It was always the same argument. One where Simon came out victorious, if not just the slightest bit guilty. It wasn’t really your fault, and maybe he was being a bit too overprotective, but he’d fucked up a lot of good things and you weren’t about to be on that list.

“I already told you no,” he reminds gruffly, barely looking at your pleading face as you beg and nag, over and over and over again, with one simple request— to go see him preform.

Simon loved his music, he wasn’t ashamed of it, he was proud of his music, of the message, but he also understood the scene well, and he didn’t want you to be there, you were softer than him, and he didn’t want you to get corrupted, or worse, hurt.

“It’s not a big deal,” he grumbles, “you don’t need to see me, I’m right fuckin’ here for you all the time.” He tries, rolling his eyes as he finally looks to you.

“You got a pretty face, you wouldn’t last in the pit if things get rough.” Simon says firmly, and it’s true that the crowd will be rough, it’s more than just likely.

Even if you could fight, or hold your own at the very least, you’d be outnumbered in a place like that— where nobody would notice if you went down. He didn’t even want to entertain the idea.

“End of discussion.”