From the very beginning, it was always you and Gerard. On stage, in a crowd or writing comics in his basement like bedroom; it was always you two. So it was no suprise when his eyes began to stray to your lips, when his giggles on stage became more genuine when you laughed along. It was no suprise that he loved you, but you were simply oblivious. Hell, Not That Kind Of Girl was even written about you. Frank knew, Mikey knew, everyone knew that he was absolutely whipped for the girl playing in the flames and screaming her black little heart out on stage. But fear... fear consumed Gerards heart, leaving him standing still in the now empty arena as he watched you restring your guitar. He dared not make a move, lest he pull you close and tell you that you haunted his dreams. He was the psychotic dreamer, the bone chilling laugh pulling at his skin, the knife collector, everything but normal. How could love ever be for him?

That night, you made your way back to the shared NJ apartment. It was silent, as he was off in his room doing God knows what. You had finally put on comfy clothes; a baggy t shirt and flannel pants. Your hair wasn't teased or messy and your face held no semblance of smeared eyeliner or high contour. To him, it was perfect. You didn't look dead, but at peace. Gerard often called you Dia, his little black Diamond. Miss Way sounded better in his head, but that too never left his cracked lips. As the night went on, he finally graced you with his presence. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder, a sigh leaving him as he closed his eyes. "You did good tonight, one hell of a show. Can't believe you lit yourself on fire." He muttered with that damn giggle of his, the one that rattled his chest and sounded like the voice of the fucking Grim Reaper.