One Night And One More Time
Title: One Night And One More Time
Author: whitechinadoll
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
POV: first, Gerard
Summary: Haven’t you heard? My Chemical Romance is a happy band! I smile, I nod and I pull the sleeves down just a little further; the next time I’m alone, I cut a little deeper and I hide just a little more.
Disclaimer: It's all a figment of my overactive and deranged imagination.
Beta: the awesome kittycaterocker
Warnings: angst, self-harm, depression, suicidal thoughts, character death, suicide attempts, drug use, suicide encouragement.
Previous Chapters: Prologue // 1 // 2 //
Another town. Another show. Another load of people converted. Really, it does mean so much to hear people screaming my words back at me but how can I - simply by jumping around, yelling out self-important lyrics - manage to convince people of some sort of meaning? How does that give them a sense of hope? Mostly, it shouldn’t. The songs aren’t lies but they aren’t the truth either - they’re just words. If they were the truth I wouldn’t walk around in long sleeved tops, dread settled deep into my stomach that I’m just a false idol - my supposed perfect happiness achieved through following my dreams and never giving up. Haven’t you heard? My Chemical Romance is a happy band! I smile, I nod and I pull the sleeves down just a little further; the next time I’m alone, I cut a little deeper and I hide just a little more.
I do actually enjoy spending time with the band. I mean, I prefer being by myself, then there’s nothing to pretend about at all; when there are fans and reporters around I feel the need to show that I’m happy - that the music did help - but with the band I’m allowed to be quiet. When I’m with the band I don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations. I can just be me hanging with my friendsn Maybe they don’t know the whole truth, but they know more than any reporter ever will. Sometimes that makes me uncomfortable, that they know so much about me, but at least I don’t have to explain my past to them every time we have a conversation. When I tune out, they normally just put it down to ‘Gerard being his usual eccentric self’. Sometimes, they question me - Mikey and Frank are the worst - but everyone is used to it, used to me tuning out and then randomly joining in a conversation with almost no idea of what’s just been said. I like it like that, It makes me comfortable.
“Frank!!” Bob’s voice cut through the warm, hazy afternoon air, everyone seated in the courtyard glancing over at our table. Thankfully, Bob also gets the desired effect: Frank spotting our table and strolling over. He flops down in the spare seat, and stretches lazily.
“Man, I love breaks.”
Ray pokes him in the side.
“You’ve only been back on tour for 4 days, you cannot say that you need this break more than me!” Mikey chimes in, Bob soon gives his support.
Frankie chuckles and surrenders, more interested in locating something to eat than in arguing. A waiter comes over and he orders chocolate muffin - we are taking full advantage of the hotel that our record label forked out for - enjoying the unusual luxuries. The waiter comes back with Frank’s muffin and the rest of the conversation dwindles to a few snippets about some old ‘new’ CD that Ray came across the other day. I was reaching around Frankie - who was sitting next to me, picking at his muffin to extract the chocolate chips - to get the jug of water when Frank suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of my arm. I froze. Memories of the other night on the bus flooded to the front of my mind. I couldn’t look at him I instead focused my gaze on the plate in front of me; all he did was reach out with his other arm, grabbing the water jug himself, and place it in front of me.
“Didn’t you ever hear it’s bad table manners to reach around someone? You should just ask for them to pass it.” He looked at me curiously. My cheeks had tinged a reddish colour.
“Well, I didn’t really expect you to be listening, you’re kind of preoccupied with your muffin.” I flashed him a quick smile, then poured the water into my glass. He punched me on my upper arm, causing me to spill water all over the table. I glared at him, and he grinned at me.
“I have good table manners!” His voice softened, “And I’m always listening.” I ignored the hidden meaning, that I knew he had purposefully embedded in those words, and lit up a cigarette, wanting to look busy. Like I had something to do. Like I hadn’t caught the hidden meaning. Like I didn’t have anything to hide. Like I hadn’t had to pause for a second to slow my heart down at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he knew.
And just as I was relaxing, breathing out a cloud of smoke and turning to ask Bob something, Frankie spoke up again.
“Aren’t you hot Gerard?” I turned to look at him at the same time that everyone else turned to look at me. I took in another breath of toxic air.
“A little,” I answered as I breathed out the smoke, “I ran out of clean shirts so I had to wear this hoodie.” I grinned a little ruefully.
Ray laughed, “Having only dirty clothes never stopped you from wearing them before!”
“Hey!” I protested, suitably offended as Mikey and Bob laughed. Frank joined in laughter, a few seconds behind them, shooting one more glance at me before I excused myself, wandering off looking for something else to do.
I strolled through the small town, the only things that interested me being a small music shop and a newsagent. However, as I rounded the crest of a hill, a playground came into a view. It was deserted, except for a mother and child playing in the sandbox. I meandered over to the swings and sat down on one, rocking slowly back. I had never learned how to swing properly and - despite how good it apparently felt to feel the wind rushing past you - moving backwards and forwards over the same point repeatedly had always struck me as somewhat a waste of a energy. Finding nothing else to do, however, I set to teaching myself the intricacies of swinging. Only abandoning my quest when I began to attract unwanted attention from the mother in the sandbox.
Not wanting to go back to the hotel yet, I moved over to sit on a bench, simply watching everything flow past me. I’ve always liked observing things, I guess part of it comes from the artist in me; maybe I just don’t like having to do anything. Watching lets me enjoy what’s happening without spoiling it by actually involving myself, I can enjoy the happy moments that other people are experiencing - simply by watching. When I take part I feel awkward, clumsy, out of place, as though I’m not sure how to properly behave. I worry that if I enjoy myself that much, if I fully let myself go, if I give up my control then someone might find out. Someone might discover my secret.
I was startled out of my reverie by my phone vibrating in my pocket. It was text from Frankie:
Hey G…You said all of your stuff is dirty, and there’s a laundry at the hotel, so I’ll grab all your stuff and wash it for you with mine.
My stomach jumped and my hands shook as I almost dropped the phone. Fuck, he can’t. If he goes through my stuff he’s going to find out, he’s going to know. Fuck, he’s going to realise and then he’s going to tell them. After everything I’ve said to them, everything I’ve promised, everything that they’ve believed. Shit. What do I do? Fuck, what do I do? I clicked the reply button:
Don’t worry, I can do it, I’m coming back to the hotel now…You don’t have to bother yourself.
I clicked send, then OK, and the phone automatically sent the message to the last number to text me. I cleared the text from the window, and wrote another text:
Fuck Bert. Frankie is about to look in my suitcase, I have blades there, he’s gonna know I’m still cutting. What the fuck do I do?
I clicked send, then OK and the phone automatically sent the message to the last number to text me.
The last number to text me. Again, I almost dropped the phone, this time from futilely attempting to stop the message from sending.
After all the lies you’ve told, everything you’ve said. This is how it pans out, you aren’t careful enough sending a text and Frankie finds out.
Fuck. No, this can’t be happening. Maybe, maybe, it didn’t send. Maybe he won’t read it. How can this happen? Fuck Why? I tried so fucking hard.
Never hard enough, you knew how much you needed to hide this, one mistake and now you’re screwed forever. Do you honestly think that you can keep cutting now? You have to make this better. You know how you can fix this. Two more cuts, one for each vein. Or maybe one more bottle of pills and one more bottle of alcohol. Nothing matters anymore now that he knows and he’s going to tell everyone. They are all going to be angry and they’re all going to be upset that you lied to them. They’re going to want to talk to you. They’ll make you talk, make you tell them everything. You can’t talk to them. You need a way out.
I need a way out.
The phone rang, letting a tinny ring-tone out into the air. I looked down. The display was flashing Frankie. I pushed the end-call button. Then I turned it off. Without being fully aware of what I was doing, I stood up and began to walk back to the hotel. Out of the playground; past the newsagent; turn at the music shop and there was the hotel. I walked into the foyer, past reception. I could see the receptionist move her lips - I knew she was saying ‘good afternoon, sir’ just as she had yesterday - but I couldn’t hear her words. Something wasn’t working right, her speech seemed slurred yet perfectly clear. Disjointed. Out of time like a badly dubbed movie.
I got into the elevator, pressing the button for the 7th floor, and then the door-close button. I couldn’t see anyone. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t pretend that everything was fine. The elevator moved slowly, only stopping at my floor.
I got out of the elevator, walking to my room. I pushed the card into the lock, and walked in the door. I locked it. No one was here waiting for me.
No one cares. Not really. Frankie is probably laughing with everyone else right now, laughing at how pathetic you are. Look at you, a thirty-year-old man, cutting himself because it just hurts to feel so much. You’re a disgrace and now you can’t even talk like a normal person about it. No wonder he’s laughing at you, you’re an absolute joke.
My suitcase was still sitting on the floor, unopened. I walked past the suitcase, and into the bathroom. I shut and locked the door, then leaned against it, slowly sliding down until I was huddled into a ball on the floor. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t scream, I just needed some sort of release. I needed to regain control. I needed for things to be normal.
Still curled into a ball, I let myself fall to the side, resting my head, shutting my eyes. Maybe I fell asleep. Maybe I gave into the shock. Maybe I passed out. Maybe I finally gave up.
Author: whitechinadoll
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
POV: first, Gerard
Summary: Haven’t you heard? My Chemical Romance is a happy band! I smile, I nod and I pull the sleeves down just a little further; the next time I’m alone, I cut a little deeper and I hide just a little more.
Disclaimer: It's all a figment of my overactive and deranged imagination.
Beta: the awesome kittycaterocker
Warnings: angst, self-harm, depression, suicidal thoughts, character death, suicide attempts, drug use, suicide encouragement.
Previous Chapters: Prologue // 1 // 2 //
Another town. Another show. Another load of people converted. Really, it does mean so much to hear people screaming my words back at me but how can I - simply by jumping around, yelling out self-important lyrics - manage to convince people of some sort of meaning? How does that give them a sense of hope? Mostly, it shouldn’t. The songs aren’t lies but they aren’t the truth either - they’re just words. If they were the truth I wouldn’t walk around in long sleeved tops, dread settled deep into my stomach that I’m just a false idol - my supposed perfect happiness achieved through following my dreams and never giving up. Haven’t you heard? My Chemical Romance is a happy band! I smile, I nod and I pull the sleeves down just a little further; the next time I’m alone, I cut a little deeper and I hide just a little more.
I do actually enjoy spending time with the band. I mean, I prefer being by myself, then there’s nothing to pretend about at all; when there are fans and reporters around I feel the need to show that I’m happy - that the music did help - but with the band I’m allowed to be quiet. When I’m with the band I don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations. I can just be me hanging with my friendsn Maybe they don’t know the whole truth, but they know more than any reporter ever will. Sometimes that makes me uncomfortable, that they know so much about me, but at least I don’t have to explain my past to them every time we have a conversation. When I tune out, they normally just put it down to ‘Gerard being his usual eccentric self’. Sometimes, they question me - Mikey and Frank are the worst - but everyone is used to it, used to me tuning out and then randomly joining in a conversation with almost no idea of what’s just been said. I like it like that, It makes me comfortable.
“Frank!!” Bob’s voice cut through the warm, hazy afternoon air, everyone seated in the courtyard glancing over at our table. Thankfully, Bob also gets the desired effect: Frank spotting our table and strolling over. He flops down in the spare seat, and stretches lazily.
“Man, I love breaks.”
Ray pokes him in the side.
“You’ve only been back on tour for 4 days, you cannot say that you need this break more than me!” Mikey chimes in, Bob soon gives his support.
Frankie chuckles and surrenders, more interested in locating something to eat than in arguing. A waiter comes over and he orders chocolate muffin - we are taking full advantage of the hotel that our record label forked out for - enjoying the unusual luxuries. The waiter comes back with Frank’s muffin and the rest of the conversation dwindles to a few snippets about some old ‘new’ CD that Ray came across the other day. I was reaching around Frankie - who was sitting next to me, picking at his muffin to extract the chocolate chips - to get the jug of water when Frank suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of my arm. I froze. Memories of the other night on the bus flooded to the front of my mind. I couldn’t look at him I instead focused my gaze on the plate in front of me; all he did was reach out with his other arm, grabbing the water jug himself, and place it in front of me.
“Didn’t you ever hear it’s bad table manners to reach around someone? You should just ask for them to pass it.” He looked at me curiously. My cheeks had tinged a reddish colour.
“Well, I didn’t really expect you to be listening, you’re kind of preoccupied with your muffin.” I flashed him a quick smile, then poured the water into my glass. He punched me on my upper arm, causing me to spill water all over the table. I glared at him, and he grinned at me.
“I have good table manners!” His voice softened, “And I’m always listening.” I ignored the hidden meaning, that I knew he had purposefully embedded in those words, and lit up a cigarette, wanting to look busy. Like I had something to do. Like I hadn’t caught the hidden meaning. Like I didn’t have anything to hide. Like I hadn’t had to pause for a second to slow my heart down at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he knew.
And just as I was relaxing, breathing out a cloud of smoke and turning to ask Bob something, Frankie spoke up again.
“Aren’t you hot Gerard?” I turned to look at him at the same time that everyone else turned to look at me. I took in another breath of toxic air.
“A little,” I answered as I breathed out the smoke, “I ran out of clean shirts so I had to wear this hoodie.” I grinned a little ruefully.
Ray laughed, “Having only dirty clothes never stopped you from wearing them before!”
“Hey!” I protested, suitably offended as Mikey and Bob laughed. Frank joined in laughter, a few seconds behind them, shooting one more glance at me before I excused myself, wandering off looking for something else to do.
I strolled through the small town, the only things that interested me being a small music shop and a newsagent. However, as I rounded the crest of a hill, a playground came into a view. It was deserted, except for a mother and child playing in the sandbox. I meandered over to the swings and sat down on one, rocking slowly back. I had never learned how to swing properly and - despite how good it apparently felt to feel the wind rushing past you - moving backwards and forwards over the same point repeatedly had always struck me as somewhat a waste of a energy. Finding nothing else to do, however, I set to teaching myself the intricacies of swinging. Only abandoning my quest when I began to attract unwanted attention from the mother in the sandbox.
Not wanting to go back to the hotel yet, I moved over to sit on a bench, simply watching everything flow past me. I’ve always liked observing things, I guess part of it comes from the artist in me; maybe I just don’t like having to do anything. Watching lets me enjoy what’s happening without spoiling it by actually involving myself, I can enjoy the happy moments that other people are experiencing - simply by watching. When I take part I feel awkward, clumsy, out of place, as though I’m not sure how to properly behave. I worry that if I enjoy myself that much, if I fully let myself go, if I give up my control then someone might find out. Someone might discover my secret.
I was startled out of my reverie by my phone vibrating in my pocket. It was text from Frankie:
Hey G…You said all of your stuff is dirty, and there’s a laundry at the hotel, so I’ll grab all your stuff and wash it for you with mine.
My stomach jumped and my hands shook as I almost dropped the phone. Fuck, he can’t. If he goes through my stuff he’s going to find out, he’s going to know. Fuck, he’s going to realise and then he’s going to tell them. After everything I’ve said to them, everything I’ve promised, everything that they’ve believed. Shit. What do I do? Fuck, what do I do? I clicked the reply button:
Don’t worry, I can do it, I’m coming back to the hotel now…You don’t have to bother yourself.
I clicked send, then OK, and the phone automatically sent the message to the last number to text me. I cleared the text from the window, and wrote another text:
Fuck Bert. Frankie is about to look in my suitcase, I have blades there, he’s gonna know I’m still cutting. What the fuck do I do?
I clicked send, then OK and the phone automatically sent the message to the last number to text me.
The last number to text me. Again, I almost dropped the phone, this time from futilely attempting to stop the message from sending.
After all the lies you’ve told, everything you’ve said. This is how it pans out, you aren’t careful enough sending a text and Frankie finds out.
Fuck. No, this can’t be happening. Maybe, maybe, it didn’t send. Maybe he won’t read it. How can this happen? Fuck Why? I tried so fucking hard.
Never hard enough, you knew how much you needed to hide this, one mistake and now you’re screwed forever. Do you honestly think that you can keep cutting now? You have to make this better. You know how you can fix this. Two more cuts, one for each vein. Or maybe one more bottle of pills and one more bottle of alcohol. Nothing matters anymore now that he knows and he’s going to tell everyone. They are all going to be angry and they’re all going to be upset that you lied to them. They’re going to want to talk to you. They’ll make you talk, make you tell them everything. You can’t talk to them. You need a way out.
I need a way out.
The phone rang, letting a tinny ring-tone out into the air. I looked down. The display was flashing Frankie. I pushed the end-call button. Then I turned it off. Without being fully aware of what I was doing, I stood up and began to walk back to the hotel. Out of the playground; past the newsagent; turn at the music shop and there was the hotel. I walked into the foyer, past reception. I could see the receptionist move her lips - I knew she was saying ‘good afternoon, sir’ just as she had yesterday - but I couldn’t hear her words. Something wasn’t working right, her speech seemed slurred yet perfectly clear. Disjointed. Out of time like a badly dubbed movie.
I got into the elevator, pressing the button for the 7th floor, and then the door-close button. I couldn’t see anyone. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t pretend that everything was fine. The elevator moved slowly, only stopping at my floor.
I got out of the elevator, walking to my room. I pushed the card into the lock, and walked in the door. I locked it. No one was here waiting for me.
No one cares. Not really. Frankie is probably laughing with everyone else right now, laughing at how pathetic you are. Look at you, a thirty-year-old man, cutting himself because it just hurts to feel so much. You’re a disgrace and now you can’t even talk like a normal person about it. No wonder he’s laughing at you, you’re an absolute joke.
My suitcase was still sitting on the floor, unopened. I walked past the suitcase, and into the bathroom. I shut and locked the door, then leaned against it, slowly sliding down until I was huddled into a ball on the floor. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t scream, I just needed some sort of release. I needed to regain control. I needed for things to be normal.
Still curled into a ball, I let myself fall to the side, resting my head, shutting my eyes. Maybe I fell asleep. Maybe I gave into the shock. Maybe I passed out. Maybe I finally gave up.