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Realistically, Gerard knows this is the smallest he’s ever been.
He stares at his naked body with a gross fascination. As he runs skeletal fingers over his abdomen, he can feel the ribs threatening to poke out of his skin. It’s disgusting. He knows that. And yet, Gerard can’t help but feel a sick sense of pride in his (empty) gut. After years of being called the “cute” Way brother by his fans, Gerard has finally reached a point where they can them called pretty. Sexy, even. Nevermind the fact that most of their friends and fans have called him sexy before, but now no one can look at them and think they’re fat. The satisfaction doesn’t last very long; he pinches the skin on his thigh and huffs in frustration. There’s still more to lose.
“Do you think I look fat in these pants?” Gerard asks one day, in the dressing room before a concert. Frank gives him and incredulous and judgmental stare back.
“What?” Gerard’s cheeks burn as red as his hair.
“Nevermind,” He responds quickly. He turns away to put his shirt on but doesn’t miss the feeling of Frank’s eyes on his back. Why would you even ask that. Of course you fucking do. You big, fat idiot.
If Frank thinks anything of it, he doesn’t say anything. His eerie quietness around the singer makes Gerard skip his normal post-show granola bar.
“You really need to eat something besides a PB and J,” Ray comments casually. Gerard looks up from his (dreaded, too big) sandwich and grins.
“You know I can’t. I’m too nervous. I’ll throw up if I eat anything heavier.”
Ray gives them a concerned look. “I’m serious. You don’t have nearly enough energy to sing through a whole show, not with the way that you’ve been running all over the stage. You’re pale and slow.”
Gerard winces. Ray’s blunt criticism can only mean one thing: that he’s been paying attention, too much attention, and that he’s really worried. Where Frank’s bluntness comes out naturally, Ray’s comes out when he is deeply uncomfortable or unhappy with something. But why? Can’t Ray tell that he’s healthier than he has ever been? That this new ‘body’ is capable of doing so much more than the one from years ago that was weighed down by his inability to control his appetite?
He realizes he’s been silent for too long because now Ray and Mikey are whispering in front of his face. “What?” He snaps.
“Dude.” Mikey stares at him the same way that Frank did a few days ago (or a week ago? Time doesn’t feel real anymore). “What’s up with you? You’re so spacey.”
“No I’m not,” Gerard argues. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Sure you are,” Mikey says while squinting suspiciously. “How about you eat this?” Mikey tosses him a bag of almonds and Gerard’s stomach flips instinctively.
“Mind your business.” Gerard tosses it back and stands up to leave.
“They’re just nuts.” Ray stands to stop him. “They’re healthy. It’s not like Mikey is trying to force you to eat doritos or something, man.”
Gerard stares at them, aghast. “Seriously. I’m fine. You guys are acting so weird.” He waves them off and walks away before Ray can protest again.
The drinking is adding more calories, Gerard knows this. But in his fucked up brain it makes sense. Drinking too much = throwing up, which if you really think about it, is actually losing calories. So if he eats too much in a day then he can just drink it off and get it out of his system,
One night, while he is on tour, Gerard drinks enough that he feels a pleasant buzz. He knows he isn’t supposed to drink (he’s sober after all). But what’s the harm in drinking every so often? When he does, he decides to call Lynz, not wanting to ruin the mood by talking to Frank or Ray.
“Hi baby,” they purr into the phone. Gerard sounds sloppy but he figures Lynz won’t mind.
“Hi G,” she responds back. “Long time no talk. How’s tour going?”
“Oh you know. Tour. Hah. Frank might drive me crazy and Ray is hiding so he can play COD—pretty standard stuff.” He giggles again. His voice sounds funny like this.
“Mhm. Checks out.” There is a tinge of concern in his wife’s voice that he completely misses in his tipsy stupor. Gerard takes another swig. “Whatcha up to?"
“Just, uh, waiting for the show to start. I’ve got about 30 minutes to be backstage.” He frowns. “I miss you. I wanted to hear your voice.”
“I miss you too.” Lynz pauses for what feels like an unbearable amount of time. “Mikey says he’s worried about you.”
“Oh. Does he.” Gee’s tone is dripping with sarcasm. Another swig.
“Yeah. He says you haven’t been yourself lately. Haven’t been as energetic as usual.” Another pause (Gerard is getting sick of the pauses). “…He says you haven’t been eating as much.”
Now it’s Gerard’s time to pause. “He wants to be the skinny guy of the family. God forbid I drop a few.” Gerard regrets it as soon as it comes out of his mouth, even with the alcohol in his system.
“Gerard!” Lynz sounds mad—or scared, he can’t tell. His finger hovers over the button to hang up. “What the hell?”
“It’s a joke, it’s a joke.”
“That’s not fucking funny. You’re gorgeous, you know that right? You’re beautiful and you don’t need to change your body. I don’t know what the hell is going on—”
“I have to go. Bye.” He hangs up quickly. Gerard knows he’ll have to pay the consequences for that later. The sinking feeling that he’s had for the past few weeks rises in his throat with the bile and acid-tasting alcohol that he just thrust into his system. He covers his mouth and runs to the nearest trashcan to throw up.
The worst part is that barely anything comes up. The acidic feeling in his throat doesn’t go away as he spits up alcohol, then nothing. He dry heaves over the trashcan and prays to whatever fucking god is out there that someone will put him out of his misery. For the first time, he wonders if this misery that he’s put himself through is actually worth it.
“Shit, man,” Frank says from behind him. He sounds concerned but Gerard can’t bring himself to lift his head over the fucking can. Gerard barks out a laugh that ends up sounding more like a sob, then heaves again. “You’re so fucked up.”
“Didn’t you already know that?” Gerard says bitterly. Nothing feels right at all. He knows he’s being an asshole and unfair to the rest of the band but can’t bring himself to care. Some small, evil part of him hopes that Frank sees him and pities him. The rest of him hopes that Frank will fuck off.
“Do you need anything?” Frank’s voice comes out small, gentler than before. It takes Gerard off guard. Suddenly he feels embarrassed.
“Nah, I’m good.” As if in response his voice comes out weaker. High pitched. Like a small child. Gerard runs a hand up and down his chest to see if—yup, his ribs are just as pronounced as they were before. Figures.
“You don’t look good.” Frank being blunt again. Fork found in the kitchen. “Do you need me to call someone? Like, Lynz? Or a doctor?”
Gerard looks in the trash can. “No. I already called her. Prob’ly freaked her out.”
“No shit.” He can hear Frank moving somewhere in the room, and after a couple seconds, a hand on his shoulder. “Drink some water.”
Gerard can barely lift his head but does as Frank asks. He tries to point out that he just said he didn’t need anything but words are lost in his mouth, jumbled there. He gulps down the water like a man who has been stranded in the desert. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. Fuck.” Frank is kneeling beside him and looks so uncomfortable. “….Do we need to cancel the show tonight? I mean, if you aren’t feeling good—”
“I’m fine.” Gerard grits his teeth and stands, swaying as he does. Frank hovers next to him as if he is worried that Gerard will fall on his face. “We gotta get backstage soon, don’t we? The show will be fine.” He (messily) prances over to the mirror and fucking bodychecks, like an asshole. It clearly makes Frank more uncomfortable but Gerard can’t bring himself to care that much. He can’t really feel anything at the moment.
His face is puffy and eyes are sunken into his head. Though his body is nearly skin and bones, the rest of him looks utterly unpleasant. Gerard thinks they looks like they’re dying. He just might be. Gerard gives a broken smile to the mirror. Even if Frank doesn’t buy it, the audience will. And based on the tweets and reviews and whatever-else people are using to post, the fans love seeing him like this.
The show goes exactly as expected, which is, very poorly. It’s definitely not the worst Gerard has ever done but it is certainly more sloppy than he’d like to admit. He sways onstage, loses his breath, and all but abandons Ray to hold down the fort with his harmonies during Thank You For The Venom. It’s downright humiliating but the audience loves it. They eat it up when he crawls all over the stage during Destroya. Gerard contorts his body to show them exactly what he has been doing to himself and they cheer louder than they ever have during his entire career. Gerard doesn’t feel sexy as the people at the barricade reach out to him to try and touch him, as they shout expletives about what they want to do to him. He can’t even look at the rest of his band as he walks backstage, knowing full well that he deserves whatever anger they hold toward him.
It would be easier if I just die, Gerard thinks to himself bitterly as he curls up into a couch backstage. The band would do better without him. Maybe he should have jumped into the pit and let them rip him apart, Courtney Love style. He daydreams about fans ripping off his clothes and tearing his body apart limb-by-limb. How much would an arm be worth? A leg? An eye? It should be disturbing, but at the moment, it isn’t.
Gerard vaguely wonders if he should call his sponsor. Or his therapist. Or his psychiatrist.
Some time passes when Gerard feels a gentle tap on his shoulder. He opens his eyes blearily, not really seeing or processing anything past his blurred vision. He thinks it might be Mikey but he’s not entirely sure.
“Hey. We gotta go back to the hotel.” The voice is warbled and Gerard can only pick up every other word.
“Mm.” They respond unhelpfully. Gerard can hear different voices but can neither discern who they are or what they’re saying. He sinks further into the couch. Almost immediately, he feels someone’s gentle arms around him and is lifted. “Hey—” he says quickly, but whoever lifts him up ignores him. Gerard wants to protest again but promptly passes out.
The next few hours (minutes? Seconds?) are a blur. Gerard knows he is in and out of consciousness but is far too tired to sit up and look around. He remembers being placed gently on something, which he assumes is a hotel bed based on context clues. When he they wake up completely, their head is pounding.
"Ugh.” He rubs his head. He sits up to see Mikey on the bed next to him, reading a comic book.
“Oh. You’re awake.” Mikey doesn’t look up from his comic. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got run over by a truck,” Gerard responds sourly. “What time is it?”
Mikey checks his watch. “10:45.”
“Shit!” Gerard sits up quickly and regrets it even quicker, covering his eyes with his hands. “In the morning? Aren’t we supposed to get going?”
“Yeah.” Mikey’s voice wavers and he puts the comic on his lap. “But you were really tired dude. We figured it would be better to let you sleep.”
“But we have to catch a flight.” Gerard twists around to try and look at Mikey, whose eyebrows are pinched together like he does when he’s trying to pretend he’s not stressed out. Great. “Mikey, what’s going on?”
“You’re freaking me out.” Mikey’s voice is gentle, just like Frank’s was the night before. It makes Gerard feel nauseous again. “You totally just passed out after the show last night. And Lyn called me after last night, and she said… Well. We didn’t know if we should take you to a doctor or something.”
“I’m fine,” Gerard replies automatically, even knowing that Mikey clearly wouldn’t believe them. Mikey just sighs and looks even more miserable.
“I don’t believe you. But you gotta eat something so we can leave, okay? And then we’ll get on the plane.”
Gerard grimaces and runs a hand over greasy red hair. “Right. Yeah.”
“And for the record, you’re not fat or anything. You never have been. So like. Stop doing this to yourself, okay?” If Mikey’s voice didn’t sound so scared, Gerard would snap at him. But he can feel the tension leave his body and the fight drain from him as his brother looks on desperately.
“Whatever,” Gerard mutters, face turning red again. Everything about this is embarrassing but he knows that Mikey will worry about him regardless. He slowly makes his way to the shower and allows the burn of the hot water wake him up all the way. It is by no means a fast process; by the time he gets to the hotel lobby with Mikey, the clock on the wall reads 11:37.
“There you are,” Ray says cheerfully. Him and Frank are smiling at him but it looks forced. Gerard finds himself wanting to take the elevator back up to his hotel room and jump out the window. “We were gonna get the continental breakfast from the hotel, but it looks pretty shitty. So we bought some food from the café next door.” On cue, Frank pulls out a brown paper bag that smells faintly like pastries.
Gerard forces a smile. “Oh. Cool.”
“The croissants are bougie but there’s like, a breakfast burrito in there. And a parfait. I figured we’d just get a spread and you can choose first.” The despair must be evident on Gerard’s face because Frank quickly adds, “or I can choose for you. To make it easier.”
“I don’t know which is worse,” Gerard mumbles. He doesn’t mean to say it but at this point, he doesn’t have much to lose. The rest of the band has clearly caught onto his starvation routine and is forcing his hand. As much as he wants to be extremely pissed off about it, Gerard can’t help but feel a little bit ashamed of himself. “I guess… you can choose.”
Frank’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Yeah, sure.” Mikey elbows him in the side. “Ow! Okay, uh, how about we each take a croissant. Then we can eat it together.”
Gerard shifts his weight from side to side nervously. “You don’t have to do that.”
Ray leans over and squeezes Gerard’s shoulder. “But he wants to. And we want to help you. You’ve been going through a lot recently, and we care about you so much.”
“Yeah,” Mikey adds, awkwardly trying to put himself in the conversation. “We want to help you Gerard. And don't say you're fine, G. This tour hasn’t been easy for us. We’re here for you.”
“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” Gerard says nervously. He looks at the ground.
“Well, it’s gonna stop now. With these croissants. So sit your ass down.” Frank sits down on one of the lobby chairs. Ray shoots him another glare and nearly elbows him again, but Gerard lets out a little laugh at Frank’s forwardness. He sits down in front of Frank to start eating.
It isn’t perfect, and it certainly doesn’t fix the issue completely during the tour. But it’s something. And with the help of his friends, Gerard gets better.