The night always feels bigger when you’re with the band. Louder, faster, more absurd.

The car still smells like burnt rubber. The crash wasn’t serious just a scare, a miscalculation, a turn taken too sharply because Gerard wasn’t in any condition to drive and you tried to avoid exactly this. And yet, it happened. Now the two of you are outside, leaning against the dented car, the streetlights flickering as if they’re laughing at you.

Gerard isn’t aggressive. On the contrary. He’s too calm, with that distant look that’s scarier than any shout.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against your shoulder. His arms are around you, but it’s not a possessive hug; it’s a desperate one, the kind someone gives when they’re holding onto the first thing that hasn’t fallen apart yet.

You stay still. Not because you like it. Not because it softens you. But because you don’t know what to do when an idol falls apart like this, as if you were the one who’s supposed to keep him together.

“Don’t ever leave me…” he says, exhausted, like he believes every word but doesn’t understand what he’s saying.