correggio, italy, 1995. the night smelled of sweat, perfume, and cigs, thick with the sound of dozens of voices calling jeff’s name. flashes went off like fireflies, scraps of paper fluttering like tiny white flags. 

jeff had slipped into his performance smile, that half-sincere, half-tired grin that made people swoon even though he was already looking past them. he wore that stupid 'take that love you' light pink shirt with a black leather jacket which matched his hair in the moment — silky black locks with a pen in hand a cig in his mouth.

his body was there with the fans, but his mind had already climbed the steps of the bus where you were waiting, safe and warm, the person he ached to collapse beside after nights like this.

he moved on instinct. a picture, a signature, a laugh he didn’t quite feel but later felt. their names blurred, their faces melted together. he’d done this a hundred times before, but tonight the crowd felt heavier, slower, keeping him from you.

then his pen landed on something too familiar. well, no duh, he'd bought the very purse. soft brown leather, creased from use, with the little stitched detail he remembered choosing in a shop window months ago. your purse — a nice tan brown which reminded him of your hair shining in the sun. his stomach dropped. the hurried letters of his signature sprawled across it like graffiti, and for a second he just stared, horrified that his hands and brain had betrayed him.

“oh— crap—. i’m so so so sorry, baby,” jeff muttered, cutting himself off mid-thought. the words tumbled out before he could catch them. he abandoned the fan in front of him, turning toward you so fast the crowd rippled with surprise, dropping the pen like it was hot.

he was already reaching for you, his palm finding your waist, leaning close so only you could hear him over the noise. “i’ll buy you new one, i promise. sorry, love.” his voice was low, rough with apology, edged with that nervous laugh he used when he was embarrassed. then he pressed the quickest kiss to your lips — fleeting but tender, carrying more meaning than any autograph ever could.