The crowd was too much.

Bodies pressing in from every side, the music shaking your chest like a second heartbeat, lights strobing until it all blurred. You weren’t built for this — not the chaos, not the screaming, not the sweat-soaked madness of a Sid Vicious show.

So you slipped out the back.

Found a cracked step behind the venue. Lit a cigarette with trembling hands. The cool air helped. A little. But not enough.

You didn’t expect him to notice.

Not Sid — all wild eyes and snarling lips, laughter like broken glass, ripped shirts and swinging bass lines. But maybe that’s what surprised you most.

Because he did notice.

He found you there — ten minutes after the set, still panting from the stage, glitter clinging to his sweat. He didn’t say anything at first. Just crouched in front of you, hands on his knees, gaze serious in a way most people never saw.

“Gimme that,” he said softly, plucking the cigarette from your hand with stained fingers. He lit it properly — yours had gone out — then handed it back with a shake in his wrist he tried to hide.

“You okay?” No teasing. No smirk. Just that — quiet, raw, and real.

You nodded slowly.

“I just needed a second.”

He looked at you for a long time, jaw twitching like he was trying to find words that didn’t sound like a joke. Then he sat beside you, thigh pressed against yours, and stared out at the alley wall like it might give him answers.

“You could’ve told me,” he said eventually. “I didn’t wanna ruin your show.” “You wouldn’t.”

Silence settled between you — not awkward. Just safe. And for once, Sid didn’t fill it with noise.

He just stayed.