there's no tomorrow (standalone, for b&g)
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
R (swearing, mentions of self-harm and drug use)
written June-July 2008
for bert_and_gerard Myths & Legends challenge. Inspired by the myth of the ancient Trojan princess Cassandra, whose prophecies were never believed.
One: 2003
Quinn's in a good mood on the night that Brian introduces him to Gerard and his band. He's had a few blunts, he's among friends. And Gerard seems like a good guy. Hell, if he laid off the scummy vampire makeup, Quinn thinks he might even be good-looking, in a young Robert Smith-kind of way. And he's shy; that's obvious almost immediately. Shy and nervous as hell, eager to impress. Quinn almost feels sorry for the guy. He talks too fast, gestures too expansively with his hands, laughs breathily at things that aren't funny, seeks refuge in beer after beer. But as he gets drunker he seems to relax, and becomes even more likeable as a result. By the end of the night he's curled up in the corner of the booth with Bert, the pair of them laughing at ridiculous jokes and refilling each other's glasses as if they've known each other all their lives.
It's only when they're leaving, and Quinn turns to shake Gerard's hand, that it hits him. Their hands touch and his vision disappears, replaced by a series of disjointed, blurry images that leave a cold, heavy feeling in his stomach.
Briefly, he sees an older, thinner Gerard, his long black hair cropped and colourless, eyes empty and cheeks sunken, staring out at a sea of faceless fans. He sees broken bottles and drops of blood, a cellphone lying beside a pool of vomit. He hears Bert's scream, hoarse and heartbroken, followed by Gerard's slightly nasal laugh. He feels a sharp pain in his chest, followed by a churning, aching emptiness. He sees tears running down Gerard's face and Bert slamming his fist into a wall.
"Don't fall in love," he says suddenly, dropping his hand. Gerard giggles and hiccups before he manages to reply.
"Wha-?"
Quinn shakes his head and blinks, raising his eyebrows. "Sorry, man. I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about."
"S'nice to know I'm not the only one," Gerard says with a grin. He leans heavily on Mikey as they turn towards the van. "See you later, guys."
"Hey, Jared! I'll call ya," Bert yells, bursting into laughter.
"It's Gerard, motherfucker."
"Tomayto, tomahto," is the reply. "There's a lot of those in Jersey, right?"
"Dunno," Gerard calls back, resisting the combined efforts of Mikey and Frank to pull him into the van. "I don't eat the fuckin' things."
"What kind of fuckin' weird-ass Italian are you?"
He giggles. "A half-Scottish one."
"Get in the fucking van, Gerard," Mikey hisses, and Gerard shrugs at Bert before he finally climbs in.
After stalling on the first attempt, the van finally starts, honking its horn as it departs. Branden and Jeph have already gone, leaving Bert and Quinn to stand outside the bar and wait for their cab. It's a clear night, fairly mild, and the tree-lined street has hidden most of the stars. Bert lights a cigarette and offers the pack to Quinn, who shakes his head. He can't forget what he's just seen, or stop wondering about why the hell he saw it. Acid flashback, maybe? He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. Crazy shit, he tells himself. Doesn't mean anything.
"I really fucking like that guy," Bert says softly, and Quinn's stomach sinks again.
Two: 2004
As soon as their set ends, Bert stumbles backstage, his small frame dripping with sweat, and glances around. He's looking for Gerard. He's trying to do it casually, but it's not fooling anyone, Quinn thinks as he pushes past him and wanders over to a table in the corner. He reaches for a water bottle and unscrews the cap, then dumps most of it over his hair and screws his eyes shut, shaking his head as it runs down his face and onto his shoulders. It's wonderfully cold against his hot, sticky skin, and he gasps at the sensation; amazing that something so simple can be so invigorating.
When he opens his eyes, Bert is gone. Quinn grits his teeth and swallows the rest of the water in the bottle.
Later, he walks into the dressing room to find Bert perched on Gerard's lap, knees on either side of his hips. They're both wasted -- no surprise there -- and they're kissing like there's no tomorrow. Gerard's hands are on the small of Bert's back, fingers moving under the hem of his t-shirt, and he's laughing and murmuring between kisses, his head tilted back until it hits the wall. Bert is leaning over him, hands cupping his cheeks, pressing his lips to every inch of Gerard's face.
Quinn clears his throat. Bert glances up and smiles, then leans down to whisper something in Gerard's ear and they both burst out laughing.
He manages a very tight smile in return.
***
That's when the nightmares begin. To start with, they're the same images Quinn saw when he first shook Gerard's hand: sharp and jarring, like high-resolution photographs layered on top of each other at speed. A flip-book of moments that slice right to the core of a destructive love affair. And they're painful enough to jolt him awake in the early hours, his heart racing as he fights to catch his breath. He sits in his bunk with his face in his hands, guts churning and head aching, waiting for the pictures in front of his eyes to fade. But they don't. They only get stronger.
And there's no remedy. He tries to drink himself to sleep, but that doesn't make the dreams disappear; it only makes him puke when they wake him. He tries smoking a bowl before bed, but that makes the visions even more terrifying -- warped and unreal, with twisted faces and menacing smiles -- and he finds himself struggling to breathe.
As the dreams progress, the pictures of Bert regress like a video rewinding. Quinn watches, fascinated, as Bert's hair retreats into his head, his tattoos unravel, his frame shrinks, his eyes fade and brighten and fade again, depending on what he's taken or who he's in love with at the time ... and suddenly he's the fragile fifteen-year-old that Quinn first knew all those years ago. Fear and insecurity slathered with a veneer of fuck you and a chip on both narrow shoulders. And yeah, Quinn knows Bert is still that wide-eyed kid deep down. Maybe that's why it's such a shock when the dream-child starts to evolve in a different direction. He's sickened to see bruises start to bloom on Bert's skin, cuts appearing and grazes tearing roughly at his flesh. Blood flows down his face. His assailant -- or assailants -- are invisible, but they're beating him within an inch of his life, leaving fistprints and footprints and knife wounds. With each new injury, the teenage Bert flinches and screws his eyes shut, but he doesn't make a sound. And when he's completely broken, he slumps to the ground with an exhausted sigh.
Quinn wakes up screaming, his arms groping blindly in the dark. He can't rescue the dream-Bert and he sure as hell can't save the real one. He crawls out of his bunk and stumbles through the bus, leaning over the tiny toilet to throw up. The tears run down his cheeks and he wishes he could make the vision disappear. Or blur. Fade just a little bit. Anything. Right now he'd take anything.
***
By the end of the tour, Quinn's stopped dreaming. He's also stopped sleeping. He spends his nights sitting on the couch in the booze bus, bleary-eyed and buzzed on whatever he can find, strumming his guitar as he waits for the sun to come up.
***
"Y'okay, man?" Bert plonks himself down on the sofa and ruffles Quinn's hair. "Didn't see you last night."
"Tired, s'all."
"You sure?"
"Mmm."
Bert frowns. "Okay," he says suspiciously, then sighs and leans his head against Quinn's shoulder. "Wasn't the same without ya."
Quinn manages a smile, but doesn't look up from his guitar. He can play the damn thing with his eyes closed but he needs something to stare at, something to focus on, or he knows he'll fall asleep. For the past few weeks he's been on auto-pilot; even now he's not sure what he's playing, not that it matters. But it's peaceful, comforting in a way Quinn can't describe. The guitar speaks to him, speaks for him, and it's the only thing that eases the pain in his head. It's the only thing that lifts the weight of his eyes. Because if he lets them fall --
"You don't like him, do ya?"
This time he looks up. Wearily. "Sure I do."
"So what the fuck is your problem?" Bert's voice rises sharply and Quinn realises he must have been holding back the words for a while. He sighs and reaches up to rub his puffy, tired eyes. There's nothing he can tell Bert that will make him understand. There's no way that Bert can climb into his head and see the things he's seen. How the hell can he explain? He sighs again, nestles his unshaven chin into the palm of his hand and says the only thing he can say.
"He's gonna break your heart."
Bert sits up. "Bullshit."
"You gotta believe me, man."
"Why should I?"
Quinn sets his guitar on the floor and straightens his cramped legs. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It sounds fucked up, but ... I've seen things."
"What? You mean, like his girlfriend?" He snorts. "I know all about her, dumbass."
"No, not like that." Quinn looks across at Bert, his mouth twisting. "I mean I see things. In my head."
That's when Bert gets to his feet. "Jesus. I thought you were gonna say something important. You're so full of shit."
"And you're scared as shit."
Blue eyes narrow and stare sceptically into brown ones. "Yeah? Of what?"
"Of losing him. Fucking this up. You think I don't know how you feel?" Quinn stands up and runs his fingers through his greasy blond hair. He needs to prove this to Bert. He needs Bert to know what he's getting himself in to. "You love him, but you're scared of him too. He's trying to kill himself and they blame you for it, but it's him ... he's the one on the downward spiral and you're just along for the ride."
"You don't know shit," Bert hisses between clenched teeth.
"Sure I don't. I don't see the scars on his arms or the coke he mixes with his pills -- "
"Shut the fuck up!"
They're both screaming now. "And I sure as hell don't see him begging you to fuck him, begging you to love him, saying you're the only thing he can feel anymore -- "
Quinn reels back as Bert punches him in the mouth. The pain doesn't hit for a few seconds, not until his lower lip begins to swell and he can taste the blood on his tongue. But when it hits, it's intense. He screws his eyes shut and exhales shakily, trying not to break down as his nerves scream out against the assault. He's lying half on the sofa, half on the bus floor, and looks up to see Bert standing in the doorway. They stare at each other for a moment and Bert's anger ebbs almost visibly. His fist relaxes, his jawline softens, the fierce flashing in his eyes fades into remorse. They've fought like this a hundred times before; it's the way they've always been. Quinn swallows a mouthful of blood and tries to smile. Bert manages an apologetic half-smile in response.
"Can I save him?"
Quinn shakes his head.
"I don't believe you," Bert says softly, and turns to leave the bus.
Standalone
R (swearing, mentions of self-harm and drug use)
written June-July 2008
for bert_and_gerard Myths & Legends challenge. Inspired by the myth of the ancient Trojan princess Cassandra, whose prophecies were never believed.
One: 2003
Quinn's in a good mood on the night that Brian introduces him to Gerard and his band. He's had a few blunts, he's among friends. And Gerard seems like a good guy. Hell, if he laid off the scummy vampire makeup, Quinn thinks he might even be good-looking, in a young Robert Smith-kind of way. And he's shy; that's obvious almost immediately. Shy and nervous as hell, eager to impress. Quinn almost feels sorry for the guy. He talks too fast, gestures too expansively with his hands, laughs breathily at things that aren't funny, seeks refuge in beer after beer. But as he gets drunker he seems to relax, and becomes even more likeable as a result. By the end of the night he's curled up in the corner of the booth with Bert, the pair of them laughing at ridiculous jokes and refilling each other's glasses as if they've known each other all their lives.
It's only when they're leaving, and Quinn turns to shake Gerard's hand, that it hits him. Their hands touch and his vision disappears, replaced by a series of disjointed, blurry images that leave a cold, heavy feeling in his stomach.
Briefly, he sees an older, thinner Gerard, his long black hair cropped and colourless, eyes empty and cheeks sunken, staring out at a sea of faceless fans. He sees broken bottles and drops of blood, a cellphone lying beside a pool of vomit. He hears Bert's scream, hoarse and heartbroken, followed by Gerard's slightly nasal laugh. He feels a sharp pain in his chest, followed by a churning, aching emptiness. He sees tears running down Gerard's face and Bert slamming his fist into a wall.
"Don't fall in love," he says suddenly, dropping his hand. Gerard giggles and hiccups before he manages to reply.
"Wha-?"
Quinn shakes his head and blinks, raising his eyebrows. "Sorry, man. I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about."
"S'nice to know I'm not the only one," Gerard says with a grin. He leans heavily on Mikey as they turn towards the van. "See you later, guys."
"Hey, Jared! I'll call ya," Bert yells, bursting into laughter.
"It's Gerard, motherfucker."
"Tomayto, tomahto," is the reply. "There's a lot of those in Jersey, right?"
"Dunno," Gerard calls back, resisting the combined efforts of Mikey and Frank to pull him into the van. "I don't eat the fuckin' things."
"What kind of fuckin' weird-ass Italian are you?"
He giggles. "A half-Scottish one."
"Get in the fucking van, Gerard," Mikey hisses, and Gerard shrugs at Bert before he finally climbs in.
After stalling on the first attempt, the van finally starts, honking its horn as it departs. Branden and Jeph have already gone, leaving Bert and Quinn to stand outside the bar and wait for their cab. It's a clear night, fairly mild, and the tree-lined street has hidden most of the stars. Bert lights a cigarette and offers the pack to Quinn, who shakes his head. He can't forget what he's just seen, or stop wondering about why the hell he saw it. Acid flashback, maybe? He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. Crazy shit, he tells himself. Doesn't mean anything.
"I really fucking like that guy," Bert says softly, and Quinn's stomach sinks again.
Two: 2004
As soon as their set ends, Bert stumbles backstage, his small frame dripping with sweat, and glances around. He's looking for Gerard. He's trying to do it casually, but it's not fooling anyone, Quinn thinks as he pushes past him and wanders over to a table in the corner. He reaches for a water bottle and unscrews the cap, then dumps most of it over his hair and screws his eyes shut, shaking his head as it runs down his face and onto his shoulders. It's wonderfully cold against his hot, sticky skin, and he gasps at the sensation; amazing that something so simple can be so invigorating.
When he opens his eyes, Bert is gone. Quinn grits his teeth and swallows the rest of the water in the bottle.
Later, he walks into the dressing room to find Bert perched on Gerard's lap, knees on either side of his hips. They're both wasted -- no surprise there -- and they're kissing like there's no tomorrow. Gerard's hands are on the small of Bert's back, fingers moving under the hem of his t-shirt, and he's laughing and murmuring between kisses, his head tilted back until it hits the wall. Bert is leaning over him, hands cupping his cheeks, pressing his lips to every inch of Gerard's face.
Quinn clears his throat. Bert glances up and smiles, then leans down to whisper something in Gerard's ear and they both burst out laughing.
He manages a very tight smile in return.
***
That's when the nightmares begin. To start with, they're the same images Quinn saw when he first shook Gerard's hand: sharp and jarring, like high-resolution photographs layered on top of each other at speed. A flip-book of moments that slice right to the core of a destructive love affair. And they're painful enough to jolt him awake in the early hours, his heart racing as he fights to catch his breath. He sits in his bunk with his face in his hands, guts churning and head aching, waiting for the pictures in front of his eyes to fade. But they don't. They only get stronger.
And there's no remedy. He tries to drink himself to sleep, but that doesn't make the dreams disappear; it only makes him puke when they wake him. He tries smoking a bowl before bed, but that makes the visions even more terrifying -- warped and unreal, with twisted faces and menacing smiles -- and he finds himself struggling to breathe.
As the dreams progress, the pictures of Bert regress like a video rewinding. Quinn watches, fascinated, as Bert's hair retreats into his head, his tattoos unravel, his frame shrinks, his eyes fade and brighten and fade again, depending on what he's taken or who he's in love with at the time ... and suddenly he's the fragile fifteen-year-old that Quinn first knew all those years ago. Fear and insecurity slathered with a veneer of fuck you and a chip on both narrow shoulders. And yeah, Quinn knows Bert is still that wide-eyed kid deep down. Maybe that's why it's such a shock when the dream-child starts to evolve in a different direction. He's sickened to see bruises start to bloom on Bert's skin, cuts appearing and grazes tearing roughly at his flesh. Blood flows down his face. His assailant -- or assailants -- are invisible, but they're beating him within an inch of his life, leaving fistprints and footprints and knife wounds. With each new injury, the teenage Bert flinches and screws his eyes shut, but he doesn't make a sound. And when he's completely broken, he slumps to the ground with an exhausted sigh.
Quinn wakes up screaming, his arms groping blindly in the dark. He can't rescue the dream-Bert and he sure as hell can't save the real one. He crawls out of his bunk and stumbles through the bus, leaning over the tiny toilet to throw up. The tears run down his cheeks and he wishes he could make the vision disappear. Or blur. Fade just a little bit. Anything. Right now he'd take anything.
***
By the end of the tour, Quinn's stopped dreaming. He's also stopped sleeping. He spends his nights sitting on the couch in the booze bus, bleary-eyed and buzzed on whatever he can find, strumming his guitar as he waits for the sun to come up.
***
"Y'okay, man?" Bert plonks himself down on the sofa and ruffles Quinn's hair. "Didn't see you last night."
"Tired, s'all."
"You sure?"
"Mmm."
Bert frowns. "Okay," he says suspiciously, then sighs and leans his head against Quinn's shoulder. "Wasn't the same without ya."
Quinn manages a smile, but doesn't look up from his guitar. He can play the damn thing with his eyes closed but he needs something to stare at, something to focus on, or he knows he'll fall asleep. For the past few weeks he's been on auto-pilot; even now he's not sure what he's playing, not that it matters. But it's peaceful, comforting in a way Quinn can't describe. The guitar speaks to him, speaks for him, and it's the only thing that eases the pain in his head. It's the only thing that lifts the weight of his eyes. Because if he lets them fall --
"You don't like him, do ya?"
This time he looks up. Wearily. "Sure I do."
"So what the fuck is your problem?" Bert's voice rises sharply and Quinn realises he must have been holding back the words for a while. He sighs and reaches up to rub his puffy, tired eyes. There's nothing he can tell Bert that will make him understand. There's no way that Bert can climb into his head and see the things he's seen. How the hell can he explain? He sighs again, nestles his unshaven chin into the palm of his hand and says the only thing he can say.
"He's gonna break your heart."
Bert sits up. "Bullshit."
"You gotta believe me, man."
"Why should I?"
Quinn sets his guitar on the floor and straightens his cramped legs. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It sounds fucked up, but ... I've seen things."
"What? You mean, like his girlfriend?" He snorts. "I know all about her, dumbass."
"No, not like that." Quinn looks across at Bert, his mouth twisting. "I mean I see things. In my head."
That's when Bert gets to his feet. "Jesus. I thought you were gonna say something important. You're so full of shit."
"And you're scared as shit."
Blue eyes narrow and stare sceptically into brown ones. "Yeah? Of what?"
"Of losing him. Fucking this up. You think I don't know how you feel?" Quinn stands up and runs his fingers through his greasy blond hair. He needs to prove this to Bert. He needs Bert to know what he's getting himself in to. "You love him, but you're scared of him too. He's trying to kill himself and they blame you for it, but it's him ... he's the one on the downward spiral and you're just along for the ride."
"You don't know shit," Bert hisses between clenched teeth.
"Sure I don't. I don't see the scars on his arms or the coke he mixes with his pills -- "
"Shut the fuck up!"
They're both screaming now. "And I sure as hell don't see him begging you to fuck him, begging you to love him, saying you're the only thing he can feel anymore -- "
Quinn reels back as Bert punches him in the mouth. The pain doesn't hit for a few seconds, not until his lower lip begins to swell and he can taste the blood on his tongue. But when it hits, it's intense. He screws his eyes shut and exhales shakily, trying not to break down as his nerves scream out against the assault. He's lying half on the sofa, half on the bus floor, and looks up to see Bert standing in the doorway. They stare at each other for a moment and Bert's anger ebbs almost visibly. His fist relaxes, his jawline softens, the fierce flashing in his eyes fades into remorse. They've fought like this a hundred times before; it's the way they've always been. Quinn swallows a mouthful of blood and tries to smile. Bert manages an apologetic half-smile in response.
"Can I save him?"
Quinn shakes his head.
"I don't believe you," Bert says softly, and turns to leave the bus.