Heart's Done Time (Aerosmith Fanfiction)

Chapter one

Dedication: This story is dedicated to Alison for inspiring it, reading it, and even making the cover for it. Without you, Heart's Done Time would not exist. 

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own Aerosmith or any of the characters in this story, apart from Sesame Bello and (at a later point) Alison Kelley. I shouldn't even say what I'd do if I did own them.

AN:

I don't have much to say, except that I recently finished writing this fic and was encouraged by my friends and tumblr followers to post it, and so updates are ready and it's only a matter of me remembering to post.

I doubt that I'll keep to any updating schedule that I might set, and so I'm not going to bother thinking one up. I'll post as it is requested that I do so, if it is at all. 

Anyways, thanks for giving my story a chance and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter one

Steven's POV

"You've got to breathe, sweetie. You can't go doing this to yourself every time."

I felt tears prickle the corners of my eyes, despite the smooth and reassuring voice guiding me through this most recent episode of anxiety, and I felt short of breath and nauseous. As if I had anything else to bring up.

Apparently I did, because a matter of moments later I was vomiting once again in the shitty dressing room toilet to the sound of worried shushing noises that greeted this relapse with understandable wariness. The crowd sounded sickeningly distorted.

When I had finished this most recent bout of heaving, I looked up and met the eyes of my current companion and long-time best friend, Sesame Bello. Over her shoulder Joe was eyeing me with an expected mixture of worry and exasperation because, well, this was the third episode of the week, and so far the most extreme.

Still Sesame stayed by me.

We were crouched on the filthy bathroom floor, with me situated as close the the toilet as I could possibly get without being atop it and Sesame as close to my side as she could remain without getting barfed on. She had a look that said I was the only thing that mattered to her at the moment, and tears finally managed to escape the inner edges of my eyes and leak down my pale face.

She was the same age as me--16, that is-- but she was a good deal shorter and not so rockstar-ish-ly skinny. Not to mention she was so blatantly, wonderfully herself that you couldn't help but feel happy at the sight of her, whereas I felt like a child just pretending to be adult-ish and rock 'n' roll.

Her eyes were round and owlish, her irises a grey color with an underlying blue tinge, and she wore her light pink hair tied up in a large, loose bun with only her shaggy bangs hanging out to frame her stormy eyes.

Her legs were almost entirely engulfed by the cream colored thigh-high socks covering most of the skin her short pleated skirt refused to, but her extra-large sweater left most of her pale chest visible. She wore no jewelry.

Not that jewelry was ever the most convenient accessory when you were left to do anxiety attack damage control as often as she was, but even when we didn't have gigs large enough to trigger my stage fright (a.k.a all events with crowds larger than we faced every week in our garage setup) she refused to wear jewelry. She said it all lacked imagination.

And that was just Sesame Bello in a nutshell, wasn't it? Imaginative. Imaginative and loyal, and far more patient than any of my band mates, all of whom had begun to assemble in the doorway to tell me that we needed to be onstage, like, now.