Keep the Faith

They had arrived.

It was Ray who decided to come out of the airport first. His wild mane danced with every step he took. He waved at the fans and disappeared into the car. Bob came out next and he was quickly escorted to the van, constantly looking up from the floor to smile at a couple lucky people. Mikey had come out next, briskly bustled to the car, smiling shyly at the fans who had gathered outside of the airport to welcome their favorite band. Frank came out next, smiled and waved at everyone despite his tired disposition, even pausing sometimes to sign a few autographs or take pictures. Humble sweethearts. The crowd loved them.

And then he came out. There he was, the beautiful, amazing man whose voice sang the very things we believe in. His black hair was a hopeless mess; his burning hazel eyes hid behind pitch-black sunglasses. He was chewing gum – wasn’t he always? – and he emitted a certain… aura. It was different enough that the change was almost tangible. Nobody could put a name on the atmosphere he created: like glass walls he built around himself, but not to shun the world away. He was careful, as if he himself knew he was fragile. He was tired. You could see how the night-after-night shows and the restless crowds and the countless consecutive interviews were beginning to stretch his skin to its limits. He was worn-out to the core.

But he was still gorgeous.

He still stuck out like the sun in the universe, like the marshmallows on hot chocolate. Fucking angel. No one could miss the sight of that glorious being.

And thus, the fans found him. (“Jared Wayne! Finally!”) They were subtle about following him around at first, quiet and sneaky. But he was getting nearer. With his every step, he lessened the distance between the fans and himself. With his every step, the fans’ hearts came closer and closer to combustion. Why was he walking so damn slow?

And then he was there. Right in front of them. Walking. Brushing them off. The bastard didn’t care.

Smack down middle of the crowd. Arms stretched to reach him. Tears streamed down some of their faces. But he wasn’t tactless! He too was crying behind his sunglasses. Just small tears. He didn’t like not satisfying them. He didn’t want to disappoint them. But he – he needed space. Just a little privacy.

Unseen tears rolled down behind his shades. Here he was, glowing and glorious.

But one girl saw it differently. He wasn’t glowing and glorious. He was starless. He wasn’t shining. He was still beautiful… but he wasn’t – but he wasn’t here. He was tired – so fucking tired. He needed rest. He needed space.

She stopped in her tracks, but the rest of the crowd had followed him.

She saw it all – the chaos, the screaming, the avoidance, the discomfort, the stubbornness.

Somebody in the crowd screamed something in another language. He looked up and tried to find the source of the voice. He was tired, yes, but he cared about them. “I – I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” he said weakly. He carried on walking, sandwiched by two bodyguards and enveloped in a crowd of wild, desperate fans.

She still hadn’t moved. She couldn’t understand how they could be eating at him like this. She couldn’t understand why they didn’t fucking get it. He was fucking tired to the bones! His skin was worn out; his eyes barely had any gleam left. He didn’t have any pixie dust to sprinkle on anybody. Leave him alone!

Someone had said, “Gerard, take a picture with me!” He ignored it. He couldn’t be seen like this. He had to be strong, not a crying mess of disappointment and crumpled skin and brittle bones. It wasn’t that he had an image to protect. It was that he had to stay strong to inspire. Fucking inspire. Nobody is ever inspired by a man who was silently crying, tears hidden behind eyewear.

The same someone had repeated it. “Gerard, please! Just one picture!”

It had broken his heart. The voice broke – shattered by desperation.

It killed him knowing that he was the reason why someone was crying. But he didn’t have the time nor the energy for one picture. He didn’t have the strength.

He hated to admit it.

And she understood.

“Just one picture!”

Conflict had grown in his heart, messing with his mind. Before he could think about it (the indecision and annoyance had confused him), he said, “No.” His voice was stern. His tone was final.

It was enough to break a heart. He was rude. He was cold. He didn’t care anymore. Bastard! Bastard, bastard, bastard!

He had instantly regretted it. He wanted to scream his apologies and run over to that someone, hug her, rock her back and forth, say sorry again, and take that picture she really wanted. He didn’t want them to think that he was cold, that he was cruel, because he fucking cared and he fucking owed them everything.

He. Cared.

And she – not the someone who had wanted a picture, but she – knew.

Comments on the newly discovered coldness he possessed began surfacing. Volume was building up. It was in another language, but he knew exactly what they were saying, and they all summed up to just one thing:

“He has changed.”

But she knew better. She kept her eyes on him. Never let him leave her sight. He was full of regret. He was shaking. He could hear them and he understood. He knew what they were saying about him and he couldn’t fight back. He kept his eyes on the floor, and she saw it, even from a distance. Even from behind his sunglasses.

One attempt at a picture turned into the eradication of all faith left. And he knew.

A mob of fans suddenly morphed into skeptics, all screaming at him with fury dripping from their voices.

She saw that he was shaking. His glass tears gleamed under the florescent lights of the airport. They seemed invisible on his skin. So transparent. So hidden. She knew he was trying to ignore them.

Out of the side of his mouth, he asked Worm if they could walk any faster. He needed to get away. Now.

She couldn’t take looking at him like this. They didn’t have any right to tell them those things; they had no idea what it was like being so looked up to. They had no clue about how it was like to be in a different country every-fucking-day. They didn’t know how tired he was. They couldn’t see.

And then… she just snapped.

“LEAVE HIM THE FUCK ALONE.”

Everyone silenced, turning to look at her. Quiet whispers laced around the mob.

“He is fucking tired, don’t you see that?!” she screamed desperately. Her voice cracked, having never shouted this loudly before.

He turned around and stopped in his tracks. Worm tugged on his arm and motioned to the nearing van, but he just stood there, watching her.

“He came here to give us a show tomorrow night. He has changed, yes, but that’s because he’s been on tour for two years and playing shows for us has stretched his skin to its limits. He is tired!” she had said, almost sounding like she was pleading. “We don’t rule over his fucking life; he can do whatever the fuck he wants,” she hissed. “He doesn’t have the time to take pictures with everyone; he doesn’t have the strength anymore. This is Black Parade, not Bullets wherein their fanbase was small enough that he could take pictures with everybody who wanted them. This isn’t Revenge where he thought that three hundred people was already a big crowd. This is The Black Parade and they have such a big fanbase already and there isn’t enough time. We’re wearing him thin; We’re breaking him.

“Leave him the fuck alone. If you want a picture, go and ask, if he doesn’t want to take one with you, say it’s fine, tell him you love him, say thank you, because we owe him that much and because he needs us more than we realize.

“He isn’t a doll we can play with. He’s human, too, just like us, and he gets tired, and he gets weak. Can’t you see that?”

The mob didn’t move and they didn’t speak. Gerard, too. She felt as if she had sucked all life away from the mob. She thought she had stolen their voices, but she didn’t care. She had her eyes on Gerard only, and he was looking at her, too, even taking his sunglasses off. His eyes showed reverence and thanks, amazement and appreciation, apologies and concern.

For a moment, Gerard had thought that the mob would attack her and he knew he’d do anything to protect her. Not because he favored her (maybe just a little), but because she understood and she cared. She knew.

She had given him a small smile and an awkward wave. Her eyes reflected all the emotions Gerard’s had shown.

“Keep the fucking faith,” she said, no longer shouting (really, it was just a whisper at most) but they had heard it. Gerard heard it.

And then she walked away. No backward glances at Gerard, at the crowd, at Worm. She didn’t look back. She just walked away.

The crowd stayed still and silent and Gerard still had his eyes on her.

Someone had finally understood and he knew it was all worth it. The hurt, the criticism, the pain, the blood, the sweat, the tears – it was all worth it; that’s what he was thinking.

And she knew.