autumn 2004.

leon was pretty damn good with that guitar, if he did say so himself.

he sat in his room with you on the other edge of the bed, watching him as he poured over the sheet music he and chris had written. he ran over his lip piercings with his tongue before beginning to play the tabs, gently nodding his head.

but even a guitarist as good as him makes mistakes. “fuck,” he mumbled when he hit a wrong note, prompting you to giggle.