4th March 1987 / Vancouver, Canada

Bon Jovi had returned to their regular touring schedule after a measly week off. Amelia had been dismayed to learn that Doc had upped the ante in the band's commissions after they'd been dormant for a week. Jon suddenly had an unmanageable number of interviews to attend, nevermind photoshoots and radio station visits. Amelia was appalled, a one week break was already nowhere near enough time to mend Jon's deteriorating health, this increase in workload was going to be the death of him.

She knew better than to mention anything to him but Jon's most precious attribute, his voice, was completely shot. He couldn't sing a note, every word came out as a hoarse and dire wheeze. It was an elephant in the room, the Bon Jovi singer could no longer sing, and unfortunately that was the least of Amelia's concerns.

The man had become a walking corpse, unhealthily thin, abnormally pale and ever-silent. She hated him for it, how could he do it to himself. To her? Her stress was at an all time high, he occupied practically her every thought as she worried about his health and wellbeing. It kept her up each night.

Jon's dream of becoming a rockstar was falling apart. He was unhappy, he was lonely at the top and his health was degenerating rapidly.

They were playing a second show in Vancouver. As expected Jon's voice was failing. He was lucky that each member of his band could sing, it made the use of playback less noticeable.

The audience seemed to love Bon Jovi despite Jon's lackluster vocals and there was no question as to why. Bon Jovi always gave it their all, Jon gave it his all despite his illness. Even if he had to use the microphone stand to keep himself upright, even if his throat burned with each belt he gave, Jon was willing to die up there on stage so long as he gave the kids a good show.

Of course, as soon as he exited the stage was when the façade crumbled. His legs gave way on the stairs, two men on either side of him had to carry him away. Amelia just about had tears in her eyes at the sight.

"Is he conscious?" She heard one of the men ask. "Boss?"

Everybody stood around as they carried him to a bench and lay him flat. The doctor, Mr Edwards, came rushing up to Jon and knelt beside him.

"Mr Bon Jovi, can you hear me?"

Amelia held tight onto her brother, she couldn't bear to look.

"It's alright Mills," he cooed. Amelia was so distressed she didn't care about the sweaty hand in her hair. "He'll be alright."

Jon's chest started to stutter. The doctor immediately flipped him over onto his front, the rest of the crew recoiled in disgust as Jon started to cough up bile.

"He doesn't look alright," Amelia retorted.

Jon released a loud belch.

"Alright," Mr Edwards announced. "One of you help me to carry him."

One of the rigging men volunteered. The crowd started to disperse as Jon was taken away. It was only Amelia who chased after them.

"Mr Edwards, where are you taking him?"

He gave the girl a sympathetic smile. "Back to the hotel away from all of this excitement. I can work on him from there, Miss."

Amelia watched his limp body carried away. Her extreme worry trumped all of her anger at him. She just wanted to run and chase after him, hold his hand and assure him she'd be there for him.

She turned back to find Steve mopping up all of Jon's vomit. Richie was still standing there. "You okay?" He asked.

"How are you not worried? That's your best friend, he's just collapsed."

Richie exhaled. "Of course I'm worried, I love the guy to death but the doctors can help him better than you or I can right now. We'll check up on him later or tomorrow when he's feelin' a little stronger."

"You need to stop touring."

"I know," he sighed. "But try tellin' that to Jon. He won't listen, he won't cancel shows. Neither will Doc."

"But it's killing him!"

"We all know that Millie, Jon's stubborn as a mule when it comes to the band. Maybe he'll see this as a lesson."

Amelia didn't wait around backstage for long. She bade Richie and everyone else goodbye and soon made her way back to the hotel. She got stuck in the concert traffic, her knee didn't stop bouncing for the entire hour and a half she was in the taxi.

It was close to midnight by the time she got back to the hotel. She rapped on Jon's door and waited impatiently for an answer, it came in the form of a stout man she knew to be Doc McGhee.

"You alright kid?" He asked, looking both weary and drained.

"Is Jon in there?" She tried to peer over his shoulder. "Can I see him?"

Doc glanced behind him and back at Amelia, contemplating. Eventually, he sighed. "Sure, kid. But make sure he rests."

Amelia almost regretted entering when she saw the sight of him, he looked half dead. She concealed her wail of distress with her hands, then covered her eyes momentarily to block out the sight that she found so disturbing.

He was asleep, thankfully, she couldn't imagine he'd feel too good if he'd witnessed her gasp at the mere sight of him. Small droplets of sweat covered him like condensed moisture on a window. The only color to his skin existed in the form of a pale blue undertone and purple eyebags, even his lips were chapped and lifeless.

It seemed that all the illnesses he'd been valiantly staving off had hit him at once.

She sunk to his side on the bed and sought out his hand from beneath the covers. It was no effort to move at all, all muscle had dissipated, he had no weight left to him, no substance. That alone was enough to bring her to tears, she swallowed them accordingly.

She held onto his hand for perhaps an hour before he stirred. She played with the numerous rings on his fingers and the bracelet cuffs on his wrist, it was all she could do to distract herself from Jon's constant moans of pain and discomfort.

He awoke to a cold chill and a strange sensation in his hand. He recognized the delicate touch of a woman though he was too delirious to decipher whom. He thought it might've been his mother taking care of him through whatever ungodly fever had come over him, only upon further examination he realized that the gentle touch didn't come from his mother's hand. These fingers were even daintier, more slender and delicate.

"Amelia?" He whispered upon opening his eyes. The word came out as nothing more than a wheeze.

"Jonny," she cooed. The grip on his hand tightened, she brought it to her warm breast and kissed it. He wondered if he were dreaming, Amelia sitting by his bedside was too good to be true. Besides, if he were really as ill as he felt then Amelia would be fuming at him, she would've launched into a thorough chastisement before he could even open his eyes.

And yet, he was sure that it was her hand that pressed against his forehead to check her temperature. He was certain it were real, not some fever dream from deep in delirium.

"Is it really you?" He attempted to ask. He found his voice completely gone, his throat burned with each swallow or expell of air.

"Shh," she crooned. "Don't talk."

A sudden cold chill swept through him. He groaned and writhed with discomfort he'd never felt before. His teeth started to chatter.

Amelia pulled the covers up to his neck and over his bare chest. He started to panic, whatever had happened to him had rendered him bedridden, he was sure of that. He couldn't perform and his band couldn't do it without him.

He quickly grew too hot beneath the thick duvet covers. His cold chill morphed into a burning sweat, infinitely the more unbearable of the two evils.

"Can I get you anything?" Amelia asked. She was panicked to see him fluctuate so quickly and so violently, hadn't the doctor given him any medicine?

Jon attempted a miniscule shake of the head.

"Stay there, I'll be right back."

He was dismayed when he felt her leave. He wanted to call out and stop her from going wherever she was going, he wanted her at her bedside, he wasn't sure he could take it without her.

She soon returned with a bowl and a wet washcloth. "Hold still," she commanded gently. She swiped the washcloth over Jon's forehead, neck and cheeks. She hadn't taken care of him when he was sick since they were teenagers, even then his sickness hadn't been more than a mere cold. Amelia didn't know what this was, it wasn't a flu or a virus but instead a result of his body's exhaustion. It was terrible to watch him toss and turn with a fever of his own creation.

"Do you need anything?" She asked him.

Jon couldn't bear to let her go for even the time it'd take her to fetch him something. "Will you hold my hand?" He reached out in an attempt to grasp her.

"Of course." She squeezed his hand firmly and placed it in her lap. "I'm not going anywhere," she assured him softly. "I'll stay with you all night if that's what you want."

He opened his eyes and gazed at her. Oh, he wanted. Needed, actually.

"Thank you," he managed. "Will you help me sit up?"

"Is that wise?" She queried.

Jon nodded. "I feel a little better. I need to be upright."

She helped him into a sitting position and placed two pillows behind him.

"How are you feeling?" She touched his cheek, half to check the temperature and half for her own personal indulgence. "Are you alright?"

His fever seemed to have simmered down a little, he was at least coherent.

"I think so," he murmured. "What happened to me? I didn't fall on stage, did I?"

"No, you collapsed as soon as you came off it. You scared me half to death."

He gave a little smile. "Sorry."

As he was sitting up Amelia became acutely aware of his bare chest. More specifically how thin he'd become.

"Do you want any food? More water?"

He shook his head. "I don't think I'd keep it down."

"You feel nauseous?"

"Mm. In a moment I might have to ask you to help me to the bathroom."

The moment came very quickly. Jon's insides began to cartwheel and not in a good way. Amelia helped him out of bed and over to the small ensuite bathroom. She was horrified when holding him, he was nothing more than a bag of bones. She didn't understand, his entire diet consisted of pizza and McDonalds. He should've been chubby, not anorexic-looking.

She attempted to accompany him into the bathroom. He gave her a look, a plea of sorts. She reluctantly let him go in alone.

She waited outside the door for two minutes before she heard retching. She winced at the noise, so vulgar and violent. It continued and grew worse, eventually she reached a point where she could no longer stand idle. She opened the door and knelt beside him, pulling back his hair and rubbing his freckled back.

"It's okay," she cooed, though it sounded rather silly with his head in the toilet. "You're okay. You poor thing."

"Oh god, make it stop," he groaned. As he retched no vomit came out, only bile. He was a shell of a man.

"Drink some water." She handed him one of the polystyrene cups.

He was shaking by the time he'd emptied his stomach, his throat had never felt such an unbearable burn. He collapsed backward into Amelia's arms, like a mother she wiped the drool of his chin with tissue paper. For a moment he lay in her arms desperate to be closer to her. It was just about as humiliating an embrace as he could possibly have imagined.

It took him a while to regain enough strength to move. Amelia helped him back to his bed. "Do you feel better after that?"

It was clear that he didn't. It'd sent a whole new bout of shivers through him.

"I hope you know that the tour is over after this. You and your band are taking a big long break."

Jon wasn't coherent enough to follow. "Don't make me think, Amelia."

She sighed. "No, of course. Lay back and rest."

One minute he was fine and the next he was squirming in discomfort again. Occasionally his breathing would turn erratic, his chest would shake and rattle as he tried to get enough air into his lungs. Amelia found it entirely distressing, she thought he should be in hospital.

"Shh," was all she could say. She placed her palm in the center of his bare chest in an attempt to steady it. "It's alright. Deep breaths, Jonny. Deep breaths."

Where was the doctor? Surely he couldn't have seen fit to leave him like this, it was evidently no ordinary fever.

His chest was warm beneath her palm. Jon had always been a rather hairy man but Amelia couldn't believe just how much his chest hair had grown in the few short years they'd been apart. By now he looked like... what was it called, a wookie! It was a fully fledged carpet, Amelia was merely thankful that he didn't grow it on his back, the chest she could get behind. In fact, she found it rather manly.

But that was besides the point, Jon was sick, his chest hair was irrelevant. She was relieved when she felt his chest settle and heart return to a normal beat.

"Good," she soothed, "See? You're alright. Keep taking deep breaths."

She threaded her fingers through his hair, a sensation that managed to bring the faintest of smiles to his face. She didn't care that what she was doing might overstep the delicate boundaries between friends and lovers, Jon's condition was imperative. She knew he would do the same for her in an instant, she couldn't fail him when he needed her.

He reached for the hand that wasn't occupied caressing his face and hair, grasped it with what little strength he had left. "Thank you, 'Melia."

With her thumb she pushed Jon's lip into a small smile. "You don't have to thank me, you'd do the same for me."

In a way it warmed her heart to know that Jon trusted her enough to see him in such a frail condition, he was a rather proud man at his core.

With time he seemed to settle again, his temperature evened out as did his breathing. Amelia's soothing caresses had almost lulled him back into a sleep, if it weren't for the unbearable burn in his throat or the constant fluctuations in temperature he was sure he'd be out like a light.

Amelia tried to think what might comfort him. In times where she'd been ill or stressed Jon had often sang to her. Amelia couldn't sing, at least not very well in her eyes, but she could read.

"Would you like me to read to you?"

She grabbed his book off the bedtime table. Her eyes rolled involuntarily upon seeing its cover, of course he'd ditched his classics and gone straight back to reading biographies. Ol' Blue Eyes.

Well, she could read about Frank Sinatra if it'd help him to relax.

"Why don't you sing to me?"

She smacked the book lightly on his arm. "I don't sing. Asking me to sing would be like asking you to draw me something. Hopeless, not to mention painful."

He looked at her with pleading eyes. Oh, he was like a puppy! One of those baby golden retrievers that you could just never say no to, big winsome eyes and an endearing pout. It was no fair, he was a grown man, grown men weren't supposed to have that effect.

"I love your voice," he whispered dreamily. "Please, sing to me."

"But I can't!" She argued. "What if somebody walked past and heard? Oh, and when you get better I'll never hear the end of your teasing."

He started to deflate, a sight which made Amelia sigh. He was a shell of a man, frail and fragile. In that moment she shelved her pride and took his hand again.

"What would you like me to sing?"

"Anythin', darlin'," he said with renewed excitement.

Amelia thought for a moment. Who's Jon's favorite? Oh, Elvis! And she could disguise her terrible singing behind a funny voice.

She almost launched into a verse of Can't Help Falling In Love With You, only decided in the nick of time that singing those lyrics to Jon wasn't the cleverest idea. She instead opted for a rather slowed down and much more mellow version of Hound Dog.

Jon's frown softened almost as soon as she'd sung the first sentence. Her voice was lilting, and while the intonation and pitch weren't perfect her tone was otherworldly and beautiful. He'd missed her singing, sometimes he dreamt of her voice.

There were a few voice cracks along the way, Jon let out a breathy chuckle each time. The imperfections made it all the more perfect, he didn't like perfection as it were, he liked character and quirks. He liked Amelia.

"Oh, stop laughing at me!" She whined. Her face flushed scarlet, she was glad Jon was too tired to open his eyes.

"I'm not laughin'.. Your voice is beautiful."

"Then what's that smirk on your face?" She huffed. "Lose it, Jon Francis."

"Hey? You can sing better than I can at the moment.." Though it hurt him greatly to admit.

"Your voice will be fine." She squeezed his broad shoulder. "So long as you take a break and rest it accordingly."

"Keep singin'."

Amelia acquiesced. Jon took reverence in the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand, if it weren't for them he was sure he'd have gone mad. He always thought she'd make a beautiful singer if she tried, she could be a singer-model.

"Oh, enough of this," she eventually cried. "Surely my wailing can't be a source of comfort to you."

Jon wished he could vocalise his doubts.

"Look at you," she tutted. "Withering away, mute, exhausted, nothing but a bag of bones."

Well, that wasn't very comforting. Her fondle of his cheek however, was.

"You're an idiot Jon Francis, you've been sick for months and now it's all coming to a head. Only you would go up and perform every night even though your voice is gone and you're completely burned. And you have the gall to label me as stubborn! Perhaps I'm stubborn but I'm not stupid."

As harsh as Amelia's words sounded Jon knew they came from a place of love. She wasn't really mad at him, or at least she was saving her anger until he was more prepared to deal with it. She instead chided him lovingly with a tinge of playfulness in her tone.

"Trouble with you is that you're so loyal," she continued. "Disgustingly so, you always were. You won't dare let down your fans even if it's killing you, and well Mr Bongiovi? I'm here to tell you that has to stop. You can't put your fans first if you're not in good shape."

Jon peeked an eye open at her. He couldn't ever look at her without smiling, even when he was sick and tired. She brought out a flurry of delightful emotions each time he laid eyes on her, her smile was bright and beaming and utterly contagious.

"I like this side of you," he quipped. "It's much less serious than the angsty broody front you've been puttin' up since you came back. Maybe I should be sick more often."

"It is not a front," she denied vehemently, crossing her arms over her chest. "And you will do no such thing. You're getting back to full health, I won't let anything impede that task."

It was funny, somebody so small and petite attempting to appear so stern.

"You're adorable," he chuckled. That slight gesture caused a horrendous burn in his throat.

"Be careful who you call adorable, Jon. Do you call all your friends that?"

Ah, friends. In the moment Jon had almost forgotten about his newfound friend status, sometimes he slipped into an old way of thinking.

He wondered if now was a good time to express his feelings on the matter. He was sick, she was sure to take pity on him; he could always claim Doctor Edwards had put him on some drugs if he took it a step too far.

"Most of my friends are male," he responded sardonically. "I don't know if adorable is the right word for Tico Torres."

"Perhaps not," Amelia conceded.

"Friends huh," he murmured. "Is that what you want?"

"Of course it's what I want," she said sharply. "You're my boss and my brother's best friend. Whatever you're starting to imply... Don't."

Now was not the time for a conversation like this.

"Brother's best friend," he scoffed. "Don't give me that, I knew you way before I ever met him. I'm more to you than your brother's best friend, don't insult me."

"Don't get emotional," she ordered. "You need to rest."

Jon fixed his jaw. She was right, it hurt to raise his voice. Getting riled or starting to question his emotions wasn't a good idea in the moment. It would have to wait.

"Fine." He stared at the ceiling in deep thought. Happy thoughts, think happy thoughts. "Do you remember the first time I took you out?"

"Is it healthy for you to be reminiscing on such things?"

"Sure, takes my mind off this fever."

Amelia was skeptical. Jon was a sentimental man, he often latched onto distant memories and spiralled.

"Oh come on," he groaned. His illness had apparently given him a newfound confidence. "How long are you gonna pretend nothin' happened? I like lookin' back on simpler times."

Amelia pursed her lips. "Alright."

"I remember when I first saw you. You looked like some punk chick."

"Yes, when I look back it's a wonder my parents let me dress like that."

Not that they'd particularly approved.

"I remember the way you looked at me. You seemed so puzzled, like you didn't know what to make of me," Jon mused.

"I didn't. You were an enigma to me, I'd never met anyone like you, you were strange. Bold but shy, and I daresay you were a cutie!"

Amelia blushed at her admission, Jon revolted at it.

"Yeah, sure. 'Cutie'." Cute, pretty, Jon shunned the words, he was a grown man!

"Oh but you are," she teased. "Even I have to admit it, completely platonically of course." She pinched his cheek sharply. "You're the golden retriever of rock and roll."

"Great, what I always wanted."

Amelia retracted her hand. He seemed to have perked up a little. "You shouldn't be talking this much," she advised, "You should rest."

"I feel fine." He was used to his throat hurting by now, it'd been hurting for months. The more he talked the more he grew accustomed to it. "C'mon, don't look at me like that. I don't want your pity."

He hated to see the solemnity on her face. He liked her smile all too much, it rejuvenated him. "It's just a fever."

"Sure, Jon."

He didn't really want to go down that route with her, he wanted to keep her mind off his illness as much as his own.

"Do you ever think of the past?"

"Evidently not as much as you."

"Come on," he goaded. "We're alone, Amelia. I know you must think about it sometimes, I ain't gonna judge you."

"You're being awful pushy."

"Yeah well you have to be. Can't get anythin' out of you these days, you've got a heart of steel."

"I do not," she puffed.

"Prove it then. Talk to me, ever think of the past? Ever wish things could be different?"

Amelia grew tired of his vague advances, he was too bold, too pushy.

"I try not to think of any possibilities, I like to live in the moment. I'm not like you, I don't torture myself with hypothetical scenarios."

Heart of steel, he'd said.

"But -"

"No," she interjected. "I don't think of these things. I loved you, Jon, but it was a long time ago. It's irrelevant now, I don't think of it, I started a new life in England, now you're my boss and my brother's best friend. It's natural to wonder what it might've been like had we rekindled but it's pointless, it's an impossible scenario."

"Why's that?" Jon held his breath.

"Don't be a fool, there's a myriad of reasons."

"Like what?"

"Richie is my brother and he's your best friend. Boss-employee relationships are entirely unethical, you are a rockstar, and perhaps most imperatively I am not in love with you. I worked hard to move on from you, it took me many years. You need to bury whatever residing feelings you have."

Jon's throat constricted. Oh, she could be so harsh, so blunt and cruel. He didn't have the energy to debunk each of her claims, though he was sure he could if he did.

"I have buried them." His face contorted in a deep sadness. "But you know I still care for you. I do wish things could be different. I guess I don't always understand it."

"Understand what?"

"Well I haven't changed, and you certainly haven't changed. You're obstinate as ever, volatile, a complete priss, we're the same people."

Amelia's mouth was left hanging open at the backhanded-ness of his comment. Priss? Priss. Oh, the asshole!

That's one thing I haven't missed, that awful nickname. Little Miss Priss.

"Our situations have changed entirely, you're a world-famous rockstar. We had a teenage relationship, Jon, we've both moved on."

"Teenage relationship," he scoffed. "You're delusional!"

"I've moved on," she insisted. "Don't make it any more difficult for me. I don't want a relationship, not with you nor anyone."

So that was the answer to the question Jon had been seeking for months. A resounding no. Fantastic.

"You make it so difficult for yourself. You wouldn't even give someone a chance?"

"No," she answered.

He had nothing to do but sink back in silence. He felt a sudden depression, he hadn't realized how much hope he'd still harboured that she might come back to him, might offer him a chance to woo her again.

"You could have any girl you wanted in the world," Amelia patted his cheek in a pitiful gesture. "You don't want me, Jonny."

He removed her hand from his cheek. "Don't tell me what I want."

She swallowed. Jon's expression had turned stale, she searched for the usual warmth in his eyes to no avail. "Do you truly still have affection for me?" She asked.

"I don't know," he replied quietly. "I don't know if I still like you, I don't know if we're still compatible. I'd like to find out."

One date, that was all he could dream of. Just one chance to show her they could still work, find out for himself what felt right. Maybe it'd even be closure, but he knew for sure that he couldn't rest until he knew they were no longer compatible.

Amelia felt her heart torn in two. Years ago she would've said yes in an instant, but she'd changed. She was more rational now. Her head told her no, absolutely no, whatever he was proposing was a no. "I'm sorry, Jon. Richie's my brother, I don't want to betray him." Richie was the best excuse she had right now, besides it wasn't exactly like she was lying.

"Fuck!" He cried, startling Amelia. He covered his face with his hands. "Fuckin' piece of shit," he cursed lowly.

"Excuse me?"

"Not you, your damn brother! Did I think that this many years on the name Richie Sambora would still be givin' me grief in my relationship? Guess I thought we'd have figured it all out by now, he's my best friend god damn it. Why the fuck doesn't he know about our past, Amelia? Why?"

If Richie Sambora loved Amelia as much as he said and had any sort of regard for his best friend Jon, then why could he not come around to the idea of the pair loving each other?

"Shh," she cooed, starting to panic. "You're working yourself up."

"No, I can't rest," each word burned painfully. "Why can't you make decisions for yourself? Why is there always an excuse with you, 'oh, my father won't let me', 'my brother won't let me', you don't belong to them, make your own decisions already you're almost twenty six."

"I have made my own decision," she snapped harshly. "And my answer is no. I will not do whatever you were proposing. I will not date you, I will not give you a chance. I do not love you Jon, no more than a sister loves her brother. Now, stop being delusional."

Jon was immediately silenced, all fight fizzled. So that was it, articulated so bluntly and so painfully.

"I'm sorry," Amelia whispered, taking his hand and hoping to soothe the deep wounds she'd cut with her words. "I didn't mean to put it like that. I just..."

"Leave me alone, Amelia."

She watched the light and love fizzle from his eyes. He took back his hand.

"No. I'm not leaving you when you're sick."

"I said leave me. The doctor's coming back soon, I don't need you here."

"Well, I'm not going," she harrumphed. "What, now that you know you don't have a chance with me you don't want my company?"

Jon stayed mute. He closed his eyes and attempted to forget her presence. He tried to think of other things, other women, fleeting relationships he'd entered. None of them had been quite so difficult as Amelia.

And yet, none of them had brought him even a fragment of joy beyond fleeting sexual pleasure.

When Amelia truly accepted you into her heart it had the power to make you feel on top of the world, Jon only wished he could find a way back in.

He felt Amelia's soft lips at his knuckles again. "I'm sorry," she spoke soothingly. "I didn't mean to upset you. I don't think you'd be saying any of this if you were the right frame of mind."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he whispered. "Not a wit."

"Well, I know that you can do better than me. You can have any girl in the world, there are girls far prettier than me that'd die to be with you. Girls that are kind, not cold, not stubborn or broody or painfully obstinate. You can do better."

"Better?" He didn't understand, was she delusional? "I don't want better, Amelia. I can see that you aren't happy, you aren't the same since you've come back. You've always been broody but never cold, you used to be open and loving. What's happened to you?"

She felt tears prick her eyes. "So very bold and vain of you to assume my happiness has anything to do with you."

"Forget it. What's the point in trying to have a conversation with you? It just turns into an argument. Any time I almost get you to open up you shut yourself off again. I can't get anythin' out of you, it's like I don't even know you! What happened to the Amelia I knew because this isn't it. I don't know this woman, only small glimpses."

Amelia felt thoroughly chastised. He had an annoying track record of being correct in instances such as this. Amelia hated being wrong above all else.

But that was the thing. Once upon a time the one person she hadn't minded being wrong in front of was Jon. He couldn't give a rat's ass if she made a fool of herself or made a poor judgement, he'd loved her for all her mistakes. Somewhere along the line she'd forgotten that.

She wasn't surprised he hardly knew her, she hardly knew herself.

"Please don't cry," Jon whispered. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not going to cry," she snapped, only to quickly remember that Jon wouldn't care if she cried. Sure, he didn't want to see her cry but he'd never judge her if she did.

Still, better to avoid it. She sniffled away any tears and took a deep breath. "I'm not going to cry," she repeated to herself.

"Of course I know you," Jon rectified. "I just mean you're closed off is all. You make yourself so unapproachable, it's a lonely way to live 'Melia, I've been there myself. Let others in, let me in. We always got along great together, there's no reason that has to stop. We could be great friends."

"But you'll always want something more," she sniffled. "You as good as said that before."

"I could move on if I was sure it was what you really wanted."

"I don't know what I want. I'm tired and you're sick, I can't think straight."

"Alright.." Jon murmured. "Then perhaps we should revisit this some other time."

"Perhaps," she agreed reluctantly. The pair sat in perfect silence for a moment. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Was You Give Love A Bad Name about me? Do I give love a bad name?"

Admittedly it'd made her slightly insecure when she first heard it.

Jon chuckled in amusement, Amelia had a gift for conversation. "No, darlin', of course not."

"Oh, thank the lord."

"You're gettin' it confused with Never Say Goodbye, that's the one I wrote for you."

She averted her gaze from his prying eyes. "Yes, I wondered about that one too."

"Of course Bad Name isn't about you." He laughed softly and reached for her hand. "You uh.."

"I what?"

"Well. You made me the happiest man on earth, you couldn't ever give love a bad name. Bad Name was Richie's story, some fling he had or somethin'."

"Right. My brother, what is it you called him, The Casanova of Rock and Roll?"

"Yeah. That's your brother alright. He's the one that gets the girls in this band."

"Sure."

"S'true! I don't care much for casual sex these days. I mean, sex is the best feelin' in the world, but you get bored of it when it's with strangers every night. I was a sex addict when we first started tourin', couldn't get enough of the groupies. Didn't last though, it's not as fulfilling as it sounds, sex is better when you really know the person, know what they like n' what gets 'em goin'."

"That's lovely," Amelia said shortly.

"What, you doubt me?"

"You always have groupies attached at the hip, you expect me to believe you don't take them to bed?"

Jon heaved a sigh. He'd hoped she might've forgotten that. "I don't," he said truthfully. "And be honest, you haven't seen me with groupies in ages. It was always for show anyhow, 'specially in front of bands like Mötley Crüe."

"Oh yes, got to impress the rock gods Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx."

"Knock it off," Jon grumbled. "They're asshats, I don't care if they don't think I'm cool, I don't think they're cool. I don't think drugs are cool."

"No, and you're a very sensible man Jon, don't ever change."

He smiled at the compliment like a dog that'd been given a treat. Sensible! Amelia liked sensible.

"Seriously though, I don't take groupies any more, Amelia."

He hoped that might get him further into her good graces.

"Well, that's nice. Hey, it'll save you from Chlamydia or Syphilis, that's if you haven't already contracted it."

Dear god, Jon's worst nightmare.

"No," he sighed. "No, don't worry, my dick is quite safe. Sometimes I even wore two condoms, if they asked for it."

"Doesn't that make it more likely to break? Is one condom not adequate?"

"Gettin' a groupie pregnant is my worst nightmare. I ain't ready to be a father."

"No," Amelia muttered, "I dare say you're not." She pondered on his words. "You do get regularly tested for STDs, don't you?"

Jon peeked an eye open, a smirk curled at his lip. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because," she grew flustered. "Because, well, you're my friend. I don't want you to die of AIDs."

"I'm flattered by your concern, but I can assure you I don't have AIDs."

Amelia seemed notably relieved.

"Or chlamydia, or syphilis, or crabs for that matter. Just this damn fever."

"Well, thank the lord." She brushed back a long strand of his hair. His hair was lovely, a beautiful golden brown color with hints of chestnut and flaxen, it paired wonderfully with his dreamy eyes. "Perhaps it's wise to refrain from sex with groupies, at least while this whole AIDs epidemic is going on."

Jon rolled his eyes. Typical Amelia, always taking preventative measures, always fearing for something uncontrollable.

"AIDs doesn't seem like somethin' that's goin' away any time soon," Jon noted. "I ain't livin' like a monk till then."

"Well, be careful then," she urged.

"I will, I will." Another eye roll. "When you were spiked you told me you hadn't had sex since the night we broke up. Is that true?"

Amelia nearly shrivelled up in shame. How could she have let such valuable and embarrassing information slip?

"Why do you want to know?" She asked, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

He shrugged. "Why not. You said you wanted to be my friend, most of the stuff the guys talk about is sex related, if not about music."

"Animals, the lot of you," she shivered.

"Is it true?"

"What, that you're the only person to have ever had sex with me?"

"However you want to put it," Jon shrugged.

Amelia closed her eyes and prepared for the truth. Yes, for god's sake. Yes, you're the only man to have ever known me carnally, why on god's earth would you want me to say that embarrassing tidbit out loud?

"Well yes, it's true. I've never been one for casual sex, I need to be in love with them if I'm ever to perform such intimate rituals."

"That's respectable."

"Whatever you say."

Jon Bon Jovi had become a fabled sex god during her time away from him, it was embarrassing to admit her abstinence to him.

"Didn't you ever find a man in England? I would've thought you'd have found a fellow intellectual while you studied over there."

In fact, a part of him had thought she might meet a life partner there. Anybody studying an English literature course in a prestigious London University was bound to be infinitely more intellectual than he, he wouldn't have been surprised if she eventually settled over there.

"Well," she started to blush. "There was a man."

"Oh really?" He spoke only half teasingly.

"Yes, I rather liked him. He was slightly older than I."

Older? How much older, perhaps too much older.

"You were with an older man?"

"Yes, why?" She giggled with a sort of buoyancy that made Jon think she still harboured affection for him. "Feeling threatened?"

Indeed, he was. How would an older man compare to him? When Amelia had known him he was an amateur, young and inexperienced. Often he cringed when looking back at his old charms and techniques.

"How much older?"

"Oh, perhaps now he would be in his late-thirties. He was an older student, evidently."

Late thirties, meaning at the time he must've been what, thirty five?

"What does a man in his mid-thirties have to do with a woman in her early-twenties?" Jon asked skeptically.

"Oh, don't try to tell me you haven't been with older women," she said nonchalantly. "Anywho, he studied English Literature as I did. At the time I almost thought we were made for each other."

Jon felt his territorial tendencies arise.

"Why's that?" His nostrils flared.

"Well, because his name was Edward," she responded.

Edward? A rather unassuming name. Jon scoffed at it.

"So?"

"Well, he told me he was named after Mr Edward Ferrars from Sense and Sensibility." Amelia seemed to swoon at the memory. "Sense and Sensibility was my mother's favorite novel and incidentally one of mine. I was named after one of the main characters."

"Amelia?" He frowned. She'd never told him she was named after anything.

"No, not Amelia." She shook her head at him as though he were silly. "My middle name, Marianne. I was named after Marianne Dashwood."

"Oh."

Jon hadn't a clue who that was.

"Yes. Funnily enough Marianne never ended up with Edward, it was her sister that married him."

Jon gave a small, jealous frown.

"Who did she end up with."

"A man called Colonel Brandon, he never did have a first name, at least not to my recollection."

She went quiet for a moment.

"In fact, Marianne spent most of the novel madly in love with a man named Willoughby. John, Willoughby."

Jon perked up. "Oh yeah? What happened to him?"

Amelia looked away, her fingers awkwardly tapping at her knee. "He broke her heart," she replied distantly. "He left her for, well, money I suppose. And for his reputation."

She chose to leave out the details of Willoughby's scandals.

"What happened to you and this English guy?" Jon asked impatiently.

"We went on a few dates, after a while I realized we didn't really click. He was dreamy no doubt, and had a vast intelligence and endless wit, he was British after all, but I never really loved him, not at all."

Jon made a grunt of acknowledgement.

"I never slept with him, to answer your previous question. Though, I must admit a part of me wishes I had done. He had a movie star physique, not to mention his quaint little accent and glorious long locks. Plus he was older, likely experienced."

Amelia wondered if she'd revealed too much, she'd gotten a little carried away.

"He sounds great," Jon said sarcastically.

"He was pretty great. I hope that he's happy."

He gave her a pointed look. "He sounds like a creep."

"What?" Amelia gasped, clearly offended. "What do you mean?"

"Thirty five-ish? With a woman who was twenty two?"

"Twenty two is an adult, Jon."

"Sure it is, but at thirty five what do you have in common with someone that's basically just become an adult?"

"You are the last person I'd expect to hear this sort of an argument from," Amelia frowned. "Are you perhaps jealous? Jealous, and therefore you think it's acceptable to accuse another man of being a creep?"

He rolled his eyes. "It was a hyperbole."

"Take it back."

"Fine, whatever. I take it back."

"Edward was a nice man."

"So you've said."

Jon reached for his glass of water.

"Enough about him anyhow. I never got with him, remember? We only went on two dates, you needn't be jealous."

"I'm not jealous," he snapped all too quickly.

"Well, good."

After all, Jon had been far more sexually deviant than her over the past few years.

"You should rest," she insisted for the umpteenth time. Couldn't have him getting all riled up over a small flame from her recent past.

"I feel much better."

"And you'll feel undoubtedly worse if you don't take advantage of it and rest."

This was the first time Amelia had spoken to him with even partial transparence since her return from London. Jon was not foolish enough to let the opportunity slip by without having taken full advantage of it.

Regrettably there was no chance for him to counter her argument, the doctor had returned.

"Oh, thank goodness," Amelia gasped. She stood to eagerly greet the man. "Have you brought him medicine? He was in a most wretched state just before."

"I have something that should help to ease his symptoms."

Jon's interest piqued. "What is it, Doc?"

Edwards' brow quirked most peculiarly at Jon, a sort of silent conversation that Amelia wasn't privy to.

"What's that?" She asked once Edwards pulled out a thick syringe. She was never fond of needles, she wasn't sure she could bear to watch such a ghastly thing insterted into Jon.

"Cortisol," the man replied matter-of-factly. He prepared the syringe and took a seat beside Jon.

"You mean... steroids?" Amelia questioned. Surely not.

"It is a steroid, yes."

Amelia's gasp was frightful. "What?! Steroids? What good will that do him?"

The doctor looked at her reprovingly.

"The hormones will help to reduce inflammation and swelling in his throat and vocal cords. It should also provide him with a great deal of relief."

Amelia had reached her boiling point. She was aware of how petulant she appeared, arguing with a licensed doctor about Jon's health, but she didn't care.

"It won't help him," she argued. "It'll only reduce his pain. What he needs is prescribed bed-rest."

The pain relief would only mask how much damage he was doing to his vocal cords, what the doctor was suggesting was dangerous.

"He needs rest, certainly," he nodded. "But I'm sure he'll be grateful for some relief. Do you consent, Mr Bon Jovi?"

Jon couldn't meet Amelia's eyes as he nodded.

"Don't you dare, Jon Francis."

"Where will you give me the shot?" He asked, ignoring her completely.

"Your neck," Mr Edwards replied. "If you'll tilt your head to the side and keep still, please."

Amelia couldn't bear to look, though her morbid curiosity couldn't refrain from taking a small peek as the needle entered his neck. Oh, it was abhorrent.

She waited until Mr Edwards had left before berating him.

"Steroids!" She paced around the room with her hands on her head. "Oh, you've gone and done it, you fool!"

She shook her head in sheer exasperation.

"Steroids, for the love of god. Do you realize what you've just done?"

"I took a shot, 'Melia, I'm hardly gonna keel over."

"That shot was no good for you," she exclaimed. "It'll only deter you from what you actually need. Rest."

"It can work in conjunction with it."

For all of Amelia's anger, in her heart all she felt was distress. Distress at Jon's deteriorating health and his inability to gain any sort of weight, his opting for temporary pain relief rather than treating the problem at its cause.

"What would your eighteen year old self think? To learn that you are being pumped up with steroids."

"It was one shot."

"What would he think?" She demanded sharply. Jon saw danger in her eyes, a wild threat.

"I dunno." He found her questionings silly, what was done was done and he was glad for it.

"He'd be appalled, that's what," she responded for him. "What would your poor mother think?"

Again he ignored her. Dramatic, that's what she was, always a drama queen.

Amelia could see she wasn't getting through to him. Fine, guess I won't play so nice.

"You best hope I don't call her. If I can't get through to you then perhaps she will."

Jon shot up in bed, he was ready to pounce at such a threat. "No, Amelia, no."

"Why not?" She shrugged with an infuriating nonchalance. "You're putting yourself in danger with these unorthodox medications, she ought to know."

"You have no right to call my mother. All she'd do is be worried sick, is that what you want? For my mother to worry herself to death over something trivial?"

"Trivial?" Amelia gasped.

Jon dragged his hands over his face. "Plenty of people use steroids as medication."

"All you are doing is masking the real issue. You, are, not, well, Jon Francis." She accentuated each word with a harsh poke at his chest.

"And how does my mother come into this?" His jaw clenched. "My mother has enough on her plate already, if you call her all she's gonna do is make herself sick with worry. Don't you dare do that, Amelia. Don't you dare."

"You make me sick with worry!" She cried. "For Christ's sake, I can hardly sleep at night hearing you cough across the hallway! I worry about you day and night, you look paler and frailer each time I look at you."

That silenced him. He gave a small harrumph and displayed one of his moody pouts.

"It's no excuse to call my mother."

"Fine," she took a deep breath through her nose. "I won't this time, but if I find that you've taken any more of these steroid shots then I will."

That wasn't much comfort to him, he was already certain that these cortisol injections were the only way he'd be able to finish the tour.

"It's because I care about you." Amelia took his hand again and squeezed it tightly. "Your mother cares about you too, she'd be devasted to learn of this."

Then don't tell her, Jon felt like saying. It was a simple enough solution.

Despite Amelia's admittance that she cared for him, he was still slightly miffed at her threat of calling his poor mother. Amelia never played fair.

"Come on," she softened. "I won't call her, not now. I just want you in good health Jon, it's all that I could ask."

"The steroids help," he mumbled. "Do you want me in pain?"

"Of course not." What a ridiculous question. "But pain relief is not always good. I don't want you to go out there and sing your heart out, unaware of how much damage your doing to your vocal chords because you can't feel it."

Jon lay back in silence. It was true he had no idea how he was going to finish the tour, he was worried he might just die if he didn't get in better shape.

"Now surely you can rest after your pain relief."

Jon could admit that his endless arguments with Amelia had tired him. She was so... so difficult to understand. You would've thought that after four and a half years he'd have had a better grasp on her, but not this woman. He could never figure her out, one minute she was kissing his hand and caressing his cheek and the next she was angrily berating him. It was both confusing and exhausting.

But he couldn't live without it. In order to counteract his placid and non-confrontational temperament, God had seen fit to make what he deemed to be his soulmate a real firecracker. The pair were opposites at their cores, but their personalities fit like a puzzle. Where Jon lacked, Amelia supplied and vice versa.

And yet, beneath her fiery outer layer Jon knew there was a shy woman, a sweet woman. Though she could command him around like a Queen with her troops, he knew deep down she longed for someone that she could be vulnerable with, someone she didn't have to appear tough before.

"Will you still be here when I wake up?" He asked, sounding like a terribly ailed man.

Amelia kept her face neutral. "If that is what you wish."

"Oh, I wish."

"Then yes."

Secure in the knowledge that Amelia would be at his bedside when he rose, Jon felt into a quick and painless sleep. Perhaps half an hour later, the door opened. Amelia's elder brother strode in, with his fists on his hips he heaved a pitiful sigh for his best friend. "How is he?" He asked gravely.

"Oh, just peachy," Amelia sneered. "That doctor gave him a cortisol injection to his neck. Your lead singer is on steroids."

Richie beheld the small bandaid on Jon's neck and stroked his chin. "Well, did it help?"

"Too early to tell. Besides, that isn't the point. The point is that-"

"I know, Amelia. I know it isn't good," her brother sighed. "But if it helps with his pain then who are we to deny him it? We'll just have to speak to Doc about rescheduling some tour dates."

"Rescheduling??" Amelia almost exploded. "You mean canceling altogether."

"Hey, I wouldn't be opposed to that," Richie held his hands up. "I'm sick of this tour, but gettin' Jonny to cancel a show is a mighty task."

"Look at him Richie, look what they've done to him."

Amelia's eyes began to well up as she gazed at him.

"He's underweight, he can't talk, can't sing, won't eat, has a fever and to top it all off he's on steroids. He's in danger."

"Hey," her brother swooped her into his arms. "Hey, don't upset yourself, he's gonna be fine."

Amelia held her tears as bay as Richie comforted her. "He'll be alright."

"Look at him-"

"I've looked at him, Millie. He's gonna be okay. It's Jonny, he's a tough one."

She hoped so; she hoped so desperately.

"Come on, you should get to bed," he said softly, staring to veer her towards the door.

"He asked me to stay with him."

Richie's brows raised in surprise. "He did? I didn't realize how close you to had become. I thought you disliked him, a little."

Amelia bit the inside of her cheek. "On the contrary I like him plenty, he's a fair boss and a kind man. Besides, who wants to be alone when they're sick?"

Richie stood still for a moment. "I'll keep you company," he said. "I've still got some energy left from the show, I ain't ready to sleep yet."

Richie took hold of Jon's acoustic guitar and took a seat at the end of the bed. "C'mon, sit."

Amelia did as he said. Sometimes she wished she was good at something like Richie was, she wished she'd taken up the flute or the clarinet as her parents had often pressured her to, sometimes on tour it felt so lonesome having reading as her only hobby.

"You want me to teach you something?" Richie asked. He picked a small melody, using his hand to mute the strings so to not wake Jon.

"I'd be a hopeless case."

"Don't sell yourself short," he chided. "You're clever Mills, you could do anything you put your mind to."

He moved the guitar into her lap. "If you were gonna take guitar seriously you'd have to cut your nails, pretty as they are."

Luckily for Amelia she had little interest in the instrument longterm.

Richie seemed excited to teach her the basic chords on the instrument. He and his sister had been distant for a while, he missed their closeness. He took full advantage of moments like these, he wanted to repair their relationship back to its fullest.

"You're a natural," he smiled. Already she was playing C major and A minor with relative ease.

"My hands are too small for this nonsense," she cursed.

"Hey, I struggled with G too when I was real young."

"Yes, and now your hands are freakishly large. I can't do this."

"You'll get used to the stretch," he chuckled. "Any particular song you wanna learn?"

"Anything, something easy?"

"Well, tell you what, most guitar students start with House of the Rising Sun. I know Jonny and I did."

Amelia enjoyed spending time with her brother. Each time she got frustrated he merely laughed and told her to relax; he assured her she was doing perfectly fine.

"You should let me be your permanent guitar tutor."

"No thanks Rich. Knowing you you'd even charge me for it."

"I wouldn't. I'd love to teach you more stuff, so long as you cut those nails. You'll scratch poor Jonny's fretboard."

Amelia panicked.

"I'm kiddin', it'll be fine. Now give me C major again."

Her brother wrapped his arm around her as she played. Eventually he had her playing a small part of House of the Rising Sun, albeit amateurishly. Richie sang the lyrics for her, pulling his little sister closer with pride.

"You did great."

"I don't want to do this any more, my fingers hurt," she whined.

"Oh yeah, every new guitarists worst nightmare."

Richie took a look at Amelia's fingertips. Sure enough there were indentations from the strings. No blood though, thankfully.

"You'll live," he declared.

Amelia gently placed Jon's acoustic back down. Silence ensued, and the slightly awkward kind.

"How've you been, Millie? How've you been holdin' up with all this tourin' business."

Amelia never confided in him, he often wondered how she was really doing. She was so devoid of emotions sometimes, he spent a great many of his evenings worrying about her.

"I've been okay," Amelia replied with a softness that matched Richie's. "I've been a little stressed seeing how much of a toll it's taking on you all, and I certainly miss Jersey, but other than that I enjoy it."

"Maybe you should try making friends with the crew more," Richie suggested hesitantly. "You lock yourself away in your room all the time, you don't even come out to see me. Why don't you hang out with me more?"

"I dunno Rich, you're busy," she shrugged uncomfortably.

Richie held his breath. "I'll always make time for you, Amelia. I'm your big brother."

She nodded and leaned closer to him. "Maybe, then," she whispered. Her eyes grew tired.

"You alright?" He asked. She gave a small hum. Richie smiled at the girl, she could look so peaceful sometimes. It was odd to see her perpetual frown absent from her, strange to see her in such a quiet state.

"Why don't you get some sleep? I'll stay with him if you like."

Amelia was already falling asleep on his shoulder. "Oh, you would?" She yawned.

"Yeah, course. Get some sleep."

Her brother accompanied her back to her own room. It'd been a long night, the stress of Jon collapsing, his illness and his subsequent steroid shot, it'd all taken its toll on Amelia. She slept soundly almost as soon as she hit the sheets.

---

Pretty long one, lots of talking, hope it wasn't too boring 😁
Also, I wasn't too late with the update this time so yay 🎉🎉🎉
Hoped you liked it, let me know in the comments 🩷🩷