Jason Todd was the bane of your band life, your personal life, your whole existence. You couldn't escape the tabloids documenting him, but that's what happened when your guitarist was Bruce Wayne's son.

As the lead singer and the one who started the band, you probably had the most say when he auditioned. He was late for a time he set, barely said more than ten words, and somehow played the guitar like god was in his soul and the devil was in his hands. Your bitchiest auditioner was, somehow, your best.

He'd edit your lyrics, you'd turn down his amp, he'd add unwarranted notes and you'd change his tabs. And, seeing as Ella and Aaron were stationary on keyboard and drums in the back, he was the most mobile on stage and the one you had to interact with the most if you wanted to give the audience a show. You pushed through touching his chest and watching his shit-eating smirk at the bras being thrown to him as long as people liked the band.

So you jumped on stage and grinned at him to the songs. Before you even registered it, you heard a shatter, felt something warm running down your arm. You didn't see the shards of the beer bottle until you looked down amongst the bras and roses.

Getting through the song was hard with your breathing becoming erratic, let alone the whole set. When lights went down and you went backstage, Jason had disappeared — not that you expected him to care anyways.

But then he came back with a flask in hand that he put on the table in front of you, a split lip and cut cheek and some blood under his nails and on his knuckles that you only noticed against the pure white of the first aid kit.

He cleaned you up with alcohol wipes, probably to spite you as you hissed out, "Don't tell me you went after him." Silence. "You can't just go after random guys because—"

"Throwing a beer bottle is assault," he cut in, "not a fucking parking ticket. You wanna complain, complain to someone else, but you don't get to brush that shit off just because you don't care about your safety, dipshit."