Chapter Text
Something was off with Gerard. You’d known him and the band for a fair bit now, being on the radar during the pre-production of their album. But now, finally, in the thick of the recording process, you notice he’s acting majorly strange.
A matter of months ago, your classmate Mark put you onto this upcoming project of his. He was working with a new local band on album art for their first release, and managed to get you a gig as a “runner” — for errands, that is. You usually cringed at the idea of waiting on people, but since you were no longer sure you had your heart set on visual arts, you might as well use these fleeting college years of yours to explore the music production industry. They were working with a pretty significant record label in the state, and perhaps it would be the right foot in the door for you.
What you weren’t expecting, however, was to grow so attached to these goobers. They were pretty nice guys — the musicians, that is — and as it turns out, super, super funny. Being in the studio with them was like free entertainment for you, even if you were completely useless that day and had no significant tasks. One of them was particularly endearing though — Gerard. He had a young face and a kind heart, it seemed. Very whimsical and eccentric. You just had an urge to keep him out of harm’s way and cheer him on. For some reason, it seemed like life had been pretty harsh on him.
A couple weeks ago is when the unusual behavior began. Despite his superficially gothic fascinations, Gerard was naturally rather cheery and outgoing. But now, he was quieter — didn’t jump into conversations with the guys quite as much as he used to. You’d see him look away at times and squeeze his eyes shut, even hiding his face and wincing. He’d trail off on sentences and seemingly end them before he had truly wanted to. His voice changed a little too. He mentioned an ache in his lower jaw a couple times, as well. Perhaps that was related.
Today was particularly concerning. You’d gone into the city yet again to attend a recording sesh. As you were unpacking, rigging up the cables and such, you saw Gerard out of the corner of your eye, lying flat on a bench, closing his eyes, and taking deep breaths. Not wanting to say anything, you went about your business until it was go-time. Hey, maybe there was some odd warmup vocalists had to do that you simply didn’t know about. It’s not like you were any good at singing.
Later, you felt inclined to sit near him during the instrumental track recordings, just to keep an eye on him. You’d even offered him coffee, which he normally loved, but this time he refused.
“Gerard, are you feeling okay? I noticed you’re not acting yourself.” You finally mustered up some gumption to ask.
“Well, I… um…”
“Yeah?”
“My tooth is really bothering me…” he looked up at you, dead serious, with a desperate expression.
“It’s really bad, huh?” you felt a twinge of pain at the pitiful sight. He nodded, sighing at the ground.
“Do you want an Advil?” you continued, reaching into your purse.
“No, already took two this morning. Plus if I overdo it they make my stomach hurt.”
Poor guy.
“Well, if you’re in that much pain, you’ve got to speak up.” A silence ensued. He looked away in shame. It was time to record vocals soon.
“Hey, G-man — you’re on now.”
As soon as attention was directed to him, he immediately shook his pained state of wallowing for an overly peppy mood. Like a robot kicking into action. Try as he might, however, you still saw his discomfort peek through the cracks. You had a hard time monitoring all your tasks while Gerard recorded his part. His vocals were beautiful — haunting, even. But you couldn’t enjoy them, knowing he was in pain. He began to look out of breath, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow on every line.
“But does anyone notice? But does anyone care—?” Gerard doubled over, completely missing the mic.
“Cut— guys, cut! Please, stop,” he cried out, voice cracking.
“What the fuck’s the problem?” John, one of our producers, barked.
“My jaw is killing me. I’m trying to push through man, but god…”
“Well you ruined a perfectly good fuckin’ take. The pain’ll help you. I swear man, you were sounding perfect.”
“Well fuck… I guess I’ll give it another go,” Gerard said, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head.
John was awfully harsh. You understood his need for artistic perfection, especially giving this new group a chance on his label, but geez. He was wearing the hell out of this poor kid. As the track started again from the top and Gerard worked up to his second try, you grabbed a handful of water bottles from the cooler and offered them to the guys sitting around watching, trying to make yourself look busy. Realistically though, you were trying to ignore the cringeworthy scene going on in the booth. Based on the delivery of this take, you didn’t even want to see what kind of expressions and reactions he was having. He was approaching roughly the same part in the song that he hadn’t made it to last time.
“Before I pull this trigger, your eyes vacant and stained—“
Oh no. You heard a heavy thud as his body crashed to the floor. Oh no, oh no. Perhaps this was overstepping, but you had to step in…
You rushed into the booth, still with a cold plastic water bottle in your hand, and got down on your knees to help him. Holy smokes, poor Gerard. You turned him onto his back, and as you began to lightly slap his cheek, his long eyelashes fluttered open.
“Ohhhh…” all he could push out was a painful groan. He was so confused about what happened. Just a second ago, he was trucking through white hot jaw pain, singing — and now, he was lying on the floor with a throbbing head, and you cradling his face.
You wracked your brain trying to remember what your first aid lessons in high school had taught you. Suddenly, it occurred to you that you weren’t supposed to have the head elevated at all, but the feet. You dropped his head to the ground — a bit clumsily — and propped up his legs on the first stool you could grab. You weren’t sure if this was the right move either, but you laid that chilled water bottle in your hand over his forehead.
“(Y/n), what are you doing?” He whispered lowly. Oh good, he could talk.
“I’m taking you to the hospital. Someone needs to have a look at you. This isn’t funny anymore.”
Gerard didn’t protest this time. He was too scared. Passing out was not a normal occurrence for him.
“Is he okay?” The curly-haired guitarist — you forgot his name — popped his head into the room. Oh duh, it was Ray. He was a real stand-up nice guy. You knew he wouldn’t give you flack for taking Gerard out of the recording session.
“We’ve got to take him to the ER.” you looked around at everyone in the studio.
“Come on, he’s alright. Just give him a few minutes and he can finish the song. Fuckin’ drama queen,” said Alex, another one of their producers. You weren’t sure why they were being so cruel. This was a shitty little rock album — not life or death.
Just as you were making a plan, Gerard regained his composure enough to stand back up, though you put your arm around him for stability — just in case.
“Guys, this is serious. Just let me take him to a doctor — they can give him horse tranquilizers or something, and he’ll be back in shape,” you said, trying to please everyone in the room.
You looked back at Gerard. He seemed winded, but no longer dizzy. You could tell he was a little embarrassed for causing such a scene, so you lowered your voice.
“Ray and I” you looked across the room to the guitarist, “are gonna take you to the ER, okay? C’mon.”
“No, no. Can you just take me? He can stay here—”, he grimaced, “and keep recording.”
You respected his wish, and looked back at the guys in the room with a serious expression before leading Gerard outside to your car. Thank heavens you missed the train this morning and decided to drive. This would’ve been a hundred times worse to deal with in a taxi.
You let him get in there himself, and he immediately chose the back, laying, down across all three seats. Aww. Driving through New York was a scary venture, but you were willing to do whatever was needed for the amount of pain he was in.
“Thank you, (y/n). I’m sorry…” he mumbled, sounding like he had a mouthful of cotton.
“Gee, it’s nothing. I’m sorry you had to suffer for so long. Now quiet down and stop making it worse.”
Your dad grew up in Queens, so you knew the area well enough to have a general idea of where a hospital was. You weren’t sure if it was a good hospital, but it was better than nothing. Your little friend needed immediate help.
A light rain began to splatter on your windshield as you drove on. It was a surprisingly calm, but gloomy day. Eerie almost. You tried to be extra careful stopping and accelerating with Gerard lying there in the back, probably in agonizing pain. Healthy guys in their early 20s didn’t just faint out of nowhere. A serious worry ate at you.
Not after long, you were standing at the check-in desk, trying your best not to ogle the gruesome injuries fellow waiting-room patients had obtained. You could have sworn you saw a man holding a severed eyeball in his hand, the other covering a bleeding socket. And a crying boy with an arm broken in at least two places. How awful.
“What’re you in for, ma’am? a surly older woman with bright red lipstick deadpanned.
“Well, my… uh, friend… has been having really bad jaw pain. It hurts when he talks and such. And today it got so bad that he fainted.” You realized you were still touching Gerard, hand around the small of his back. Was that weird? He didn’t seem to mind. He was shyly staring at the floor, picking at his nail — a bit embarrassed that he, as a grown man, was having you take over the interaction as if you were his mother. For some odd reason, part of you liked it.
The receptionist looked up, down, and typed something into her computer. She started again:
“Does he say his head hurts? Any signs of concussion?” she snapped her chewing gum.
Gerard looked at you with pitifully sad eyes, shaking his head “no”. He fidgeted, rubbing circles on the side of his jaw, where the pain was.
“No, doesn’t seem like it,” you replied.
He was handed a clipboard of paperwork to fill out, and you sat for an indiscernible amount of time waiting. You wondered what the verdict would be. They had to find something, right? He needed some relief. It broke your heart to see him in this much pain. He’s such a good kid. And as it turns out, so adorable…
To pass the time in the waiting room with all of those horrifically injured people, you decided to clear your head and call your dad. He usually offered a bit of solace in times like these. You knew, though, that there would inevitably be a few awkward questions cornering your relationship to Gerard…
About an hour and a half of watching the clock, skimming random magazines, and looking away from hideous injuries later, Gerard finally emerged with a glum look, a smarmy-looking guy in a lab coat following behind him.
“So, Miss, we didn’t find anything wrong with your boyfriend during our screenings. He’s a young, healthy fella, and it looks like you’ve got no reason for worry. Maybe he just needs to brush his teeth better — could be gum irritation.” the doctor chuckled and adjusted his glasses.
Boyfriend, oh my God. You didn’t bother correcting him.
“But what about the pain? It’s agonizing when he sings or talks. Didn’t he tell you he fainted today?” You were ready to argue. That was exactly the news you didn’t want to hear.
“It’s very possible the fainting was unrelated to the mouth discomfort. Maybe he just needed lunch,” that asshole of a doctor broke into another chuckle, and pivoted away before I or Gerard could say anything more.
“Look, I’m in a hurry, and since nothing critical came up on the tests, I’ve gotta run. If it’s really bugging you, an ibuprofen or two should do the trick. Have a pleasant day, kids!” He shot us a smile before disappearing off into the void of the busy emergency room. Gerard looked utterly defeated. So much wasted time and a wasted insurance copay on a bullshit hospital visit. A long silence continued, even after you left the ER.
“I’m so fuckin’ done with this,” he mumbled, laying across the back seats of your car yet again. He needed to collect himself before you took him back to the studio.
“I’m sorry, Gerard. Let’s hope the tooth pain goes away soon. It might.”
“No, not just this. I’m fuckin’ done with all of this.”
Was he… starting to cry? You heard some wet sounds, gasping, and immediately knew better than to start the car yet. You hopped out and decided you needed to join him in the back. When he saw you open the door, he sat up, wiping his eye with his sleeve and and trying conceal his face. You went and sat beside him.
“Gerard, what do you mean?” You started rubbing his shoulder. “Talk to me — if it doesn’t hurt too much.”
As soon as he felt your touch, he stuttered and collapsed onto you, burying his face in your chest and letting out a sob. Like, ugly crying. You’d never even seen a guy cry in person before… much less to this degree.
“I’m so— *hngf* tired of it,” a wet spot on your shirt began to form from his tears. He felt so warm on you, so soft and gentle. What a poor, defenseless baby bird. You couldn’t help but hold him tight, trying to calm him down, stroking his spiky brown hair and feeling the heavy fabric of his sweatshirt press against you. Alex had tried to call you both several times over the past hour, but you ignored.
“Poor thing. Tell me what’s the matter,” you cooed to him. What even happened? Here you are, on a work day, cuddling your crying colleague in your car. But you couldn’t help it — he was too precious. You were in too deep with your feelings for him now. You just wanted to hold him tight and nurse him back to health, no matter how ridiculous or embarrassing it was.
“I’m so fuckin’ done with doctors,” he sniffled on. “Medical stuff is pure trauma. I’ve had so many things wrong with me that they just couldn’t figure out.”
“That doctor was a piece of shit, I know. But why the panic? You’ll get fixed up eventually.”
“No I won’t,” he cried. “First it was my tonsils, then my spine, then my fucked up head and now this. I’m so tired of their mind games. They just wanna torture people.”
He threw his head back, rubbed his eyes in frustration, and sniffled a fair bit. You continued petting him until it looked like he was ready to sit up and have an adult conversation. Still, you couldn’t let go of him. You held his hand, circling his gentle skin with your thumb.
“What happened in the past? You can tell me.”
He sniffed. “Since I was a kid, I’ve been having these mystery health issues that doctors just never helped with. When I was really little, I started getting these awful sore throats and ear aches. They kept misdiagnosing me, and eventually just took out my tonsils after years of begging. It hurt so bad. And all the doctors were pricks—“ You noticed his nose was dripping, and wiped it up for him with a crumpled tissue from your purse.
He continued on: “Then, I was dealing with back pain for years. People teased me about it. They just thought my posture was really bad, but in reality, I was in a lot of pain. Those lazy ass doctors couldn’t even figure out scoliosis for the longest time. Then, they sent me to some physical therapy place, which was just pure humiliation and didn’t end up helping. You probably thought I was just a slouchy loser too.”
You interrupted him:
“Gee, calm down. I never even noticed it.”
He paused and stuttered, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.
“Then — this is more recent — I started feeling really sad all the time, for no reason. Like — fucked up in the head—“ he cut himself off then, not allowing you to hear the rest of that story. The thought of it made him break into another sob, squishing his wet face back into the crook of your neck.
Good lord, what a mess. Your chest burned with sympathy for him. Gerard was so… sensitive. He must have really trusted you to let all of this spill, especially considering the tough guy charade he put on earlier. You understood that there were some things you just couldn’t get away with in male friendships.
“Shhhhh,” you soothed him, fussing over him as if he were a little boy. It was kind of disgusting how his tears and snot were running all over your skin and clothes, but somehow, you didn’t mind it. In fact, you loved holding him near to you. He was so pretty when he cried — how the tears glistened on his eyelashes, how his lip quivered. You didn’t like to see him hurt, of course, but were very glad you could offer him such comfort.
“Now this whole fuckin’ album’s ruined. They’re gonna give up on us,” his trembling voice was muffled into your chest.
“That’s not true. We’re gonna go back to the studio — when you’re ready — and finish out the day. Don’t you worry.”