Work Text:
Gerard looks fragile tonight.
Everything about it feels ordinary.The last show of The Black Parade.
Backstage before the last show of The Black Parade, he passes Frank in his parade jacket. Frank calls his name softly. Gerard turns around, and Frank pats him on the back. Gerard smells of alcohol and pills, sweat clinging to him, with the faint chemical bite of cocaine underneath.
“Break a leg,” Frank says.
“Mm.” Gerard’s reply comes out thick with a nasal tone, which makes Frank pull him a little closer for a moment.
By the fourth song, Gerard is already clearly running out of strength.
Blue stage lights spill across his face. Sweat soaks through his clothes; strands of damp hair fall over his forehead, half-hiding those foggy eyes. Beads of sweat cling to his cheeks, glittering under the lights and smudging his eyeliner slightly. There is something almost fragile about the way he looks, like someone just risen from water.
He struggles to breathe. His vision blurs. His legs grow weak.
So he grips the microphone with his other gloved hand as well—but it is still a little too high for him.
Gerard tilts his head back, bringing the mic closer to his mouth with both hands. The crowd erupts again in cheers and shouts.
He begins to feel the edge of consciousness slipping.
It reminds him strangely of the hospital scenes from childhood: the harsh white lights, the sound of painful groans, exhausted faces, blue nitrile gloves.
His stomach churns violently.
Something finally forces its way up his throat. His mouth fills with the metallic taste of chemical powder and the strange plastic bitterness of pills, swallowing up the dryness in his mouth.
His knees hit something hard—pain follows.
He reaches for the microphone, trying to sing the last line, but his hand catches only the stand.
The leather glove slips against the smooth metal pole.
He sees his shadow stretching across the stage, growing larger and larger, like something trying to swallow him whole.
In the end he curls in on himself.
The sweat that had gathered beneath his chin now runs toward his cheekbones again. He smells the sour sting of stomach acid in his vomit, mixed with alcohol that hasn’t fully evaporated yet.
A draft slips inside Gerard’s jacket. The sweat-soaked lining clings coldly to his skin, making him shiver.
His head droops heavily, as if filled with lead.
He tries to stand, but his legs refuse to cooperate.
He tries to think about how all of this started—why he drank so much, why he took so many alprazolam.
He wants to sneeze, but he has no strength left, leaving an itchy sting in his nose.
He tries to remember why he is here.
But he can’t remember the car ride, the makeup, the soundcheck.
He remembers nothing.
The edges of his vision begin to darken.
That is the last thing he remembers.
“Gerard. Wake up.”
Frank’s voice.
Gerard opens his eyes slowly through the fog. He feels something supporting his back and realizes he is lying on a bed.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Frank asks again, wiping the dampness from Gerard’s face.
Gerard turns his head and sees a mop and a bucket of water leaning against the wall beside the bed.
Everything feels both real and unreal.
Fragments drift through his mind, refusing to form a complete picture.
Eventually he stops trying.
“Don’t leave me… please, Frank.”
With the last of his strength, Gerard lifts his hand and rests it on Frank’s arm.
“Of course,” Frank says softly.
He leans down and presses a kiss to Gerard.
Gerard closes his eyes again, warmth lingering on his forehead.
“Good night, Gerard.”