Riffs in Time

Chapter Four

Gerard chuckled as he finished applying the bandage. "Damn right, I do." He patted my knee lightly before standing. "There. Now you won't get some weird  infection and die before we can figure out how to get you back in your own time."

I rolled my eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at my lips. "Well, thanks. I guess."

"Don't mention it," he said, tossing the washcloth onto the bathroom counter before collapsing into the armchair with a tired groan.

The moment should have ended there, easy and lighthearted, but there was something lingering beneath the surface—an unspoken understanding, maybe, or just the strange comfort of knowing I wasn't entirely alone in this.

I shifted in my seat before blurting out, "Hey, uh... about earlier. When I was insisting on staying behind at the venue so I wouldn't have to share a room with you—I didn't mean it like that. I just didn't want to be an inconvenience." I winced at how awkward I sounded. "Sorry if that offended you."

Gerard blinked, then let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it. I wasn't actually mad," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just a little on edge. Fighting with your brother and your ex will do that to 'ya. It's just... one of those nights." His voice trailed off, and for a second, something unreadable flickered across his face before he shrugged it away. "Anyway, no hard feelings."

Relieved, I nodded. "Still, I feel kinda dumb about it."

His smirk returned. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, you're not the first person to assume I'm some reckless rockstar who sleeps around."

I snorted. "I never assumed that, but... I can see why people would." I gestured vaguely at him. "The whole rockstar aesthetic doesn't exactly scream 'stable and well-adjusted.'"

Gerard smirked. "Yeah, that and the makeup." He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, tilting his head slightly. "But hey, it's all part of the image, right?"

I chuckled. "Right. Gotta keep up the mystique."

A beat of silence passed before he cleared his throat. "So... what's your deal, anyway?" His voice was light but laced with curiosity. "I mean, apart from the whole time-travel thing, I just realized—I don't even know your name."

I exhaled, giving him a small, wry smile. "Yana," I said simply.

He leaned against the chair, arms crossing over his chest. "Yana. Got it. So, what do you do in your timeline?"

I shrugged, still feeling the adrenaline buzzing faintly in my veins. "I'm in a band."

That piqued his interest. His head tilted slightly, brows raising. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. We're pretty experimental," I said, absently rubbing my arm. "Your band is actually one of our biggest inspirations. One of the main reasons we even formed was because of your next album." I hesitated before adding, "The one you're about to create."

For a moment, something flickered in his expression—curiosity, surprise, and something almost... softer. "Really? Our next album, huh?" His lips quirked into something close to a smile.

 "I always felt like our next record needed to be different."

I held my breath, trying to choose my words carefully. "Well, yeah. I mean—it's no 'Black Parade', I'll tell you that much." I waved a hand, as if dismissing the thought before I said too much. "But I won't spoil anything. I wouldn't wanna mess with the space-time continuum or whatever."

 "Imagine going back to my time and finding out my band plays reggae now." I made a face. "Not that there's anything wrong with reggae, but... definitely not my vibe."

That earned a genuine laugh from him, small but real. He shook his head, still smirking. "Yeah, I don't see the whole reggae-punk fusion taking off for you."

"Glad we're on the same page," I said with a mock-serious nod.

But just as quickly as the warmth in his expression appeared, it faded. His shoulders tensed, and he let out a sigh, gaze darkening.

"Listen, Yana... there's something I want tell you," he said, quieter now, his voice edged with something heavier. He hesitated, like he was trying to find the right words. "I don't know why I'm telling you this—maybe because I don't want you to get your hopes up—but there isn't going to be a next album."

I blinked. "What?"

"This tour—it's our last," he said simply, like it was a fact set in stone. "The band's done."

A strange, cold sensation crawled up my spine. I stared at him, trying to process his words. "But... what? We were just talking about the next album. You sounded excited. I thought—"

He cut me off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter what you thought. The band... it's not in a good place. Everyone's exhausted, people aren't happy—hell, that's why our drummer left. We're done. That's it."

I opened my mouth to argue, but something in his face made me stop. There was a weight behind his words, a quiet finality that told me he had already fought this battle with himself. And lost.

The air between us grew heavier, like the conversation had drained what little energy remained. Gerard let out a tired sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm going to sleep," he muttered. "G'night."

To my surprise, he grabbed a pillow and started heading toward the bathroom.

I frowned. "I thought you were sleeping on the floor."

"Bathtub's more comfortable," he said without turning around.

I didn't argue. Instead, I climbed into bed, pulling the thin blanket over me. The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the room, but it did nothing to quiet the thoughts racing through my head.

No album means no band.

That thought echoed over and over, refusing to let me rest. If Danger Days never got made... my band wouldn't exist.

I stared at the ceiling, my mind spinning.

What even happened between them?