Between the Sets || Gerard Way

Chapter twenty two

—One Week Before the Breakup—
Backstage, After the Set

It started like everything else: with a camera.

Some photographer from the label wanted "a few quick candids" of us post-show, something to round out a content dump for fans. I was still holding my guitar.

"C'mon," the guy coaxed. "Just stand close, real quick. Nothing crazy."

I forced a smile that probably looked like pain and took a step toward Gerard, who was already standing near the black curtain at the edge of the stage. He glanced at me and gave the smallest nod—civil, empty, unreadable.

We hadn't spoken since the meeting.

Not really.

Just shared space. Shared silences. A few clipped greetings. A brush of his shoulder passing mine in the green room that had nearly knocked the air out of me.

And now here we were. Staged like we still belonged next to each other.

I moved in beside him, close but not touching. He smelled like sweat and eyeliner and something I couldn't name. His jaw was clenched tight, lips a thin line, sunglasses gone for once—just his eyes now, heavy-lidded and distant.

"Can you... maybe stand a little closer?" the photographer asked. "Put an arm around her or something?"

Gerard looked at me like he was asking for permission.

I gave the smallest shrug. "Sure," I murmured, not sure if I meant it.

His arm came around my shoulder, careful, almost hesitant. His hand didn't rest—it hovered. Like if he touched me fully, something would give way. I kept my arms at my sides, fingers curled into fists at my thighs.

We smiled.

Or something close to it.

Flash. Click. Another angle.

The silence between us buzzed louder than the shutter.

"Maybe a more candid one?" the photographer said. "Laugh a little? Whisper something cute?"

Gerard didn't move.

Then, too quiet for anyone else to hear, he leaned just slightly toward me and murmured, "What do you want me to say?"

I didn't look at him. Just said, through my teeth, "Whatever sells."

His fingers twitched on my shoulder. Like he almost pulled away—but didn't.

Flash. Another shot.

I exhaled a sharp breath, trying not to shake.

The photographer finally stepped back. "Perfect. That'll do. Thanks, guys."

Gerard let go immediately. I stepped away just as fast.

I didn't look at him when I left.

But I felt his eyes on me the whole time.

And that was pretty much how the whole week went by.
Forced. Awkward. A series of public smiles and private silences. We posed, we played nice, we acted like nothing had shifted—like I hadn't kissed him like I meant it, like he hadn't kissed me back like it wrecked him. Every glance felt loaded. Every brush of air between us felt like too much. And still, we said nothing.

—The Day Before the Break Up—

I thought I'd gotten away with it. Skated through another day of pretending, another round of fake smiles and tension-laced photos. I'd just grabbed a snack from catering and was turning to leave when I heard it: