ROLL WITH IT [g.way x reader]

Chapter 6: Nightmarishly Wonderful

Fifteen minutes later, and you were in a purple overcoat, with two blue triangles below and above both of your eyes, and a gigantic, crimson line painted over your mouth. The makeup artist had been a little surprised at your request, but had done a wonderful job, and you felt like you were about to shoot a television presenter — in a good way. You stood in front of the mirror, raising your eyebrows, and thinking to yourself that you'd just made either the best or worst decision of your life.

Oh well. Fuck it. It was 2007.

"You're on in fifteen!" a soundcheck person called out, from the doorway, and you jumped slightly.

"I really hope you know what you're doing," Harvey mumbled, looking at you as his hand covered his mouth in concern.

"So do I," you replied, with a dry wit in your tone.

"Oh well, it's done now," he surrendered, before gesturing for you to follow him, down the hallways, and towards the grandstand.

Once you arrived backstage, you were instantly overwhelmed by the sound of the people outside; they were loud, you could even make out some of them to be chanting your name. To say it was surreal was an understatement, you just hoped you wouldn't get a fucking bomb thrown at you. You touched your throat, and gulped, in a silent gesture of panic, hoping that you would sound alright into a microphone.

And what would the other bands think of your clown getup? Would you be the point of mockery?

That was a stupid thought. These people went on with the weirdest hairstyles, and even weirder makeup, MCR painted skulls on their faces for god's sake.

But still — this was you. You, the person who'd never done this sort of thing in your life, even though others thought you had. You, the bitch out of time.

Harvey gave you a quick tap on the shoulder, to bring you back to the present; "Hey, you remember your setlist, right?" he asked gently. "'Understatement' is first, so you've got time during the intro to get to the microphone on stage. We put that one at the beginning purposefully, 'cuz it's a hard rocker."

You swallowed painfully. "Yeah," you croaked, "sorry, could I get some water?"

He handed you a bottle, seemingly from out of nowhere — you took it with a mumbled 'thank you', and chugged down the liquid. "You're gonna do fine, I promise," he assured. "You've done this before, you can do it again."

No, I haven't, you wanted to say, but you kept your mouth shut.

No one could know. And if they did, most likely either you'd get laughed at, or put in a psych ward. Neither option sounded great.

"Look, I don't want to discourage you," Harvey suddenly spoke, "but... I heard, from word of mouth, that apparently Jimmy Urine thinks that you're gonna mess this up."

You froze. "What?" you stated incredulously, absolutely speechless.

"It's just word of mouth," Harvey reiterated quickly, "but, y'know, he's always had a problem with newbies..."

"I'm sorry," you laughed in disbelief, "but let me get this straight; the fucking paedophile, from a racist band, thinks that I, a person he has never seen in concert before, is going to mess this up?"

"... word of mouth," Harvey repeated, as if it would do anything to calm your ire.

Oh, you were pissed. You were fucking angry. If it were any other artist, you would've been heartbroken, but from Jimmy Urine? That was just outright infuriating to you, and made you want to throw a shoe at his head, before running him over with a ten ton truck.