Riffs in Time

Gerard's POV

From the second we stepped into the club, I knew coming here was a terrible idea. It was too late by the time we realized there was live music—exactly the kind of place someone would recognize me in. Not that I thought I was some big hot shot, but we were in an L.A. club where they're playing rock music. The perfect recipe for getting spotted.

More than anything, it was the alcohol everywhere that set my nerves on edge. Two months sober, and I was determined to keep it that way. It had become a little goal for myself—something to quietly be proud of, even if no one else noticed. Just one small thing I could control when everything else felt like it was always on the verge of slipping away. And, I didn't need temptation tonight.

Almost immediately, I got separated from Yana when someone tugged sharply on my jacket sleeve, pulling me back into the crowd. I turned quickly to see a woman in her late twenties, dressed in a tight black tank top and ripped jeans, her heavy eyeliner smudged slightly from the humidity of the packed club. She had a slightly manic energy about her, swaying a little on her feet, eyes wide with recognition and excitement.

"Wait—are you Gerard Way?" she asked excitedly.

"No," I answered automatically, trying to slip past her. It didn't usually work, but it bought me enough time to escape. I craned my neck, searching for Yana. When I finally spotted her, she was already three shots deep at the bar.

Shit.

"Slow down," I called, finally catching up to her. My voice was tense with worry, but she just grinned at me, eyes glassy and mischievous.

"Stop being such a buzzkill, Gerard," she teased, laughing lightly. "Loosen up! Have some fun!"

Before I could argue, she vanished into the crowd. I sighed, feeling frustration gnawing at me. I tried following her, but another hand caught my shoulder, stopping me again. A fresh wave of frustration surged through me. I turned reluctantly to see a group of guys standing around, looking curious.

"Hey, you're Gerard Way, right?" one said. Before I could reply, another guy jumped in enthusiastically. "My Chemical Romance doesn't sound bad, man, but you really need double pedals for the drums. It'd change everything."

"Uh, yeah, totally," I muttered absently, nodding along but barely hearing them.

Another guy chimed in, louder than necessary, "Honestly, though? You guys were better back in the 'Bullets' days. Rawer. More real."

"Yeah," someone else added. "Three Cheers and Black Parade—they're good and all, but you kinda sold out, man. You should get back to your roots."

I clenched my jaw, the words hitting harder than I wanted to admit. Every idiot thought they knew better. Every drunk critic thought they understood what it was like to grow, to change, to survive in the industry. I nodded vaguely, letting them believe whatever they wanted, my focus still darting through the crowd, desperate to find Yana. My eyes searched the crowd again for Yana, anxiety prickling at my skin.

Another tug at my jacket—this time softer, hesitant. I was getting really sick of people yanking at me like I was a rope. Just because they recognized me didn't mean they had the right to grab at me like I was public property. I turned, heart sinking further when I saw a young girl, clearly too drunk and too young to be in a place like this.

"Oh my God, Gerard Way," she slurred, eyes half-lidded. "I love you guys so much."

She was trying so hard to look older—makeup too heavy around her eyes, bright red lipstick smeared a little at the corners of her mouth, and teetering on heels she clearly wasn't used to walking in. Part of me wondered bitterly how the hell she even managed to get drinks, let alone get inside the club. It made my stomach churn.