Sick Boy

Of course, Bert McCracken wanted absolutely nothing to do with Gerard Way anymore. Whatever they had been doing together a few years back was history and that was that. It had been stupid experimentation, shock value at most. Cute, but shallow.

But Gerard Way somehow had worked his way back into the woodwork of the goddamn man’s life so that was how he found himself standing back stage two nights after his drunken sleep and—well, you know.

He didn’t quite remember much of that night…Mikey came in the morning and picked him up off the floor, moved him to the bed. He hadn’t been out of that same bed since…well this was his first time. His PATD updates came from whatever Mikey felt the need to tell him.

Oh god Gerard. And you thought Ryan was sick.

Gerard had gone past insainity, he was absolutely fucking crazy. You don’t go to a The Used concert if you’re in My Chemical Romance. It is just blatantly not done. I mean—oh you stupid fucker. You stupid, shitty, simpering fucker. Just go die right the fuck now.

Gerard footsteps come towards his face. Oh he knew those footsteps. Heavy, irregular, always moving. And the face that those feet carried, psycho, crazy absolutely wrong. And the eyes that were on that face—intense, paralyzing, rather terrifying.

“What the fuck are you doing here, asshole?” came that face’s, that body’s voice as it sprayed a bit of water over Gerard and the corner he leaned against, “Should you be off assfucking your latest bitch?”

Words and songs and kisses and tours flashed before Gerard’s eyes in the moment he blinked. Collisions of kisses, one more chances and, well, yesterday’s feelings moved around in his retina, like he knew they were forever engrained in there. And at the mention of this “latest bitch,” Sick Boy fluttered across his brain. Misspellings and misconceptions, forgiveness and forgetfulness, everything seemed to pull itself together—but not really. After all, what use is a one sided argument when there’s no one left to argue with?

“Dipshit! What do you want or get out!” Bert was letting his tongue flap lose in his mouth.

“I wanted to say…” Gerard said, gasping for breath, “I wanted to say I’m sorry. And goodbye.” The only two things that the crazy assed motherfucker had never said were now said and so that crazy assed motherfucker, Gerard Way, walked out of the room and began to attempt his descent into sainity again.

**

Gerard was on a bus, on the freeway, on the West Coast.
Gerard was listening to Panic at the Motherfucking Disco. Gerard figured that once again, he had screwed everything over. And you got a newbie pass when it was your first time, but the second time?

No. Definitely not.

An hour later, Gerard was still on a bus. The next hour, he was in a hotel room. For a few more he was in that hotel room. Then he was on a bus. And then he was at a venue.

Sad, Gerard. You’re pathetic. Brain dead, comatose, you can’t be insain if you’re unconscious. Or can you? Who knows, it’s your fucking word. Stop trying to be so philosophical about that shit, just give up, shut up and fuck up. Again.

Gerard was practically the patron saint of insainity.
And who the hell believed in miracles anymore.

**

Ryan was on the West Coast somewhere, strumming Brendon’s guitar like no one cared. It was early, it was late, it was just shit. It just didn’t matter. It was sick, how literally vegetative he had been in the past few days. Whether it was the hereditary love for the engraining burn of alcohol in one’s throat or the utter lack of sleep over a hopefully soon forgotten lover—Ryan was looking less than pleasant. He looked, almost more so than acted but not really, sick. Finally a face to fit the crime.

He blamed it on allergies. He was allergic to Los Angeles. To San Francisco. To Seattle. Spencer had given him a cold. His medication was fucking him over.

Bullshit. He hadn’t touched a bottle of pills in almost two weeks.

It was the drinking and he knew it.
It was the drinking and the crying and the deprecation and the fact that he was oh—he was so sick. And as many times as he had said he would never want to die—Ryan wanted to die.

To crawl into a hole and never come out again.
To be brutally murdered by a gunshot wound to the head, heart, face.
To fall off that building, like he should have so long ago.

But oh Gerard. Oh that insain, fucked over man. Ten years older than him, from the other side of the country. Older brother, best friend, boyfriend, son, musician, oh the list went on. Oh how much he loved him. It was no secret, not at all. Ryan loved Gerard. He always had and he always would.

And Gerard needed to know this.

**

So George Ryan Ross III went about trying to contact a man he figured never wanted to hear from him ever again.

And the lolfangirls thought getting to the motherfucker was hard. They had weeks, months, years. Gerard had bodyguards, things to do, reasons not to talk to Ryan. It wasn’t like so-and-so from Michigan had a beef with the man that would prevent her from getting his autograph, a hug, a picture.

Yeah. Ryan, y’know…did.

Ryan had a tour to stay on, alcohol to drink, his own lolfangirlstfu problems to deal with and a beef with Gerard Way. Mostly—he sulked. He sat in the back of the bus and read and drank and wrote a bit and, well all in all—he wasn’t doing much. Everyone was mad at him. Gerard hated him, no shit Sherlock. Brendon was getting mad about this whole drinking thing—it wasn’t okay to be tipsy every night. Jon had told him to shut up and stop sulking the other day. Spencer was…preoccupied. As often as Ryan loved to lean on Spencer, Spencer had his own life, his own problems and his own things do deal with. He wasn’t just always there for Ryan.

So yeah, basically Ryho—you’re screwed.

Haha at you!

But there was one idea in the back of Ryan’s mind. It was stupid, but life was stupid. It was insane, but Gerard was insain. It was probably a set up for fucked over failure, but failure was what Ryan did best at.

The idea’s name was Mikey and he was a roadie. Or probably not a roadie actually. Brendon had gone through every toy possible—iPhones, leather interiors, vintage guitars—and he had a new one. A personal assistant, a skinny boy that could only be described in the exact way Ryan was often described: pretty.

Ryan didn’t even know what the fuck Brendon did with the kid, honestly. He was young, he was too skinny to lift anything worth carrying. All Ryan knew was that Mikey took up a bunk above Spencer’s, spent a lot of time looking tongue tied and starry eyed at his employer’s companions and took out the dry cleaning every Thursday morning.

Ryan also knew that the idea was standing across the room from him, making lattes for Brendon and Jon, shuffling quietly in and out of the room like he might disturb some secret ritual going on here.

What Ryan didn’t know—that was a lot. Never mind, Ryan had no interest in going somewhere where there might be confrontation, discovery and general learning.

“Hey,” Ryan called out, raising his hand lightly towards the boy, “You. C’mere.”

Mikey, the idea, jumped and turned around, shaking slightly around the edges.

“Fuck, I’m not going to eat you.” Ryan stood up and for a minute enjoyed the fulfillment he had always gotten when people shook around him. It really was quite delightful—being all important and shit. Brightened anyone’s day, really.

“Uhm, okay.”

“So, do you like MCR?”

That would be a nod, dear Ryan.

“Know ‘em?”

And that would be a shake, love.

“Do you talk?”

“Yeah,” came a small peep—goddamn boy, your vocal chords have got to be fucked over here, speak the fuck up.

“Well you’re going to have to. Sit down, I have a story to tell you.” Ryan (having fun with this whole power thing, are we?) pointed to the couch and nodded his head quickly, like he actually had control.

Mikey, the idea, sat.