miss me… pt. 2
warped tour '05 x mcr!drummer!reader
words: 1.3k (shorter than the last one, sorry…)
no warnings for this chapter but just keep in mind that the reader is 17 and explicit grooming and underage activities will be taking place in later chapters. please dont read if it will harm your mental health in anyway, keep yourself safe🫶
My fic will be pretty plot heavy, I wanna keep it at least somewhat realistic and not too heavily relying on plot armor
As always, feel free to leave feedback and my anon box is always open!!
The other guys have already left through the back of the building.
“You would’ve gone with them if you hadn’t wandered off.” Brian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a card out of his back pocket— a black laminated lanyard with bold words printed onto it.
“Backstage pass, just tell ‘em you’re the drummer. I don’t have time to hold your hand through this.”
He hands you loose papers— schedule, a copy of a setlist. You shove them into your duffel, your drumstick bag sloppily peaking out of it.
Pulling the lanyard over your head as he waves you off, you exit out of the back of the building.
Your phone has been buzzing nonstop ever since you Brian called you back. You don’t have time to check it, opting to put it on silent for now and fill your friends in on everything when you’re done. Whenever that will be…
Getting through security is another ordeal entirely.
One guard studies your badge for potential counterfeit, asking for any other forms of identification.
“I uh, have a drivers license, is that good?” You ask, pulling the card from your wallet. They nod, mumbling something into their radios and waving you through.
The prospect that you’re probably already too late gnaws at the back of your brain, but as you step to the “backstage” you realize you really can’t turn back anymore. It stretches for at least half a mile, with more semi-trucks and smoking electrical wires than you had anticipated. The place was packed, as well, looking almost like the booths out front. Workers bustling, a couple of bands rehearsing, and some skateboarders you have to dodge. Noises from the vehicles and the bands make it almost impossible for you to hear yourself think. You stop for a second, pulling the papers out of your bag to see if they can provide any answers…
Okay… Where exactly are you supposed to go?
Before panic has a chance to settle in, someone in an event polo notices you standing in the middle of the walkway, looking you up and down before glancing at your badge.
“Who are you with?” They ask, their voice raised so you can hear them over the chaos. You flip your badge around, revealing the shiny “My Chemical Romance” print on the back. The stranger gives you a quizzical look, raising your lanyard to get a closer look at it, forcing you to step a little too close to them than you’re comfortable with.
“My Chemical Romance, hm? You look a bit young.” You just nod, not wanting to draw any attention to yourself by backing up.
“You seem new, c’mon, lemme show you where to go.” A toothy grin spreads across their cheeks, seemingly inviting until they drop your lanyard and take your wrist in a grip that has your hand growing cold from the pressure.
You’re dragged through crowds, reaching a couple of buses near the back when you spot them. It seems the employee does too, because he takes you by the shoulders and places you in front of him. The band, previously strumming their instruments, stare up at the two of you.
“Sorry to bother you guys” The stranger says, trying to garner their attention as if they didn’t already have it. “Just had a kid here claiming she personally knows you guys? Hm?” Their lips curl into a line as you look behind you and then toward the band.
“It’s not like that, I was just lost—“ You try to deescalate, but you’re cut off by Gerard, a cigarette halfway hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
“We know her.” The frontman explains. “She’s the local we got to do drums.”
“Should’ve led with that.” The stranger grumbles, letting go of your shoulders and disappearing into the crowd behind you.
You stand there for a split-second, processing, before walking over to the group.
“I’m so, so sorry he just saw I was lost and came up to me and saw my pass, and—“
“Hey, don’t sweat it. You’re here now, that’s what matters” This time the one speaking was Ray, a handheld fan blowing in his face, causing his curls to fly about like tiny pieces of cloud.
“We go on in an hour, so I suggest trying to familiarize yourself with the setlist if you haven’t already.” Gerard says, stamping out his cigarette and taking a long gulp of water from a bottle that has no doubt been sitting in the sun too long.
“What about soundcheck?” That makes the guys laugh, you can feel your shoulders hunching in on you at the sound.
“This—“ Frank gestures to the mess of guitars and an awkward setup of equipment boxes as chairs, an open box of drum pads not going unnoticed by you. “—is soundcheck.“
“But Brian said—“
“Brian gives it too much credit.” Frank waves the thought of it off, like it’s a routine occurrence. “Take him with a grain of salt. Matter of fact, take us all with a grain of salt and your life’ll be much easier” You laugh breathily at that, taking a seat on a box.
“So how long’ve you been playing?” He asks.
You count the years of your fingers, holding them up to him. Frank whistles lowly.
You glance over at the equipment, your eyes landing back in the stack of drum pads.
“Mind if I use these?”
Ray responds, already seeming to know what you’re asking about and not bothering to look up from where he’s tuning his guitar. “Sure, they were just kinda left with us so if you need ‘em, knock yourself out.”
Two minutes. You peak your head just slightly out of stage right, gazing out toward a sea of people illuminated by the smoldering sun. Thousands of cheers erupting as the band before you wraps up their set. You’ve never seen that big of a crowd in one place before, let alone been at the very front of it.
“First big crowd?”
You jolt as your focus is broken, whipping your head around to reveal Gerard, who’s seemingly noticed your natural state is in a bundle of nerves. You give him a nod.
“Don’t look at ’em.” He shrugs.
“…What??”
“I mean it. Pick somebody in the front row if you have to. Focus on your set more than anything.”
You inhale sharply, being guided forward by the other members. Ray gives you a double thumbs up while Gerard immediately steps toward the front of the stage, introducing the band and saying some words you might’ve heard if Mikey didn’t nearly collapse in front of you, catching himself before his gangly form lands on his guitar. Looking down, the stage is littered with ropes of coiled cables. Shoving your drumsticks in the waistband of your pants, you lean down to at least try and gather some of the bundles and drag as many them out of the center of the platform as possible. It seems a stagehand notices, taking the cords from you and continuing your efforts.
“No idea how they’ve been playing like this all day,” Frank mutters, passing you and ending up on the left of Gerard, who was still having a conversation with the crowd.
You sit at the drumset that was left by the other bands, adjusting the seat so your feet can reach the kick pedal.
Your eyes scan over the set, the rack tom sat a little higher than your own, most likely to adapt to the many male drummers. The floor tom a little farther away. You reached instinctively to fix them—
Ray struck the opening chord. Your ears perk up, your head following suit.
It takes you a second to register what song you’re supposed to be playing. It was the first on the list, you know this one! You know this one!
You know— that you’re late.
Shoot.
You start up, around where you should be in the song, only a few moments lost as Gerard starts to sing. Multiple members glance back at you as you play, sweat beading your forehead despite the stage largely obscuring the sun. You can’t hear your bass pedal over the sound of the crowd screaming and singing along.
Hopefully, you think to yourself, any minor mistakes made will be drowned out.
You can’t afford another screw-up like that first one though. Who knows who else is watching you, and if you ever want a gig with your own band again you’ve gotta step up your fucking game.
pt. 1 here
pt. 3 here
