Riffs in Time

Studio days were becoming a new kind of routine—arrive, grab coffee, lead them to how a song is gonna go, repeat. We'd been working off the demos from the tour for weeks now, layering them, perfecting them.

Much to my relief, Gerard and I were never alone during meetings about the album. If anything, there were always too many people—management, engineers, the new drummer who had finally joined us, and, of course, the guys. It helped keep me grounded. It helped keep my feelings in check.

Mostly.

It also helped that I had Tyler as a distraction. We'd kept things casual, which worked. He texted me good morning, made me laugh with his terrible jokes, and never pushed for more than I was willing to give. It was easy. Safe. And after that night at the bar, I needed something safe.

But the album was still at the center of everything. We were finally moving past rough demos and unfinished ideas. Concepts were being solidified, personas chosen: Gerard was Party Poison, Frank had named his character Fun Ghoul, Ray settled on Jet Star, and Mikey, after much deliberation (and one too many suggestions from Frank), had finally settled on Kobra Kid.

"I still think you should've gone with 'Nightmare Blaster,'" Frank said as we piled into the studio.

"That's not a name. That's an energy drink," Mikey shot back.

"An energy drink that kicks ass."

Ray sighed. "Please, let's not start this again."

I stifled a laugh, letting their voices blend into the background as I glanced at Gerard sat in the corner, scribbling intensely into a worn-out notepad, headphones shielding him from the rest of us.

"Great, the headphones are back," Frank sighed dramatically, gesturing to Gerard. "He's unreachable when he's like this."

"Literally," Ray said. "I yelled his name five times earlier and got nothing."

"Maybe he's doing it on purpose," Mikey offered, adjusting his glasses. "You know, selective hearing."

Ray chuckled, shaking his head. "We'll never get through to him now."

Mikey sighed deeply, strumming idly on his bass. "At least he's writing again. Better lyrics than drunken ramblings, right?"

Gerard didn't even flinch, lost in whatever song had his attention. I wondered if he even heard us. I hoped he didn't.

"So," Mikey said, turning to me, "you recognize this one?"

I glanced at the notes scattered across the table, my heart immediately picking up pace. They were working on "Save Yourself, I'll Hold Them Back." Of course I knew it—I'd known it since I was in middle school, screaming the lyrics in Chester's basement.

"Yeah," I said quietly, tracing the title with my finger. "It's one of your best."

"Finally, some optimism!" Ray laughed. "You're usually way more cynical about our music."

"It's not cynicism, Ray," I corrected, grinning slightly. "It's called being right."

Gerard tapped his fingers against the desk, staring at the lyrics in front of him like they were a puzzle he hadn't quite solved yet.

"Alright, let's take it from the top," Gerard said finally, standing up.

We ran through the song piece by piece. Ray's guitar tore through the air, sharp and relentless. The bass was heavy, grounding everything, and Jason's drumming was tight—solid. And then, Gerard stepped into the booth.

The second he started singing, I felt it in my bones.

"I'm the only friend that makes you cry
You're a heart attack in black hair dye
So just save yourself and I'll hold them back tonight."