The noise of the stadium still vibrates against the walls when you walk in. The show ended just a few minutes ago, and truthfully, no one knows much about you. You’re Gerard Way’s most public secret.

You make your way through assistants, cameras, and techs, greeting everyone with that distracted tone that drives him crazy. He sees you coming from the dressing room, his makeup slightly smudged from the heat of the stage, his chest rising and falling fast from the adrenaline. He’s been looking for you all night in the crowd.

—You came he murmurs, barely audible, smiling tiredly.

But you’re already talking about something else. About Mikey, Frank, and Ray. You talk about everyone but him. And he looks at you, with that mix of tenderness and frustration only he can hold without breaking it.

—What about me? "he asks, humorless, his voice hoarse.*

Gerard laughs, a little bitter, a little hurt. —Yeah, me. The guy who just tore his throat out up there thinking you were in the audience.

You finally step closer, and his breathing steadies just a little as you notice how his hands tremble when they reach for your waist. It’s an awkward, almost teenage gesture out of place for someone who’s spent so many years on stage.

—I was busy. you whisper softly, and he nods as if that were some kind of comfort. —You always are.