A/N: Well…I usually try not to start stories before I finish my others, because I never end up posting more than a chapter or two, but I already have this entire thing planned out, so I thought, why not? It's going to be 3 parts, and the only one I don't have completed is part 3. So it WILL be finished, I promise not to ditch this story; it's just a matter of finding time to write it out, which could take a little while, as I have around a thousand and six exams coming up.
Anyway, I hope you like it! The year, for this particular story, is 2007, during the Black Parade era while they were on their World Tour. Also, just thought I'd warn you: I know little to nothing about them in this stage (other than what I've seen from videos and such) so this is based on my imagination of how it was and what the guy's personalities were and such. :P Enjoy, and review if you could! I appreciate them :)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone or anything but my OC's and the storyline, and also, obviously, none of this ever happened (except their stay at the Paramour Mansion and what happened to them there; not the interview in this, though, I made that up.)
~Sleep~
Part 1: Shut Your Eyes
No one knows Gerard Way is here. No matter how much he hopes to receive help, it doesn't come. And despite how terribly he wants to move, to get away from the flames biting at his ankles, the suffocating smoke that surrounds him, he can't. He's completely immobile, unable to even cry out as he tries to.
It's the same every time, though—trapped in a small, empty room, the only source of light being the fire coming at him from all angles, drawing closer each second, hot enough to burn with the slightest touch.
He's frightened, of course; he never isn't. There's constantly the possibility that this isn't the nightmare which continuously plagues him, that instead of waking once he succumbs he will be forever lost in the darkness.
He doesn't want to die. He's said before that he does, sometimes haunted by a depression that never quite left him completely. He's even contemplated ending it all himself.
But not now; here, in this situation, with all recollection that this is merely a dream non-existent, he'd quite honestly do anything to save himself. There's something in him; a certain desperation to live that he rarely, if ever, feels during those times.
He believes it's a subconscious thought, suppressed when he's unhappy enough to question the worth of his life, and it's a thought that confuses him. The desire to no longer have to deal with all the stress, whenever he experiences it, is strong. He hardly ever pauses to wonder if he doesn't actually want to. But then, the fact that he doesn't very well could be the reason he's never gone through with it; he doesn't really want to, regardless of what he thinks at the times he has a chance to. He loves what he does, no matter how much anxiety it causes him periodically.
He closes his eyes, willing himself to wake up. He doesn't want to endure the scene anymore; the heat is unbearable. And finally, he feels reality—this reality, at least—start to slip away, fading further into nothingness until—
Gerard awakes with a start, entirely restrained by his blankets and covered in sweat, gasping. He struggles to get free, unwillingly allowing a small, panicked cry to break the utter silence around him.
There's some movement in the bunk across from him, a pause, and then, "Gee?"
Stupid fucking tour bus. The beds are far too close together in the crowded thing; pretty much any noise they made was heard by the others—every noise.
Gerard stops moving, but the other member of My Chemical Romance is already up, sitting as much as he can manage and leaning forward, his face just barely illuminated by moonlight, faintly shining in from one of the windows.
"You okay?" Frank Iero frowns, blinking away sleep and staring at his love in concern.
The singer doesn't respond at once, and even in the dim light, Frank can see fear etched into his features. He swings his legs over the side of his own bed, jumping to the floor and then wincing as it isn't exactly a quiet landing.
The other three don't stir, to his relief, and he sighs, stepping onto the stool to reach Gerard's bunk, beginning to try and help untangle him from the sheets.
"Jesus, Frank, I'm not five!" Gerard whispers awkwardly, but the guitarist ignores him.
Gerard sits up once he's free and looks away, almost as if he's embarrassed, and Frank smirks, resting his arms on the edge of the bed, trying to lift himself up a bit more. "What happened?" he asks, and when the twenty-nine-year-old remains silent, he repeats himself, refusing to back off.
"I had a nightmare, okay?" Gerard snaps. "Happy now? Damn!"
Frank's smile disappears. "Again?" he blurts out before thinking.
"What d'you mean, 'again'?" the singer abruptly demands, his tone harsh, only because he's covering up his sudden alarm. He previously had been dealing with nightmares, while they had been writing their current album, but it had been months since then. They'd only just started reoccurring; for around two weeks, as of the moment.
But not once in that time has he let slip a word about it—so how does Frank know of them?
Frank glances down briefly. "Well…" he hesitates. "You were crying in your sleep the other night."
Gerard uncomfortably sinks back, refusing to make eye-contact. "…Was I?"
"Yeah. I wanted to wake you, but you didn't do it long." He sighs. "You've been really tired lately, I…didn't want to bother you."
Gerard raises his gaze at last. "Thanks. And, uh…yeah, again." He lifts his hand to rub his eyes, deciding he might as well tell him. "I can't fucking sleep anymore." There's a pause as he stifles a yawn, the brief chorus of one of their newer songs running through his head. 'So shut your eyes, kiss me goodbye, and sleep.' That was the song Gerard himself had written, and he often hummed it before doing just what the words suggested. Yet lately, sleeping has been the one thing he simply cannot do. How ironic. "And even if I do," he adds, "it's only for a little while."
Frank covers his mouth to hide a yawn of his own, and he looks absolutely exhausted when he puts his arm back on the bed, shifting his weight slightly. "I'm sorry. Did you tell Mikey?"
"Why would I?" Gerard asks, shrugging. "He's my brother, not my therapist. Besides," he continues, "I'm fine. Just insomnia, or stress, or…something."
He finally allows himself to yawn, and when he blinks again, he notices that Frank has taken on a very sleepy, amused expression, and he tilts his head a bit. "What?"
"You're too damn cute," Frank replies softly, and Gerard rolls his eyes, grinning fractionally. "And you are too damn short."
It's very obvious, too—the singer has to look down at him despite him standing on the step.
Frank chuckles, and then gasps as Gerard reaches out to him before he can say another word, grabbing his arms and, with effort and Frank helping, pulls him into the bunk with him.
Blushing, surprised, Frank smiles, turning towards Gerard to kiss him.
The reason behind Gerard's actions is not for this, although it's very nice and welcomed, of course.
The truth is quite simple, actually; Frank makes him feel safer. And it's more so than anyone else has in a long time, quite possibly ever. The singer loves him with all his heart and more, and whenever he is around him, very clearly feeling the same towards him, Gerard's loneliness or depression is replaced with happiness and excitement.
And if he ever needs to feel happy, it's after one of those terrible dreams.
Frank moves back, an adorable smile on his face, and then rolls back over, pressing himself against his love.
Gerard puts an arm around Frank's waist and rests his head directly behind the guitarist's, his dark hair tickling his nose slightly. "I love you."
"I love you, too…" Frank murmurs, already sounding half-asleep, and it takes less than a minute before his breathing evens out, leaving the deathlike silence to return.
And although contented, Gerard cannot seem to do the same. He's worn out, of course—he's barely slept enough to equal half a night in the past week—but also unnerved. He doesn't want to go through the distressing dream again. Or, even more disconcerting, he could have the one he fears the most, that had left him sleepless for nearly two days the last time he had it, most likely the cause of the crying Frank had heard.
The band the five of them had created almost six years ago was, and still is, his family. He loves them; he'd do anything to assure they were unharmed.
Though in the particular nightmare he dreads having again, 'anything' is precisely what he cannot do. They die. They always die, every time, right in front of him, while he is forced to watch, frozen, helpless, terrified. And it isn't like any other dream he's had before. This one is far too real; far too frightening.
And he's willing to risk being tired to prevent himself from seeing it again.
The band has another concert tonight; they've had one every night since they started the world tour they are currently on. He knows he should get as much rest as he can, as his addiction to coffee can only provide him with so much energy. And even with a full night of sleep, they are all drained by the end of it; now he won't even have the chance to temporarily not feel that way, which he very much needs to be at his best and finish the show.
He closes his eyes, tries to sleep, but he just can't. It's as hopeless as his struggles to cure the nightmares himself are; nothing works for either.
He tightens his grip around Frank and sighs, wondering what the time is and if he has long to wait before the sun comes up.
Although…he is satisfied with where he is now, wanting the comfort of it to last forever.
But it won't. And this is a disagreeable fact he's painfully, and unfortunately, aware of.
When Frank opens his eyes, he immediately realizes he's freezing, the warmth Gerard had been giving off gone. He's confused for several long moments as to how he is suddenly with his back towards the wall of the bus instead of the singer, which, for the record, was a lot more comfortable than his current position.
"Gee?" he wonders aloud, scooting over to the curtain and pulling it back to see the other bunks are empty. Frowning, he gets down and rubs the back of his neck as he walks the small distance to the "kitchen", noticing it's totally silent. The door is cracked open, and Frank sighs, looking for a glass to get something to drink, smiling as Gerard comes onto the bus, holding a cup that most likely contains coffee. "Hi, baby."
Gerard turns to look at him, and Frank almost winces as how dark the skin under his eyes is. He impossibly looks more exhausted than he had the day before and yet is acting like he's consumed several energy drinks. "Hey, Frankie," he murmurs quickly, managing a grin.
"Where are we?"
"R-rest stop," Gerard replies, hardly noticing that he stammers. "They've got a fucking Starbucks!"
Frank cocks an eyebrow. "Are you all right?" he asks, watching him move again as if he can't stay still.
"Yeah, no—yes, I'm fine," Gerard shakes his head, lifting the cup to his lips.
Frank begins to ask him exactly how many of those he's had so far, but is interrupted as Ray steps back onto the bus, smirking at him. "So—is his bed more or less comfortable than yours?"
Frank blushes despite he knows the other guitarist is only teasing him, and Ray chuckles. "You want anything while we're here?"
After several seconds of silence, Frank goes to grab a shirt, content with using his night clothing as shorts. "Actually, yeah; I'd love to use a real bathroom."
Ray steps aside, gesturing theatrically at the door, and with an amused glance, Frank heads out.
The second guitarist pushes back his hair and smiles, whipping around as something loudly clatters to the floor, seeing Gerard by the counter. "Fuck!"
"What're you doing?" Ray questions, realizing what dropped was the glass Frank had taken out. It isn't broken, but Gerard only continues to stare down at it like he has no idea how it got there.
"Gerard? Hello!" Ray tries, gently touching his shoulder, only prompting a soft, "Sorry," before he picks it up and sets it back on the surface.
"Are you sick or something?"
"No." Gerard grumbles, taking another drink. "'m fine."
"You look like you are. Just go back and rest, we won't be in San Diego for like—"
Gerard glares at him, cutting him off from that alone. He rolls his eyes, running a hand through his short, bleached hair and turning around, walking out the door again, leaving a very confused Ray merely watching him do so.
The singer takes a long, deep breath, hoping to clear his mind as he gets outside, but only sighs loudly as his younger brother, Mikey, comes up to him, holding what looks like a granola bar. "You want it?"
"No. I'm not hungry."
Mikey frowns. "Since when?"
"Leave me alone!" Gerard snaps, beginning off in the other direction immediately, muttering to himself. "Everyone, just fucking leave me—"
He cuts off and jerks back as he suddenly realizes Frank is stopped in front of him, looking at him with concern.
"I love you," Frank says, tilting his head a bit and frowning, attempting to calm him with the words.
"Yeah, I love you, too." Gerard murmurs, scratching his head and suddenly looking about to fall asleep right where he is standing.
"Gee?"
"I…I'm…just…need another coffee," Gerard finally finishes, turning back around and heading towards the gas station again.
"Mr. Way?"
Gerard blinks, looking up at the interview and blushing a bit. "Could you, ah, repeat that? Sorry."
The woman smiles sweetly. "Sure. What was the inspiration you got from your stay at the Paramour Mansion while recording?"
Gerard sighs, glancing at the other four beside him on the couch. "Ah, definitely a lot of the darkness of it, um…I mean, at least half of it. It was pretty fuckin' creepy there, and while we really didn't need encouragement in making it dark, we got it anyway."
He's very aware it's a shitty response, and apparently Ray notices he isn't going to continue because he speaks up himself. "Yeah, it—it was definitely weird; we all had stuff happen to us that sort of connected to or—or inspired some the lyrics."
"What sort of things?" the interviewer asks, and Gerard sips at the coffee in his cup, what must be close to the fiftieth he's had today, desperately trying to wake himself up more. It's not working—why the fuck isn't it working?
Frank gives a little laugh that slightly calms him down. "There was a hell of a lot of times a door would just close right in front of me; Gerard too."
"Mmhm," Gerard nods, glancing at his brother, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by them bringing up the subject; he knows none of the others would start talking about how depressed he became there.
"Damn bathtub in my room filled up with water itself a couple times," Bob says, shaking his head and smiling a bit. "Just…weird stuff. Really weird stuff."
The interviewer nods and continues on with the questions. Gerard doesn't speak again, which makes it very obvious something isn't right with him. He's always the most talkative one in the group during such things, and now he's just listening to the others; not very closely, either. Their words only comprehend halfway.
What the hell is wrong with me? he wonders, putting the cup between his legs to reach up and rub his eyes without putting the microphone down, despite not using it; it's a habit. He's had less than three or so hours of sleep before and still managed to act like nothing's wrong. So why is it that now he feels worse than he did then? He had been noticing his strength over the past few days diminishing slowly, but it hadn't really crossed his mind it wouldn't stop.
Though now it's undoubtedly there; an exhaustion previously pushed back and now nearly overwhelming him as he's in front of a camera, dazedly trying to focus.
And we still have the concert in three hours.
Despite the panicking thought, Gerard forces a smile as the interviewer says thank you to them all, wishing them good luck on their performance.
"There's going to be thousands of fans there tonight; it'll be great."
Yeah, just great, Gerard thinks, standing and then wincing as his vision spins a bit, taking a cautious step back.
Frank grabs his arm, noticing how pale he is. "Gee," he begins, but Gerard recovers, pulling away and heading off without another word.
The guitarist sighs, looking at the others as they come over to him.
"He looks fucking awful," Bob points out, and Mikey gives him a look.
"He's fine," a voice behind them, their manager, says. "Not a problem."
The four turn to him, frowning, and Ray murmurs, "Y'know, maybe we should reschedule the concert…"
"That'll throw our whole tour of track." Brian smiles like he's heard a joke. "He'll be fine."
"And if he passes out on stage?" Frank suddenly demands, angry that the guy is brushing off Gerard's health like it doesn't matter. "Wouldn't it be better to—"
"He won't, though," the manager interrupts confidently, tapping his fingers on his clipboard as if he's awaiting the four to shut up so he can get on with what he needs to do before tonight. "He can sleep now and after. An hour and a half isn't that long; he'll do great."
Before anyone can argue, the man is off, and Frank lets out an angry huff. "Can I punch him?"
"You're not tall enough to reach him," Bob says, smirking, but Frank isn't kidding. Bob frowns. "Yeah, go ahead. Get the whole tour cancelled on us. Gerard will just adore you after that."
Frank flinches. He would do anything for his love, and yet the one thing he's trying to do now, to help him—everyone is acting like it would only make things worse. "Fuck off," he finally tells the drummer. "I'm the only one fucking worried about him, and you guys won't even let me help him?"
"Frank—" Ray begins, but Frank whips around, muttering curses and storming off after Gerard, changing directions after a few moments.
He just wants to be alone. And, being in a band and all, that means he should take the times when he can be alone and enjoy them.
Frank's eyes are on his love the whole length of the concert. He does play as well, of course, and he does get into certain parts enough to forget the others, but every moment he isn't, he's watching Gerard.
Watching how weary he's clearly getting as the night goes on; how every time he turns his back to the audience he has his eyes closed, almost looking in pain, willing himself on.
His voice never changes, however. He stays perfectly pitched on every song they do, which he's obviously grateful for, even when he has to stand still for a minute or two once and a while, too tired for his constant erratic on-stage movements.
The crowd doesn't seem to notice, or at least doesn't care if they do sense something. And finally, when they've finished the last song, the audience cheers even louder, clapping and shouting as the band goes off-stage, gathering in the room they waited in before the show, where Brian is, telling them all how amazing it went.
Ray, Bob, and Mikey listen to him, but Frank doesn't care much, glancing back at Gerard and frowning. Instead of even attempting to join the group, he's shakily leaning against the wall, his head turned a bit like he's listening to the still-excited crowd.
"Gerard!" Brian exclaims, and the singer jumps, startled, facing their manager as he moves past the others to be in front of him. "You were perfect! How ya feeling, hmm? Good?"
"No," Gerard murmurs hoarsely, but the man doesn't acknowledge this. "I'm so glad you pulled through," he continues, "really; Ray wanted to reschedule, but it's a huge help that you managed."
"You mean you would've?" Ray asks, stepping forward and frowning.
"No. But hey, whatever, right? It's over."
"Can we go now?" Mikey questions, his eyes on his brother.
Brian nods, gesturing for them to start off down the hall.
None of them notice Gerard doesn't follow. He's very lightheaded all of a sudden, the edges of his vision blackening. Don't, please…
He unsteadily takes a step forward, mumbles a very soft, "…Frankie…" and then knows nothing more, collapsing to the tile with a loud crash.
