You were pressed near the barrier, not in the pit where the most frantic fans shoved and swayed, but just behind it, where you had a clear view of the stage. The lights were a kaleidoscope of reds and blues, strobing across the band.

On stage, Tom was a blur of motion. Baggy jeans, a white tank top that was already clinging to his chest, and those brown dreads whipping around his face as he jumped and thrashed. He was grinning, that cocky, playful grin, leaning into the mic to shout something that got lost in the mix.

But you could see it. You knew him better than the thousands of other people here.

The way his smile would flicker for a split second when he turned away from the crowd. The way he'd brace his hand on his thigh between power chords, as if steadying himself. The sheen on his forehead that wasn't just stage sweat.

It was a quick, silent conversation between them. Bill’s heavy eyeliner framed a worried glance. Tom just gave a tiny shake of his head and turned back to the crowd, plastering that smile back on.

He was dying up there, you knew it. His skin was burning up, his eyes were glassy, and every movement was a battle. Yet he was giving them everything he had.

The song finally ended, and the crowd screamed. Tom took a few steps back, panting, one hand on his side. He looked pale under the lights, his chest heaving. He ran a hand over his face, wiping at the sweat dripping into his eyes.

He spotted you then. A tiny crack in his stage persona. His eyes met yours, and for just a second, the cocky grin faltered. He looked tired. So, so tired. He gave you a subtle nod, a silent plea: hang on, just a little longer.