Inspire.

He liked to watch her sleep.

It worried him at first, that he would find his eyes traveling to the gentle rise and fall of her body. He felt like he was violating her, like he was betraying himself and his love. But Gerard Way eventually realized that there was no harm in it. He felt sort of selfish despite this realization, that he was using her tranquility to adhere to his own. But he pushed it to the side, and now found himself again enveloped in her flawless form.

Her tanktop had been pushed halfway up her stomach, exposing the skin of her flat stomach to the cold air of the bus interior. The blankets had been shoved downwards in a desperate attempt to release unwanted heat. Her shorts lay discarded on the floor alongside her bed. Her chest simply rose and fell, and her eyelids fluttered with unseeing dreams and thoughts that swirled amongst her scattered mind.

He liked to draw her during these times especially, when her hair was fanned out on the pillow, when her mouth was barely opened to allow air to escape. Her hand was tucked under the lumpy pillow provided to her, her other curled loosely around the sheet upon which she slept. His fingers flexed as he held the charcoal, the lightness of it flying across the page as he barely looked down to inspect his work.

He drew blindly, though he had done it so many times that he knew the contours of the paper by heart. It was the equivalent of drawing with his eyes closed, though he would much rather observe the sight in front of him. He had always liked how she would play one song as she slept. Her iPod was plugged into her outlet and lay alongside her, looping the song that she wished to fall asleep to, depending on her mood. He had never heard the current song, but as he listened, his hand slowed, the charcoal losing its momentous endeavor and eventually falling silent.

She sighed, shifting slightly as the song started over. He sat stoic for the first time since the first time he had permitted himself to watch her. He simply allowed himself to listen. It wasn’t catchy, exactly. It was sort of crude, the way the lyrics were spoken as opposed to the alternative, but as the chorus transitioned, the easily interpreted words made him bite his lip.

“Well I’ll never be the same
Train wreck
That I am
And I am, what I am, what I am, what I am a train wreck
That I am
And I am, what I am, what I am, what I am a train wreck.”

His eyes flew over her figure once more, failing to see any imperfections in her. How could she see herself as such? She rolled over, now facing him completely, and he saw her eyes blink open slowly. They found him, caught guiltily with the sketchbook on his lap and a forgotten piece of charcoal hanging loosely between his fingers, like a disregarded cigarette. He could do nothing in his defense, as her eyes observed everything and nothing all at once. He knew she knew what he was doing, but he could also tell that it didn’t bother her in the slightest. But as the chorus played softly once again from her iPod, she clenched her jaw, pushing a few buttons until the noise disappeared.

They exchanged a wordless glance, and he saw in her eyes that she was fallible. She was misconstrued in the fact that she believed this with all her heart, when all he saw was how beautiful a person she was. He could prove it, with the half a sketchbook full of her phlegmatic figure and her expressionless escape.

“What were you dreaming about?” he finally asked her, and she blinked, disregarding the blankets now pooled around her uncovered waist.

“You were drawing me.”

He tilted his head, confused, and she shook her head, acknowledging his confusion.

“In my dream. You were drawing me.”

His confusion dissolved, leaving in its wake a vague sense of in-articulation. He really didn’t know what to say, or where to begin saying it. In her eyes he saw that he didn’t have to, and she asked, “Do you always draw me? When I sleep, I mean.”

All he could do was nod.

She scrunched up her nose. “Why?” she asked simply, looking down at herself. “Wouldn’t you rather draw your wife? Or Bandit? Or even a piece of toast?” He smiled at her slight immaturity. She could see nothing about herself worth capturing, while all he saw was everything she didn’t.

“You’re peaceful when you sleep,” he said, raking his florescent hair back out of his face. “You look...untouched. It’s your most vulnerable, but your easiest to read.” She looked at him nervously, her eyes darting around his face. He wasn’t lying; he wasn’t making fun of her. He was genuinely interested in her persona, and her simple habit of an afternoon nap convinced him to touch a sketchbook that hadn’t been opened in months.

“Do I inspire you?” she asked, sitting up and tugging down at her tanktop subconsciously. He smiled, mostly to himself, but also at her realization of the obvious.

“Yeah, I guess you do.”