...“Hey,” a weak voice rings above me and I lift my head to look up at the next fan. Rather amusingly and most definitely against all my expectations, it’s a guy. And from what I can tell, an attractive one.

Gerard’s POV

The boy looks about 20 years old, and, to be honest, he doesn’t differ that much from the rest of the fans: I notice some tattoos on his hands, peeking from under the long sleeves of his jacket, eyeliner, several piercings… Snakebites seem to be in favour tonight, about half of those kids seems to have them. My vision is still kind of blurry, but I can see at least one lip piercing and a small gauge in his ear.

“Hey,” I greet kindly, happy that he’s the last person in the line that I have to sign. I’m pretty sure that there’s a group of them already standing by my mini-bus, waiting, but they’ll have to just fuck off, because honestly right now I feel like I’m going to puke. And strangely, I feel anger bubbling up in my stomach, too. Probably because of the alcohol. I wouldn’t want to lash out at some teary 12 year old.

Only teary 12 year olds are strong and persistent enough to wait outside a hotel or a minivan for five hours, especially when it’s nighttime and the temperature is just ever-so-slightly above zero. I probably can’t feel it because of my fever, but from looking at my shivering tough guards I can judge it’s probably fucking freezing. Cold doesn’t usually get to them.

However, the cold doesn’t seem to bother the guy in front of me either. He just looks extremely tired and kind of beaten up, his black hair sticking out in random angles. I saw how much of a mess the audience was, people practically got squished, so this is no surprise. The strange thing is that no one seemed to have passed out.

But he’s more than just tired from the concert, I can detect the not-so-hidden signs of, perhaps, chronic insomnia- hollow, seemingly empty eyes, dark circles under them; jerky movements and the general aura of illness around him look extremely familiar. That’s how I look every morning, especially after a wild night out. A walking corpse.

He hands me a photograph of me from about two years back, smiling shyly. I accept it and feel a sharpie being slipped into my hand.

“You sing well,” the guy speaks and I glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. By the looks of it, he’s already realised how awkward that just sounded, so I decide to not point it out. I could have said something mean or sarcastic back, but as I said, lashing out at fans won’t do me any good.

“I mean, you probably already know that, but I just wanted to tell you again, because your voice is really great,” he tries to fix the situation, but with no success. I decide to just not acknowledge him- it’s easier for both of us.

Seeing he’s the last fan, I suddenly get the urge to be generous with his autograph.

“What’s your name?” I ask, lifting the sharpie above the piece of paper. His eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to answer. However, no sound comes out, only his cheeks go crimson red. He probably wasn’t expecting me to say anything at all, why would I? I look over him and notice that his hands are trembling wildly, so he clasps them together in the front, tangling his fingers together. His knuckles turn white.

It feels good to know that you’re admired and that someone is scared of you, that you have the power to make someone weak in the knees just by locking eyes with them.

“F-Frank,” the boy stumbles over his words, hurrying them. It’s funny to see how different all these teens are- some will try to start a conversation with you, no matter how much you hint them that you have absolutely no will to communicate, while others will just awkwardly pass you something to sign, terrified to utter a single word of appreciation.

I quickly scribble a “For Frank” in the corner of the photograph and put a little smiley next to it. I think for a second and add a tongue to it. I think for one more second and draw eyebrows and several locks of long, black hair. That’s what I call being generous- I just took my time writing someone’s name on an autograph, that’s pretty huge.

I take one more moment to bring the small picture up to my eyes, observing it. It’s so close that its surface is just a few inches away from my nose and I tilt my head back a bit, suddenly feeling dizzy again. I focus my blurred vision on the photograph, trying to concentrate on it.

Suddenly I realise that this is no picture at all. It’s a drawing, and a very good one. My dry lips part, gaping slightly as I observe each careful line.

“Wow, you sure know how to use color pencils,” I tell Frank, flashing him a grin and he chuckles quietly, his gaze darting to the ground. He seems to be avoiding my gaze.

“Thank you, this really means a lot,” he says, and his voice comes out weaker than he intended it to be.

“Mind if I take a picture of it? It’s really good,” I say and automatically reach for my phone in the pocket of my suit, knowing he won’t reject my offer; he probably hopes the drawing ends up on my twitter, and it most likely will.

Frank nods enthusiastically and thanks me again. I quickly snap a picture and hand him back the drawing. He nervously grasps it, almost crumbling it in his hand. He seems to be in a hurry to leave, but I’ve already formed different plans. He is very quiet, and for some reason I want to make him feel as awkward as possible. And I’m going to do it by being hella fucking nice.

“So, you like art?” I call out just as he turns his back.

“Uh, yeah,”

“Art school?”

“No, I’ve… I’m actually self-taught,”

“Wow, that’s really impressive, Frank,” I make sure to pronounce his name and carry it out as much as possible; his face flashes bright red in response.

“Thank you, I actually wanted to become an illustrator but my parents talked me out of it,”

“Really? That’s a shame. You would have done a great job in illustrating,”

“You really think so?”

“Definetly. Can I have that drawing for a sec?”

At that moment, a guard’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder. His fingers dig into my skin, pulling me upwards from the chair. What the hell does he think he is doing?

“Excuse me sir, but it’s really time to-”

“Fuck off,” I growl and his hand falls immediately away. I turn to face Frank again, putting a bright smile on my face. He looks scared, almost terrified.

Frank’s Adam apple rises as he gulps and quickly, yet delicately slips the paper into my hand. I turn it face down on the table and bend closer to it, scribbling down several numbers in the corner and hoping that the sharpie won’t leak onto the actual drawing. I sketch a small bat next to the writing and finally give it back to Frank, waving him goodbye.

I’ll be seeing him soon.

In two hours.

Notes

feedback please, I actually kind of like this fic