Our Foundations from Decay

Frank POV 44

Some would say the flashing lights or the enraptured crowd made a performance a performance. Others would claim it to be how loud the music was, or the level of wormy-ness in its tune- crawling into everyone's heads with catchy yet predictable melodies.

My Chemical Romance ended up being none of that. Sure, the lights were bright, but they were far from professional. The crowd may have been awed, but there was still some sort of disconnect; like they didn't know us for who were truly were, yet they were willing to give it a try.

Our performance felt so unbearably honest, pouring out hearts out as the blood of emotion dripped down the stage like a fountain. It all reeked of amateurish persistence. It reeked of potential.

And with the satisfying sound of our band being announced, my thoughts were tethered to only a few words.

Hell fuckin' yeah.

"Gerard," I couldn't help the shake in my voice as I whispered to the boy beside me, grabbing his sweaty hand in my own. "we made it. We're free."
The smile on his face was so stretched it hurt.
I know Gee, I know.

"I'll keep in contact with the members of the band and email you about tour dates. As to the rest of you, thank you for participating this year and school is officially over for today, see you all on Monday!"
The room lit up with echoing sounds of disapproval. How could anyone go back to class after something this grand, forced to move on like nothing had happened?

With a clattering start everyone's seats squeaked across the auditorium floor. Gerard and I were up in one quick movement, slipping by the barrage of students with our hands intertwined.

"Yo, MCR!"
Huh? Mcr?
"I liked your song! Congrats on the win."

To my absolute surprise the face that greeted me shined with familiarity, the person's backwards cap and tall frame sending floods of memories through my mind.

"Jock dude?"

The boy's eyebrows scrunched up with a dramatic scowl, bulky arms crossed in a show of juvenile dominance.

"What the FRICK? I didn't know it was you, Freaky Frank."

When he said it like that, it almost sounded... dirty. Super ew.

Hiding a grimace, I tilted my chin as high as it could, dragging my eyes over the stooge before me.
"Yeah, we annihilated it. Good to hear even you figured that one out."

My condescension seemed to fly right over the meathead's skull, getting only a shrug in response. I briefly wondered what expression Gerard was making - and if he saw me as the manlier one between us. Which I was, of course.

"Um," the jock's caveman-like voice interrupted my thoughts, "as weird as you emos are, that was pretty gnarly. Like, Maddona, yknow?"

My head tilted to the side, asking a question I regretted immediately after seeing my adversary's face.

"Who?"

"I take it back, Bucko." Mr. Jock was practically fuming, his over-tanned features quivering like a rabbit's tail. "I hope you and your homo-ass band eat dirt. And then eat some more...because you suck so much."

The boy then stomped off with the vigour of an argumentative toddler. As I glanced at Gerard, his expression mirrored my own; confused, sure, but maybe a little excited with the knowledge that people knew us. Our band had even picked up an acronym.

MCR.

It sounded pleasant, like an extra marshmallow arriving with your hot chocolate, or spare chance in your pocket. MCR seemed unexpected -yet shrouded in sincerity- a juxtaposition I found myself getting attached to.