Coming Home
princess
“You’re such a fucking… a fucking princess, Gerard.”
Under any other circumstances, it would have been a funny sort of insult, something they would all stop and laugh at, but not now. Not when things were like this. Gerard and Bob were standing backstage, concrete surrounding them, in each other’s faces, screaming. Bob was turning absolutely red with anger, and Gerard’s fists were clenched so hard his palms were bleeding.
“And you’re just a big fat fucking prick, Bob.” Gerard spat right back, his mouth hardly moving.
Bob pursed his lips and turned his head to the side a little, glaring at Gerard, clenching his own hands into fists. He cocked his arm back, but as his fist was just about to make contact, someone grabbed his elbow and wrenched it back.
“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck is this?!” Frank yelled, shoving his tiny body in between Gerard and Bob, one hand on each of their chests. “What the fuck do you guys think you’re doing?”
Both men exploded in a burst of swears and name calling, neither fully explaining the situation to Frank, both just getting rather sweaty. Gerard was actually crying tears of frustration at this point, and Bob was just beet red.
“Stop. Stop.” Mikey had appeared around a corner, apparently hearing the chaos from the dressing room down the hall. He folded his arms as he took in the scene and just repeated himself over and over again. “Stop. Stop.”
Gerard wiped at his face furiously and spoke up before Bob had a chance. “Bob just turned those contest winners away without even talking to them and then I yelled at him because our fans don’t deserve that and then he told me I just liked their attention and then he called me a princess and and...” but he couldn’t go on. He sounded like a little boy tattling.
Frank put his arms down and turned to Bob, confusion etched across his face. “Bob, what the hell?”
Bob frowned, chewing on his bottom lip. He looked like he was getting ready to say something, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Ray came running down the hall, waving energetically at everyone, apparently not noticing their tense body language.
“Hey, guys! I just checked out the stage, it’s fucking awesome, all old fashioned and what not. There are already people outside, and it’s like fifty fucking below! Fucking… awesome…” Ray trailed off as he read their faces and caught sight of Gerard, still wiping angry tears from his eyes.
“What’s going on?”
“From what I can gather, Bob here decided to be rude to some fans - again - and him and Gerard got into it. And now we’re all here, waiting for Bob’s wonderful excuse, if he could possibly muster up one.” Mikey said snippily, staring Bob directly in the face.
Maybe it was Mikey’s tone. Maybe it was Mikey’s words. Maybe it was Gerard’s pathetic tears. Maybe it was Ray’s cluelessness and maybe it was Frank’s interference. Maybe it was years of things unsaid and maybe it was months of tension finally reaching a breaking point. Whatever it was, whoever it was, and whether or not it could have been prevented wasn’t important. What was important was Bob’s next words.
“You know what? I’m sick of all you fucking divas. I quit.”
---
My Chemical Romance cancelled that night’s show and the all the shows for the next week, citing illness. It felt bad to lie, but they had no drummer and no options. Meanwhile, they stayed in the frigid city they had been in the night of the botched show, holing up in a hotel and doing what none of them would ever admit to - waiting for Bob.
Gerard and Frank shared a room, and Ray and Mikey shared another - though they spent so much time in Gerard and Frank’s room the second room was almost a waste. Past the initial bashing of every inch of Bob and Bob’s character, they spent much of their time in silence, occasionally talking about anything but Bob. They ordered room service and none of them really touched it. They talked about taking showers but none of them actually did.
On the third day, the shock seemed to pass. Ray twitched like he had woken from a thin sleep and looked around at his bandmates.
“What are we going to do?” he asked them, snapping them all out of their own personal reveries.
“What do you mean, what are we going to do?” Mikey asked.
“I mean, we can’t hide here forever. We have to get back on this tour, with or… without him.” Ray swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty.
“You know it’s his birthday tomorrow?” Mikey said quietly, fiddling with his bass pick necklace.
“Yes.” Ray said even quieter, closing his eyes. “But we have to… we have to do this. I just… we have to.”
“I know a guy.” Gerard said suddenly, taking his head off Frank’s shoulder. “Michael. Michael Pedicone. He’ll drum for us, if we need him. He’ll be… he’ll be a good fit.”
“I like Pedicone.” Frank said softly, staring at Gerard’s profile, his clenched jaw, his set eyes.
Gerard turned to him, smiling a little, showing him he appreciated the support.
“I’ll call him.”
And that was that.
---
The tour continued a week later, in Chicago. Ironically, as Gerard stepped out onto the stage with Michael eagerly on his heels, he realized they were in Bob’s hometown, where Bob probably was now, in his lonely high rise.
Gerard’s heart hurt.
---
Months passed. Summer came and the tour ended. They all went their separate ways, scattering to the four winds, and Gerard sat at home and wrote songs that all sounded like Famous Last Words.
---
Snow fell in parts of the country where the unfortunate lived, and Frank began to get antsy. He texted Gerard every day for updates on songs and as December and a year without Bob rapidly approached, like a spot on the horizon, something almost tangible, a thought that kept them all up nights.
One morning, Gerard woke up to three text messages, all from Frank: g, we need to do a show.
i got us a venue
call me asap
Gerard called, as soon as fucking possible.
---
And there they were, two days later, all together for the first time in months. Ray’s fro looked a little bigger and Mikey looked a little tanner, but other than that, things were the same.
Seeing them again was like coming home.
---
It was five minutes to show, and Pedicone still wasn’t there. Frank was pacing and Ray was staring at his watch, tracking the minute hand. Mikey was playing the air bass and mouthing the notes, a nervous habit only the guys knew about it. Gerard kept peeking out from behind the curtain, at the chanting crowd.
“MCR! MCR!”
---
It was four minutes to show, and just when it seemed like everything was lost, everything ended up like the movies. The back door to the stage burst open and Pedicone came bursting through, pulling someone by the hand. A certain tall someone. A certain blond someone. A certain… Bob Bryar.
---
Apparently, they had met outside. Pedicone was running late and Bob was skulking in the back alley, looking damn suspicious.
“… Bob?” Pedicone asked, totally forgetting he was late.
“Pedicone! I… hey man, how are you?” Bob jumped and said, wringing his hands in nervousness.
“Bob, were you thinking of going in?” Pedicone asked quietly, ignoring the question.
The two drummers stared at each other for a while, neither one saying anything. Finally, Bob spoke up.
“I… I miss them, man.” he said, in a soft voice, and Michael Pedicone knew at once what he had to do, because he heard all the unsaid things in that one four word sentence.
---
It was three minutes to show, and Bob was slowly walking through the door. There was a tangible, heavy silence.
“Look who I found!” Pedicone said in a sing-song voice, through the tension.
It was two minutes to show, and before anyone could say anything, Frank had launched himself at Bob, crying without abandon, hugging Bob like there was no tomorrow. He was talking, but his tears were so heavy and thick that he wasn’t making any sense.
And then, in rapid succession, each individual member of My Chemical Romance threw themselves into the mess of limbs that was Bob and Frank. Ray first, then Mikey, and Gerard last, because no matter how mad he still might have been, seeing Bob had released all that anger and locked in all the love he had in his heart, and when his arms went around the rest of his bandmates, he knew that this was right, that nothing could ever be more right than the four men in his arms, together.
---
It was one minute to show, but they didn’t care. They let each other go, straightened their clothing, and ran out on stage. Frank was still crying in happiness.
The crowd almost went silent when Bob ran to the front of stage and waved, but after the initial shock, the venue exploded with the most amazing screams and cries that the band had ever heard. Gerard wondered what he could possibly say that would equal their screams, if there was anything half as inspiring as their wide, amazed eyes. But as he brought the microphone to his lips, he knew exactly what to say.
“We’re finally My Chemical fucking Romance again, and we’re here to save you!”
Under any other circumstances, it would have been a funny sort of insult, something they would all stop and laugh at, but not now. Not when things were like this. Gerard and Bob were standing backstage, concrete surrounding them, in each other’s faces, screaming. Bob was turning absolutely red with anger, and Gerard’s fists were clenched so hard his palms were bleeding.
“And you’re just a big fat fucking prick, Bob.” Gerard spat right back, his mouth hardly moving.
Bob pursed his lips and turned his head to the side a little, glaring at Gerard, clenching his own hands into fists. He cocked his arm back, but as his fist was just about to make contact, someone grabbed his elbow and wrenched it back.
“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck is this?!” Frank yelled, shoving his tiny body in between Gerard and Bob, one hand on each of their chests. “What the fuck do you guys think you’re doing?”
Both men exploded in a burst of swears and name calling, neither fully explaining the situation to Frank, both just getting rather sweaty. Gerard was actually crying tears of frustration at this point, and Bob was just beet red.
“Stop. Stop.” Mikey had appeared around a corner, apparently hearing the chaos from the dressing room down the hall. He folded his arms as he took in the scene and just repeated himself over and over again. “Stop. Stop.”
Gerard wiped at his face furiously and spoke up before Bob had a chance. “Bob just turned those contest winners away without even talking to them and then I yelled at him because our fans don’t deserve that and then he told me I just liked their attention and then he called me a princess and and...” but he couldn’t go on. He sounded like a little boy tattling.
Frank put his arms down and turned to Bob, confusion etched across his face. “Bob, what the hell?”
Bob frowned, chewing on his bottom lip. He looked like he was getting ready to say something, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Ray came running down the hall, waving energetically at everyone, apparently not noticing their tense body language.
“Hey, guys! I just checked out the stage, it’s fucking awesome, all old fashioned and what not. There are already people outside, and it’s like fifty fucking below! Fucking… awesome…” Ray trailed off as he read their faces and caught sight of Gerard, still wiping angry tears from his eyes.
“What’s going on?”
“From what I can gather, Bob here decided to be rude to some fans - again - and him and Gerard got into it. And now we’re all here, waiting for Bob’s wonderful excuse, if he could possibly muster up one.” Mikey said snippily, staring Bob directly in the face.
Maybe it was Mikey’s tone. Maybe it was Mikey’s words. Maybe it was Gerard’s pathetic tears. Maybe it was Ray’s cluelessness and maybe it was Frank’s interference. Maybe it was years of things unsaid and maybe it was months of tension finally reaching a breaking point. Whatever it was, whoever it was, and whether or not it could have been prevented wasn’t important. What was important was Bob’s next words.
“You know what? I’m sick of all you fucking divas. I quit.”
---
My Chemical Romance cancelled that night’s show and the all the shows for the next week, citing illness. It felt bad to lie, but they had no drummer and no options. Meanwhile, they stayed in the frigid city they had been in the night of the botched show, holing up in a hotel and doing what none of them would ever admit to - waiting for Bob.
Gerard and Frank shared a room, and Ray and Mikey shared another - though they spent so much time in Gerard and Frank’s room the second room was almost a waste. Past the initial bashing of every inch of Bob and Bob’s character, they spent much of their time in silence, occasionally talking about anything but Bob. They ordered room service and none of them really touched it. They talked about taking showers but none of them actually did.
On the third day, the shock seemed to pass. Ray twitched like he had woken from a thin sleep and looked around at his bandmates.
“What are we going to do?” he asked them, snapping them all out of their own personal reveries.
“What do you mean, what are we going to do?” Mikey asked.
“I mean, we can’t hide here forever. We have to get back on this tour, with or… without him.” Ray swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty.
“You know it’s his birthday tomorrow?” Mikey said quietly, fiddling with his bass pick necklace.
“Yes.” Ray said even quieter, closing his eyes. “But we have to… we have to do this. I just… we have to.”
“I know a guy.” Gerard said suddenly, taking his head off Frank’s shoulder. “Michael. Michael Pedicone. He’ll drum for us, if we need him. He’ll be… he’ll be a good fit.”
“I like Pedicone.” Frank said softly, staring at Gerard’s profile, his clenched jaw, his set eyes.
Gerard turned to him, smiling a little, showing him he appreciated the support.
“I’ll call him.”
And that was that.
---
The tour continued a week later, in Chicago. Ironically, as Gerard stepped out onto the stage with Michael eagerly on his heels, he realized they were in Bob’s hometown, where Bob probably was now, in his lonely high rise.
Gerard’s heart hurt.
---
Months passed. Summer came and the tour ended. They all went their separate ways, scattering to the four winds, and Gerard sat at home and wrote songs that all sounded like Famous Last Words.
---
Snow fell in parts of the country where the unfortunate lived, and Frank began to get antsy. He texted Gerard every day for updates on songs and as December and a year without Bob rapidly approached, like a spot on the horizon, something almost tangible, a thought that kept them all up nights.
One morning, Gerard woke up to three text messages, all from Frank: g, we need to do a show.
i got us a venue
call me asap
Gerard called, as soon as fucking possible.
---
And there they were, two days later, all together for the first time in months. Ray’s fro looked a little bigger and Mikey looked a little tanner, but other than that, things were the same.
Seeing them again was like coming home.
---
It was five minutes to show, and Pedicone still wasn’t there. Frank was pacing and Ray was staring at his watch, tracking the minute hand. Mikey was playing the air bass and mouthing the notes, a nervous habit only the guys knew about it. Gerard kept peeking out from behind the curtain, at the chanting crowd.
“MCR! MCR!”
---
It was four minutes to show, and just when it seemed like everything was lost, everything ended up like the movies. The back door to the stage burst open and Pedicone came bursting through, pulling someone by the hand. A certain tall someone. A certain blond someone. A certain… Bob Bryar.
---
Apparently, they had met outside. Pedicone was running late and Bob was skulking in the back alley, looking damn suspicious.
“… Bob?” Pedicone asked, totally forgetting he was late.
“Pedicone! I… hey man, how are you?” Bob jumped and said, wringing his hands in nervousness.
“Bob, were you thinking of going in?” Pedicone asked quietly, ignoring the question.
The two drummers stared at each other for a while, neither one saying anything. Finally, Bob spoke up.
“I… I miss them, man.” he said, in a soft voice, and Michael Pedicone knew at once what he had to do, because he heard all the unsaid things in that one four word sentence.
---
It was three minutes to show, and Bob was slowly walking through the door. There was a tangible, heavy silence.
“Look who I found!” Pedicone said in a sing-song voice, through the tension.
It was two minutes to show, and before anyone could say anything, Frank had launched himself at Bob, crying without abandon, hugging Bob like there was no tomorrow. He was talking, but his tears were so heavy and thick that he wasn’t making any sense.
And then, in rapid succession, each individual member of My Chemical Romance threw themselves into the mess of limbs that was Bob and Frank. Ray first, then Mikey, and Gerard last, because no matter how mad he still might have been, seeing Bob had released all that anger and locked in all the love he had in his heart, and when his arms went around the rest of his bandmates, he knew that this was right, that nothing could ever be more right than the four men in his arms, together.
---
It was one minute to show, but they didn’t care. They let each other go, straightened their clothing, and ran out on stage. Frank was still crying in happiness.
The crowd almost went silent when Bob ran to the front of stage and waved, but after the initial shock, the venue exploded with the most amazing screams and cries that the band had ever heard. Gerard wondered what he could possibly say that would equal their screams, if there was anything half as inspiring as their wide, amazed eyes. But as he brought the microphone to his lips, he knew exactly what to say.
“We’re finally My Chemical fucking Romance again, and we’re here to save you!”