valerie_z

It all started when Pete Wentz died in a fire. Of course, he was Pete Wentz, so death only shut him up for about twelve hours. Early that evening, when Gerard finally got through to Patrick's cell phone and was in the middle of expressing his genuine and heartfelt wishes for Pete's speedy recovery, Pete shouted from the background, "Is that Ryan? Tell him to go to my blog. I'm about to update and it'll be so funny if he gets first comment."

There was the sound of Patrick shutting a door.

"So what happened?" Gerard asked. The band's manager had released a statement, but there were all sorts of crazy rumors. That afternoon, when Gerard's band had lunch together in the hotel restaurant, Ray said he'd read online that the fire was started by the Russian mafia. Bob said it was probably an ex-girlfriend. Mikey had just looked sick and left the table without touching his peanut butter and honey sandwhich.

"Faulty wiring," Patrick explained over the phone as Gerard paced in his hotel room and smoked. Technically the L.A. hotel was non-smoking, but Gerard had the window open.

"It was an outlet in his living room," Patrick continued. "It just sparked and started a fire. Ashlee was away visiting friends, but Pete slept right through it, breathing in smoke until he couldn't wake up if he'd tried. Luckily Hemmy was barking so loud a neighbor woke up and saw the smoke."

Gerard blew his own smoke toward the open window. "Nice dog."

"We will never hear the end of it," Patrick said with a chuckle. "The fire fighters got him out, but somewhere between his room and the ambulance he stopped breathing. They revived him, and all told he was technically dead for less than sixty seconds."

"Let me guess," Gerard said. "He saw the light?"

"The light," Patrick said. "Jesus. Mother Theresa, his grandpa, David Bowie."

"Bowie's not dead."

Patrick sighed. "I keep trying to tell him that."

Gerard laughed. "I'll let you go. I'm sure you have tons of people to talk to. Could I just ask..." He paused and took a drag off his cigarette. "Could you call Mikey? He's worried, but he won't admit it, and it'd mean a lot."

"No problem," Patrick said. "I have his number. I'll call him right now."

"Thanks. You're the best."

"Hopefully we'll see you again soon."

"I hope so too," Gerard said, and he meant it. "Take care, Patrick."

It was a rare two days off in the middle of a tour, and Gerard was determined to enjoy it. He had a fun dinner with Ray, Bob, Brian, Frank, and Jamia, though Mikey had yelled through his door that he wasn't hungry when Gerard had knocked. Gerard spent the rest of the evening drawing, writing, and exhaling out the window, staring at the parking lot and thinking about fire.

Around eleven Mikey opened the door, walked in, and sat down on Gerard's bed. Mikey had a talent for opening locked doors using his old library card, a skill the rest of the band discovered in the early days, when they were sharing one cheap motel room, and Mikey jimmied open the bathroom door, swung it open to reveal Frank jerking off on the toilet, and then proceeded to brush his teeth with his electric toothbrush while Frank sat there with his hand on his dick, staring at Mikey in wide-eyed horror.

"Hey," Gerard said. He knew it must've been a rough day for Mikey, and Gerard wanted to talk to him about it. After everything the band had gone through, Gerard was confident he could deal with minor crises without losing his cool.

Then Mikey's face collapsed, and he put his hands over his eyes and started crying.

"Oh shit, Mikey." Gerard rushed to his side, sat down next to him, and put his arm around him. He could deal with anything but Mikey crying. Mikey crying was his kryptonite. He put his other arm around him, rocked him back and forth, and said, "It's okay, Mikey. It's okay." He put his face against the top of Mikey's head, feeling like he was about to burst into tears too, and he didn't even know what they were crying about.

Mikey took a deep breath and pulled his head back, though he made no move to get out of Gerard's embrace. "It's stupid," he said. "It's just...' He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "We had a stupid fight, and the last thing I said to him was, 'Your wife's music sucks'."

Gerard had to bite his lower lip to keep from smiling.

"You know?" Mikey asked.

Gerard nodded. "I know." They'd grown up surrounded by superstition, which Gerard attributed to his family being 50% Italian and 80% insane. His mother was always throwing salt on the floor, his great aunt was always muttering Catholic prayers, and no one allowed "the boys" (as they were called) to go to sleep, get up from the dinner table, or leave the room without telling them they were loved.

It was a silly, superstitious protection against death. If Gerard left for school without his mother kissing him goodbye and saying she loved him, he would be run over by a car and die horribly, and his poor mother would have to live the rest of her life knowing that the last thing she said to her dead first-born child was, "If you get your new shoes dirty, I will beat your ass."

So every morning before they went to school, their mother said, "Love you!" and Gerard and Mikey learned to parrot back, "Love you!" as they ran for the bus. When they were tucked into bed, she said, "Love you!", the boys said, "Love you!", and if they got up for a glass of water, the whole ritual had to be repeated. When leaving their grandmother's house after Thanksgiving dinner, Gerard and Mikey were on the receiving end of at least twenty "love you"s. One year when Gerard was a moody adolescent, he tried to see how many times he could mutter, "love boobs" before his grandmother smacked the back of his head. He managed only once.

The tradition continued as they grew into adults. Once in college Gerard got a voicemail from his father that said, "If you withdraw from one more class, I'm not co-signing your loans for next year, so you better get your shit together, young man. Do you understand me?...Love you." Mikey had a girlfriend his Senior year of high school who was convinced he was cheating on he, because she didn't believe he was talking to his brother every day on his cell phone and ending the conversation with, "Love you". And in their first year of touring, Gerard once almost got his ass kicked when he called out a distracted, "Love you!" to the retreating back of one of Taking Back Sunday's roadies.

So Gerard understood why Pete's brush with death, lame as it was, would upset Mikey, since they had so much rocky history together.

"Want to see him tomorrow?" Gerard asked as he got up from the bed and lit another cigarette.

"Really?"

"We don't have to leave for the show until six," Gerard explained. "He's at an L.A. hospital, so it can't be that far away."

Mikey regarded him warily. "You know, he probably wrote lyrics about this already. And he'll probably want you to read them.

"I know," Gerard said with a soft groan.

"And they're probably filled with mixed metaphors," Mikey continued. "And puns."

Gerard rubbed his eyes. "I know." He put his hand on Mikey's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You see how I suffer for you?"

Mikey smiled. "You're like Gandhi in eyeliner."

After getting directions to the hospital from the front desk and making plans to leave after breakfast, Mikey announced that he was tired and moved toward the door.

"Wait!" Gerard dropped his cigarette into the ice bucket, rushed to Mikey, and pulled him into a hug. "Love you," he said.

Mikey lowered his head so it was resting on Gerard's shoulder, and whispered, "Love you," into the worn fabric of his t-shirt.

After Mikey'd gone back to his own room, Gerard tried watching America's Next Top Model, but he kept thinking about what he'd said last to everyone he knew. What if someone else got hurt in a fire? How would Gerard remember their last conversation? He knew it was a silly superstition, but he'd rather have people think he was crazy than have them think he was a dick.

Naturally, the last thing he'd said to both his parents and to Lindsey had been, "Love you." The last thing he'd said to Ray and Bob was, "Goodnight," and he figured that was safe. He'd spoken to Adam earlier that say, and right before he hung up he's said, 'You're the best, man." Though he couldn't remember exactly why he'd thought Adam was the best, he was sure there'd been a good reason. And oddly enough, the last thing he'd said to Brian was, "I love you," but that was because Brian had bought him the new Buffy comic.

Gerard felt a chill as he remembered his last conversation with Frank. It was after dinner. The rest of the guys had gone out to an arcade, and Gerard had shared an elevator with Frank and Jamia as they all returned to their rooms. Jamia spent the ride texting on her Blackberry, so Frank, painfully bored during the eight seconds no one was paying attention to him, moved in front of Gerard and stepped on his shoes.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Gerard tried to move, but Frank had both his feet pinned, and he swayed backwards dangerously.

Frank smiled. "See if you can walk with my feet on your feet."

"Let's see if you can walk with my fist up your ass."

"Stop flirting."

The elevator stopped on their floor, and the doors opened with a soft ding. Gerard tried to push Frank off gently, but Frank grabbed his shoulders and held on tight.

"It's our floor," Gerard said.

"See if you can walk this way."

Jamia stepped out onto their floor and dialed her phone, ignoring them.

"We're gonna get stuck here," Gerard said. He tried to take a step forward, but only managed to throw them both off-balance.

Frank grinned. "You almost did it!"

"You're crushing my toes!"

Gerard pushed Frank again, which somehow resulted in Frank rocking forward. Gerard overcompensated, and they both tumbled onto the floor, just in time for the elevator door to close against Gerard's head.

"You fucking spastic ass," Gerard yelled as he got to his feet and moved into the hallway. "God, take a fucking Ritalin."

Frank rolled into a sitting position. "You're not a very good foot-walker, my friend." He stood up. "It's cool. We can practice more tomorrow."

Jamia threw them both a dirty look. "It's nothing." She said into her phone. "Just some crazy homeless people. E-mail me the demo and we'll talk tomorrow."

"Want to come over and watch TV with us?" Frank offered.

Gerard brushed some floor lint off his shirt. "Yeah, cause you're such a fucking delight today."

"I was just playing around."

"You play too much, Frankie," Gerard said. "And one day I'm gonna fucking kill you."

"Neat." Frank patted Gerard's shoulder. "I'll see you later, after you've found your Midol."

"Fuck you," Gerard muttered weakly as he turned and headed to his room.

Lying on top of his covers late that night, Gerard imagined waking up to the news that Frank had fallen down the stairs, or choked on a chicken bone, or gotten stabbed by Jamia when he wouldn't shut up. There would be a wake, a funeral, a tribute concert, and maybe even an MTV special. And through it all, Gerard would have to remember how the last thing he said to Frank was, "I'm gonna fucking kill you. Fuck you." He picked up his cell phone.

"Hello?" Frank had obviously been asleep, and his voice was thick and tired.

"I love you," Gerard said.

There was a long pause before Frank responded. "I'm not gay."

Gerard sighed. "I'm not hitting on you. I just felt bad because the last thing I said –"

"You want me," Frank whispered. "I'll tell Jamia. She'll smack the shit out of you."

"Frank –"

"That reminds me," Frank said. "You wanna go out tomorrow and buy shoes?"

"Frank!"

"I need sneakers," Frank continued. "And maybe boots."

"I have to say –"

"Tube socks," Frank continued. "Look, man, I know you like wearing clothes until they disintegrate, but you gotta buy some new socks before we share a bus again."

"I love you!" Gerard yelled, then hung up the phone before Frank could mess it up by saying anything else.

Satisfied that he'd fulfilled his insane superstitious obligation for the evening, Gerard lit a cigarette and turned on the television. He was clicking past sailboat-themes home décor on QVC when he was suddenly struck by the word "anchor".

"You're not a friend; you're a fucking anchor."

Gerard had said this, in one of those memories he'd tried like hell to forget. But once that sentence leaked into his consciousness, it all came rushing back.

Late at night. After the show but not so late that anyone had gone to bed, and the bus was empty.

"You're trying to get me to relapse. You're sabotaging me."

The common area of the bus was smoky and smelled like beer. Gerard's lungs ached from crying. His throat was dry and his mouth tasted like ash.

"It was so hard for me to get clean." The dark windows, the dim light from the hall. "I can't let myself almost die again." The candle on the table they'd been lighting their cigarettes off, blurring into a halo. "I can't let you drag me down. I can't do this anymore."

On the other side of the room, pressed against the black window, drenched in candlelight, Bert looked his age for the first time. When Gerard met him, Bert was a rock star, a super hero, a brilliant songwriter signed to a major label. But beneath his huge persona, he'd been a twenty-one year-old high school drop-out who clung to Quinn and Brian like they were the only parents he'd ever known. He'd been a baby.

Standing there, clean-shaven, his eyes rimmed red, his chest concave as he slouched, his hands shaking, Bert looked torn in half, and Gerard felt like an asshole.

Then Bert threw an empty beer bottle at Gerard's face, and from that point on neither of them could really claim the high road.

Gerard dialed the phone, his mind filled with so much white noise that when he put it to his ear he didn't even hear it ring.

"Hey, leave a message."

The loud, mechanical beep pulled him back into reality, back from watching himself throw a sloppy punch in a dark bus, back to his cushy hotel room, the gaping darkness of the open window, the smell of a car's exhaust in the parking lot outside, his smoldering smoke and a million regrets.

"I just wanted to say..." He cleared his throat. "I hope we can, I mean..."

He remembered a night a long time ago, a lifetime ago, sipping on a beer and sitting cross-legged on the floor of a bus, watching Bert play a song on Quinn's guitar, egging him on ("You know the words, motherfucker! Come on!"), and the words were something about love and loss and death, and Gerard felt like a child suddenly, like someone who had barely lived, and in Bert's smiling eyes he could see forever.

"I love you," Gerard said. And he hung up just as his cigarette ignited the bedspread.