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The bass from the Corona Agua Rifada stage vibrates right through the soles of Charli’s heavy boots, a rhythmic thumping that she feels in her chest as much as her ears. The final, sharp electronic sting of "Bubblegum Bitch" rings out into the cool Mexico City air, accompanied by the deafening roar of tens of thousands of fans chanting Marina’s name. Charli ducks into the dimly lit, draped-off backstage sanctuary, dropping her shoulders the moment the heaviest wave of noise is muffled by the thick canvas. Her own set isn't until 11:05 PM, leaving her with a cavernous stretch of empty time to kill. She doesn't head for the green room couch or the rider drinks. Instead, her eyes lock onto a mesh-sided, pop-up playpen tucked safely in a quiet corner away from the heavy foot traffic of stagehands and security.
Inside, two tiny shapes are already stirring at the sound of her approach. Betty Boop and Bart, Marina’s twin grey tabby kittens, scramble over a plush blanket. Bart’s oversized ears twitch, while Betty immediately lets out a silent, wide-mouthed mew against the mesh.
"Hey, my little angels," Charli coos, her voice dropping an octave into a soft, syrupy register she rarely uses in public.
She sinks straight down onto the dusty backstage floor, completely unbothered by what the grime might do to her outfit. She unzips the top flap of the containment area, letting her manicured hands drift inside. Through the stage curtains, the opening, melancholy piano chords of "Goodbye" begin to drift inward. Marina is starting her encore. Out there, under the neon lights, Marina is a statuesque pop deity; in here, Charli is cross-legged on the floor, utterly besotted, letting Bart aggressively lick her thumb while Betty climbs up her forearm, tiny needle-claws snagging harmlessly on her sleeve. Charli buries her face in Betty’s soft, clean fur, inhaling the comforting, domestic scent of kitten shampoo and warmth. It’s a stark, grounding contrast to the overwhelming adrenaline of a festival night.
The backstage atmosphere shifts subtly as the clock ticks just past 9:00 PM. The quiet sanctuary suddenly populates with a heavy, distinct energy. The next performers—the night’s massive headliners, My Chemical Romance—arrive in a loose formation to wait in the wings.
They are a whirlwind of dark clothing, smeared makeup, and fifteen years of shared touring telepathy. Mikey Way leans against a road case, his tall frame tense, fingers twitching with pre-show anxiety. Ray Toro, ever the grounding force, steps into his space with a quiet, knowing look, pressing a freshly lit joint directly to Mikey’s lips. Mikey takes a dragging inhale, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as the smoke curls up into the rafters.
A few feet away, Gerard Way and Frank Iero are entirely inside each other's space. Despite being married for fifteen years, they navigate the backstage chaos like gravity-bound planets, constantly colliding. Frank’s hand is tucked firmly into the back of Gerard’s collar, whispering something against his ear that makes Gerard laugh—a bright, unedited sound. Gerard leans back, his hands resting naturally on Frank’s hips, swaying them both slightly to the distant rhythm of Marina's piano ballad. They are a loud, affectionate ecosystem of two.
Suddenly, Gerard’s eyes wander past Frank’s shoulder, catching the faint silhouette of Charli on the floor and the unmistakable, erratic movement of tiny paws. "Frankie, look!" Gerard gasps, his voice rising in an unfiltered, breathless squeak as he points a pale finger toward Charli’s corner. "Baby kitties!"
Frank blinks, broken out of his pre-set trance, but the moment his eyes land on the playpen, his expression melts completely. The two rock veterans walk over, their heavy, silver-ringed boots clicking against the floorboards, but the momentum of the two rock veterans shifts the second they enter the kittens' small orbit. The imposing, theatrical aura that usually cloaks My Chemical Romance completely evaporates, replaced by a raw, soft-hearted reverence that catches Charli entirely off guard.
"Oh, you are kidding me," Frank murmurs. His speaking voice, usually a raspy Jersey cadence, turns incredibly sweet and quiet.
He drops straight to his knees right beside Charli’s designer tote bag, completely unbothered by the dusty floor. He moves with a practiced, paternal gentleness, extending a heavily tattooed hand with the knuckles turned downward so the animals can investigate him first. Bart immediately lunges forward, his tiny pink nose working furiously against Frank's knuckles before the kitten decides the rough denim of Frank's vest is the perfect climbing frame. Frank lets out a low, gravelly sound of pure delight, carefully scooping the grey tabby up against his chest. Gerard is practically vibrating, sitting cross-legged right next to Charli. He reaches into the mesh playpen to cradle Betty Boop, lifting her up to eye level with absolute precision.
"Hi. Hello. Who allowed you to be this small?" he croons, his thumb gently stroking the space between the kitten's oversized ears.
Betty responds by tucking her head under his thumb, starting up a loud, rhythmic purr that vibrates right through Gerard’s pale palms. Charli watches the display, a wide, slightly starstruck smile tugging at her lips. Beyond the sheer surrealism of seeing two icons of post-hardcore emo rock reduced to absolute mush by a pair of seven-week-old tabbies, a deeper wave of reverence hits her. These two men—along with the rest of the band currently pacing the wings—are pillars of her own musical DNA. The theatricality, the unapologetic pop sensibilities buried under heavy guitars, the concept-driven world-building; she had absorbed all of it years ago while finding her own footing as an artist.
Gerard glances up from Betty’s furry face, his dark, smeared eyeliner framing eyes that are bright with genuine warmth as he looks at Charli. "They're yours?"
"Marina's, actually," Charli says, her voice a mix of backstage calm and quiet awe. "But I've basically co-parented them for the last month. They're excellent tour managers."
"They're perfect," Gerard declares with total gravity, as if passing a royal decree. He shifts Betty so she’s resting against his shoulder, her tiny claws catching on the fabric of his dark shirt. "Honestly, this is exactly what we needed before going out there. It’s too loud in our heads right now."
Frank nods in agreement, his thumb lightly stroking Bart's back as the kitten falls asleep against his chest. "No kidding. It beats pacing around the green room. Thanks for sharing the vibe, Charli. Good luck with your set later tonight."
Hearing her name come out of Frank Iero’s mouth causes a brief, thrilling jolt in Charli's chest—a rare moment where the seasoned pop star vanishes and the music fan takes over. "Anytime," she replies smoothly, leaning back against a road case. "Have an incredible show out there. The crowd is absolutely feral tonight."
"Just the way we like them," Frank jokes, though the gentle way he cradles Bart suggests he’s completely content staying right here on the floor for now.
On stage, the final, echoing chords of Marina's encore swell and fade, followed by a deafening roar from the Mexico City crowd. The sudden shift in ambient noise signals that the stage is about to clear, and the reality of the schedule begins to settle back over the wings.
"Duty calls," Gerard sighs softly, though he looks incredibly reluctant to break the spell. Very carefully, as if handling priceless porcelain, he and Frank begin the delicate process of transferring the kittens back to Charli.
Gerard holds Betty close one last time, pressing a tender, lingering kiss right between her ears. He sets her gently into Charli’s waiting hands, then turns on his heel toward his husband. Grabbing the lapels of Frank’s vest, Gerard pulls Frank in, kissing him squarely and deeply on the mouth—a sudden, passionate burst of affection that serves as both a thank-you for the kitten break and a final alignment before they face forty thousand screaming people. Frank kisses back seamlessly, his hands finding Gerard’s waist automatically, entirely unbothered by the backstage bustle around them.
The heavy stage curtains part, and Marina steps through, flushed and glowing from the stage lights, her breath coming in slight huffs. She hands her microphone to a waiting tech, her eyes instantly scanning the floor until they land on her favorite people. Seeing the tableau—Charli covered in kitten fur, Frank and Gerard breaking apart with grins—Marina’s face lights up. She walks over smoothly, kneeling down into the little circle. Without a word, she leans in and distributes her affection with perfect equity: a soft kiss on Betty’s head, a kiss on Bart’s nose, and finally, a deep, lingering kiss on Charli’s lips that tastes like stage makeup and mint.
"Hey, superstar," Charli murmurs against her mouth.
Marina smiles, but as she pulls back, she looks around the cramped, dusty backstage corner, then down at Charli’s relaxed posture. "What are you doing out here, Charlotte? Shouldn't you be in your dressing room or rehearsing? Your set is huge tonight."
Charli rolls her eyes affectionately, shifting Bart to her lap. "I needed to destress. The energy out there is insane today, and my brain was running at a thousand miles an hour. I just needed to ground myself."
Marina arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow, a playful, knowing glint in her eyes. "Oh, really? And how exactly do you plan to destress in a drafty hallway?"
Charli smiles, a mischievous spark lighting up her face. "I came prepared."
With a theatrical flourish, Charli reaches into her oversized designer tote bag resting against the road case. She pulls out a bright, distinctly clunky, rectangular cardboard box with a loud rustle. Marina stares at it, her jaw dropping slightly. It’s the unmistakable, bright red box of the classic board game Hungry Hungry Hippos. A genuine, bright laugh escapes Marina’s lips, echoing off the canvas walls.
"You are absolutely ridiculous," she says, but there isn't a shred of hesitation as she immediately clears a small space on the floorboards between them, shifting her stage outfit so she can sit cross-legged opposite her girlfriend.
Charli dumps the bright plastic base of the game onto the floor, the colorful, spring-loaded hippos clicking into place. She pours the small handful of white plastic marbles into the center ring, the small rolling sounds cutting through the ambient noise of My Chemical Romance’s crew doing their final line checks on stage. Marina immediately reaches across the board, her long fingers firmly gripping the lever of the bright yellow hippo. She tests the spring once, making the plastic head snap forward with a loud, aggressive clack.
"I'm yellow," Marina announces, her tone shifting instantly into one of regal, unyielding certainty. She looks up, meeting Charli’s eyes with a fiercely competitive, loving smirk. "Yellow always wins. You know the rules."
Charli laughs, grabbing the blue lever opposite her. "We'll see about that, Diamandis."