escape (for slashfic25)
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
R (swearing etc)
written November/December 2006
for slashfic25 prompt 11: jealous.
He won the award.
Bert had hoped he wouldn't, but the gods -- and the fangirls voting furiously on the Fuse website -- seemed to be against him. Gerard Way was undoubtedly this year's Prince of Darkness. And The Used were asked to present the award.
What could he do? Say no?
He was standing at the podium, holding the trophy, as Jeph opened the envelope. Quinn, hands oh-so-casually in his pockets, leaned over his shoulder to read out Gerard's name, then started whooping. Jeph, equally excited, jumped up and down as if he were the winner. Bert grinned and added a loud "fuck yeah" ... but mostly to piss off the censors.
Heh, Bert thought, watching as the pale skinned, blond figure bounded towards the stage like an excited golden labrador puppy. Prince of darkness my ass.
He looks good ...
There were brief hugs for Jeph and Quinn, followed by a grin and a slightly longer hug for Bert -- what the fuck did that mean? -- before Gerard, rubbing one eye and laughing at one of Jeph's smart-ass jokes, stepped up to the microphone.
Same old, Bert thought, listening to him. The fans, you saved our lives, thanks for voting, we love you guys so much, yada yada yada ... my band, you guys keep me going, you're more than family, blah blah fucking blah ... everyone who's worked with us on the album ...
Bert stood in the shadows, feeling like one of the bimbos who give away golden statuettes at the Oscars, eyes running over the smooth curves of Gerard's black-clad shoulders, back, waist, ass ...
Fuck.
Then there was applause. And then it was over.
***
"You still love him, don't you?" she'd said one afternoon as they lay curled up in front of the TV, her fingers brushing the soft white strands of hair at the nape of his neck.
He looked up at her, green eyes a mixture of surprise and fear, and she laughed, shaking her head.
"It's not a bad thing, to love someone," she said slowly, trying to choose her words. "And maybe you don't really fall out of love with someone ... just, you know, the kind of love changes -- "
"It doesn't change the way I feel about you," he said quickly.
"I know."
"You don't have to be jealous or anything."
"I'm not." She grinned. "I'd be jealous of another girl, maybe, but not of him."
Gerard closed his eyes. "How long have you known?"
"I've always known."
"Why didn't you -- "
She shrugged. "There was never a good time."
With a sigh, he stretched out on the sofa and laid his head in her lap. "You know it makes me feel like shit, right? It's like I'm cheating on you inside my head, and I hate that. If I could change it, I would."
"Do you still think about him?"
"Yeah."
"A lot?"
"I don't know. Some days more than others, I guess."
She took a deep breath. "Do you think about him when we -- "
"No," he said. "If I'm on my own ... yeah, sometimes. But never with you."
"Did he love you?"
"Yeah, but that's not a big thing. Bert falls in love with anybody. Never lasts long though."
"Is that why -- I mean, what went wrong?"
"Oh, God." Gerard sat up and shook his head. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know. It just wasn't the right time for us, I guess. When it was just him and me, it was perfect ... it was like this," he said, running his fingertips along her cheek. "You know? But he had a girlfriend, and we were touring all the time, living in different places. And everything had to be hush-hush in case the label found out." He sighed. "It was just too fucking hard ... "
"Do you ever wish things were different?"
"With him?" Gerard shrugged. "I don't know. I'd love it if we could be friends again, but more than that ... I think maybe too much has changed." He smiled and reached for her, sliding his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder. "Besides, I've moved on," he said confidently.
He lied, and she knew it.
***
As Bert wandered off stage, scratching the top of his head and wondering when this piece of shit would be over, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Thinking it was Quinn or Jeph, he shrugged it off and kept walking, not bothering to look behind him.
"I'm so over all this crap," he murmured. "Just, you know, fuck this shit. I wanna make music, man, s'all. I fucking knew he was gonna win and I was gonna have to do this again -- "
"Do what again?"
Bert was used to airing his thoughts to Quinn and Jeph -- whether they wanted to hear or not -- but his thought process ground to a halt when he heard Gerard's voice.
"Doesn't matter," he said after a moment, his voice dull.
Gerard repeated his question, but Bert kept walking.
***
"Do you ever wish you could escape?"
They were sitting on the hood of a rental car, parked in the middle of nowhere -- the tourbuses and bandmates had been left behind in the parking lot. It was just them, sitting thigh to thigh and looking up at the night sky, sharing a small hip flask of liquor. The air was cool around them, the stars as bright as jewels.
"Escape?" Bert glanced across at Gerard. "What d'you mean?"
"You know. Escape all this. Everything. Escape from everything you are and everything you can't be. Everyone you hurt." He paused. "Fucking ... I don't know. Fake your own death or something, and start again."
He laughed. "I've already done that, man."
"No you haven't, because you go back. You always go back -- you have to. You can't leave it ... it's part of you." He closed his eyes. "I mean, really escape it. Escape it all, forever. Like a snake shedding its skin ... you just leave it all behind."
They were silent for a long time. Then Bert threw his arms around Gerard's neck and kissed him forcefully. Hot, whisky-flavoured kisses on cold lips.
"Don't you get it? I escape whenever I'm with you," he whispered.
***
The after-show party was always Bert's favourite part of an awards night, and that night was no exception. There was always something happening -- unlikely couples making out, shitloads of gossip, jam sessions, drunks picking fights with straight-edgers for kicks, Pete Wentz showing up with his dog ...
Schmoozing, Jeph called it.
It was one of the rare events when Bert didn't bring a date. There were a few reasons for this. Firstly, he couldn't be fucked going through his directory and calling someone (he'd been lying on Feldmann's sofa, watching Jerry Springer, when he remembered the party -- and his cellphone was in another room. It was one of the shows where cross-dressing dudes confronted their white-trash wives for cheating, and Bert was not getting off that couch for anybody). Secondly, he wanted a bit of a boys' night out, especially after the Branden thing; he figured it would be a good idea if he, Quinn and Jeph spent more time together. Thirdly -- well, there was bound to be at least one chick he could hook up with at the party, if he felt that way inclined. Or he could make jokes about a threesome with his bandmates and see how they reacted. Endless possibilities ...
Bert told himself that Gerard's presence was not a factor in his decision. Nope. It's no big deal. Don't care.
Gerard had brought her, of course; he wrinkled his nose as he glanced across at them. Look at them, with their matching black outfits, like ... like the David and Angie Bowie of emo, he thought with a sneer.
I guess that makes me Lou Reed.
She's pretty, isn't she, he thought as he watched them mingle. Real pretty, but strong with it. Looks all sweet and lovely, but I bet she'd fucking tie him up and spank him given half a chance ... Heh. That's my kind of girl.
Shame she's with my --
Bert shook his head furiously before he finished the thought. He's not. Not. Fucking stop this shit.
"Hey, you!" Quinn said cheerily, strolling up to Bert and throwing an arm around his shoulder. "S'happening?"
"Nothing," he said, narrowing his eyes as he smelt the sickly-sweet aroma of marijuana lingering around his friend. Fucking Feldmann, making me stay sober for recording. It'd be nice to be high right now. "You?"
"Tryin' to get Wentz's dog high. Got the bowl in front of him and everything ... Fuckin' crazy, man. Pete's losing it."
And the weight lifted. Bert burst out laughing and hugged Quinn, reaching out to ruffle his messy hair. "I love you, man. That's the best thing I've heard in ages."
"Yeah. Seriously, dude, who names their dog Remington?"
"Hemingway."
"Whatever. Fuckin' lame, s'what it is." Quinn cleared his throat, and Bert suddenly realised he'd come to see him for a different reason. His stomach sank. "Hey, uh, why don'tcha go say hi to Gerard?"
"Said hi to him before."
"No you didn't. He was talking about you ... said something about you being weird."
"Hah. He can talk."
"C'mon, man. Go say hello. Can't fuckin' kill ya."
"Look," he said, gritting his teeth, "if he wants to talk to me, he can come talk to me. I'm fine here. Now fuck off and leave me alone, will ya?"
Quinn pulled a face. "Stubborn cunt," he said with a grin, sucker-punching Bert in the stomach before he left.
***
"Why are you avoiding me?"
Bert, a cigarette dangling between his lips, leaned over the balcony and exhaled through the side of his mouth. "M'not."
"Yeah, you are. If you don't wanna talk to me, just say so and I'll go away."
"No you won't."
"Yes, I will."
Bert shook his head. "Nope. You're everywhere, fucker, and I don't think you get that." He turned to face Gerard, who was lighting up his own cigarette. "Turn on the TV, and there you are. Open a magazine, there you are. Switch on the radio ... you again. Go to a party tonight -- well, look who it is!" He sighed. "Don't you get it? I can't escape you."
I thought I was your escape, Gerard thought, but didn't say the words. How could he? So much had changed.
"Why are you acting like this?"
"Because I can't act the way I fucking want to!" Bert hissed, throwing his cigarette butt onto the ground and stomping on it. "I can't say the things I want to say, and I can't do the things I want to do."
"And this is because of me? Because I'm here?"
"No, asshole. Fuck!" Bert ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. "Because it's so different, but it's still the fucking same, you know? It still feels the same, even though it's -- " He gestured at the space between them, and Gerard glanced at his shoes for a second before looking up.
"Where are you staying?" he said quietly.
"Why?"
"We need to talk."
***
She was sitting on a sofa in the centre of the room, laughing at Pete's (bad) jokes and letting Hemingway eat an hors d'oeuvre out of her hand. And then she saw them leave. The twinge of pain in her stomach made her smile falter for the briefest of moments, and her eyes shone as they focused on the two men.
Gerard never looked back, but Bert turned in the doorway and glanced towards her, and she held his gaze without blinking. It took a few seconds for Bert to flinch, his shoulders sagging fractionally, and he shook his head before turning to follow Gerard.
Almost, almost an apology.
She looked down at her hands, smiling faintly, then pulled the puppy into her lap and buried her face in its fur.
***
It was the first time in ages that Gerard wished he was drunk -- just to blur the edges of reality, to take the edge off this horrible, lingering awkwardness. He took a deep breath and tried to swallow the lump growing in his throat, but it rose again in seconds, making him nauseous. Damn this, damn this to hell ... He could always think of something to say when he was drunk, even if it wasn't the right thing to say. Words, words that normally came so easily to Gerard, seemed to dry up at the source, leaving him helpless and fidgety. Powerless.
Then he shook his head. Coward, said the voice in his head. You fucking coward. No more self-fucking-medicating, remember? You know what you're gonna say -- what you want to say -- what he wants to hear -- so why don't you grow some balls and fucking say it?
"Jesus," he said out loud as they left the hotel by the staff entrance, walking blindly into a deserted alleyway. The lump in his throat was almost choking him, and he felt his eyes start to water.
Bert turned his head and smiled, reaching for Gerard's hand. "I need to escape," he whispered, voice shaking.
Gerard couldn't say a word. He just nodded and squeezed Bert's hand, then started to run, dragging the younger man along. Trying to ignore the warm tingle that ran up his arm as soon as he made physical contact with Bert.
Bert tried to ignore it too, but he settled for moving his own palm enough to lace their fingers together as they ran through the night. Free, exhilarated, empowered.
It didn't matter where they were going.
Standalone
R (swearing etc)
written November/December 2006
for slashfic25 prompt 11: jealous.
He won the award.
Bert had hoped he wouldn't, but the gods -- and the fangirls voting furiously on the Fuse website -- seemed to be against him. Gerard Way was undoubtedly this year's Prince of Darkness. And The Used were asked to present the award.
What could he do? Say no?
He was standing at the podium, holding the trophy, as Jeph opened the envelope. Quinn, hands oh-so-casually in his pockets, leaned over his shoulder to read out Gerard's name, then started whooping. Jeph, equally excited, jumped up and down as if he were the winner. Bert grinned and added a loud "fuck yeah" ... but mostly to piss off the censors.
Heh, Bert thought, watching as the pale skinned, blond figure bounded towards the stage like an excited golden labrador puppy. Prince of darkness my ass.
He looks good ...
There were brief hugs for Jeph and Quinn, followed by a grin and a slightly longer hug for Bert -- what the fuck did that mean? -- before Gerard, rubbing one eye and laughing at one of Jeph's smart-ass jokes, stepped up to the microphone.
Same old, Bert thought, listening to him. The fans, you saved our lives, thanks for voting, we love you guys so much, yada yada yada ... my band, you guys keep me going, you're more than family, blah blah fucking blah ... everyone who's worked with us on the album ...
Bert stood in the shadows, feeling like one of the bimbos who give away golden statuettes at the Oscars, eyes running over the smooth curves of Gerard's black-clad shoulders, back, waist, ass ...
Fuck.
Then there was applause. And then it was over.
***
"You still love him, don't you?" she'd said one afternoon as they lay curled up in front of the TV, her fingers brushing the soft white strands of hair at the nape of his neck.
He looked up at her, green eyes a mixture of surprise and fear, and she laughed, shaking her head.
"It's not a bad thing, to love someone," she said slowly, trying to choose her words. "And maybe you don't really fall out of love with someone ... just, you know, the kind of love changes -- "
"It doesn't change the way I feel about you," he said quickly.
"I know."
"You don't have to be jealous or anything."
"I'm not." She grinned. "I'd be jealous of another girl, maybe, but not of him."
Gerard closed his eyes. "How long have you known?"
"I've always known."
"Why didn't you -- "
She shrugged. "There was never a good time."
With a sigh, he stretched out on the sofa and laid his head in her lap. "You know it makes me feel like shit, right? It's like I'm cheating on you inside my head, and I hate that. If I could change it, I would."
"Do you still think about him?"
"Yeah."
"A lot?"
"I don't know. Some days more than others, I guess."
She took a deep breath. "Do you think about him when we -- "
"No," he said. "If I'm on my own ... yeah, sometimes. But never with you."
"Did he love you?"
"Yeah, but that's not a big thing. Bert falls in love with anybody. Never lasts long though."
"Is that why -- I mean, what went wrong?"
"Oh, God." Gerard sat up and shook his head. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know. It just wasn't the right time for us, I guess. When it was just him and me, it was perfect ... it was like this," he said, running his fingertips along her cheek. "You know? But he had a girlfriend, and we were touring all the time, living in different places. And everything had to be hush-hush in case the label found out." He sighed. "It was just too fucking hard ... "
"Do you ever wish things were different?"
"With him?" Gerard shrugged. "I don't know. I'd love it if we could be friends again, but more than that ... I think maybe too much has changed." He smiled and reached for her, sliding his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder. "Besides, I've moved on," he said confidently.
He lied, and she knew it.
***
As Bert wandered off stage, scratching the top of his head and wondering when this piece of shit would be over, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Thinking it was Quinn or Jeph, he shrugged it off and kept walking, not bothering to look behind him.
"I'm so over all this crap," he murmured. "Just, you know, fuck this shit. I wanna make music, man, s'all. I fucking knew he was gonna win and I was gonna have to do this again -- "
"Do what again?"
Bert was used to airing his thoughts to Quinn and Jeph -- whether they wanted to hear or not -- but his thought process ground to a halt when he heard Gerard's voice.
"Doesn't matter," he said after a moment, his voice dull.
Gerard repeated his question, but Bert kept walking.
***
"Do you ever wish you could escape?"
They were sitting on the hood of a rental car, parked in the middle of nowhere -- the tourbuses and bandmates had been left behind in the parking lot. It was just them, sitting thigh to thigh and looking up at the night sky, sharing a small hip flask of liquor. The air was cool around them, the stars as bright as jewels.
"Escape?" Bert glanced across at Gerard. "What d'you mean?"
"You know. Escape all this. Everything. Escape from everything you are and everything you can't be. Everyone you hurt." He paused. "Fucking ... I don't know. Fake your own death or something, and start again."
He laughed. "I've already done that, man."
"No you haven't, because you go back. You always go back -- you have to. You can't leave it ... it's part of you." He closed his eyes. "I mean, really escape it. Escape it all, forever. Like a snake shedding its skin ... you just leave it all behind."
They were silent for a long time. Then Bert threw his arms around Gerard's neck and kissed him forcefully. Hot, whisky-flavoured kisses on cold lips.
"Don't you get it? I escape whenever I'm with you," he whispered.
***
The after-show party was always Bert's favourite part of an awards night, and that night was no exception. There was always something happening -- unlikely couples making out, shitloads of gossip, jam sessions, drunks picking fights with straight-edgers for kicks, Pete Wentz showing up with his dog ...
Schmoozing, Jeph called it.
It was one of the rare events when Bert didn't bring a date. There were a few reasons for this. Firstly, he couldn't be fucked going through his directory and calling someone (he'd been lying on Feldmann's sofa, watching Jerry Springer, when he remembered the party -- and his cellphone was in another room. It was one of the shows where cross-dressing dudes confronted their white-trash wives for cheating, and Bert was not getting off that couch for anybody). Secondly, he wanted a bit of a boys' night out, especially after the Branden thing; he figured it would be a good idea if he, Quinn and Jeph spent more time together. Thirdly -- well, there was bound to be at least one chick he could hook up with at the party, if he felt that way inclined. Or he could make jokes about a threesome with his bandmates and see how they reacted. Endless possibilities ...
Bert told himself that Gerard's presence was not a factor in his decision. Nope. It's no big deal. Don't care.
Gerard had brought her, of course; he wrinkled his nose as he glanced across at them. Look at them, with their matching black outfits, like ... like the David and Angie Bowie of emo, he thought with a sneer.
I guess that makes me Lou Reed.
She's pretty, isn't she, he thought as he watched them mingle. Real pretty, but strong with it. Looks all sweet and lovely, but I bet she'd fucking tie him up and spank him given half a chance ... Heh. That's my kind of girl.
Shame she's with my --
Bert shook his head furiously before he finished the thought. He's not. Not. Fucking stop this shit.
"Hey, you!" Quinn said cheerily, strolling up to Bert and throwing an arm around his shoulder. "S'happening?"
"Nothing," he said, narrowing his eyes as he smelt the sickly-sweet aroma of marijuana lingering around his friend. Fucking Feldmann, making me stay sober for recording. It'd be nice to be high right now. "You?"
"Tryin' to get Wentz's dog high. Got the bowl in front of him and everything ... Fuckin' crazy, man. Pete's losing it."
And the weight lifted. Bert burst out laughing and hugged Quinn, reaching out to ruffle his messy hair. "I love you, man. That's the best thing I've heard in ages."
"Yeah. Seriously, dude, who names their dog Remington?"
"Hemingway."
"Whatever. Fuckin' lame, s'what it is." Quinn cleared his throat, and Bert suddenly realised he'd come to see him for a different reason. His stomach sank. "Hey, uh, why don'tcha go say hi to Gerard?"
"Said hi to him before."
"No you didn't. He was talking about you ... said something about you being weird."
"Hah. He can talk."
"C'mon, man. Go say hello. Can't fuckin' kill ya."
"Look," he said, gritting his teeth, "if he wants to talk to me, he can come talk to me. I'm fine here. Now fuck off and leave me alone, will ya?"
Quinn pulled a face. "Stubborn cunt," he said with a grin, sucker-punching Bert in the stomach before he left.
***
"Why are you avoiding me?"
Bert, a cigarette dangling between his lips, leaned over the balcony and exhaled through the side of his mouth. "M'not."
"Yeah, you are. If you don't wanna talk to me, just say so and I'll go away."
"No you won't."
"Yes, I will."
Bert shook his head. "Nope. You're everywhere, fucker, and I don't think you get that." He turned to face Gerard, who was lighting up his own cigarette. "Turn on the TV, and there you are. Open a magazine, there you are. Switch on the radio ... you again. Go to a party tonight -- well, look who it is!" He sighed. "Don't you get it? I can't escape you."
I thought I was your escape, Gerard thought, but didn't say the words. How could he? So much had changed.
"Why are you acting like this?"
"Because I can't act the way I fucking want to!" Bert hissed, throwing his cigarette butt onto the ground and stomping on it. "I can't say the things I want to say, and I can't do the things I want to do."
"And this is because of me? Because I'm here?"
"No, asshole. Fuck!" Bert ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. "Because it's so different, but it's still the fucking same, you know? It still feels the same, even though it's -- " He gestured at the space between them, and Gerard glanced at his shoes for a second before looking up.
"Where are you staying?" he said quietly.
"Why?"
"We need to talk."
***
She was sitting on a sofa in the centre of the room, laughing at Pete's (bad) jokes and letting Hemingway eat an hors d'oeuvre out of her hand. And then she saw them leave. The twinge of pain in her stomach made her smile falter for the briefest of moments, and her eyes shone as they focused on the two men.
Gerard never looked back, but Bert turned in the doorway and glanced towards her, and she held his gaze without blinking. It took a few seconds for Bert to flinch, his shoulders sagging fractionally, and he shook his head before turning to follow Gerard.
Almost, almost an apology.
She looked down at her hands, smiling faintly, then pulled the puppy into her lap and buried her face in its fur.
***
It was the first time in ages that Gerard wished he was drunk -- just to blur the edges of reality, to take the edge off this horrible, lingering awkwardness. He took a deep breath and tried to swallow the lump growing in his throat, but it rose again in seconds, making him nauseous. Damn this, damn this to hell ... He could always think of something to say when he was drunk, even if it wasn't the right thing to say. Words, words that normally came so easily to Gerard, seemed to dry up at the source, leaving him helpless and fidgety. Powerless.
Then he shook his head. Coward, said the voice in his head. You fucking coward. No more self-fucking-medicating, remember? You know what you're gonna say -- what you want to say -- what he wants to hear -- so why don't you grow some balls and fucking say it?
"Jesus," he said out loud as they left the hotel by the staff entrance, walking blindly into a deserted alleyway. The lump in his throat was almost choking him, and he felt his eyes start to water.
Bert turned his head and smiled, reaching for Gerard's hand. "I need to escape," he whispered, voice shaking.
Gerard couldn't say a word. He just nodded and squeezed Bert's hand, then started to run, dragging the younger man along. Trying to ignore the warm tingle that ran up his arm as soon as he made physical contact with Bert.
Bert tried to ignore it too, but he settled for moving his own palm enough to lace their fingers together as they ran through the night. Free, exhilarated, empowered.
It didn't matter where they were going.