Inspire.

Her fingers had been crossed for hours. Hours, days, weeks and months. She was losing hope, losing faith in the band that had helped her through so much. This night, this show was the last stride, her last attempt to be reminded of what it truly meant to feel galvanized.

It was her current half-empty attitude that had kept her from manipulating the crowd. She could have easily accessed the very center of the stage, the front of the audience, so to be seen. Yet she had made her way to the side, away from everyone else, to a bar standing a few yards from the main floor.

“Can I get you something?”

She shook her head apologetically at the girl leaning across the bar, the surrounding sound far too loud for a response. They looked about the same age, give or take a couple years, and the bargirl nodded, sending her a small smile before her attention was demanded by a guy on the opposite side. She sighed, leaning her left elbow against the surface, her ability to still see the stage slightly surprising her as people jostled and pushed themselves towards the front.

The noise was unbelievable, suffocating almost, as the band exploded around the stage, triggering hands in the air and screams, infinite screams that never seemed to die. It was winding down, she could tell, and she watched the frontman shake out his limbs, a grin evident on his charming features. She pushed herself away from the bar, excusing herself between tightly packed people as the easily discernible introduction to ‘Bulletproof Heart‘ shattered the last remains of the evening. Cheers erupted from the people within the room, and she sighed, remembering what is was like to be so much in love with a band. A girl to her left was sobbing, screaming to her friend that it was her “fucking favorite song, oh my God!” It was almost as if the crowd could have carried the tune by themselves, yet she continued slipping her way towards the back of the room, alongside of the stage.

She had to know.

The bass was particularly heavy in the area in which she eventually stopped, slightly behind the speakers and to the direct right of the stage. She could see the four of them, alternating forward and backwards and they thrashed around, playing with all their hearts. And she acknowledged that, if nothing else, music was still in their hearts. The music was still important, and it still drove some part of them to be the band that they used to be.

An elbow connected harshly with her back, pushing her roughly into the barricade. Her breathing momentarily disrupted, she coughed, attempting to get air circulating back in her lungs. She grasped the metal for support, and a nearby security guard eyed her warily, as if she was going to attempt to jump over the bar. She avoided his gaze, realizing suddenly just how close to the stage exit she was. And her knuckles whitened as the first member of the band stumbled off stage, a smile on his face. The guard gave her another look, but she did nothing. She simply watched him, watched him high five people as he handed his guitar off and shook his mop of hair around.

A second figure caught her peripheral, but she was too stunned to see them standing two feet in front of her to smile or say anything. The two exited the room, chatting animatedly to each other as they retreated to a separate room. Loud screams initiated as Frank, too, left the stage. His exit was far more flamboyant, for he skipped down the stairs with a childish grace as he threw his guitar over his shoulder. He caught her eye as he walked past, and he grinned, sending her a small wink before following after his other two bandmates.

Her gaze flickered to the stage, where the last remaining member of My Chemical Romance stood, blowing kisses to the kids that nearly bowed at his feet. He was treated regally as their king; he was their bringer of bullets, their creator of revenge, their parade leader, and their Killjoy. And as he released his hands from his mouth, the true love he had for his music radiated outwards, casting a spell over the crowd as they roared their approval.

“NEW FUCKIN’ JERSEY!”

He held up his middle finger, grinning wildly as he received hundreds in response, and he jogged to the right, away from them. Away from them and towards the stairs, towards the escape, and towards her. The yells and cheers were still reverberating, never dying, even as he was out of sight from the main audience. He jumped the last few stairs, and her mind went blank. She could see his face in prefect detail, the strands of his hair pushed back with sweat, and her hands gripped the barricade as she called one single word.

His name.

She hadn’t expected him to stop, hadn’t expected him to turn around to face her as he did. And as his eyes found her, they burned into her, froze her lips from telling him exactly what she wanted to. He looked confused, wondering if she was going to do anything, and before she could think she held up her hand. The word ‘Inspire’ burned black against her skin, the marker smudged from clenching and unclenching, slipping and sliding. His eyes darted across it in a single line, and he nudged the security guard to the side, who had been bearing down upon the motionless girl. And with a single outreached of his arm, his fingers had slid gently between hers. He gripped her hand with a reassuring squeeze, and he eased himself towards the barricade, towards her. He smiled at her, leaning in just close enough that she could hear his simple response that sent her soaring.

“Thank you.”

He gently squeezed her hand once more, sending her a brief sideways grin before he pulled away, his vibrant stride fading away down the hallway until it was gone. Her right hand was pressed over her mouth in disbelief, her left hand now hanging strangely in air, the lack of touch stinging her skin like an electrical shock. Kids crowded behind her, demanding between each other to know what happened, yet those who had seen simply watched in awe.

“He fucking grabbed her hand!”

“What happened?!”

“That was so nuts!”

They were asking her now, yells and questions that she could not address. She simply stood there, her hand still over her mouth, looking down at her hand that had seconds before been taken into another’s grasp. Another who, after all this time, gave her the reassurance she needed. He reignited her faith in him, in the band, in herself. She smiled genuinely for the first time that evening, shying away from the attention and simply looking down at her hand.

“No,” she murmured, dragging her thumb along her palm. It crossed the word, which would forever be imprinted in her skin.

“Thank you.”