Promise and precision and a mess of youthful innocence.

Promise and precision and a mess of youthful innocence.

You meet him working as a waitress in a small, run-down bar, the sort of place only wizened old men or biker guys in their leathers frequented. And for that reason, you could just not fathom why a band would hold their after-gig party there. "Do you have any idea who these guys are?" Your fellow waitress, Chrissie, asks you, her dark eyes focused on the mass of people that had now occupied every single surface in the small establishment. You shrug. "Sorta. Fall Out Boy, they're called. I've heard some of their songs." Chrissie switches her attention from you back to the crowd. Everyone seems to be less-than-sober and generally cheerful and happy.

One of the band members - the drummer, you think - catches your eye and beckons you over. You sigh quietly, quiet enough so that even Chrissie can't hear you, grab your tray and walk over to them, pretty damn pleased you chose not to wear heels today. With all the spilled liquid and broken glass that crunched under your feet, high heels would have been lethal. He gives you a grin and proceeds to order a selection of drinks, apparently for the other members and what you suppose must be the tour crew.

"Honey, I'm gonna have to go. God knows what that husband of mine has done with the kids, and they have school tomorrow. You alright to lock up?" Chrissie says, already clutching her purse, coat on. You nod once. All the other waitresses went home a while back, back to their young children and husbands or boyfriends. You're the only one with nobody to go home to, just a cold, empty flat that no matter how long you live there, will never feel like home.

Both of you turn back to look at the small group of people left in the bar, sitting around a table. "They shouldn't be that long." You say hopefully, eyeing their half-full glasses and tired eyes. Chrissie hugs you quickly goodnight, then disappears out into the cold night air, leaving you alone to manage the remaining clients. You watch as they finish up their drinks and leave one by one, until there are only two of them left. The one in the silly hat finishes up, placing the empty glass on the table, and turns to his friend. They speak softly between them, and then the dark haired one shakes his head. The other, who you recognize as the lead singer, shrugs, pats him on the back and leaves, nodding to you behind the bar.

Now it's just you, him, and the stench of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke in the air. He just sits there, nursing his half a glass of vodka or whatever it is, staring down at his hands. You sigh once again, louder this time, hoping he'll hear you and snap the hell out of it, but no, no response. It's almost four in the morning now, and you want nothing more than to be snuggled up under your duvet in your tiny single bed, as uncomfortable as it may be.

Eventually, you give up waiting and walk over to his table, sliding into the seat opposite him. He looks up at you, eyes unfocused and bloodshot. He blinks, once, twice, and then frowns, seeming to question exactly why you're sitting in front of him. For the first time, you notice him, really notice him. His dark brown eyes stand out against his tanned skin, the sort of eyes you can tell really crinkle up at the edges when he smiles. They're ringed with something dark and smudged, probably eyeliner, although most of it seems to have faded. His lips are pale pink and full, and he's sporting a 5 o'clock shadow - except it'd technically be a 4-in-the-morning shadow. The dark hair that had stood out to you so much before is actually jet black - dyed or natural, you can't be sure - and is styled dead straight across his face, then slightly messy and spiky at the top. The arms that are crossed in front of him are bare but for a t-shirt, and you can't help but notice the multiple tattoos that cover pretty much the entire length of both arms.

You clear your throat. "Uh, sir? Are you okay?" The word 'sir' feels strange on your lips, and you regret saying it almost as soon as it's out of your mouth. "Yes." He replies quietly. No hint of humour, no smile, just a short, curt reply. You swallow hard, sitting up straight, hands resting on top of the table. "It's just, it's almost four in the morning, and, uh, if you hadn't noticed, everyone's already left." He looks around him at the empty bar, then back to you. "Not everyone." His voice is gravelly, harsh, like he smokes a packet of cigarettes a day. He probably does. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, but let his comment slide. "Right. Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to close up now."