People say he's a nobody.
That he's an outcast.
That little short-shit that plays the bass guitar should be thrown offstage and never seen again.
But you think otherwise.
You think the shortness is cute.
You see the way he st-st-stutters is the act of adorableness.
And how his voice squeaks and how he talks so small, it makes your heart swell with affection for your little brother.
You think it's funny how his bass is almost as tall as he is.
You can't help but have that upward tilt of your lips when he puts the guitar strap over his neck and just about tips him over.
You admire how amazing he strums that instrument with his little fingers so awesomely.
You meet him offstage, and he takes the strap from around his tiny body and sighs. He's tired, you see how his frame slumps and his eyes are drooping. At first you think he might be upset, but then you see the lazy smile plastered to his lips as Matt comes and fistbumps him for having another sold-out concert.
Matt turns to you and does the same thing, grinning that wide, dimpled grin. Then he turns to Brian and Jimmy and starts to talk with the both of them.
The conversation that they're having you're not super interested in, so you tune them out. Not caring.
You set your own guitar down, looking up when you hear Johnny sniffle.
He's sitting down now, running his fingers over the four strings of his bass.
He doesn't look to happy, and you figure you were right. He was upset.
You make your way over to him, tapping the tip of your shoe on his guitar to catch his attention.
Tap, tap, tap.
He acknowledges you with a tiny 'Hi, Zacky' and doesn't look up.
He tries sounding cheerful, but there's that hint of sadness that you can detect so easily. You know him all to well, he's not feeling great.
"What's wrong, little man?" You question, kneeling down in front of him.
He doesn't answer right away, his gaze stays on his bass and the monotone 'dumdumdum' of him plucking a single string fills the silence of him not answering your question.
"Johnny," You repeat, lifting his face up with a single finger-Oh his face is so soft-and looking him straight in his eyes. "What's wrong."
Again, he is silent and you grip his chin with your hand, commanding him to tell you why he was upset.
He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a croaking noise that can only be defined as a beginning of a sob.
Immediately, he's pulled into your arms, cradled against you chest. And he breaks, like a egg being cracked against a bowl.
His tears flood out into your shirt, soaking onto your chest and staining your collarbone as his small face is pressed against your neck.
You whisper stuff into his ear, coos that make no sense. Purrs that were only to make him relax.
But his crying isn't going away, his body is shaking in your arms and before you know it, all your band members-your family-are surrounding you and him, rubbing his back, stroking his hair or saying things that were meant to soothe the small man.
You realize he hasn't had this kind of attention in a while.
You realize there is an emptiness that surrounds him when it comes to the fans.
You realize that he is disliked by most people, that nobody pays attention to him.
You realize, he's alone.
Everybody pays attention to you, Matt, Brian or Jimmy. Never him. He stays in the shadows at every concert, not making eye contact with anyone.
"Johnny, you're not alone. I promise." You whisper, pulling him back and looking into his brown irises.
He's hyperventilating, tiny chest heaving rapidly.
You look up at your brothers above you for help and you see the worry and concern on their faces.
You tilt Johnny's head up to look, and show him the worry they have for him. The concern for their baby brother.
His breathing slows and he sniffles, jaw quivering.
You smile, and so do the others as your four voices ring out, creating a melody of melted voices. It's like you read each others minds.
"We love you, Johnny."
"I l-l-love you t-too..."