Gerard’s POV

I forced my crew to stay the night in a hotel instead of going straight to Warsaw. We are probably going to take a plane in the morning, but that depends on my condition; I eavesdropped on their conversation, they are planning to take me to the hospital and cancel the tomorrow show if A) I throw up. B) I have high temperature. C) My blood pressure is abnormal. There are a bunch of other things, too, for example how well I sleep tonight or how much of a headache I’ll feel when I wake up, but I think it’s all mainly concentrated around the blood pressure. Apparently I was “too lightheaded to participate in the conversation” so they didn’t give me a choice of what I thought was reasonable to do. I personally would hate to cancel the show, it would be unfair to the kids and just create additional problems in general. The manager thinks that I want to stay at the hotel because I’m actually too sick to travel by bus, and I don’t want to disappoint them. Like “Oh no, you’re mistaken. I’m actually going to fuck a fan but shhh, it’s a secret, don’t tell anyone”. Just let them be oblivious and everything will go smoothly. Tomorrow I’ll wake up fresh and rested, ready for another crowd of screaming teens. And Frank will just have to leave as if nothing happened.

“The most expensive champagne you have, it must be upstairs in five minutes,’ I rather rudely order to the girl behind the reservation counter as soon as the hotel doors slide apart before me. In one swift motion I snatch my door keys from the table and tuck them into my pocket. I don’t glance at the girl but quickly walk, or rather march past, denying her unnecessary greetings.

“Yes, sir,” she stammers behind me as I press the elevator button, practically punching it with my palm. Just as I step into the small cabin, she calls out for me again. I clench my fist, my nails digging into my palm and my knuckles turn white. Can’t I have at least a moment of silence? My brain feels as if it’s slowly melting and leaking through my ears, and my temples are pounding heavily. I honestly feel like I could fall asleep right here, on the vacuumed carpet, and the night has hardly started! Frank isn’t even here yet!

“Mr Way? Mr Way is it okay if we…” she seems hesitant and shy. That’s what I like about being famous- they all worship you as if you’re some kind of God, and they will literally do anything to please you or get on your good side. They are all scared of you, too, at least to some degree. I think my 15 year old self would be proud of what I grew up to be. I personally hated high school, and it’s amusing to see all the jocky assholes I graduated with trying to fix communication with me now. Inviting me to baseball games, coming to my shows and asking for autographs, casually mentioning a dinner their family will have this Sunday. I could come visit them since I’m gonna be around for while, right? Fuck no. If you hated me when I was fat and quiet, why don’t you hate me now? Oh yes, I’m famous and I’ve got money, that’s why. You wanna be a part of the party too, I see. Well, it’s invite only, and you ain’t going.

I don’t listen to the girl’s rambling. On the opposite, I let the elevator door slip closed before she can finish her sentence, and her voice slowly fades out as the cabin starts moving upwards. I could not care less about what she had to say- all I know is that I need that champagne upstairs before Frank arrives. And it most certainly must be the most expensive bottle they have. Now that I think about it, I should have ordered some snacks, too. Like chocolate, everybody loves it so it can’t miss. Plus, chocolate has always carried some oddly erotic meaning in my mind, together with strawberries. Champagne, chocolate and strawberries. The mix almost screams SEX, and I’m pretty sure it would if it could speak.

I’ll order snacks when I get to the room, I hope they have a phone in there or I’ll have to send Frank downstairs to get them. He wouldn’t reject the offer; he’s probably dying of happiness right now. Gerard Way himself invited him to his hotel room at 1 AM! What could that mean? Wow!

No, actually right now he’s most likely scared out of his mind, terrified of what’s coming up. He might even have a fever or a panic attack. How does he have to act around me? What if this is this all a joke? What if he embarasses himself horribly and says the wrong thing? Really, he can think of countless possibilities of what could go wrong while I couldn’t be calmer. Sure, getting into a sexual relationship with a fan (a male fan, so that’s double trouble) might be wrong and immoral, but something’s gotta give from all the fame. I don’t want to always be the entertainer without getting anything in return. Getting into those meaningless with other “important people” gets boring after a week. They are all the same, like Barbie dolls, unable to express themselves. They don’t have a soul, but at least they’re all beautiful. ‘Cause that’s all that matters in today world, from what I can tell. All you can do with them is fuck them senseless, but once they try to start a conversation with you you immediately get an almost undeniable will to smash their heads against the wall, just to get them to shut the fuck up. But that’s not all. I could deal with their stupid speeches, but there’s always a cherry on top: after every breakup, there is always an angry interview with them online or in a magazine. The titles all go along the lines of GERARD WAY’S ANGER OUTBURSTS DESTROYED OUR LOVE, HE THREATENED ME CONSTANTLY AND SHOWED NO WILL TO COOPERATE IN THE RELATIONSHIP. Bitch, there was never love, did you expect me to serve you breakfast to bed? I’m higher than that. Oh yes, they also mention that I’m a drunk. They tend to get pretty creative in the interviews, they are fun to read.

I want to be able to have something real, where both of us give and take equally. I don’t want it to be all about sex and how much cocaine we can snort before starting to make out madly, but an open-minded person who is be able to hold long, complicated conversations on serious matters. That doesn’t mean I want some dry stuck-up politician though- my other half has to be able to feel (mentally) people’s emotions, and know me well enough to stop me from picking up the bottle ever again in my whole life. I want a human soul band-aid, basically.

I fall heavily into the hotel room and slam the door shut behind me, feeling slightly dizzy and uncoordinated. Not a good sign. How much did I drink before the show? From my memory it was no more than 3 beers, but my stomach and head are screaming a completely different story. I feel like I just gulped down not three cans, but three full bathtubs in one go.

I throw off my shoes and walk feebly into the main room, falling onto the couch and throwing my head back, loosening the tie that I forced the guards to give back to me while I was signing. I close my eyes, trying to relax and forget, or rather ignore the nauseating lump in my throat together with my throbbing headache. I lie for several seconds and then sit up straight on the cushion, opening my eyes with a groan and looking around. The surroundings are fancy, this hotel must be pretty expensive. Well, there’s nothing my manager won’t or can’t pay for, so it’s alright; my comfort is always the main priority, the price doesn’t matter. There are three rooms here: the bedroom, the living room and a bathroom. The couch I’m sitting on is leather, and right opposite it, fixed into the wall, there is a rather big flat TV screen. By both sides of the couch there are small wooden tables, just enough space to put a mug or a book on. The parquet is dark wood.

I still gotta order snacks.

I unwillingly push myself off the couch and walk over to the bathroom. For some reason that’s where the hotel phones usually are, and I haven’t noticed one in the living room. When enter the small tiled room, I immediately see that I was right; the phone is fixed into the wall to the left of the sink, below the fresh towels, and there is a small sticker next to it. TO CALL THE RECEPTION, DIAL 123, it reads in big bold red letters. I quickly pick up the phone, type in the given number and press the device to my ear, impatiently waiting for someone to pick up.

“Hello?” the voice of the girl from before mumbles after several rings. Finally. She sounds exhausted and would probably appreciate an hour of sleep, but that’s not my problem.

“Yes, hi. This is Gerard Way. I’d like to have milk chocolate and strawberries together with the champagne I ordered earlier,”

“Oh yes sir, of course,” she seems to have woken up.

“And by the way, where is it?”

“Where’s what?” the girl asks dumbfoundedly. How slow is she?

“The champagne I ordered. It was 10 minutes ago, and you were supposed to bring it upstairs in five minutes,”

“Sorry, our staff is busy. We’re going to send someone up immediately,”

“Good, I was beginning to think you forgot about me,” with those words, I put the phone down, cutting off the receptionist’s apologies. I pause by the sink and roll my sleeves up before splashing my face with cold water, but it doesn’t help much. This was a long, mostly awful day, and I still have a fan to fuck, no matter how ridiculous that sounds.

I’m about to sit back down on the couch when suddenly there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in!” I call out, too lazy, tired and sick to stand up or even twitch a finger. The door cracks open and the girl from the reception peaks in. Her bun is messy, and there’s a lock of blond hair falling over her face.

“Mr Way? I-I brought your order,” she stammers and her cheeks flash pink as she casts her eyes away from me to the floor. She looks embarrassed. She must also see something sexual in the mix of champagne, strawberries and chocolate, and she probably has an idea what’s about to happen in here.

“Oh yes. Could you please leave it all on that table?” I nod towards the small glass coffee table in the corner and she soundlessly slips into the room, a wide tray with the goods in her hands. She sets it carefully onto the table and backs away slightly, just two steps. She looks as if she’s expecting me to say something else. God, so needy. I spread my lips in a sweet smile for her, revealing teeth.

“You can go now, thanks,” I say, suggesting that it’s really time for her to leave me alone. She exhales loudly and her eyes widen. Her face goes from red to white and she mumbles an insensible “sorry” before disappearing into the corridor, shutting the door behind her. I close my eyes again, trying to get at least several moments of rest before my guest’s arrival.

No more than ten minutes later, there is another knock on the door. This one is fast and rapid, like gunshots.

“Gee?” Frank’s muffled voice reaches my ears, as he doesn’t dare to open the door by himself. I’m sure it’s Frank ‘cause only my fans will call me that.

“Come in,” I reply simply.

Notes

Hello, feedback please) sorry chapters take so long to write, I actually try to get them to be decent and readable, heh)

By the way, I changed my username. I'm no longer gerard_needs_to_chill