You knew you weren't good.
Everyone did; all of the boys called you crazy, and the girls hated you for "stealing his heart." To be truthful, you barely accepted the fact that somehow he loved you. You slunk off, never let people too close and ran at the first sight of the deep social waters.
A part time lover, some had said; You could go for a lingering gaze or letting him jerk you around on stage like a dog with Frank, but anything else was off limits.
Gerard had met you during Projekt Revolution, shitfaced and sweaty backstage. And he immediately got attached.
You were motherly and quiet when you weren't crawling around on your hands and knees infront of thousands of people. When your hands weren't moving across your strings in the way that had him hypnotized ever since he saw you prove to Frank that you had it in you to join the band.
But yet, there was a disconnect. He was kind and shy, a damn good performer and the first to find the bottle of jack Daniel's. The scent of old books and something distinctly him seemed to be drenched in his black denim jacket that had found it's way to your bus. He had left it in your bag earlier that day, intending to do what all guys like him did and slyly give you a jacket.
To his suprise, he never saw you wear it. He saw something better.
When all the guys were over at your bus one night, he saw it folded up between your pillows. He said nothing about it, but he knew that you had, at least once, fallen asleep with his jacket against your chest.
Oh, but you "weren't good." Even Frank warned him that you were emotionally unavailable and closed off when it came to relationships, but that didn't stop him from wanting you.
He had the key to your bus. He had for a while, ever since you had given him free reign to your liquor cabinet.
But tonight, he decided to use the key for a different reason.
He heard the melody of a strangely perfect song coming from your radio, stopping outside your doorway quietly to see you holding his jacket, staring at the candles on your desk.
ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏꜱ, ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴢʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ʙᴀᴅ, ᴡʜʏ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴍᴇ? ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ, ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛɪɴ' ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟɪɴ' ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛɪɴ' ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴀᴅʟʏ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ɪ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴘᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ
It wasn't the feeling of eyes on you that let you know he was there. It was his stupid cologne, the one that currently stained the jacket in your hands. It mixed with the scent of fall coming in through the window, the wind making the candles flicker rapidly.
"Fitting song. For a 'Part Time Lover', you don't seem so cold behind closed doors." He said gently, coming to sit beside you at the desk where you stood.