chaos 2007 tour for almost a month-and, finally, here they are. The room they are in reminds Bert McCracken of a warehouse or something-high ceilings and metal walls and everything. It’s the meet-and-greet room, a positive orgasm of collective squeals and shrieks as fans find members of different bands to rush to and fawn over; Bert is standing back from the table that Jeph and Dan are perched on, signing scraps of paper, CDs, foreheads. Quinn is next to him, shielding him from view; it’s been his self-assigned job for the past year, shielding Bert from anything and everything.
“Hey,” Bert says, putting a hand on Quinn’s shoulder and nudging him to move, “who’s-oh, fuck.”
“What?”
“Look over there. Across the room.”
Quinn follows Bert’s eyes and his own close for a moment. “Son of a bitch.”
“I told you we should have looked at the roster thing,” Bert says quietly, swallowing with some difficulty, because all of a sudden it’s a little difficult to breathe. “I fucking told you, if I knew they were-“
“Hey.”
Quinn tugs Bert to him, knowing that the younger man needs some kind of contact to calm him down. “Everything’s gonna be just fine, alright? There are enough guys here that we can pretend they don’t even fuckin’ exist, okay? You’ll be fine.”
“...What the fuck are you doing here.”
It’s not even a question, just a flat, emotionless statement, and the voice that’s delivering it is too cold, too angry, for Bert to really believe it.
“...uhm...”
Bert can practically feel the eyes on him and swears under his breath; he had hoped for them to make a fairly unobtrusive entrance to the tour-but that hope was obviously out the window; he could practically feel the eyes on them.
“Answer my fucking question,” Gerard snarls, and Bert takes a step back: he’s five foot six inches and a hundred and ten pounds, but the three-inch different between them feels like a foot.
“We’re signed onto this, just like you,” the younger vocalist says quietly. He gets the feeling that the others around them expected him to yell back and are thus disappointed.
“Since when?”
“Last night. Look, Gerard, if you’ve got a problem with it, talk to Kevin.”
Bert turns, winds his fingers around Quinn’s wrist, but the guitarist doesn’t follow.
“Quinn,” Bert says, loud enough for Quinn and Gerard both to hear him, “Quinn, come on, let’s go-“
“What’s your fucking problem?” Quinn demands, taking a step towards Gerard, and Bert swears out loud.
“Fuck-goddamnit, Quinn, come on-”
“I wasn’t fucking talking to you, Quinn.”
The guitarist wrenches his wrist out of Bert’s grip and takes two long strides towards Gerard before a security official wrenches his arm back.
“Easy, buddy-“
“Let me go, motherfucker!”
“I don’t know why he’s even fucking trying to defend you,” Gerard says, turning blazing eyes on Bert, “I didn’t know people still fucking felt sympathy for cokehead whores like you-“
“Shut your fucking mouth!” Quinn shouts; Bert draws his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down hard, but other than that his face is motionless.
“Keep the fuck away from us,” Gerard snarls, enraged now, “nobody wants you on this fucking tour-nobody-“
He turns and storms back to his own table, breezes right past, out of the venue, and through the doors, back to his own bus.