ROLL WITH IT [g.way x reader]

Chapter 19: Perfectionists Bring Out The Worst In Each Other

It occurred to you, that despite the stress of the lifestyle, there was something rather beautiful in being able to create something that meant to people.

As you stood at the side of the arcade, watching Ray, Brad and Mike egg each other on in Pacman, Gerard, who was hovering next to you, reached out, to gently touch your hair. You steadily moved to look at him, as he fiddled with a strand, noting the texture; "You have lovely hair," he complimented casually.

"That means a lot, coming from the god of good hair," you replied, trying to disguise how flustered you were, observing as Ray surreptitiously took photographs with his new polaroid camera of Brad and Mike arguing over who'd won the game.

"You think?" he chuckled, moving his arm so it was now slung over your shoulders.

"Bitch — I swear, you have amazing hair," you answered, half scoffing in disbelief at his question. "Y'know, you should dye it red at some point, it would really suit you," you blurted out, unable to stop yourself.

Gerard hummed, twirling one of his curls between his fingers thoughtfully, "Really? I did try and dye it red once, but I only got the roots done."

"The full thing would look fantastic on you," you nodded firmly, holding up a finger as if to make your point better.

He laughed at your mannerisms, neither of you noticing Ray, who held up his camera and took a picture of the moment. "Hey, uh, have you considered the possibility of you making a third album?" Gerard asked, becoming inquisitive.

You stiffened; you hadn't given that topic an iota of thought. "Not... really," you responded honestly. "I just kinda want to get the touring done with quickly, and then maybe I'll get back to the studio, or something."

Or something.

"You're not enjoying the tour?" he seemed genuinely disappointed by what you'd implied, a brief glimpse of hurt flashing in his eyes. "If there's something wrong, you can tell me."

You didn't really know how to express yourself, fumbling for words, "It's not that... I'm just not used to performing constantly. I didn't think I'd ever end up gaining any traction. Y'know, compared to everyone else here, I'm a rookie, who clearly has no idea what they're doing. I feel out of place, and honestly, half the time I just — want to go home."

"I'm so sorry," Gerard did truly seem upset at your confession, "I had no idea you were feeling like this."

"I didn't really mean to tell anyone," you mumbled, "Harvey's the only other person who knows. I am not cut out for this, and... now I feel really stupid," you groaned, and buried your face in your hands.

"No, it's okay," he rubbed your shoulder comfortingly. "There's nothing to feel stupid about. Hey, if you ever need anything, you're always welcome in my hotel room, y'know that right?"

You paused, and heated up, "You couldn't have made that sound a little less suggestive, Gerard?" you joked weakly.

"Oh — fuck, I didn't mean it that way," Gerard spluttered, now he the one embarrassed.

You couldn't help but cackle, feeling a little better.

However, the positivity didn't last.

When you arrived back at the hotel, in the evening, you were surprised to find your mother, waiting at the reception, sitting by the main desk. You grimaced as soon as you saw her, and exchanged a pleading glance with Gerard, asking him nonverbally to leave before she pounced on him; he nodded in understanding, and was hasty to usher the others towards the elevator, whilst you reluctantly approached your mum.

"Hi, Mum," you greeted her awkwardly, gaining her attention, "what are you doing here?"

"Sweetie! There you are," she jumped up, and took you by the arm, and dragged you towards the hostel auditorium, which was completely empty, "I've got to talk to you."

"Uh, okay," you nervously shifted from foot to foot, as she shut the doors for privacy. "What is it?"

"Now, I was at your show last night, honey," she began; you felt dread creep up on you within a matter of milliseconds, "and... I was a little concerned with how you performed."

There was something off in her tone, something that indicated a rarity; she was pissed off, and showing it, in a mild way.

"Why?" you asked slowly.

"Sweetheart," she let out a strained laugh, shaking her head, "there wasn't an ounce of energy. How are you supposed to make money off of these things if you don't put in the required effort?"

"Did something happen, Mum?" you questioned dully.

"Well, as a matter of fact," she huffed, folding her arms, "Janice was telling me this morning that her son, a businessman, makes a lot of money, and I couldn't help but notice that it was more than you."

Ah. There it was.

"Yeah, well, there's not much I can do about that," you explained tiredly. "Being a musician and a businessman are two very different things."

"But Janice was so — proud about it!" she huffed, waving her bag around furiously, "Acting like she was above me! And in a way, she is, I suppose, since you're clearly not making the grade!"

"What?" you were astonished, "How is this my fault?"

"You don't — try hard enough! That's why it's your fault! Can't you try a little harder?"

"Mum," your breathing was sharp and panicked, "I'm trying all I can."

Her sigh, one you'd heard many times before, filled you with a horrid, burning fear. "Don't you want to make me proud? You need to make use of this time before you screw it up. Hurry up, for goodness sake."

All of a sudden, you felt like you were just a kid again, five years old, standing against the wall of her living room, as she smoked a cigarette and berated you, her poisonous eyes glaring at you from behind her lashes. The fumes filled your lungs, her stare cut through you like a butcher's knife, and you felt sick to your core, helpless and scared.

She didn't get angry too often, she usually disguised it with pity — but when she did get angry, it terrified you right down to the bones.

She was all you had. And all you had was shit.

"I'm doing this for your own good, don't you get it? I've been trying so hard, ever since you were a child, to make you realise what you're capable of. But you were never fast enough, you never smiled enough, and you never became what you were supposed to be. It's disappointing, sweetie, it really is."

Your gut clenched, like your stomach had been pummelled with a kickball.

"With everything I've done for you, the least you can do is keep quiet."

Now that just made you angry; the entire depressing mass of the past few days sunk upon you, resulting in you beginning to sob in a furious manner.

"Oh for the love of — what's the problem? Why are you crying?!"

"You're a coward," you spat out, choking on your tears.

"Excuse me?! You ungrateful—!"

"You live vicariously through me like I'm an object!" you shouted, losing your patience, "You made me what you never were, because if I'm the best, then maybe you are too! Compared to all those catty people in high school you told me about, that you still haven't let go of, because you're pathetically petty! You say you're doing this for me, but you're doing it for yourself! To make up for everything you lost! Everything you blew!

"And it's because of Grandma too, isn't it? Because you were never enough for her, so you just project all your stupid insecurities onto me, and make me just as fucked up as you are! It's ridiculous, Mum, did it ever occur to you that maybe if you weren't like her, that you'd be a better mother than she was? Because you're not — you're just as fucking awful as she was!"

The silence and expression of shock confirmed everything you'd said, even though a small, hopeless part of you had prayed it wasn't true.

"You'll never love me," you realised, with a humourless laugh. "You'll never love me unless I'm perfect."

You stalked out of the hall, not wanting to hear another word. Then, as soon as you got into the lift, and the doors shut behind you, you fell to your knees, and wailed like a newborn baby, shuddering and whimpering, all alone, for the thousandth time.

It felt like nothing would ever be good again.