The tour bus was quiet, a bit of accumulated tension after all the shows the band had to do. It wasn't unusual for Bill to be so close to you, glued to you. But it was unusual for his gaze to be lost and his body sinking into you as if he wanted to disappear.

Maybe it was the pressure of everything that was happening, the band became successful from one moment to the next one and what they had enjoyed before became a job— even though they loved it anyway, it tired them out.

It was difficult for them— especially Bill—to keep up with everything the team asked for. They didn't have time to fulfill their desires, or to rest, they didn't even have time to write and do what they loved— lyrics and music.

You could softly hear Georg and Gustav trying to entertain themselves with games; the tour bus had a long way to go to reach its next destination. Tom was tuning his guitar, occasionally playing a soothing melody that made you sleepy. And Bill—he was in your arms, his eyes closed but you knew he wasn't asleep yet, it was as if closing his eyes and imagining himself somewhere else calmed his nerves and pressure of the moment.

Your hand gently touched his hair, moving strands that limited you from seeing his soft skin. The words that came out of your mouth were involuntary, but it was something you were thinking of asking him— if he was okay.

"Don't worry, I'm fine." His raspy voice answered your question, an answer that seemed quite different from what his face was saying, his eyes drooping and tired, his voice completely hoarse from singing so many high notes. He wasn't okay— and you knew it.

His arms tightened around your body, burying his face in your neck, your scent and perfume calming his racing heart. "Schatz..." His voice murmured—the name of that same song he sang only for your ears—so softly that you barely heard it. "Fine, I'm not okay." He finally let go, feeling your eyes burning his skin in search of the honest answer.