‹ Prequel: Sick and Sain
Sick Boy
Chapter 7
It was a shitty show. Really shitty. Brendon was flat, suffering from a sore throat. Spencer was mediocre. Jon looked bored. And Ryan was crushed. At least the fans didn’t notice. They loved their boys anyways—however horrible the show might be. They just wanted to see their heroes, their idols, the boys they dreamed about in person. On stage. Doing what they did best.
But it was logical that Ryan would be in a bad mood afterwards. After all, he had just played possibly the worst show of his life. And he was stuck in a foreign country miles and miles away from anywhere close to where he wanted to be with a substantial amount of writers block shoved up his ass as well as a slight cold thanks to Brendon and his usual feeling of separation anxiety. Or lovesickness. Whatever. Some kind of sickness. Oh right. That one. The other one. Ry, you’re just low dammit. Low. Deal with it.
“What do you wanna do?” Brendon asked him, “Because I really don’t have the patience to sign a million things right now.”
“Yeah. Same.” Spencer had somehow appeared behind Brendon. Or maybe he had always been there and Ryan hadn’t noticed.
“Can we just…go to the bus and go to sleep?” Ryan mumbled, “Please?” Be a good boy for your Gerard. Just go and sleep. Oh don’t lie. You won’t sleep. Just go and sit in front of the TV. Don’t you dare get drunk. Don’t. You. Dare. Oh but…it would be fun. And you won’t sleep anyways. And there’s nothing good on TV anyways. But maybe...maybe just this once? Sobriety can wait until tomorrow. And then there’ll be no more. But you deserve this. You need to go get drunk, that was the shittiest show of your life. Just turn the cell phone off and go with the boys. Smile. You and Jon are the only ones who can buy drinks yet. Yeah. Smile. Smirk like you’re having fun. “Actually…never mind. Let’s go.”
**
Ryan was so fucking drunk it wasn’t even funny. Well, Jon and Brendon were too so it wasn’t that bad. Spencer just looked bored. Drunkenness blurs the lines of judgment, kills the definitions of reality. Spencer liked to keep his head on straight and his mind working to some extent. So that was why he sat at the bar, in between Jon and Ryan, looking over to Brendon past Jon, having a shitty conversation with the bartender.
“I know you guys aren’t twenty-one—not all of you,” the bartender had said earlier, “But my daughter loves you, and I’d feel bad if I came home and told her I kicked you out.”
“Phhh,” Spencer muttered, “You should’ve kicked us out anyways.” The conversation had bloomed and blossomed into a nice rant-to-a-random-stranger deal and it was actually something Spencer kind of was having fun with. To be quite honest, he liked teasing his band mates and black mailing them later. Oh you’re immature Spence, but it is fun—now isn’t it? And now Spencer—lookie, your friend Ryan is talking with a girl. C’mon, she thinks he’s single. Watch. Have fun.
Ryan. You are a such a failure. You know that? A failure. A caricature. Of intimacy. Or maybe just failure in general. Yeah. Probably. Sad, Ryan, that’s just sad. Sick. Mostly. Sick Boy. Oh don’t you miss that name? Shut up…it’s been one night. You—
“Hey, aren’t you Ryan Ross?”
“Me? Mmm…who?” Ryan muttered, turning to a girl on his left. She looked about his age, safe territory. Not a fangirl. Her hair was short and brown—somewhat like his, but well…not his, and she wore black glasses over curious eyes.
“Yes. You.”
“He is,” Spencer put in, “He’s just drunk.”
“I love your band,” the girl smiled in a flirtatious way, “And you’re a great writer.” She leaned forward and smiled. Her forehead was inches away from his and Ryan found himself in that state of drunkenness when every choice is a good choice and girls are damn pretty. Girls are pretty. Yes. Boys may be cute, Gerard may be fun. But girls…are gorgeous. This one’s not too bad. She seems to like you as well. Mmmmm…you should have some fun with her…
“Thank you,” Ryan giggled, then hiccupped, “What’s your name?”
“Dru. Druscilla.”
Spencer’s eyes popped. The name. The name. The face. He had never been so thankful that Jon lurked so many damn sites. But still. Who was she? It wasn’t good, that much he knew. Oh dear god. Slash. Fanfic. My Chem. Waycest. This was not good. No, no, no. Ryan seemed to want to fuck the queen of slashfics. Goddamn. Get him out.
“Dru…” Ryan smiled, “I like that.”
Spencer took Ryan’s hand, “Yeah. You may like it but you’re drunk and you’ve got a boyfriend. Brendon, Jon, come.” He marched his three band mates out of the bar like a mother duck might lead her ducklings. Out. Into the car. Go. Brendon, do not vomit please. Let’s go. Now.
Inside the bar, Druscilla was smirking. And in her hand she held a nice souvenir of the evening’s flirtations. A scratched, tattered, overused Sidekick displaying a picture of Gerard Way to the world. It’s mean to steal Dru. Yes. But this isn’t stealing. You won’t do anything wrong. Just…upload the pictures and give the damn thing to their security guard or somethng. Don’t even publicize the numbers. God. That’s not too bad—is it?
But it was logical that Ryan would be in a bad mood afterwards. After all, he had just played possibly the worst show of his life. And he was stuck in a foreign country miles and miles away from anywhere close to where he wanted to be with a substantial amount of writers block shoved up his ass as well as a slight cold thanks to Brendon and his usual feeling of separation anxiety. Or lovesickness. Whatever. Some kind of sickness. Oh right. That one. The other one. Ry, you’re just low dammit. Low. Deal with it.
“What do you wanna do?” Brendon asked him, “Because I really don’t have the patience to sign a million things right now.”
“Yeah. Same.” Spencer had somehow appeared behind Brendon. Or maybe he had always been there and Ryan hadn’t noticed.
“Can we just…go to the bus and go to sleep?” Ryan mumbled, “Please?” Be a good boy for your Gerard. Just go and sleep. Oh don’t lie. You won’t sleep. Just go and sit in front of the TV. Don’t you dare get drunk. Don’t. You. Dare. Oh but…it would be fun. And you won’t sleep anyways. And there’s nothing good on TV anyways. But maybe...maybe just this once? Sobriety can wait until tomorrow. And then there’ll be no more. But you deserve this. You need to go get drunk, that was the shittiest show of your life. Just turn the cell phone off and go with the boys. Smile. You and Jon are the only ones who can buy drinks yet. Yeah. Smile. Smirk like you’re having fun. “Actually…never mind. Let’s go.”
**
Ryan was so fucking drunk it wasn’t even funny. Well, Jon and Brendon were too so it wasn’t that bad. Spencer just looked bored. Drunkenness blurs the lines of judgment, kills the definitions of reality. Spencer liked to keep his head on straight and his mind working to some extent. So that was why he sat at the bar, in between Jon and Ryan, looking over to Brendon past Jon, having a shitty conversation with the bartender.
“I know you guys aren’t twenty-one—not all of you,” the bartender had said earlier, “But my daughter loves you, and I’d feel bad if I came home and told her I kicked you out.”
“Phhh,” Spencer muttered, “You should’ve kicked us out anyways.” The conversation had bloomed and blossomed into a nice rant-to-a-random-stranger deal and it was actually something Spencer kind of was having fun with. To be quite honest, he liked teasing his band mates and black mailing them later. Oh you’re immature Spence, but it is fun—now isn’t it? And now Spencer—lookie, your friend Ryan is talking with a girl. C’mon, she thinks he’s single. Watch. Have fun.
Ryan. You are a such a failure. You know that? A failure. A caricature. Of intimacy. Or maybe just failure in general. Yeah. Probably. Sad, Ryan, that’s just sad. Sick. Mostly. Sick Boy. Oh don’t you miss that name? Shut up…it’s been one night. You—
“Hey, aren’t you Ryan Ross?”
“Me? Mmm…who?” Ryan muttered, turning to a girl on his left. She looked about his age, safe territory. Not a fangirl. Her hair was short and brown—somewhat like his, but well…not his, and she wore black glasses over curious eyes.
“Yes. You.”
“He is,” Spencer put in, “He’s just drunk.”
“I love your band,” the girl smiled in a flirtatious way, “And you’re a great writer.” She leaned forward and smiled. Her forehead was inches away from his and Ryan found himself in that state of drunkenness when every choice is a good choice and girls are damn pretty. Girls are pretty. Yes. Boys may be cute, Gerard may be fun. But girls…are gorgeous. This one’s not too bad. She seems to like you as well. Mmmmm…you should have some fun with her…
“Thank you,” Ryan giggled, then hiccupped, “What’s your name?”
“Dru. Druscilla.”
Spencer’s eyes popped. The name. The name. The face. He had never been so thankful that Jon lurked so many damn sites. But still. Who was she? It wasn’t good, that much he knew. Oh dear god. Slash. Fanfic. My Chem. Waycest. This was not good. No, no, no. Ryan seemed to want to fuck the queen of slashfics. Goddamn. Get him out.
“Dru…” Ryan smiled, “I like that.”
Spencer took Ryan’s hand, “Yeah. You may like it but you’re drunk and you’ve got a boyfriend. Brendon, Jon, come.” He marched his three band mates out of the bar like a mother duck might lead her ducklings. Out. Into the car. Go. Brendon, do not vomit please. Let’s go. Now.
Inside the bar, Druscilla was smirking. And in her hand she held a nice souvenir of the evening’s flirtations. A scratched, tattered, overused Sidekick displaying a picture of Gerard Way to the world. It’s mean to steal Dru. Yes. But this isn’t stealing. You won’t do anything wrong. Just…upload the pictures and give the damn thing to their security guard or somethng. Don’t even publicize the numbers. God. That’s not too bad—is it?