Riffs in Time

Morning came too soon.

I barely slept. My thoughts were a tangled mess—everything Gerard had said, everything he hadn't, and the crushing weight of knowing that they wouldn't be making my favorite album. Our favorite album. My band was done, just like his, and the reality of it pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

But that was a problem for another time—for my time. A bridge I'd have to cross when I got there. If I got there.

The air in the hotel room was thick with unease when I finally sat up. Gerard was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over as he sketched in his notebook. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line—so lost in thought he barely noticed me stirring.

"Morning," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. My voice came out rough, like I'd swallowed gravel.

Gerard barely looked up. "Morning."

I hesitated. Last night, we'd talked about the band, the future—or the lack of one—and now, in the harsh morning light, it felt like something fragile had been left behind in the dark. He seemed different, more closed off, like he had already built his walls back up overnight.

A beat of silence passed. Then, Gerard cleared his throat, standing up and stretching. "You should get ready. We're already running late."

Shit. I scrambled out of bed, wincing when my knees twinged in protest. The scrape from last night's fall burned as I moved, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

Gerard caught it. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just—" I waved him off, hoping he'd let it go, but of course he didn't. His gaze flickered down to my knees, and before I could protest, he was kneeling in front of me, inspecting the scraped skin with a slight frown.

"It's not that bad," I muttered, shifting uncomfortably under his attention.

He ignored me, standing up and grabbing a first-aid kit from the bathroom. "Better to clean it now before it gets worse."

"I can do it myself," I tried, but he shot me a look that silenced any further argument. I sighed, letting him kneel back down as he dabbed at the wound with an alcohol wipe. I hissed at the sting, and he muttered a quiet, "Sorry."

I risked a glance at him. His face was unreadable, but his hands were steady, careful, like this was something he'd done a million times before.

"There," he said after a moment, pressing a bandage over the scrape. "Should be good now."

I swallowed, suddenly feeling like I should say something—something about last night, about the band, about how he didn't have to take care of me—but he was already moving, grabbing his jacket and putting it on.

The silence stretched, uneasy. Gerard finally exhaled sharply and rubbed his face. "Look, about last night... Just forget it, alright? I was tired."

I frowned. "Gerard—"

"Seriously. It's not a big deal."

I could tell he didn't want to talk about it, so I let it drop—for now.

A knock at the door made them both jump. Frank's voice rang through. "We're late, assholes! Move it!"

"Get ready quick," he said. "The guys are gonna kill us."

After a quick shower, I stared at my clothes, still damp with sweat from yesterday's fiasco, and grimaced. No way was I putting those back on.

Gerard must've read my mind because he sighed and tossed a shirt and a pair of pants through the bathroom door. "Here. You can borrow these."