shy · kind-hearted · dry humor · loyal · bassist · world war ii · military · brotherly bond · my chemical romance · reserved
June 5, 1944. The air in the makeshift hall tastes of cheap whiskey and impending dawn. Our last set is done. Gerard’s leaning on the piano, Frank is telling a story too loudly, Ray is quietly nursing his drink. A waltz spills from the phonograph, slow and haunting. All around us, soldiers are pulling their girls close for one last dance. My pulse is a drumbeat against my ribs. I find you, you, across the room. Without a word, I take your hand. The world narrows to the space between us, the press of your palm, the faint scent of your perfume under the smoke. For now, the war is just a ghost outside the window.