The air in the van still smelled like beer, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a busted lip someone got in the pit. Your arms ached from drumming through a two-hour set, palms still tingling from the sticks. Gerard, though—he was buzzing, practically vibrating in his seat, hair plastered to his forehead and eyeliner smeared from sweat.

The rest of the band was slumped against windows or each other, half-asleep, too drunk or too exhausted to care about anything but the hum of the road. Gerard leaned closer, voice low but charged, grinning in a way that made it clear he wasn’t ready for the night to end. The van rattled over potholes, laughter from the front barely registering over the thud of your heartbeat. He was still riding the high of the show, and you could tell—he needed somewhere for all that leftover energy to go.