Celebrate The Irony

“Hey, Mikey, you alright? You look kinda sick...” Gerard came up to me just before we were about to go on for a show, my face probably with less color than it should be. Usually, I loved the feeling of a cheering crowd, thousands of fans screaming our name... but tonight, the mere sound of a person could send me into head and stomach pains.

My hands suddenly began to shake, sweat forming on my palms, fingers still wrapped tightly round the neck of my bass. It was a terrible feeling, whatever I was feeling, I mean, I don't think I was sick... was I? I was perfectly fine yesterday... except for that one emotional spurt that I had between Frank and the last cupcake... You can't blame me; Ray's homemade are hard to give up!

“Guys! We’re on in 5... Mikey, are you alright?” Brian, our stage manager, also came up from behind my nearly paralyzed body. Being as tender as he could, he grabbed my shoulder, but it still resulted in me having to jump nearly 5 feet in the air. Gah, I hate being skittish...

I quickly turned around, noticing that all the eyes of my fellow band mates, friends, and tour management group were staring at me. It was never the greatest feeling having all eyes on you... except on stage maybe. Yeah, that was about the only time I liked people watching me, because I was doing something that I loved. Now, I felt like a dying cow about to go into the slaughter house. Nope, no one likes that feeling...

“I-I'm fine guys. Just fine...” My eyes darted quickly left and right around the group of people, whose faces seemed to be concerned, but Bob's most out of all of them. We may have had sex those two weeks ago... but he was still my best friend, and that didn't really change anything, did it? I hope not...

I could hear and feel from behind me the screaming fans, the ones that were waiting for me... for us... to come on and perform. As much as I wanted to, as much as it nearly killed me to say no, I just couldn't play tonight for some reason. Just, no. They'll be so disappointed in us though... so I can't, I've got to go on, I've got to play... even if it means puking my brains out on stage. I'll do it, I don't care. Anything to make the fans happy.

Bob soon pushed his way between Frank and Gerard, trying to get a better hold on what was wrong with me. “You sure, Mikes? I mean... we could always send Greg in for bass... I don't think he'd mind.”
“Yeah, I'm... I'm fine, Bob. Everything’s fine. Let’s just go out and play a great show, r-right?”

Gerard also came from the spot where he was standing, to hug me in reassurance, the lights now dimming down low, and the crowd going crazier than before, “That’s a boy, Mikey. Always up to play a show. Just how I expected you to grow up.”

He smiled, and I smiled with him, leaving the rest of the guys to do so as well, even though I could barely see them due to the lack of lighting around the area. Gerard, Frank, and Ray jogged out to the stage, their guitars in hand. My brother, and Bob stayed behind, hoping to get a better answer out of me than just 'I'm fine.'

“Are you sure you're okay, Mikes?” Bob asked reassuringly, touching my shoulder softly, as if almost knowing there was something wrong. Hell, I didn't even know if there was something wrong. “I mean, I don't want you to go out there and throw up all over the front row or something.”

I turned my head to look over my shoulder at Bob. Sweet, caring, loving Bob. Always concerned about someone, well, maybe not all the time, but you get the point. He was such a nice guy, even if he was a persistent bastard about things like this, but I guess that’s what I liked about him. If Bob wanted something, he'd go out and get it, and if he didn't want something, he'd shoot it the hell down until it was gone. But, maybe that wasn't always a good thing in every circumstance... right?

“Y-Yup, I'm fine.” Damn my stuttering that stuff never helped me out in any situation, but does it ever for anyone? Gerard, nodding in acceptance, walked off onto the stage, probably wondering if I was going to be alright or not. I don't even know anymore myself, I felt a little light headed now...
Bob nodded, his blue eyes being the only thing I could see. Have I mentioned they're pretty bright? And really, really, really nice? “Well, alright, lets get on stage, yeah?”

I nodded as well, Bob walking off to the stage, the crowd still screaming. The sounds before me seemed to die down just a little, having to take a deep breath in from the amount of cheering. It gave me a slight headache, even though I was used to fans screaming our name at the top of their lungs. But, for some reason, tonight just wasn't my night for loud cheering.

My foot steps to the stage were shaky, as were the fingers that were clingy to the guitar neck for dear life. Fog began to coat itself over the lenses of my glasses, causing me to drop my bass from my hands, leaving it hanging there from the strap, and clean them off.

And as I wiped the wet residue from my glasses, my head felt as if were about to fall off, and my stomach filled with poisonous nauseating pains that I could barely swallow down. Soon, I dropped my glasses, my eyes almost rolling to the back of my head, sweat forming on my forehead.
There was a quick quiet moment, me falling backwards, and soon, all was black.

You know what’s bad? Hangovers, the flu, and feeling like you haven't eaten in days. You know what sucks? Having all three of those feelings wrapped up into one body. I honestly felt like I was about to die, it was horrible.

My eyes fluttered open, half expecting to be dead, and half expecting to be on the tour bus. I was on the bus, just as I had half thought, with Bob hovering over my sickly body, cup of ginger ale and pain killers in his hands. He gave me the pills, not even saying a word, and I took them graciously.

“How long 'ave I been out?” My words came out groggy and scratched, great. Just what I expected, now I can't speak and I'm almost dead! Ha, wow, am I paranoid or what?

Bob stood from his kneeling place on the floor, also handing me the cup of fizzing drink as I popped the two pills in my mouth, “Just a couple of hours. We had to send in Greg as a backup--”

“Wait, what?! I missed the show?” I sat up quickly, thinking I could take the sudden blood rush to the head, but I had thought wrong. Instantly I laid myself back down, cursing myself for having to ever pick my head up. Bob shook his head, kneeling back down to feel my forehead, my fever slightly going down.

“Yeah, you did. And no, people did not go on a raging rampage because we had used Greg.” His lips curved into a smile, as did mine, my fingers now nervously picking at each other. I didn't understand why I got so worked up over him smiling. I mean, yeah, Bob was cute. But I never really had a chance with him as far as I'm concerned. He’s straight. I'm not. Even if we did fuck, but that was all an accident... wasn’t it?

“Well, yeah. I'm okay now. I think.” I spoke a bit clearer this time, after the few moments of silence we had. Bob nodded, but proceeded to speak anyway, leaving me to wonder what he had to say.
“But, since it was so random that you had been sick, we've decided you need to see a doctor. I'm actually going to take you to the local hospital tomorrow to get you checked out and--”

I blinked, holding up my hand to stop Bob from his speaking, “Wait, wait, wait. I'm perfectly fine, Bob. I don't need to see a doctor. See?”

I gave him a grin in response, teeth showing through, hoping that it was enough for him to call of the hospital trip, but with Bob, nothing is really good enough, y'know?

“Ha, nice try, Mikes,” Bob began, taking the glass of ginger ale from my hand, since I had washed down the two pain killers already, “That’s not going to help you this time.”

My smile faded slightly, but came back a few moments later, remembering the time a few months ago when I had knocked over a shit load of boxes in this department store. I don't know how, nor did I care, but all I did was smile, and they let me off the hook. Creepy? Most definitely. Easiest way to get out of something? You better believe it.

“Meh, do I really have to go, Bob?” I said, pouting slightly. He rolled his eyes, patting my head as he walked back towards the tour bus sink. And might I say, the view from back there was nice...

“Yes, Mikes. You do.” He began rinsing out the cup, my eyes focused more on his rear end than anything else. God, please stop me... “What if it was a brain tumor or something? That wouldn't be too good, now would it?”

I huffed in response, but agree with him internally, knowing that it would probably be the best idea to see a doctor after that scene a few hours before. But gah, I thought it was my job to be the little nurse guy with the band? Guess not...