The show was middling at best. You still felt off from the events of yesterday, so you couldn't quite produce the same effect as usual, resulting in you just feeling even more shitty for giving a bad performance. Backstage once more, you were sadly eating some dinner that Harvey had ordered for you, while Ray sat opposite you; you were caught off guard when he slid something across the table to you.
"Which one d'ya want?" he asked kindly, gesturing to the two photos he'd taken of you and Gerard.
You observed them both, wrinkling your nose — the first one looked a little more friendly, while the other could certainly be interpreted as something else, due to the whole kissing thing. Not wanting Gerard to own the more romantically coded picture and feel awkward, you picked that one, and slid it into the pocket of your jacket.
Ray raised an eyebrow, "Interesting choice."
You gave him a look, before stuffing some food into your mouth with a grunt.
The guitarist sighed at your lack of response. "You really like him, huh?" he spoke, before taking a bite out of his burger.
At this point, you were so exhausted from denying it that you just nodded in disappointed confirmation. "You and Frank are the only ones who know, so please don't tell anyone," you pleaded.
"It's not my information to tell," Ray assured you, with a half-smile.
That comforted you to a certain extent, and you nodded weakly.
"But you should know that Lindsey seems pretty intent on dating him," he added, "so if you wanna make a move, you should make it soon."
You shrunk in on yourself, deciding not to tell him that you weren't planning on explaining yourself to Gerard at all. If Lindsey was 'intent on dating him', then that meant history was taking its rightful course, and you should just stay out of the way and let it happen. You'd already interfered far too much, and it was weighing heavily on your shoulders.
Sure, you really did love Gerard, especially after getting to know him as a person, but you weren't nearly selfish enough to disrupt his entire life. You weren't even meant to be here.
But you were now. So what if your presence was meant to have this effect?
Only one way to try and find out.
That night, you brought out your Ouija board, in the privacy of your hotel room, and sat on the floor, ready to communicate with the great unknown again. You placed your fingers on the planchette, and then spoke warily, "Hey. Again."
Nothing. Yet.
"So, I have a question," you continued, "if I'm here because I needed to improve my life, and have change, then does it matter if I affect the people around me?"
There was a slight pause — then the cursor moved, and you had to force yourself not to flinch.
I don't know. What do you think?
You deadpanned, "Don't you hit me with that. You sent me here, you should know the logistics."
Well if you think about it you're here now. So why worry about what's supposed to happen? Things changed the second you got here.
"So you're saying that I should just... not worry? But what about Gerard — uh, I mean, the people's lives? They won't have the lives they were supposed to have."
You don't think you can positively affect somebody's life?
"I don't want to get a saviour complex."
As you said, there's a difference between being confident in yourself and arrogance.
"Wh—how the fuck did you hear me say that?"
I'm kind of all powerful.
"I'm still pissed off that I'm here, you know that, right? I'm not exactly enjoying half the things I'm going through."
I'm sure you're not. But I'm also sure that you're happier than you were.
You took your hands off the planchette, and flipped the Ouija board over furiously, with a grumble, before sulking. Everybody was all up in your motherfucking business, even the mystical being that had sent you here.
The next morning, you woke up, and was relieved to remember that you had a free day, considering that you only really had to get moving in the evening, to catch your evening flight to Atlanta Georgia. It was already eleven o'clock, so you'd obviously slept for a long time; and you found comfort just in lying in bed, enjoying the rare peace you got from not having to be anywhere instantaneously.
At one pm, you were about to change the CD you were listening to from Blur to Morrissey, when there was a knock, which made you hit your bed in irritation, before you reluctantly got up, and walked over to the door. When you opened it, you were met with the sight of four people — Gerard, Ray, Brad Delson and Mike Shinoda.
"We were gonna get lunch," Mike explained simply, "thought you might wanna come along."
"It's lunch?" you asked blankly, checking your watch, before making a face; the four men seemed amused at your inability to have time management. "Okay, sure, I'm hungry anyway."
"Didn't you have breakfast?" Gerard questioned, in concern, as you exited your room, and locked it behind you.
"I forgot," you admitted with a gasp of realisation.
"You forgot to eat?" Ray gave you somewhat of a fatherly exasperated stare.
"I didn't want to leave my room," you coughed, starting to feel a little stupid, as you began to walk alongside him and Gerard.
"You know you can just call room service, right?"
"Yeah, but that feels mean," you protested, "I don't want to call and ask for food — that sounds so entitled, I mean — oh nevermind, I sound like an idiot."
"No, you just sound like somebody who doesn't understand how fame works," Mike threw over his shoulder, with a teasing grin.
"Yeah, that's because I am," you muttered to nobody in particular.
Gerard smiled at that, his shoulder bumping into yours. "You'll get there," he reassured, "we all did."
You made a few hand gestures in vague agreement, in a somewhat mocking fashion. Ray just laughed, gave you a small shove, which made you curse at him in turn — which made Brad look over and shout, "Fuckin' language!"
The lunch room was surprisingly empty, resulting in a rather fun and peaceful afternoon meal with your friends; after that, you all agreed to go out, and you hung around town for a little while. A couple of fans recognised Brad and Mike, which was cute to watch, as you they allowed pictures to be taken, and autographs to be written.
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.