Work Text:
The feeling of deja vu is almost overwhelming.
It's the first Taste of Chaos show in years. San Bernardino, California, and Gerard's pretty sure My Chem's played here, maybe more than once. It feels familiar.
The bands he's seen today just reinforce the sense of unreality: All-American Rejects, Thrice, Glassjaw, Story of the Year, Jimmy Eat World. It's like he's come unstuck in time. Is it 2005 or 2015? He can't tell.
The irony is not lost on Gerard.
He knows a lot of the performers here, and he really should at least go say hello to Mark, but he's incognito, wearing his rattiest jeans and skulking around in a Banner hoodie he stole from Frank years and years ago. Now that the sun's gone down, the air's a little chilly, and no one looks twice at him with the hood up. No one recognizes him.
The lights dim and the crowd screams, and with a roar, the Used bounce onto the stage. Gerard's knees wobble a little at the rush of memories and feelings; he's a different person now, but he remembers. Long days and even longer nights, sweat and exhaustion, anger and adrenaline, fear and terror, laughter and love, friendship, family, and camaraderie.
His conviction that if you kept moving forward fast enough, nothing could catch up.
He'd been so wrong about that.
It's been forever since he's seen the Used perform, and he's let himself forget how amazing they are. Bert's manic, bouncing around the stage, caroming off monitors and mic stands and Jepha. So much energy, and the crowd just absorbs it like a sponge and reflects it back to the band.
It's different, but still familiar.
The churning in Gerard's stomach gets worse, and he only makes it through half of the set before he feels like he has to find a private place and maybe hurl into a garbage can.
Security eyes his laminate, but lets him in without a word, and he gets directed by someone's PA to an unused storage room that clearly is serving as an impromptu dressing room.
The room has a couple of comfortable looking chairs, but Gerard can't sit down. He paces, arms wrapped around himself for comfort. He wishes he still smoked, anything to give himself something to do with his hands.
He fiddles with his phone, sends a quick text to Lindsey. i can't do this. He closes his eyes and practices the mindful breathing his therapist taught him.
The phone chirps. You can, boo.
Gerard laughs, a little bitter. Being a responsible adult, taking ownership of his relationships, it all sucks. Nothing but fucking work.
He uses the phone to look at himself, and yeah, he looks terrified, pale as a ghost. Paler. "Bert'll get a fucking kick outta that," he mutters. Bert always loved being an asshole.
There's a muted roar from the audience, and it sends a shiver through him. Encore, which means it won't be long before someone in Bert's management will lead him to this room. . .
Gerard still isn't sure how Frank managed it, or what he said to make this work, and Frank hadn't exactly been forthcoming. He'd just shrugged in a way that Gerard had heard over the phone and said, simply, "Bert's changed."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Gerard had snapped back.
"Gee," Frank's voice had been uncharacteristically gentle. "Talk to him. You're both different people now."
He's pulled from his reverie by a commotion on the other side of the door, happy shouts and laughter moving past and fading down the hallway. His hands are shaking.
"Okay, okay," someone says, and the door opens and—
It's Bert. He looks older, but just as wiry as he was as a young man. His hair is short, shot through with blond that Gerard can see from across the room. He's sweaty, a towel draped over his shoulder, and his face is impassive.
Gerard can't get a read on him; Bert was never good at hiding his feelings before. Things have changed.
Bert pulls the door shut behind him and leans against it. "Gerard." His voice is rough and scratchy, because he never believed in holding back when he was performing. Bert was always an all-or-nothing kind of dude.
Gerard's throat is so dry, he can't say a word. He just nods, trying for a certainty he doesn't feel. At all.
With Bert up against the door, he's trapped and his heart pounds faster. "Hey," he finally manages.
Bert smiles, and it's a thin shadow of his usual mischievous grin. "Wasn't expecting to see you here."
Gerard shrugs, trying for casual. "I was in the neighborhood—" He can't sell it worth a damn, but that doesn't stop him from stupidly trying anyway. "Figured I'd drop by."
Bert's chewing on a fingernail, a bad habit they'd shared. Still share. He looks Gerard over, and Gerard wonders what he sees. Sellout, loser, hack—
"Why are you here?"
He ponders, for a long moment, the advice his therapist gave him about building and sustaining strong relationships. He thinks about the stories Frank told him about being on tour with the Used again, how things were the same but different.
He remembers how angry they'd been, spitting venom and corrosive words at each other; it feels like a lifetime ago. "I miss you."
A look of surprise flashes across Bert's face. He rubs tiredly at his eyes. "I miss you, too."
It's more than Gerard expected. He takes a step forward. "I'm sorry, I fucked up—"
Bert holds up a hand, stopping the flood of words that are threatening to come pouring out. "I'm sorry, too. Gee—"
He's not sure who makes the next move, but suddenly he's wrapped in a hug, held tight, breathless, and he's missed this, so much. Bert had been his best friend for a while, and more, and then he wasn't. It had left a hole in Gerard's life that he's never been able to fill.
Later, they'll talk about their lives and families, and Bert will tease him about getting old, the fucker's five years younger than him, but for right now, Gerard is content to lose himself in Bert's arms.
-fin-