ROLL WITH IT [g.way x reader]

Chapter 6: Nightmarishly Wonderful

"I really hate that bastard," you snapped, brimming with rage.

"You'll be better than him," your manager assured, ushering you to the curtains, "you'll be better than all of them."

As soon as you got close to the fabric, your body shut down again, but Harvey's comforting touch steadied you. You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to drown out the voices; you could do this, right? You could perform a song, right? It would all be fine, right? Hopefully you wouldn't have a breakdown on stage, that was the last thing you needed.

Well. It is what it is.

"Ready?" Harvey asked, though his voice seemed a thousand miles away.

You inhaled — you exhaled — you built yourself up, and broke yourself down again, then put the pieces back together, to prove to yourself that you were going to be okay.

"Yeah," you answered quietly, "I'm ready."

Harvey nodded, then gestured to a manager offside whilst backing away from you, to make sure you'd have plenty of room to go out.

Then, at the thumbs up of a crewmember, you took the curtain by the hand, pushed it aside, and stepped into the light.

-

"You were great! You were so good!" Harvey exclaimed, rubbing your back, as you heaved with stressful sobs, "Why're you crying? You did so well out there!"

You couldn't even muster up the strength to reply, too shaken and weak; it was true, the performance had gone smoothly, and you'd managed to get through all of your songs without a problem; you'd even spoken to the crowd once or twice, and they'd responded with cheering!

However, right towards the end, you were given a bitter reminder — for just as you were leaving the stage, you'd caught in the corner of your eye, the special box for the musicians. And there, standing and clapping, had been My Chemical Romance, watching you. You had no idea how long they'd been there, or if they'd wanted to come at all, but they were there, and that was enough to tip you over the edge. Your frail nerves collapsed, and all you could think of was, what if they think I'm bad?

Now, here you were, in the van, sitting at the table while crying your eyes out, clown makeup still on, and Harvey was trying desperately to give you some solace. As soon as you'd got off the wretched platform, you'd practically ran back to the bus, the only place that you were sure you'd find any kind of peace and quiet, and then had a miserable mental breakdown.

Harvey, naturally, had followed, out of worry, and had found you face down on the floor, in a blubbering mess. Bless the man, he'd taken you off the ground and sat you on a chair; now, you were trying to pull yourself together, without much success.

He touched your shoulder gently, and sat down across from you. "You were great, I promise," he told you.

You lifted your head, with a pathetic snivel, makeup running down your face so you looked like a chronically depressed clown, "It doesn't matter if you say that 'cuz you're my manager," you dismissed, attempting to scrub your tears away.

"No," he gave you a stern glare, "it's because I'm your manager that it matters the most if I say it."

You sniffed, nodded, and pinched the bridge of your nose. "I'm fine," you muttered, "I'm completely fine, I promise."

Harvey raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment further, instead pushing the cup of water he'd poured out towards you. You grabbed it, and slurped at the liquid in a measly manner, feeling like a grumpy cat — Chris opened the van door a bit to poke her head inside, and you and Harvey turned to look at her in confusion.