The video was one of our best, this was for many reasons but one of the main one’s was Gerard’s attire. The bastard was thrilled at getting to wear something ‘punky’ for the whole thing, and had to fucking pick those jeans, the ones with the hole at the crotch. It’s not just a normal, tiny hole that nobody can notice, no, it’s a gaping rip that you can’t cover with just one hand. It would also show his boxers if he wasn’t wearing those damn striped tights underneath, and god, those fucking tights. Just more layers to get rid of.
We’d all dressed up, yeah, but not like that. Not showing off like that, not gorgeous and fuckable like that. I found myself wishing that this would be our new look, punk, with torn jeans showing off too much thigh and not enough crotch. That would be good, better than good, awesome.
So the video was done, and it would be edited over the next couple of weeks, then we’d get to see it, and I’d get to wank off in my bunk that night with perfect porn. The film itself would be out before the video went viral, so, really, we would be the first ones to see it and we could tease the fans about how there was a new video looming somewhere over the horizon. They’d get as riled up as me.
We’d gotten our own dressing room for this video, which was pretty awesome, not the dressing room thing, but the fact that this was an actual film set and we had a dressing room. It was cool, important, I guess. There was also the fact that the dressing room had a lock on the door, which meant privacy, which meant I could get Gerard out of those damn jeans.
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You’d be surprised how long it took me to get to the dressing room/trailer thing, and so would I. it’s not like it was particularly far from where we’d been filming, but it seemed that everyone wanted to talk about the video, or how much they were looking forward to seeing Watchmen when it came out, or just wanting to talk about the band. Everyone wanted to talk, except for me. Which sadly meant that Gerard was talking animatedly to Mikey about comics and fucking anything.
I don’t tell anyone where I’m going when I slip off to the trailer, because I don’t want people following me in there, for obvious reasons. The dressing room/trailer is practically empty. It had a couple of rails of clothes which are spares in case anything drastic happened to our outfits, then there’s a mirror stretched across one wall with a little table in front of it littered with eyeliner pencils and brushes with pale purples and greens on. There’s a sofa on the wall opposite the clothing rails, it looks deflated and over used, but comfortable enough. There’s a window by the door and one opposite the mirrors but nothing that would expose what’s happening inside the trailer.
I flop onto the sofa, pluck my phone from where its sat on the arm and type out a text to Gerard—‘i’m trapped in our trailer :s can you come and get me out?’ it’s shit but then it’ll get him to come pretty soon and then my plan can be put into action.
I wait.
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When Gerard appears in the trailer, he’s laughing and calling me an idiot because the door wasn’t jammed at all and I could have just gotten out of the window if it was. I’d forgotten how much Gerard talks when he finds something funny, and I’m impatient already.
“It got you here, though, didn’t it?” I grin at him, feral, predator-like. I push myself from the sofa and stride over to where he’s next to the door, my boots hit loud against the floor pulsing out loud beats that seemed almost too loud in this atmosphere. I leant around him and slide the bolt lock across the door, it makes a clicking sound and it makes this more real.
Gerard steps back against the door and I get to look at him properly for the first time. His hair is a fucking mess, dry looking and hanging around his face in a dark frame; his face is painted with false bruises, purple and green under his left eye, all it does is accentuate his eyes even more, making the hazel-green shine. There’s a piece of tape over his eyebrow, pulling a non-existent cut together from a fake fight. His face is painted a sickly colour and it reminds me of when he was a drunk, and I briefly feel ill because I don’t want to remember that. I look down instead, looking at how the leather jacket he’s wearing is busted up, dulling into a grey-brown in some pieces, and only holding together from thick lines of duct-tape and little rows of un-even staples. His shirt is bright red and ripped across his belly button, where dark hair swirls and leads down, like I needed anymore encouragement. Then there are those jeans, and the more I look at them, the more obscene they seem and they need to be gone.
