Piano Jam

Chapter 1: Habits

"Nhg, ahh... ugh."

"Ahhhh...ugh, oh fuck."

".... put it in. Ugh, just put it in."

"I wanna hear you beg." A seductive voice spoke past the dark hair draped affront the man's face.

"For fuck's sake, Frankie, put it in!"

"Hmm...No." He chuckled playfully.

The man reached his tattooed hands through the darkness, toward Gerard's bare waist, centering them upon his genitals.

Gerard jolted up, awake, a perturbed look across his face.

"Frankie!" He sat up quickly, his vision blurred as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. But his call was not returned. He looked to his side, aware that Frank was not resting there peacefully. The silence of the hotel room was deafening. He was alone in the blackness of his unlit sanctuary, the floor littered with socks, shoes and clothes. They casted eerie shadows that moved and quivered as the booming roar of the Bellagio fountains danced upon the carpeted floor. Reluctantly aware of the arousal brought upon himself, he rose to sit at the edge of his bed. After scritching a tally mark upon the complimentary notepad, he stumbled toward the bathroom; in hopes of relieving himself, in hopes of finishing the job. He sat upon the lid of the toilet seat, slowly pulling his pajama pants to his ankles. Pressing his quivered hand to his groin, he rubbed himself in hopes of satisfaction. His breath faltered, and he tried to stay quiet as he climaxed. He always thought of masturbation as a spiteful action; a ludicrous action that signaled unfaithfulness, adultery of the mind. He stared blankly at the come as the fluorescent light of the bathroom ceiling casted soft rays down his naked waist.

He tried to think about other things. He thought about Lindsey, and Bandit. He thought of his mother and father, and Mikey. He thought of all the people that looked up to him, all his fans, all the kids that sent him monthly letters in hopes of a reply. But none of them appeased his hunger, none of them appease that thought. He was trapped in it, and there was no escape.

"Calm down Gerard, it was just a dream. Nothing happened. You're fine, fine. Go back to bed. Just calm the fuck down." He spoke to himself. He did that often. He never realized how lonely it was being a solo artist. Of course he was invited to parties, clubs, interviews, conferences: but what did it matter? Half the time he was too tired, the other half he just wouldn't do it. He didn't want to fuck up again. He didn't want to hurt Lindsey again... But he did seek companionship; true companionship. Being on tour meant he couldn't see his wife, his daughter, or his friends. And that was very unsettling.

He shook his hands off and staggered to hit a light switch. The room was illuminated, and a basket filled with alcohol caught his attention. It was a gift from the hotel, for what? He didn't know. He could never understand why he got so many free things. It certainly couldn't be an award for being a perfect person. He was nowhere near perfect, and his inner struggles clearly showed it. The thing stared him down like a roaring beast, it's elegant labels and crafted bottles a gem that mesmerized him. He fought the battle in his head. Do it, don't, do it, stop. He took a deep breath, ran his hand through his orange hair, searching the file cabinets in his mind for the folder labeled 'coping.' But that folder was nowhere to be found. The beast glared upon him, a thing filled with an equivalent of razors, knives and guns. A basket of self-destruction, thoughtlessly given as a gift as an act of kindness, or admiration, or something. But the problem was that it was there, and it had no intent on leaving. Gerard ordered it to leave, but it would not do so. It grew stronger and stronger, stripping his inhibitions and cautions away bit by bit. Finally, he approached it.

"Fuck it." Gerard thought. He reached for the bottle of Absolut Vodka, opened it, raised it to his lips, and took a long swig. His throat was on fire, and he gagged, and he wanted to puke. But he kept it down; he kept drinking.

"Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it." He continued to think as the burning liquid slid down his throat.

So what if he drank? He didn't give a shit. But when he couldn't drink anymore, he fell onto his knees, his nose turned up and his crooked spine shrugged. And with that, he cried. He cried, and he sobbed, and he even screamed. He didn't like what he was becoming. He had no intention of returning to that dark place ever again. But he did, and there was no stopping it. He couldn't stand, and he could barely crawl. His quivering body, pressed against the messy floor, it ached. He shook and retched and sobbed. Pulling his exhausted self back onto his bed, he did something he never thought he would do. He reached over to the nightstand, dug through the plastic bag on it, and located a xanax. And he swore to God he would never use the drug unless he was on a plane or dead. He salivated and swallowed it without water. A headache raged inside of him, like a drum pounding, pounding, pounding. He laid there on his bed, his pants still at his ankles, his cheeks stained with tears, and his hands soiled with come and liquor. He needed someone. Lindsey? Mikey? No. He needed Frankie. And no matter how sick, twisted, unfaithful or vile that seemed, it was true.

Gerard Way needed Frank Iero, and that was something he now realized.

Sorry if this got boring. I was really trying to develop Gerard's angst that will remain present in the story. It's a little intense, but what can I do? I swear if he finds this I'm gonna get killed, or at least blocked on twitter
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Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed it. Please give me a response to whether or not you want another chapter in the comments. I promise the next one will be more interesting, longer too. -divinemadness