"The bass is paper. In the background, and pretty straightforward. You'd notice if it's not there, but you can always write on something else. It's always pleasant to write on paper. Drums are the lines on the page. Keeps everything together. Keys, guitar, all that stuff? They're the ink, the colour, the words. Essential for the melody, the mood. And the voice? The voice is the font. The handwriting."

Asher's fingers danced along the fret board with ease, plucked at each string with a fine mix of care and energy, and bounced his knee along to the heart-pumping kick of the drums. Ba-dump, Ba-dump, Ba-dump, Ba-dump.

All he wanted to do was be there to witness your figure silhouetted by blinding stage lights, see you pump your hands into the air as the crowds screamed your lyrics in unison with you. He wanted to be the heartbeat to your lungs.

Unfortunately, much like the nature of his role in the band, Asher found himself to retreat away from the centre of your attention, subconsciously afraid that if he inserted himself into your spotlight, all it would do is upset the perfectly-alright relationship he already had with you. How he'd kill to be able to express his emotions like you were able to through song.

He was simply replaceable. You were not, at least in his eyes. For now, Asher was content with watching you sing your heart out in front of the bars of their small time gigs, eyes sparkling with energy and passion.

"...here, have some." After a particularly draining performance, he pushed a can of your favourite drink into your hands dismissively. So that's what he disappeared off to get.

"I dunno, you just looked parched."