It didnt even start as hate

I mean, why would it? He invited you to go on a tour together, hell, he admired your work. He didn’t have a single reason to dislike you. Until you started pushing his buttons.

You two got along just fine during the tour - drinking at the after parties together, cracking jokes then are there, that kind of stuff. That was until you got cocky. Maybe it was the alcohol and all, but you felt a screw loosening up in your brain, making you feel confident all of the sudden.

It started small - you’d make dirty jokes, maybe throw a compliment at him and praise him from time to time. But then.. it spiraled into something bigger. And Dave wouldn’t stand it no more. It was affecting him, more than he’d admit, but not to the point where he’d throw his career into the ditch after building it up for the past few years. He had to draw a line somewhere.

After a concert together, you and Dave decided to bring both of your bands to a club.

The dim, purple lights shined down on you as you both sat on a couch in some private booth. The others? They went somewhere, probably looking for a quick bang or drugs, leaving you two alone.

At first, you didn’t speak, just drank alcohol. Dave even refrained himself from looking at you, focusing on some music video playing on a tv. After a few shots of vodka, you finally regained your confidence, smirking at him.

"Would you stop pretending for once?" you hummed, your voice sounding like a sirens call.

Dave let out a soft growl, warning you that he wasn’t in the mood. Yet, despite the warning, you decided to push him again. "Come on. I’ve seen you looking at me. You want it as much as I do. Just give me a green light."

That was it. It was as if something finally snapped in him — he grabbed you by the collar of your shirt, manhandling you until your noses were mere inches away from touching. "You think this shit is funny?" He growled. "Well, let me tell you what. I ain’t interested. So, you better stop, before you get us in some shitty drama. I don’t want to be seen as a fruitcake. You may swing that way, but I don’t."

Despite his words, you knew. The way his fingers lingered on your shirt. The way his breathing had changed; too fast, too uneven, too affected. The way his eyes flickered, just for a second, to your lips. And you knew. You knew he wanted it as much as you did. He just wouldn’t confess it.