It was the heat. That's what Alfred kept telling himself. Arthur was just being an insufferable, musically oppressive snob because of the way too hot, San Francisco should never reach those sorts of temperatures heat. Hell, even Matthew was getting grumpy as the blond hunkered down near the window and fanned himself with pieces of sheet music. There was an unhappy downward curve to his lips as he stared out the window and attempted to beat the heat like the rest of the sorry lot crammed into the suffocating studio apartment.
"Whose fucking idea was it to meet at Alfred's?" Arthur seethed, grabbing up the edges of his shirt and peeling the fabric off.
His nose wrinkled at the all too familiar musk of man floated through the air. Any other time, the scent would have gotten him mocked but, in light of the current weather, none of the would be bullies could work up the energy to say a thing. All energy was officially sapped from the group. Not even Francis could work up the will to try and cop a feel as Arthur ungracefully fell onto the couch beside him. Their instruments lay abandoned, pens and pencils littering the floor beside the corpses of abandoned lyrics and compositions.
"Do shut up," Francis put in as he languidly raised a hand to fan himself, looking dainty with his legs crossed at the knee and upward tilt of his head. "You're going to give us headaches."
"Belt up, Frog! No one wants to hear you either," the Brit hissed.
He would have struck out at Francis, had he the get up and go. Unfortunately, or fortunately for Francis, Arthur lacked any and all such get up and go. Instead, his hand rose then fell with an unimpressive thump back onto the plush upholstery, landing just beside a gouged out hole in the fabric. There was a not so distant time when he distinctly remembered there not being a hole in Alfred's couch. Mysteriously, after a three-day binge with his band mate and boyfriend, the hole had materialized and now seemed to almost be staring at him, offended.
"What did I do to you?" he asked the hole quietly, receiving no answer.
From across the room, standing before another open window, Alfred cocked a brow at Arthur and somehow mustered up a smile despite the absolutely miserable conditions, "You finally losing it?"
Indignation flared within the Brit as he turned a pointed look on Alfred, "Oh, shut it. You're the one who's daft."
"Such cute slang," Alfred crooned, bending at the waist and flashing Arthur a wolfish grin.
When the action caused him to lose what little of the cool breeze had been lapping at his back, America straightened quickly, neck snapping at the action and causing him to wince. What should have been a fun, although disorganized and rather rowdy, get together with his band mates had turned out to be a horrible, awful, unfathomable mistake. The apartment was sweltering, the thermostat seated just outside the window reading ninety-three. Humidity was pressing down ruthlessly, causing them all to inhale more water vapor than actual air.
Arthur opened his mouth to instantly protest, only to be silenced quickly by Canada, who had been trying to get his two cents in the entire time, shouting, "Shut the fuck up!"
All eyes turned to the Canadian as he flushed and looked sheepishly down at his hands. Most times, the man was so forgettable, just a blip on the radar. Other times, the times, which only his most personal of friends had the privilege of glimpsing, Matthew could bring forth the same demanding, over zealous nature, which Alfred flaunted. Being twins had its perks for Matthew, even if he was being constantly reminded of the two-minute difference between he and his self-proclaimed older brother.
"Geez, Matt, chill," Alfred admonished, face scrunching in distaste.
If there was one thing Alfred didn't enjoy, it was being yelled at or told what to do. That charming little quality had always won him gold stars with their parents. Immensely irritating or not, that was how Alfred operated and what Matthew had to deal with for the twenty years spent constantly shadowing his brother.
Silence fell over the group as they all went back to mulling over the heat and non-productivity pervading the air. They were supposed to come up with a new song for a show on Friday. Given the heat wave, that goal seemed intangible. Neither Arthur nor Alfred could think properly to compose any intelligible lyrics. Francis and Matthew were so beaten down by the extreme temperatures; no new rhythms could be composed. They were at the mercy of Mother Nature, who was currently seeing to it that they sweat their asses off and beg for a sudden snowfall.
With a whine, Alfred came away from the window and went to sit on the arm of the couch instead. He sat just beside Arthur, glancing over almost shyly before he bounded onto the other man. Flesh met flesh as the two shirtless boys tumbled onto the cushions. Francis, wary of keeping away from any and all sources of body heat for the first time in his entire existence, got up from the couch and went to fiddle with the stalled out and broken down fan sitting forlornly in the far corner.
"Get the bloody hell off me!" Arthur hollered, attempting to push Alfred off.
The man on top of him was not moving, at all. The heat between them was intolerable and having such close contact given the current state of affairs, in other words, the heat, it was getting nearly unbearable. Forget that they were both naked from the waist up and Alfred lacked any pants, it was just too damn hot. His nails bit into Alfred's shoulder as the younger boy nuzzled his face against Arthur's chest. A mantra of 'Off, off, off' filled the stilled air as Arthur continued his valiant efforts to rid himself of a currently unwanted welt that had decided to tackle then lay on him.
All his actions brought forth was another whine, "But Arthur! We haven't done the dirty in so long. You're killing me."
Alfred's words brought an intense blush to Arthur's cheeks as he concentrated his efforts, twisted, and threw America to the floor. The man currently face down on the stained with god only knew what carpeting emitted a low groan as he pushed himself to lie on his back, pouting and shooting the puppy dog eyes Arthur's way. He got nothing but a huff and cross of the arms from the Brit as Arthur averted his gaze and instead chose to watch the absolutely fascinating interaction between Francis and Matthew.
The Canadian had been calling for his brother's assistance for nearly a quarter of an hour as Francis continually tried to grope the young man, attempting to be seductive even as the tendrils of hair closet to his face clung to his forehead and cheeks in a very unattractive fashion. Matthew failed about, pushing at Francis and attempting to get the man away from him while he nearly dangled half out of the open window. Protests of 'I'm going to fall, cut it out' and 'Not when they're here' echoed through the small apartment. At any other time, Arthur would have been amused. However, in the short time he had taken his eyes of Alfred, the other man had once again set himself in the position to jump him.
With a very undignified squawk, Arthur resumed his attempts at bucking Alfred off him. Given the current position, when Alfred resting quite comfortably on his hips and looking much like a cowboy wrestling an irate bull, there was little he could aside from grabbing his band mate's upper arms and trying to throw the boy once more to the ground. No such luck this time.
All his efforts awarded him was a purr from Alfred as the American bent over and nestled his head in Arthur's damp locks, "Come on baby, they seem like they're busy enough."
"Sod off!" Arthur growled, ceasing all movement. Alfred had been enjoying the ride far too much for Arthur's liking, especially since it was such a lewd and inappropriate action given the company. "Get off. It's too hot."
He received another pout and keening whine, only to be given what he so dearly sought. Alfred flung his legs over the edge of the cough and stood gracelessly, nearly falling face first into a pile of suspiciously foul smelling clothing. The blond groaned, running a hand through his hair and trying to pry some of it off his face. When he pulled his hands away, hair lying flat save for the ever gravity defying lock he so lovingly called Nantucket, his eyes landed on a notebook lying at his feet. Across the open page was scrawled what had been the beginnings of a wonderful song. Now it sat on the floor, forgotten and left behind as Alfred's brain short-circuited and baked within his skull.
Huffing, the boy hoisted up the notebook and glanced over the lyrics. At least his musical genius was helping his souring mood. Let it be known that Alfred Jones was always a very cheery man, that is, unless he was shoved into sweltering or sub-zero temperatures. Then his normally outlandish behavior took an easily irritated, narcissistic turn.
"Guys, this is gold, seriously! We can totally play this at the Hows," he cried, holding it up for the others to see.
"Fuck you, Alfred!" Matthew seethed, holding Francis wrists firmly as he tried to balance himself on the window ledge. No aid had come to him despite his begging for at least a little help. Once again, he had been ignored and molested. "Why are you even writing the lyrics? You can't sing."
"Well, fuck you, Matt!" Alfred fired back with a pointed finger. "I'm gonna be singing this song, so deal with it."
Arthur scoffed from his new position on the couch, sitting at the very edge of the cushions to allow his back some ventilation. The Brit turned vibrant emerald eyes on Alfred, speaking volumes of disbelief and barely concealed contempt. He was their group's singer, not Alfred. That was the way it had always been. Alfred played guitar, Francis bass, and Matthew drums. Arthur sang. That had been their set up from day one when the motley crew got the ever so wonderful idea to start a side band.
"Guys!" Alfred whined, slapping the notebook for emphasis, "I can sing! Really. I do it in the bathroom all the time!"
All three rolled their eyes. Really, they should have expected something like that.
At their response, Alfred put hands on hips just above his patriotic boy shorts, which, if he did say so himself, Alfred found to be quite dashing. With a childish huff of his own, the man grabbed up his guitar and plopped down on a bar stool that had been dragged from the quaint kitchen area. Hefting the strap over his shoulder, Alfred propped one foot onto one of the rungs and placed the notebook on his thigh. After a moment of bopping his head and fingering the strings, he looked about ready to start and Arthur was definitely ready to stop the train wreck before it began.
"Alfred," he began, leveling the other with a disapproving scowl, "You can't sing, just accept. . . It."
His words faded out as Alfred began to play, unconcerned that Arthur had been talking. With eyes glued to the notebook, slipping shut after having memorized the short few verses well enough, he began to strum the guitar and found a generic and pleasing enough sound to accompany his vocals. Smiling ruefully, he began to sing and effectively shut Arthur up.
"My lungs gave out as I faced the crowd. I think that keeping this up could be dangerous," he paused, adding in a small solo before continuing, swaying with the beat he had created. "I'm flesh and bone, I'm a rolling stone, and the experts say I'm delirious."
Collectively, the other three stared, mouths agape. In all honesty, all of them thought of Alfred's voice as rather grating. He was loud and obnoxious, proud owner of perhaps one of the most annoying voices known to man. While Matthew had quickly grown to accept his brother's flaw, both Arthur and Francis had needed a one-month period to adjust. Now Alfred was presenting them with this.
"Shit. . . You're good," Arthur breathed, still disbelieving.
There was no way Alfred, of all people, could be good at singing. Could be better than him. There was just no way. No way in hell that he could ever accept that. From behind him, Francis was clapping though and soon Matthew joined him, both having gotten over their shock.
"That was beautiful!" Francis cooed, going to America's side. One hand slapped down on the boys flesh only to pull away quickly. It was too hot for even Francis to stand much bodily contact. "It's settled! You're our new singer and Arthur can take over guitar. You can play it, can't you?"
With a raised brow and obvious challenge in the air, Francis watched as Arthur rose and smacked the other man upside the head, "Of course I can, Frog!"
Francis laughed, head tossed back and a careless, breathless sound escaping his lips. From the corner, Matthew couldn't help but smile ruefully, enjoying his lover's banter and comical interactions. Even if he wasn't noticed very often, Matthew could be sated knowing he had amusing friends, though, the heat did help quell his jealousy at Francis' straying hands. When the air pressed in and one's skin felt sticky and think, physical contact was usually discouraged. Usually.
"Whatever guys! Just chillax," Alfred breathed, setting aside his materials and standing. Stretching languidly, back popping in several places, he stifled a yawn and made shooing motion towards the door. "S'much fun as this is, we're obviously not gonna get anything done and I have some shit to do."
Arthur threw his hands up, "You're insufferable! First you try jumping me, now you're corralling me out the door! Really, I-"
The Brit was easily silenced as Alfred slunk up during his rant and effectively ended all intelligent thought as they locked lips. The kiss was awkward as they always were, but a fondness and tender sort of tentative caring writhed beneath the surface as Arthur submerged himself in the lip lock. The heat still pressed in, San Francisco still went about it's usually, noisy business, but there was at least a bit of contentment between them for a moment. Only a moment.
With a grand gesture of the hand, Francis split up the couple as he slung as arm around Arthur and carefully steered them towards the door. There were exchanged pleasantries and goodbyes, a promise to Arthur regarding a broom closet shag, and softly spoken reminders for Alfred to get his part of the work done before their next performance. All of it, the social interaction and playful banter between he and the others, left Alfred drained as he ran a hand through his damp locks and plopped gracelessly onto the sofa. He grimaced, the feel of the couch utterly unpleasant beneath his exposed flesh. Propping his feet onto the table, Alfred ignored his surrounding and chose instead to focus on the task at hand.
After all, Dan had been gracious enough to allow them to play at his bar. It wouldn't be right to show up with old material or none at all. The small fan base they had accumulated would surely not approve. Hell, he wasn't even entirely sure they would accept him as the singer. However few fans there were, Alfred still did his best to please them. Should a girl yell for him to take off his shirt during a performance then the shirt promptly came off. If someone screamed for a solo, he would fly into a tirade of notes, building a crescendo and taking over the show till he brought the impromptu song addition to an end.
Humming to himself and chewing absently at his knuckles, Alfred stared down at the sheet of paper. There was an idea lodged in his brain but it refused to budge. The absent nibbling went from his knuckles to the pencil clutched tightly in his. In all honesty, there really was nothing to do. He had snagged the day off from surfing shack and no other pressing matters seemed to need attending to. It was the silence Alfred sought. He needed quiet and peace to think properly, or at least deeply.
So, with the silence stretching on and filling his apartment, Alfred quickly began scrawling things down. Whatever had dammed his creative flow had been properly removed. Whatever came to mind went down on the page, regardless of its contents. He always figured he could go back and sort things out, do it his own way. Musical freedom, the joy of expressing himself how he pleased. Arthur would disapprove of his haphazard way of song writing, but his boyfriend be damned! Alfred Jones did things his own way, regardless of the later headache he would likely sustain due to a confusing mess of chicken scratch and unrelated verses.
Alfred's pen never stopped moving across the page. When the sun dipped below the horizon and all light, save for the more than likely unhealthy glow of the city looming just outside his living room windows, he finally set aside his monstrous creation and stood. Stretching once more, he sorted things out in his head. Lists and schedules be damned as well; Alfred Jones didn't need those either!
Mentally, he went through the checklist. It was Monday and he figured there could be at least four viable new songs in the countless pages of his poor handwriting. Tomorrow he could organize them, prep them for all musical additions, and hand them over to Matthew. Wednesday, if Matthew had everything written down and sorted out as he usually did, they could practice the new material. Thursday, surely if Matthew hadn't finished them the day before they would be done the next day, they could gather once more to practice, squeeze in a bit more practicing on Friday, and head off to Hows at nine.
He nodded, liking his plan well enough. There were no concrete details, everything left up to perhaps fate or chance and enough wiggle room so if anything went a miss, nothing would be lost. After all, if one of them had work, they could always work practice around that. If someone suddenly got ill, there was enough left to mental time schedule that it could be accommodated. Everything would work out, Alfred just knew it. The knowledge of good things to come made him grin as he groggily stumbled to the bedroom, bumping into the doorframe and dresser, before falling into bed and wishing for a plane ticket to Siberia.
All too quickly, the day came. Long ago the jitters had left them, Matthew aside, and they stood calmly back stage. Alfred ran through, what Arthur would loudly proclaim as ridiculous and annoying scales. Matthew adjusted his drum set while both Arthur and Francis tuned their respective instruments. Dan stood back, leaning against the wall as he watched his long time, though sometimes distant, friends prepare for another show. Grinning madly, he came forward and clapped Alfred on the back.
"I never thought you'd be the one singing! You just sounded like a wallaby with its tail stuck under a tire," Dan cheered, smacking Alfred's back once more.
The gesture was returned as Alfred retorted, "Yea, fuck you. Just you wait, I'll be amazing!"
Dan chuckled, shaking his head and stepping back, "Alright, I'll be listening. But if my ears bleed, you're paying for the medical bills."
Alfred pouted, ready to interject and get his two cents in, and most likely defend his totally super cool singing abilities, when Arthur cut in irritably, "Hey, can you both belt up? Let's get this over with and get our pay."
The pout was turned towards his boyfriend as Alfred gently pushed Arthur, getting a glare for his actions. While the fighting seemed tame, least compared to their usual shouting matches, both Francis and Matthew exchanged knowing glances. All week tensions had been building between the two. Arthur would request a specific time for them to meet; Alfred would be late. Alfred would want to relax and talk for a moment; Arthur would hound him and cry out about how they needed to get to work.
What had started as a fun get together between their close knit friend group soon morphed into something almost surreal. The more shows they played and the more familiar faces in each crowds, Arthur grew more and more strict, almost directing their band as if it were a business rather than a project between friends. Francis never skipped and opportunity to point it out and mock his friend, but Alfred had always been too kind to voice his displeasure. Things had taken a turn for the worse in the past week though.
Openly, Alfred would express his displeasure, whining about his hobby becoming work. Friction soared and the two became distant, exchanging almost mechanically preformed displays of affection. A chaste kiss on the lips when they parted, a hug when they met up, a light touch of their hands, but nothing more ever came. Matthew was overly worried about the development while Francis brushed it off.
What will come will come, there was nothing Francis nor Matthew could really do about it.
"Fuck off, Arthur, loosen up, seriously," Alfred bit out. His attempt at playfulness was lost within the venom in his voice as he grabbed up the microphone and stepped forward, waiting for the curtains to part.
They were to be the first band in a three-act performance. Not headliners, but Alfred was joyous enough to be an opener as the curtains parted and the crowd cried out wildly. There were many on the floor, though some he recognized. Those lucky men and women received a wink as Alfred announced he would be the new singer. Some groaned and exchanged looks clearly expressing their uncertainty. He merely laughed.
"Don't worry guys! Promise I'm good or you can boo me off the stage!" Alfred cheered, grabbing a stray woman's hand as she frantically jumped up and down, waving her arms. "Careful there, miss, you'll hurt someone doin' that."
There was a slant to his grin and certain fire in his eyes as he went to straighten up and start the show. Arthur's hand whipped out before he could fully stand and yanked him back, away from the crowd. Breath ghosting over Alfred's ear, Arthur harshly whispered, "Get on with it, git. I haven't got all night and I have shit to do tomorrow morning."
He turned his head, fixing Arthur with a sour look. As he faced the crowd once more, Alfred put on a dashing smile before the performance began. Gripping the microphone tightly, Alfred brought it close to his lips as the lights focused onto the stage and the crowd quieted, waiting. His mouth parted and eyes slipped shut as he lost himself within the music, "Time to lay claim to the evidence. Fingerprints sell me out but our footprints' washed away from the docks downtown. It's been getting late for days and I feel myself deserving of a little time off."
He swayed as the four of them found their rhythm, their home, within their music. Alfred lifted his head, after having lowered it slightly, and lids parted as he regarded the crowd. They seemed enraptured, their fans actually taking a liking to his voice. No matter how he tried, Alfred couldn't keep the grin from his lips.
"Pass me another bottle, honey. The Jager's so sweet but if it keeps you around, then I'm down," Alfred purred, stepping forward towards the crowd and away from his band mates. Arthur be damned along with schedules and lists. He loved being on stage, being the center of attention. The more he sang, the higher Alfred went as he lost himself. "We'll hit South Broadway in a matter of minutes and like a bad movie I'll drop a line, fall in the grave I've been digging myself, but there's room for two, six feet under the stars."
The more they played, the less Alfred became sure of who, where, or even what he was. This was what he had always wanted, this attention and freedom. On stage, he could do whatever he pleased. Pelvic thrusts or swooping arm gestures, anything went. He could move about or stand still, whisper or scream. So many possibilities and everyone was calling out his name, their band's name. It was intoxicating, invigorating, and he never wanted it to end. He could hear them chanting FACE, FACE, FACE.
All too soon, it came to end. Sadly setting the microphone back onto the stand and with some parting words and a wave, Alfred and the others exited the stage, sweating like pigs but over all pleased with their performance. As soon as the next group rose to prepare for their set, Alfred began chattering. He ran through the array of emotions he had been swallowed up by on stage, earnestly speaking as a child would about an exciting new toy. Leaning forward at the waist and eyes lit up, Alfred chattered excitedly.
His high was short lived as Arthur voiced his less enthused take on it all, "Would you shut up? It wasn't all that great. Like every other bloody show we've done."
Head snapping towards his partner, Alfred fixed him with an irritated slant of the lips, "Fuck off, Arthur."
It was Arthur's turn to whip his head around. With arms crossed and the beginnings of annoyance tugging the edges of his lips downward, "No, you shut your bloody trap. I'm getting sick of the filth that spews from your mouth."
"And I'm getting sick of you ruining everything," Alfred bit out.
Both Francis and Matthew exchanged nervous glances, the later of the two worrying the edges of his sweatshirt as he glanced nervously from Alfred to Arthur to Francis. What had once been a rather pleasant atmosphere soon over flowed with tension as Alfred and Arthur locked gazes, neither bothering to hide their anger towards one another. A deathly silence fell over them, dangerous and waiting like a leopard waiting to pounce, ready to go for the throat.
"Uh, guys, maybe you should relax, eh? We've all been pretty stressed lately and all. . ." Matthew tried, glancing down to the floor.
His soft words fell on deaf ears; he once more went unheard as the tension mounted. Something was breaking, they could all tell. It was Alfred who finally broke the silence, throwing his hands up and letting out a frustrated and strangled sigh. He hastily stood from where he had been reclining previously. Snatching up his notebook, left on a side counter from before they went on stage, he turned on his heels and pointed an accusing finger Arthur's way.
"You know what?" he began tersely. "I am so sick of you! Always proper this, proper that. Make money, work, work, blah, blah, bunch of shit I don't care about. You ruin everything! Every time!"
Arthur stood, taking a step forward as his arms uncurled and went to ball at his sides, "Like hell I do! How is it my fault that I actually want to do something productive in my time? You can't always flounce about and just do what's fun."
Alfred snorted, "Yea, see. This is what I'm talking about."
"What do you mean?"
Arthur's eyes were narrowed dangerously, daring Alfred to answer. After having been together for the past three years, certainly a large chunk of their young lives, both knew the challenge wouldn't go unanswered. With a cocky smirk, Alfred grabbed up his abandoned jacket. Straightening his back and using that ever important but small height difference, Alfred attempted to tower over Arthur.
Face scrunched and one hand held out in a mocking gesture, he put on a British accent and began reciting an earlier conversation from the week, "Lads, we have to get this done. What, no, Alfred! We don't have time to engage in those sorts of things. You wasted all our time. Nag, nag, look at me, I'm British!" Of course, the end was that of Alfred's own making.
Arthur didn't seem to appreciate the rather good, and comical (as Francis found it, chuckling into his hand) impersonation as his cheeks colored red and body went ramrod straight, "Well, if that's how you feel, why the fuck are we still together, you sod rat?"
"Iunno, old man, you tell me why I put up with your bullshit."
"My bullshit?" Arthur screeched. "I'm the one who has to deal with whatever drivel leaks from your mouth!"
"You know what, why the hell are we even together?" Alfred put in, crossing his arms and looking all too fed up. "All we ever do is fight, make up, fight, make up. I'm so tired of this!"
This was when Francis' laughter died. He quickly stood, moving to stand between the two and break up their argument. While fighting had always been a normal, though tedious and often times weary, part of their relationship, something was off about this argument. He could sense the coming words, what was to come. Matthew must have known it too as he went to stand behind Alfred, ready to drag the man away for a long night of cheap beer, pancakes, and venting. Never before had Alfred and Arthur actually agreed to end their relationship. For all their cross words and heated stares, the two always knew they would gravitate back to one another. This time felt different.
"Like I'm not sick of this and you?" Arthur chuckled darkly, turning away from Alfred as Francis came to stand between them.
Matthew latched onto Alfred's arm, attempting to tug the man away and just get out there before things turned horribly sour. Belatedly, he remembered Alfred's over powering strength as the man ripped his arm away and took a threatening step towards Arthur, Francis being the only thing separating the two. With finger pointed once more and a bitter look, Alfred finally took the step over the edge.
"Fine. Let's just break up then, call it quits, 'cause I know I'm walking away from you and everything else."
He received only a glare as he turned his back and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. With shoulders slumped and brows drawn together, Alfred left the trio standing awkwardly in the back room of Dan's establishment. Only Francis and Matthew really realized what had just occurred. While Alfred stormed out, Arthur huffed and turned his back, going to retrieve his things so he could leave as well.
Francis stepped away, a sad smile tugging at his lips as he wrapped an arm around Matthew, despite the man's weak attempts to escape, "Cheri, would you go follow after Alfred? I'll keep an eye on Arthur."
Sighing, Matthew nodded, knowing he was in for one hell of a night. They exchanged a short kiss before Matthew pried himself from Francis' grip and went to go find where Alfred had disappeared. Knowing Alfred as he did, Matthew knew his best bet would be the McDonald's across the street or the super market a few roads over. A Big Mac and tub of Ben and Jerry's always seemed to be Alfred's after-argument fix.
A/N: NOT ANOTHER BAND AU, RUUUUUN. Yes, it is. And I think I'm actually gonna really like this story, because it's not about any of them being pop artists. Blah, iunno, screw justifying it. Just enjoy it. I have this entire thing planned out, so, yea. Yes, their group is called FACE, cause I could. And I'm not inventive. The UKUSUK business will not last, so fret not. Also, songs from this chapter are both by All Time Low. It's "Therapy" and "Six Feet Under the Stars", I believe. Read, review, ilu.