The Music Part I
Masterpost
They make it sound like you could take it and make it your own. And you can really. You can get the pet, the stuffed animal and cover it in writing and pictures. You can color it and give it clothes. And when you get bored, you can wash it, throw it in with the clothes and start all over again.
But you can never make it quite so cool. You can never get the hearts right and your handwriting doesn’t really seem to fit. It looks awkward in the way the ones on TV don’t.
And you wish you were artistic. That you wanted to do that in a way that you were passionate about. That you practiced and cared about it.
But that’s as far as it ever really goes.
You can tell if something looks good, but that’s about it.
And when you look at that stuffed animal, you can imagine it as something beautiful. You can see all the ways it could look and the ways it could feel. It could be something amazing, and you can see that in your head. But it never seems to transfer.
Like all the pictures in your head are stuck there because your passion doesn’t really lie in art, but in music.
And you prefer it that way, really, you do.
You don’t know how you could live without it, without the way it runs through your skin like a livewire, trembling through you until you can’t seem to feel anything but loved.
Because that’s what it makes you feel.
Loved.
Like there’s someone out there who will always love you, unconditionally.
And maybe that’s how family is supposed to be.
Maybe that’s how your family is.
But sometimes you wonder what they would think if they knew who you really were.
If they knew beyond the smiles and curls.
If they knew you were gay.
And you tell yourself you haven’t come out yet because it’s strange.
Straight people don’t have to come out so why do you?
Shouldn’t it just be part of who you are?
But it seems like that’s just an excuse.
Because you’re mostly just terrified that your family will decide you’re not worth it.
That their religion is worth more to them than their son.
And part of you wonders if they’re not wrong.
But even if they’re not wrong.
Even if you’re not sure it’s okay to be yourself.
To be who you were born to be.
At least you have music.
At least you have the way it makes you feel.
That when it all comes down to it, as long as you have a guitar in your hand, you’ll be okay.
~
She’s beautiful, you think.
Long brown hair and a sweet smile, she makes you think of rainbows and white fluffy clouds.
You’d feel bad about not being able to see her as something more, but you’re trying not to hate yourself for being gay.
It’s mostly successful.
~
You watch him play from the sidelines, watch his hands run across the strings of his guitar, his neck and back arched in that way that they do. The way that seems so common in guitarists. Like they can’t help but feel the music inside them, a tension beneath their skin, pushing them for more, for harder, for longer. That thing that won’t let you go until the crowd is cheering and the last song has ended. Until the adrenaline dies and you come back to yourself, like you’re just then realizing there’s something more. Something more than the chords and the notes, the A to G, and everything in between.
You know you do it yourself sometimes. You’ve seen the videos, the concerts, and though the cheering fans are gone, though you’re no longer the person on the stage, you can feel it. Like once you’ve had it, it’ll never be gone. And you wonder if your brothers feel it too.
You wonder if it’s the same as a singer, up on that stage. The adrenaline, the music. Does it fill you up when you have to create sounds that resemble words? Or do the words take you back down, fill you with reality.
Because sometimes it feels like with a guitar, with an instrument, that you are no longer human, you are no longer a being.
All you are is a wire, a speaker, for the music that exists in the world. All you are is a conduit, something for music to come through, to live through.
Because music would exist without you. It would live in this world and dance and play just as much without you as it would with you. It would still be the one thing that holds people together, that makes us all one. Without the songs, without the notes, without the lines we’ve given music, it would still be there. It would still be the one thing that even if you don’t know it exists brings us a tendril of fantasy and humanity.
Music doesn’t need us.
We need it.
~
You’re not the best at seeing what’s in front of you, at seeing beyond the masks people give you. You expect when someone says something that it’s the truth, that they’re not spreading lies.
And maybe that’s because you try to be honest. Lies never feel good when they’re falling off your lips, and you can feel the dishonesty sinking into your heart, like you’re telling yourself who you are with every lie you make and with every broken promise you spew.
You think maybe you’ll have to be honest soon.
But for now you’re more confused as to how you got here. It feels like you shouldn’t be here. You’re surrounded by people you’ve never met, but you’ve always been a fan of. They’re your secret that’s not really a secret. You’ve never lied about liking them; people just never seem to ask.
It’s like a Jonas Brother has to fit within a certain set of criteria. You must like certain things, do certain things. You must fit into a stereotype, and, in reality, nothing ever fits a stereotype. They’re an outdated concept, used to easily recognize patterns, to put those that would potentially hurt you into easily prescribed statements of fact. It’s an easy way to view people, a simplistic view of the world. But the lack in that, the negative in that, is that we do not see the complexity. We do not see the contradictions that people are made of. That people are, in essence, natural paradoxes.
And maybe you look like you shouldn’t belong in this room. In this place filled with those who play rock and metal. Maybe you don’t belong in a room with My Chemical Romance.
But this is a room filled musicians. This is a room filled with people who feel music in the same way that you do, and you can’t help but feel like that’s enough. That connection, that ability to feel music so deeply, that is all you need to belong.
So when someone slides into the seat across from you, you smile, watching them return your gesture.
It’s easy to enter a conversation with him, easier than you think it should be. Like there should be some jarring moment, some space of time where awkwardness eats up the words between you two, taking away whatever could belong there. But there’s not, the awkwardness is just a passing fancy, and you feel like you belong. Like you’ve found your niche, that place where your puzzle piece finally fits into place. Your colors match, blues and golds. You create a picture with these people.
And it’s weird, because you haven’t felt this way since your brothers. Since before you realized your family didn’t think boys should like boys. Since the first time you heard your dad joke about how unnatural it is. How weird it is. Gay people? Madness.
And you’re never sure whether you should take him by his word or not. Maybe he would change his mind if he knew you were. Maybe not.
And it’s the not part that scares you.
But you’re not there now. You’re not in that room with your dad when you were seven, when you first started to realize that people actually cared about whether someone was black or white, or female or male. Like some random act of consequence had an impact on whether you were a good person.
You’ve never been good at judging people. Sometimes, society makes you wonder if that’s a flaw.
And you’ve never told anyone this. You’ve thought it, sure, you’ve wondered and questioned, but you’ve never told anyone this. These thoughts that stew in your head like you don’t know how else to think.
So that’s why it’s so strange when you start telling this person in front of you. When you feel so comfortable that you forget you have things to hide.
But Gerard Way seems accepting. He always has, in his smile, in his jokes.
And you’re not going to lie, he’s one of the reasons you ever started being okay with yourself. Like being a person who doesn’t fit with the norm, doesn’t exactly jive with the people who surround you, isn’t a bad thing. Like being different isn’t some end of worth. Like you can still be beautiful even if you want to kiss someone just because they make your heart pound.
He makes you feel accepted.
And as you tell him this, as you tell him about your dad and how you’re gay, you watch his eyes, and you see that he doesn’t judge you. That he doesn’t think you’re a coward for being afraid to lose your family’s love.
And it makes you feel okay.
Which is all you ever really wanted to feel, but somehow could never find by yourself. Like the only way you could reach that sort of acceptance was with someone helping you up. Helping you reach the top of that monument. Because it feels monumental to you, like you’ve been climbing and climbing, searching for the top, for that moment where you can finally take a deep breath, finally tell yourself you’re awesome.
And it’s weird that the only way you could get there was by telling someone who is nearly a stranger things that you’ve never told anyone before.
And when the end of the night comes and he asks for your number, you can’t help but think he’s just being polite. Because despite how far you’ve come, you’re not actually sure if he’s just being nice or if he actually likes you. If he actually thinks you’re worth calling.
But as his friends come over, as his band mates call him away, he smiles at you, telling you he’ll call you, or text you, or something. And somehow, you can’t help but believe him.
~
Your life always seems in stasis when you’re off tour. And now that you’re not a part of a band anymore, everything is off tour. Every second is a moment in time, frozen in reality. Moments and seconds stretching onward to forever. Every atom in the air pressing you together, reminding you that you are still. You aren’t a projection of velocity or momentum anymore. You aren’t the routes on a road, that person thrown onto a path that you have no choice but to follow. You’re just a person, staying in one place, sitting in the same house, in the same rooms. You exist in this sort of alternate universe, as though reality is just waiting to catch onto you again. Because you don’t think you’ll ever be used to remaining still.
And one day, you think you might tour again, you think that might be the only way life will make sense again, but you’re not sure people would come to see the Jonas Brother who doesn’t sing.
So for now, you take your guitar and you sling it around your neck. You press your fingers against the strings, against the metal and wood, and you once again remember the music.
~
You’re not broken, at least, you don’t think you are.
But sometimes, you wonder. What if that’s all you know?
What if being broken is just part of being who you are, what if that’s what you’ve been for as long as you can remember, as long as you’ve existed. What if that’s it for you. What if you don’t know what it’s like to feel whole.
What if you don’t know what it feels like to be more than just a useless doll, hanging on a shelf, waiting for someone to take you and remind you what it’s like to be more than this. More than a toy, waiting for someone kind enough to dust you off.
What if you’re just kidding yourself, when you tell yourself you’re okay.
Because you remember a time when you thought you were fine. When you thought there was nothing wrong because that was all you knew. But then something happened, a moment in time, and suddenly a crack filled, coming together, finally. An ancient pain healing over, the scar tissue finally turning new.
And you remember the difference. You remember the new feeling. The feeling of being okay. And that was when you realized. When you realized that you were broken before.
And that was when you started wondering if there was more you needed to heal.
~
Gerard ends up texting you around midnight. It’s mostly luck that you’re still awake because you usually sleep early, tucking into bed before the new day starts.
But today was strange. There was a humming in your body, a sudden energy, like maybe you’d had coffee that day, dipped lovingly in cream and sugar. But you hadn’t. You meant to, but you forgot, getting distracted by the way the birds were singing their songs. And you wondered.
So you locked yourself in a room, taking your guitar, and you wrote. Songs flowing from your fingertips even as your hands grew sore from playing. Hours and hours passed, creativity, imagination spreading from you like a beacon of light. A fire lit within you. I’m ready, it calls out to you. I’m ready.
And you followed it, that part within you.
And so when midnight came about, when the phone finally trilled, you blink from the music, startling to distraction, to staring at the phone.
You blink again, staring.
New message, it shines.
You reach down, pick it up, watching the screen for a moment. The light seems strange. Looking up, you blink again. It got dark when you weren’t looking, the stars shining just outside your window.
You feel like you’re coming out from underwater, like you lost all sense of direction and time, got so lost in yourself that you’re finally now realizing that time didn’t stop with you.
It surprises you. The darkness, the lack of light. You don’t usually forget to sleep. It’s strange enough that you’re still here, that you didn’t feel your body creaking, telling you it was time to sleep, to give yourself a rest. To send you off in preparation for another day.
But you’re not sad you didn’t sleep. That you missed out on the dreams and the quiet. You take a deep breath, exhaustion clinging to your eyelashes, a sentient being dragging you down to an almost hypnotic state.
But you shake your head, you’ve still got a text to respond to. A world to enter that you never thought you’d enter again. A world you were content with having been a part of once, having known acceptance once. Like you could live your life happy, knowing that there was somewhere out there where you felt that moment. Where you felt that joy and ability to just exist and be okay.
But you could have it again.
And that’s the strangest feeling ever.
You could almost understand once. But again?
~
You end up hanging out with them. Frank and Ray and the Way Brothers.
They’re nice, accepting in the way Gerard was when you first met.
You feel kind of honored to be here, like you’ve been brought into something special, something important.
And you’re not sure if that’s a consequence of your self-esteem or if this is something that’s really important. If this is something that’s going to change your life. Something that’s going to change you.
Maybe this is something that is going to fix you a little bit.
Because you’re beginning to want to be okay with yourself. And that feels like a first step to something. That feels like potential. It feels like you can get somewhere with that.
So, yeah, hanging out with these people seems kind of immense. And even though all you’re talking about is videogames and comic book characters, there’s a feeling of contentment inside.
But, really, maybe you’re overthinking this.
~
The months go by. Days passing and moving forward. It’s been awhile, but it seems like maybe you’ve been adopted. Like you’ve been taken completely into that group. That specific set of people. Become a part of normal reality with them. You’re expected now, an intrinsic part of their realm.
And so when you knock on the door, you’re confident. You know they’ll let you in and you know it’ll be fun. You know it’ll be like coming home.
It’s starting to feel normal to be yourself now.
Alicia answers the door, smiling as she sees you. She’s sweet, holding Bunny in her arms. It’s nice not to be expected of anything, to just be friends. It’s nice not to have your parents asking if you’re dating that nice girl. Do you like her? You never know what to say.
But Alicia knows. Alicia knows and she doesn’t care. She knows you and that’s enough for her.
You used to feel awkward with her, like something might go wrong. But that’s how it’s always been with girls. You’ve never enjoyed breaking their hearts, telling them no and knowing they never had a chance. You’ve never been someone who could tell someone you love them when you don’t, even if you were only doing it to protect yourself.
But you talked, you learned each other and became friends. And it’s nice, it’s nice to know that you’re a part of this. That you’re becoming a part of other people who are a part of this. It’s an ever-growing circle of friends, of new people, where discrimination isn’t accepted.
It’s like jumping ship. Moving from waters where people weren’t so open, where they weren’t so okay with things. Where you didn’t fit. And moving from that into waters where it’s okay. Where you don’t feel like a monster in disguise, waiting until people find out you don’t really belong.
You smile as Frank runs up behind you, jumping onto your back, wrapping his hands across your shoulders. He whoops, grinning. You’re strong. Years of carrying your brothers and amps-because you never felt right letting techs do that-building up until you’re more than you look. More substantial, more real. You have muscles beneath your skin, covered by the silken sheen.
Frank likes to take advantage of that.
~
The phone rings in the silence of the house, a blaring of sound distracting you from your concentration. Though what you were concentrating on you don’t really know. Sometimes, you just need to sit, take in existence and live. Because if you force yourself to do, if you force yourself to think all time, you burn out. You run out of energy and feelings. So you do nothing sometimes. Bring yourself back to the land of living.
So when the phone rings, you’re a little startled. Your thoughts are all jumbled as though you’re coming up from a sleep. And you’re not quite sure where the phone is.
You stumble around, searching with your hands while your eyes try to catch up with what’s going on.
You find it before your eyes open, the phone vibrating in your hand. You press it against your ear, say hey.
You wonder who it is for a moment before the responding greeting registers.
Joe.
There’s another voice on the line, another familiar greeting and you blink again, wondering. What are your brothers calling for?
You tilt down, allowing yourself to rest on the couch beneath you.
We’re worried about you.
You don’t really know why. You haven’t talked in awhile. They’ve been busy and you soon got tired of dropped phone calls and plans that fell through. Maybe you should say you’ve been busy too, but you try not to lie to yourself.
Why?
You haven’t called us in awhile.
You frown, not sure how you’re supposed to respond to that. You’re not entirely sure what they expect. And more than that, you’re not entirely sure if you want to act like you haven’t changed.
Which you are you supposed to be?
Nick chimes in and you wonder whose idea this was. Maybe your parents? You could see them asking if they’d talked to you lately. If they knew what was up with you. Had they seen the pictures? After all, you haven’t been shy with your new friendships.
We just want to make sure you’re okay.
You pause for a second, sighing. I’m fine.
There’s a suspicious pause, as though they don’t entirely believe you. Like you usually hide things from them. Usually tuck things carefully into places where they can never find them. Being gay is the exception that proves the rule.
We’ve just seen that you’ve been hanging out with My Chemical Romance.
You nod on your side of the phone, despite knowing they can’t see you. They’re cool. You mumble into the pillow, curling up around yourself.
You should probably try to stay alert. You’re never quite sure what you might say when your guard is low.
And you haven’t had that practice of not telling for awhile. You haven’t had to pretend to be someone you’re not for months.
Maybe you’ve forgotten how to be anything but honest.
You wonder what kind of media storm that would cause, if it would cause any. Your star has faded from the limelight. People might not care about the Jonas Brother that’s not doing anything anymore. But they might if they knew you were gay.
You can hear the questioning silence from the other end of the line, as though you can see their puzzled faces, their lost looks.
Maybe you should elaborate. We’re hanging out as much as we can before they go off on tour.
Umm…?
They don’t really get it, not that you expected them to. You guess it’s a little different for you, but it’s not really much of a jump. You’ve always loved people. They know that. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to see past the way you view your family to see the person they really are. It’s the most insidious type of bias, the bias that keeps grown people children in the eyes of their family. You’ll never grow up enough to be someone other than who you were years ago.
You’re okay with that mostly, but you know you’re strange. You’re not exactly the epitome of normal. Not that your family really is either. But for some reason you’re a bit of the oddball of the family. The grey sheep in a flock of pure white.
A little bleach and you’re good as new, but you’ll never fit in perfectly. There will always be parts of you that know you’re grey. Know you’re not the perfect white sheep.
And they’ll always know it too. So you’re not sure you want to say what you want to say.
It’ll probably just end badly.
So all you say is Yeah.
There’s a silence. No one really knows what to say and you’re too tired to think up something that won’t potentially be offensive. You think it’s probably a bit sad that you don’t really know how to talk to your brothers anymore. That you’ve grown so far apart in such a short time. But you were never as close to them as they were to each other.
It never seemed like a sad thing until now, but maybe you were just too concerned with hiding that you forgot to see what was going on around you.
Still, you smile a little, it’s nice to hear from them Did mom send you?
They backtrack a little, grins in their voices, desperate to find the ease with which they used to talk to you. You wonder at that, they were the ones who gave you up, not the other way around, No, no, of course not. We’re grown men, we don’t have to do everything our parents say.
Nick grins, cutting off Joe, Or, in other words, yes, yes she did.
You laugh, smiling at their banter, glad to know that some things never change. You may not be a part of the conversation anymore but at least they’ll always have each other, Tell her I’m fine. I’m not acting out. They’re just really great people. Although they’re making me want to write rock music.
Oh, god, the bad influence has already started?
Dude, it’s been months, the bad influence is already over. It’s ingrained in my consciousness so now I can be a bad influence on other people. It’s the way of the world. I thought you knew this.
They laugh and you smile.
And even though you know they’re only calling because of your parents, even though you know that this phone call, the first time you’ve heard from them in months, only existed in the first place because they were afraid that you were becoming corrupt, it’s good to hear from them.
And that’s part of the reason it’s so hard to think about maybe losing them.
Because they’re family, no matter how messed up it sometimes seems.
And the truth is, you’ll probably wait to tell them until you find someone, until you have a reason to tell them, something real and concrete.
Something that will say, hey, I’m not lying.
~
So, do you actually follow that? Mikey nods to your ring curiously.
Yeah, mostly. You look up at him, tilting your head against the floor.
Mostly?
When I was younger, I was glad to have it because it meant I had an excuse to not be into that sort of stuff. You shrug. People stopped being gross to me once I told them what it was for.
And now?
I’m not sure. It still feels really important to me. But I don’t really know where I’m coming from anymore. I don’t know why it’s important. I don’t really want to take it off though.
Mikey nods, watching you carefully. Makes sense.
It feels good. To have someone expect nothing from you. You can say whatever you want, whatever you need, as long as it’s not a lie. It doesn’t matter if you’re not sure what the answer is or what you’re saying, as long as you feel it. The only meter of measurement, of worth here, is love.
You smile, crawl along the ground, feet dragging across the carpet, until you can poke your head up over the end of the couch Mikey’s on. You stare at him for a second, looking at him in a way that should be creepy. Widening your eyes, you watch him, big blue eyes beseeching.
Mikey’s mouth quirks and he nods almost imperceptibly.
You grin, crawling onto the couch with him, pushing him over, making your own space. Mikey’s comfortable. All sharp edges and bones fitting together so perfectly. Somehow he’s the cuddliest person in the world, just made for curling up around and falling asleep on. You think maybe this is what he was meant for.
So you make yourself comfortable, wrapping yourself around him until there are no gaps between the two of you. Until someone could come in and get the entirely wrong idea.
But when you realized he was a human pillow, you couldn’t help yourself. Couldn’t keep yourself from curling around him and letting the you that is clingy and touches maybe a little too much out into the world.
Humming happily in the back of your throat, you smile contentedly.
A hand touches your shoulder and you startle slightly, opening your eyes cautiously, smiling as you see Alicia standing over you.
Mikey moves beneath you, a subtle change in positioning that makes you pout. Movement is the death of cuddling. Movement means it’s over, that you can no longer have your human pillow.
But instead of leaving, instead of moving away with Alicia, he grabs her, pulling her down to join you.
Yay! You think, as Alicia curls up next to you two. She’s a cuddly, cuddle-bear. You like the way you three fit.
You close your eyes again, smiling at the feeling of two arms wrapping around you. At the feel of two bodies next to yours. It’s nice to have this.
~
You think maybe you’re happier now. That your new friends have finally soaked beneath your skin.
You’d always questioned safe places, always questioned their use, but now that you have one, you feel special. You feel safe. And it’s a cliché. It’s something that is expected to come with safe places. But you never realized how perfect it would be, how wonderful. You never realized how much you needed it before. Someplace you could be yourself.
You’re starting to think that maybe, just maybe, your smiles are getting more real. That you’re remembering what it is to laugh and mean it.
It feels like a good thing.
~
You see him in passing, a consequence of existing in the same place at the same time.
He’s nothing to you right now, just a combination of features. Two eyes, a nose. A mouth and lips. He’s just a person, a random guy you’ve never met before. Someone you bump into, smile and apologize.
He’s cute, you think. He has a nice smile, short black hair. Glasses too. And you never thought you had a thing for glasses before but you think you might change your mind.
You think maybe you should ask for his phone number. He’s cute and you’re not scared anymore, so you think maybe it’s time.
Hi, I’m Kevin
Mike.
~
You walk through your house in a daze. It’s a good day. The sun shines in through your windows, spreading across the room like a disease you don’t want to get rid of.
It’s beautiful outside, and you feel like spinning, like running outside and circling around and around until you can’t stand anymore. Until you fall to the ground and see the sky move above you.
And you think you might. You think you might right now. You think you might become impulsive for a day, forget that inside even exists and revel in the outdoors. In the existence beyond the four walls we’ve put ourselves into.
You think that might be a perfect way to spend your day.
So that’s what you do.
It feels good to be impulsive.
~
You’re not exactly sure how to call someone, how to pick up the phone and dial. What if he only gave you his phone number to be polite? To get you off his back, to stop talking to him.
You’ve never called someone like this, for this reason. You’ve never wanted to. You were so careful with the masks you put yourself behind that you didn’t allow yourself to want something like this.
But now that you have, now that you’ve figured out that it’s okay, you want to try. You want to have that chance.
So despite the fact that your hands are shaking, that your heart’s in your throat, you pick up the phone and you dial.
~
Part II