who are you???

Headcanons:

Stone Gossard dating headcanons ݁.𖠰 ݁↟♋︎

Sean Kinney SFW alphabet ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀♊︎

Sean Kinney NSFW alphabet .☘︎ ݁˖♊︎

Imagines:

3:00am (Sean Kinney) ☠︎︎𖦹♊︎

Let it Down (Stone Gossard) .𖠰 ♋︎

Berlin (Stone Gossard) .𖠰 ♋︎

After Hours (Sean Kinney) Pt. 1 ☠︎︎𖦹♊︎

Part 1 is here !!!

Party/kickback friends-to-lovers, kind of an impromptu date after the party, getting to know each other, lots of tension, adventure??? Just walk with me okay

I rly want to write more shenanigans + softcore + morning after soooo maybe I’ll write a part 3 (in less than a month this time LOL I swear)

Sorry it took so long!! Enjoy <3

CWs: swearing, mentions of vomit (no description) / Word count: 9,629

The little diner is lit like a horror movie gas station, with two flickering ceiling lights. It's still significantly brighter than Eric's apartment. Seattle isn't exactly known for its hospitality and comforting home cooking, so it's fitting that Sean pulls the door open in the face of an exhausted and—dare I say—decomposing host.

I step in before him, smiling at the host’s podium, “Hi, could we just have a table, please?”

“Think there's room?” He croaks, almost angrily.

Sean gives me a look, raising his dark eyebrows. He sticks his hands in his pockets, taking a few steps back to skim the empty place.

“Are you guys still open?”

“Was the door locked?” The host growls. 

Sean huffs in disbelief, holding up his hands, which are sheathed in purple fingerless gloves, and shaking them like a madman, “Oh my God, I broke the lock!”

I sigh as if embarrassed, “Sorry, he just got off these meds that make him super violent. He shouldn't have another outburst like that… for now.”

Sean pretends to struggle to force his hands back into the pockets of his Dickies. I eye the host warningly, who just rolls his eyes and picks up two laminated menus, dragging his feet over to a booth. We follow behind to a booth positioned as far from the host’s podium as possible, and sit across from each other.

As I'm taking off my jacket, Sean taps his fingers on the table in a strange rhythm, asking, “How are you feeling?”

The question catches me off guard. Do I look sick? Am I acting weird? How am I feeling about the diner? The time? Him?

“About what?”

“In general. I mean, after drinking.”

“Oh, I'm fine. I'm not drunk anymore. You?”

“Me neither,” he shakes his head, “It'd probably be impossible to still be drunk, it's so cold out there.”

I look over at the host standing at his podium, grumbling to himself. He's around our ages, maybe older. It is pretty late, but I doubt sarcasm is part of employee training for the night shift, and I'm sure drunk people come rolling in here all the time.

When I turn back to Sean, I find him already looking at me, leaning back on his bench. As if I didn't already see him, his eyes quickly dart down at the menu. He leans forward to fold his arms over the table, hair partly covering his face.

I pretend not to notice, “Have you been here before?”

“On Earth?” He asks, not looking up.

“Close. This diner.”

“Uhh…” apprehensively, he glances over to make eye contact with the zombified host, “I've just walked past it. Maybe should'a kept it that way.”

“It's like we're in a Twilight Zone episode.”

He finally looks across and blinks at me unsurely, “I've never seen that. Like, it sucks? Is this place okay?”

“Yeah, it's cool. I just meant it's kind of eerie.”

“If you wanna go…” he sits upright, ready to get up, “I don't really know what I was thinking. It’s pretty rundown in here. We could prob’ly find someplace else.”

“Sean, I want to stay,” I clarify.

He nods and relaxes back into his seat, exhaling roughly before laughing a little at himself. He tries to casually cover this up by looking away and scratching his face to hide his mouth.

He picks up his menu, “What are you getting?”

I realize I've been watching him instead of thinking about food.

“I don't know yet,” I glance down and say the first thing that catches my eye, “Chef’s choice is cow tongue.”

“Well, isn't that just… vital. Nothing like a plate of cow tongue as a nightcap.”

I shrug genuinely, “Maybe it's really good.”

Sean turns once more to the host, smiles cartoonishly, and waves in a monarchial fashion. The host curls his upper lip and sticks his chin out, limping over. I wonder when he'll kick us out.

“What do you want?”

Sean deadpans, “We were just wondering if you recommend the cow tongue with or without the teeth.”

The host blinks, unamused, “The kitchen’s out of everything but potatoes and oil.”

Sean looks befuddled, his eyebrows dropping low. He's glaring at this guy with true confusion, even aversion, at a loss for words. I mean, potatoes and oil?

 I hold back giggles, “We'll have some hash browns, then.”

The host snatches our menus up and waltzes away into the kitchen. Sean cuts his almost beady brown eyes to meet mine, still bemused. They're brown! What are the odds of them being brown? I’ve never seen them in bright lighting before. The longer I look, they're almost hazel. I'm so absurdly excited by this discovery that I almost tell him his eyes match his pants, or that he should wear more purples to complement them. But I might as well zip my ribcage open and show him the inside.

“I didn't know we were coming to the fuckin’ Gulag,” he jokes.

I suppose it makes sense that they're brown. Blue or green would dampen the rest of his face. 

He frowns when I don't respond, “Don't tell me you know that guy, too.”

I realize my thoughts are especially concerning because nearly everyone in the fucking world has brown eyes. Trying to focus on anything else, I notice Echo and the Bunnymen playing over the PA system.

I force an inhale, “Do you like this song?”

He pauses to listen, looking up at the ceiling like it will help him hear. What a weirdo.

“Oh, they played this at my senior prom,” he realizes, “Not really my thing.”

“You went to prom?” I grin, “How was it?”

“It was, you know…” he mutters, “Y'know, the cool thing to say is that it was lame and I hated it and everything, but it was fine. Not the best night of my life, thank God, but fine.”

“Did you have a date?”

He nods, “I did. Not my girlfriend, though. My sister's friend. I think she lost a bet, but they still won't tell me.”

“Did you dance and everything?” I gush, getting excited, “Did you guys match?”

“Not at all,” he laughs, “My suit was black, her dress was orange with those big stupid eighties sleeves.”

“Hey, I'm sure it was cute! Dated prom dresses are the best to look back on.”

“She thought so, alright. Anyway, she had to be home by eleven, so we didn't even go to any parties afterward. Totally anticlimactic.”

“At least you did the whole thing. What car did you go in?”

He mumbles under a tight, embarrassed smile, “My dad drove us in the, uh… the neighbor's Mercedes.”

“What color?”

“Blue,” he sighs.

“Like, dark blue?”

“Like ‘Hey, look over here and nowhere else,’ blue.”

“Oh my God! That is excellent!”

“No, it was not,” he dismisses, “It was the most normal prom ever. I'm sure yours wasn't any less interesting.”

“Mine sucked,” I argue, “And I was sooo excited about it, but I couldn't get a date, and I had to convince all of my friends to go. Actually, we ditched prom halfway through to hang out with Layne and his friends at the Off Ramp. How ironic.”

“I should’ve left mine early.”

“I can’t believe you had a date and it was still a drag. I thought mine might have been more fun if I’d had one.”

“Too bad we didn’t know each other”

My smile grows, “Yeah, too bad.”

His eyes wander the room avoiding mine, as he grins, “But they only played slow songs, like you'd put at the end of a teen movie.”

“But prom is like the end of a teen movie!”

“Yeah, but it's still a dance. It's in the fuckin' name, for God's sake. It's not called a ‘sway.’” He pronounces the last word in a breathy, delicate, high voice, then scowls. I guess the Bunnymen were too sappy.

I cross my arms on the table and lean forward, “Sean, can I tell you a secret?”

I must have said it too gravely, because any mischief in his face is wiped away and he mirrors my movements. His narrow eyes are definitely brown, but I was mistaken about the hazel in them before. Now I see flecks of emerald around his corneas, like flora scattered across a valley. The reminder that behind them is a shapeless mass of thought and emotion makes me want to giggle. I wonder if he knows what I'm thinking. God, what if he's looking at mine? I realize he's waiting earnestly for my secret.

“I like cheesy pop music,” I confess, “I mean, I love rock and roll more than anything, but, like, I don’t wanna hear Pantera at a party. I wanna hear Madonna.”

He nods seriously, “Me too.”

I scoff, “Great, you’re lying to relate to me.”

“No, I love Duran Duran,” he insists.

“You do not.”

“I do! I listen to Rio all the time. I've had the same record for damn near ten years.”

“I'm not buying. I bet you listen to Slayer to fall asleep.”

“Fine,” he cedes, “Don’t believe me.”

I pause to skeptically size him up. He doesn't double down or back away from leaning over the table. All he does is shrug, aloof. 

“Okay, I believe you.”

He looks a bit surprised, then lost, glancing around like he wishes someone else had heard that.

“What do you mean you believe me? I didn't even say anything,” He snickers, helpless, “Nobody's seeing this shit. You're fucking with me.”

“I am not,” I roll my eyes, “I was feeling you out. I thought you were lying.”

“Yeah. And now you see that I'm not a liar,” he puts on a nasally voice, “and I did know where the diner was, and I did experience magic, and I do flush the toilet when I go number one and two.”

“You haven't proven that last one.”

His normal voice returns, monotonous, “You can't just believe me? Is that too much to ask? After all I've done? You can't spare me, like, this one decency?”

“Well, now it sounds like you're over-compensating. I don't believe you do flush.”

“Huh,” he grunts, then speaks rapidly, “SoWhatDoYouBelieveIn?”

He swiftly lifts then lowers his eyebrows, raising a fist to his chin with dramatic inquisitiveness.

I nearly choke on a laugh, “What?”

“Oh,” he relaxes his face, shrugging coolly, “just that you totally dodged my question earlier.”

“I didn't dodge it,” I argue, “You started talking about magic.”

“That was after you tried to dodge it.”

“I was just thinking.”

“It was like a secret agent dodging bullets,” he continues, putting on mock fascination, “Really, it was impressive. You were probably really good in phys ed.”

“What kind of question is that, anyway? What do you believe in?”

“Not fair. Penalty!” He accuses with a sudden burst of energy, “I brought up the whole magic thing. And don't think you're gonna get away with the whole ‘animals talking’ debacle. The to-speak-or-not-to-speak debate—alright? I answered that way more than you did.”

“Fine. I believe in… equality. Is that what you want from me?”

“That’s too easy,” he rejects, calmly, “There's probably… like, fish people laying eggs in the Puget Sound, and you go with the safe option. I mean, come on.”

“I believe India has great food,” I snap, “They should put Roe v. Wade in the Constitution, we did go to the moon, Ronald Reagan was the worst president we've ever had, Tom Cruise is really nothing special, and my mom accidentally killed the pet frog I had in third grade—which she denies, by the way. People should be kind to each other.”

Unimpressed, he tilts his head to the side, “Aliens?”

“Of course I believe in fucking aliens.”

“Sheesh. You really need to cool down,” he yawns, probably delighted to have finally gotten a rise out of me, “What's wrong with Tom Cruise? Is it ‘cause he has rodentian teeth? Like a mouse.”

“He's like if somebody cast a spell to create a boring, small, American man.”

“Mm. People should be kind to each other?” He repeats, raising his eyebrows to urge me to rethink it, “Everyone?”

I shrug, “If it were possible. People should be kind, respect is my compass, lies are poison, life's nothing without love, love is pure, all that.”

“Oh, so you're the real romantic,” he gets excited like he has caught me, “You threw the rest of us off your trail, worrying about Jerry, but you're a fuckin’ hippie.”

“You don't agree? You're a hedonist. You want a harem and a torture dungeon.”

He puts up both of his hands to stop me as shock paints his face, “Woahhh. Keep it down.”

“I knew it.”

“A harem? What am I, swapping diseases?” he defends himself with exasperation, “I agree with everything you said. Except for the frog thing, I guess. I'm not a witness. Er, you can't prove that I am…”

I laugh in disbelief, “So why are you giving me shit for it?”

“‘Cause it's easy,” he grins, “And I'm waiting for you to say something questionable.”

“I can't think of anything. But my sister has all kinds of crazy beliefs. She's prejudiced against all blondes because of one guy she knew.”

“My sister is blonde.”

“Well, mine's not so hung up about girls. But she thinks every man with yellow hair is consorting with the devil.”

“She's absolutely right,” he pauses, scratching his head. When he speaks again, it's quieter, “You’re not really into Jerry, are you? You know, even though he's a ‘real romantic,’ and everything.”

Of course he would ask after all that carrying on that Layne did earlier about Jerry being romantic and leaving with another girl. How annoying. Unless, maybe, it's not. Why would he ask, unless he was really wondering? And why would he wonder, unless it was bothering him?

I roll my eyes to disregard the whole thing, “I don't even talk to Jerry. I told Layne once that he had hair like a unicorn, and he won't let it go.”

“Hm.”

Sean gazes through the window beside us and into the still night, trapping on the table. Clouds are gathering above the street. Did I say the wrong thing? Fog swirls around the street lamps, obscuring the distance. We can only really discern the rows of car garages and store fronts across the street. He cards a hand through his thick hair and shakes it down over his shoulders. I wonder what it feels like to touch. With his other hand, he combs through his roots and flips it all to one side. The hoops in his exposed ear glimmer and I can almost feel the shine. He flips his hair to the other side. Then he shakes his head again so that it falls over his face. Then he tosses it back with a quick nod.

I narrow my eyes at him, realizing the joke, “I'm not seeing unicorn.”

He slams his hands down on the table, gritting his teeth, “Damn it! What is it, the color? The color I can change.”

“No, save your soul, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

“You guys are all a bunch of hair flippers, anyway. You can barely ever see your face when you're drumming."

Maybe I deserve it after making a comment like that, but regardless, my skin warms from embarrassment when he looks over with surprise, responding with comical bravado, “Sorry to disappoint.”

I press my lips together, “That’s not what I meant.”

He manages to form an expression between cocky and bashful, smiling slightly and resting his head in one hand while looking right at me. I just start rambling to move past it:

“It's not like it's a runway show, so whatever,” I go on, “I'm just saying. But you guys always sound great. I'd probably be flipping my hair around up there, too.”

Our host/waiter/and chef? arrives with two plates of steaming hash browns, utensils, and cups of ice water. He puts them down on the table without a word and then goes back to slouching over his podium. I pick up a forkful of potato and eat it nervously. Simultaneously, Sean and I realize that these are somehow magnificently delicious hash browns and look at each other with wide eyes. It just keeps getting stranger. 

He reaches up to gather his less-than-unicorn mane at the base of his neck, then stuffs it into the collar of his sweater to keep it out of the way. 

I chuckle, “Hair flipper.”

“Damn right.”

“So that's it?” I ask, “You guys are hair flipping rockstars? You'll play the drums for the rest of your life?”

“Hope so. It was between drumming and plumbing.”

“Of course.”

“Seriously. I don't have any other options, so…”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs, chewing on hash browns.

“Really,” I urge, “What do you mean?”

“There's just nothing else for me to do,” he says indifferently, “It's the only thing I could make a career out of.”

I frown, surprised by his negativity, “Well, that's not true. You have ingenuity.”

And brown eyes with green flecks, which may be more impressive than regular hazel. Or a nursing degree. 

“That's not really a life skill,” he combats, “But I like playing music, I feel lucky. Nothing compares.”

“How long have you been playing?”

“My whole life.”

“In the womb?”

“Yeah, I was slinging proteins around. It was hard, but you know, you make due. My poor mom, though…”

“So, actually. You were, like, ten?”

“Five.”

“Five! Well, shit, you're a long-term dreamer.”

“Hey,” he puts a hand up defensively, furrowing his eyebrows, “Hard worker, alright?”

“Both can be true. Layne's a long-term dreamer. I am, too.”

“But I'm sure you have life skills.”

“Ingenuity is a life skill. You could do all kinds of other things. But since you like drumming, that's perfect.”

He smiles shyly, changing the subject, “What are you long-term-dreaming about, anyway? Selling… home appliances, and such things?”

“Actually, I work in apparel, mostly.”

“Sure. And you want to stay at a chain store your whole life?”

“No,” I scowl, “These are my post-grad struggle years. It's really romantic, if you think about it the right way.”

He looks at me like I'm crazy, “Oh, totally.”

I drop the joke, lowering my voice, “I actually want to design costumes for movies.”

Pleasantly shocked and visibly curious, he hums a high note, “No way.”

“It's what I went to school for. But it’s hard to break into, ‘cause it's not a normal job. You would know. I've only worked on short films.”

“What kind of movies do you wanna work on?”

I snort, “Anything.”

He tilts his head, not convinced, “No, come on.”

“Really! I'd love to do period pieces, ‘cause people always get costumes from hundreds of years ago wrong. I'd do it right. But I like contemporary stuff, too. I'm actually interviewing for a costume assistant job next week for Cameron Crowe. Nobody knows about it.”

“Why not?”

“I'm scared they'll jinx me.”

He pauses, glancing out the window then back at me, “…Well, why'd you tell me?”

…I'm not sure.

“Will you jinx me?” I ask.

“No,” he shakes his head and puts his hand over his heart, “I swear.”

He's adorable. I give him a smile, “Then it’s fine.”

The second we finish our plates, the host brings over the check—silently telling us to high tail our asses out of this establishment—and Sean picks it up before I can look at it.

He scrunches his face up, “This guy charged gratuity manually. Jesus Christ.”

“How much is it?” I try to ask. 

“What do we look like, here? Crooks?”

“Hellooo, how much was it?”

Ignoring me, he pulls out a worn-down leather wallet from his back pocket and removes one ten and one five dollar bill. I reach across to take the receipt from him but he calmly pulls it out of my reach, scooting out of the booth. It was definitely not fifteen dollars, but oh well.

“Come on, before we get charged for oxygen,” he grumbles.

I pull on my jacket and snicker at his annoyance, “Thanks.”

He hands the cash to the zombified host, and we're off. Back outside, the street is empty and damp as if closed off for a film. We're in the middle of a small square that was clearly built to resemble downtown, though pretty far from the area itself. Closed boutiques and restaurants line the sidewalk, separated by the occasional apartment building.

Clearly performing casualness, Sean asks, “So, what time do you have to get home?”

I check my watch. Holy cow. The responsible answer is “immediately.” My shift is in nine hours.

I shrug, “Eventually.”

“Great. You should see this.”

He picks up some speed, leading me toward one shop with mannequins in the front window. Only, they're dressed like rococo-era theatrical court jesters, with faces painted like monsters out of a Sam Raimi zombie movie.

“What the hell kind of store is this?”

“Costumes,” he says simply, “You oughta know.”

“Oh! How cool!”

The longer I study them, I realize how well-made the jester outfits are. There are three costumes, all clearly hand sewn, with avid detail and period-accurate layers and shaping.

“This is crazy,” I think aloud, “That one's a pierrot, that one's a harlequin, and that's a mezzetin. They're very good.”

“Check out the back,” Sean suggests, tapping on the glass.

I lean against the window, cupping my hands around my eyes to see into the dark more easily. Monster-faced mannequins in leather suits, vintage canvas, showgirl getups, and more are scattered throughout. Shelves of accessories, furs, and fabrics line the walls, as well as other articles of clothing on hangers. 

“Why didn't I know about this place?” I exclaim, “Sean, you found a goldmine!”

I turn to see him smiling proudly, hands back in his pockets.

He gasps sarcastically, “Now, imagine when it's open!”

“I won't have to, I'm coming back this weekend. Thank you.”

I don't even consider that I might be giving him too much credit and I would have wound up here on my own, eventually, or that he's counting up imaginary points in his head for catching my fall on the balcony, buying my Swedish Fish, finding the diner, paying for it, and showing me this place. Whatever. I wonder if he thought of the costume store as soon as I brought up my career.

As I peel myself off of the glass, looking for the street address of the shop, I notice Sean staring at me—or rather, the top of my head—with squinted eyes. 

I immediately move to cover my head, “What happened to my hair?”

He steps closer to me to see clearer, explaining, “You've got a squatter in it.”

“Huh?”

“A bug.”

“Oh,” I freeze, “What kind?”

“Huge,” he says bluntly, hopefully joking, “It must be trying to get to your brain. You know, to slurp it up, or something.”

The idea makes me chuckle instead of panicking, “Get it off me. But don't kill it.”

“Hey,” he puts his hands up non-threateningly, then reaches for the top of my head, “My dad's a cop, I know all about this stuff. Can you read him his rights?”

“Your dad's a fed?”

“Not ideal, I know,” he says quickly, “He'll retire soon. I hope.”

“I can't believe this,” I scoff, “The son of a police officer.”

“It's his job, not mine. Stop moving so much.”

“Sorry.”

He seems to be having a hard time finding or getting ahold of the creature, and his fingers gently pull strands of my hair apart at the root. The sensation on my scalp sends static-like waves rippling down to my toes. Because it takes longer to pluck the thing out than he'd have thought, the silence quickly gets tense. He sighs to show his frustration, maybe to make things less uncomfortable. His breath blowing against the top of my head makes my arm hairs stand on end. He chuckles awkwardly and mumbles “Jesus, sorry.”

I'm not very bothered by bugs, but the idea of a disease-carrying, large-shelled beast burying itself in my hair and laying eggs makes me want to squirm. The fact that he can't get it out, either (and that he's still touching me) isn't making matters any better.

I can't help the fear undercutting my voice, “Is it a roach?”

“It's a stink bug, or something,” he says, immensely focused.

“I swear to God, if you're lying…”

“I'm not,” he says calmly, “We went over this.”

He bends down slightly, attentively pulling through strands of my hair. I bow my head forward to make it easier for him, then realize that I've brought myself so close to his chest that I can smell the wool and feel the heat radiating from his body, his arms on either side of my vision. A warm rush sneakily starts to spread across my skin.

I'm surprised by how bothered I am. How old am I? I know I like him, and he's funny, and considerate, and too suspiciously handsome not to have a girlfriend, but it's only proximity. I wonder what the plush of his skin feels like, how hard you'd have to press to feel muscle or bone. His torso wrapped in his sweater must be cozy to lean into. I could reach out so easily…

“Got it,” Sean announces.

He takes his hands out of my hair and steps back. The rush in my body flattens to a dormant fuzz. He opens his left palm in front of me to reveal a tiny beetle crawling around on his glove. We watch it go still, open its little wings, and take flight into the open air.

I follow its upward path while, in my peripheral vision, Sean glances at my messed-up hair. He reaches over again and clumsily tries to smooth it back into place. I shift my eyes to watch the focus in his scrunched brow. It's like his thoughts are written across it; “How was it before? Shit, I can't fix it. Maybe it's okay, since she can't see it. Why won't that stay? What the fuck does she use?”

He drops his arms back to his sides, hitting the canvas of his pants with a thump, mostly satisfied with his work. He looks down from my hair into my eyes and looks startled, suddenly remembering that I can see him and he's not a ghost. Or, maybe, it's something in my eyes that makes his face shift into something more serious. I've never been good at hiding what's in there. The corners of his mouth curl up softly. He seems to consider how close together we are, briefly glimpsing down through the space between our bodies. 

I swallow, “What's the damage?”

He blinks as if being snapped out of a daze. He doesn't even look at my hair. 

“Uhh, net zero,” he mutters, peering into my eyes.

“Really?”

His eyes trail all over my face as he nods, “Believe me.”

I flinch at the sound of a loud buzz and a black mass in my vision. It's the bug, looped back around to fly between our faces. We both stumble backwards, swatting at the air around us, swearing. This absurdity makes Sean laugh, which makes me laugh, which makes the bug start chasing me.

“Stop it!” I screech, “Why me?”

I start running down the pavement to escape the creature. Sean trails behind, still laughing at me while I yelp. It's not until I reach the next block that the beetle gives up and flies away again.

I'm panting a bit from running, “That thing was fucking ruthless!”

Sean catches up to me with a stupid grin, making fun of me, “Can't get enough of you.”

“I know,” I roll my eyes, examining our surroundings, “Hey, I've never been this far before.”

“Me neither.”

On either side of us is a line of Victorian-style homes. I knew they existed from driving around (and because I've spent my life trying to be familiar with the whole city), but I've never met anyone who lived over here, so I've never spent any time in the neighborhood. Not that I can remember, anyway. It must be one of the pockets of no-man's-land built for thirty-somethings and up.

I motion for Sean to walk with me, “Check out these houses.”

“Pretty cool,” he nods, though I can tell he's not very interested.

Still, he walks right beside me. I feel like we're ignoring something. And that's probably because we're ignoring something. That damn bug… Flipping from the buzzing feeling of him staring at my face like that to strolling along talking about paint jobs is like whiplash. But what else can I do? When tension breaks, you can't just wish it back together.

“They're actually pretty creepy,” Sean corrects himself, “But that's cool. I'm hip to the eclectic. Would you live here?”

“Maybe, if it was haunted,” I answer dreamily, “I love haunted houses.”

Sean flips his hair behind his shoulders, “I know, you told me.”

I cock my head at him in disbelief, “I did?”

He nods, “Months ago. At uh… I think it was when we played The Ditto.”

I remember that show, but I don't remember talking to him about haunted houses. Although, I do get mouthy when I drink. My roommate calls me America's Sweetheart to tease me when it happens because I'll talk to anyone. Maybe it was the same night Layne created the mythology of mine and Jerry's love story. I have no idea. But Sean remembered something so unimportant? For this long?

“It's true,” I mumble, “I've always liked old houses.”

“What about that one?”

He points to a dark house at the end of the block, which I only vaguely see because I'm too distracted by the glint of his rings peeking over the tops of his fingerless gloves.

“That's definitely haunted,” I nod.

He drops his hand and starts talking again, but I'm still watching the rings. As we walk down the block, I try catching glimpses of them when he flexes his hands or we pass under a street light. Unlike in the stairwell, this time, he notices. He stops speaking mid-sentence and flips his hands over in front of himself.

“What?” He frowns.

“Your rings. I was looking at them earlier.”

“You really like shiny things, huh?” he quips.

“Guess I'm just a bird.”

He takes off his gloves, shoves them in his pocket, and turns to walk backwards in front of me, holding out his hands before me. He stretches out his fingers, each of the few rings clear and glistening.

“Why do you wear them?”

He looks surprised by the question, “I don't know. Don't they make me look groovy? They're hip, man, hip. Rock and roll.”

“You're like a soundboard.”

A laugh rings out of him, “No, but… I don't know. Never thought about it.”

“Oh,” I pout, “So none of them belonged to, like, your dying great-grandmother, who gave you a final lifelong mission to avenge her?”

“No, sorry. But I'll get on that. Immediately.”

“Hm. Where's the silver one from?”

The ring is a thin, steely band with a flattened oval at the top, in which a darkened spiral design is engraved.

“This one?” He asks, tilting his hand to emphasize his left pinkie.

“No,” I reach out and point at the index finger of his left hand with my right, “This one.”

He brings the ring closer to his face, slowing his footsteps to a stop so he doesn't trip.

“Oh, I don't even remember. Some gift shop downtown, I think.”

“That's what I was looking at. I have a really similar one at home.”

You'd think he would have taken it off and just handed it to me by now. But, he eagerly holds his left hand out for me to look at the ring while it remains on his finger. I reach out and take his surprisingly warm hand with both of mine, intently studying it. Maybe the rings are just coincidentally similar. I take the ring between two fingers and twist it around. There's a tiny amber gem at the bottom of the ring, making it reversible. Mine has a tiny green gem.

I hear him breathe in falteringly and sigh it out. Is he nervous? He's the one who gave me his fucking hand! I'm a goner if I look up into his face. I swallow, now really upscaling my focus on the ring. While I'm fiddling with it, his outstretched hand slackens and his fingers relax around my right hand. The lightness of his touch makes my heart skip a beat.

“Hm. Hang on,” I mumble.

I take the opportunity to grab hold of his hand properly and pull him under the direct stream of a street light. In the few steps it takes, his grasp becomes firm around mine.

I hold up our hands in the light. I don't really care much about the ring anymore, but I should at least pretend.

“They must be from the same place,” I confirm.

“How do you know?”

“Mine is the exact same, but with a different gem. I got it in high school.”

“Huh,” he takes another deep breath, trying to ease either himself or the vibe with a flippant voice, “Well that's weird. Small town, I guess.”

I scoff, “Not really.”

“What color’s yours?”

His parents must be from the Midwest, or something. “Yers.”

“Uhh, it’s like…” I swivel my head around, looking for something to compare it to, “That house.”

I step toward the house in question, and he doesn’t let go of my hand. I smile to myself, my body suddenly feeling light as a feather, and tug him along with me.

“Mmm,” he hums seriously as we stop in front of an olive-colored mini-mansion, “Real mute and sickly. Like puke.”

“It is not like puke,” I exclaim, offended, “This is olive green.”

“I’ve seen olives, and I’ve seen vomit. This is upchuck green.”

I scowl involuntarily, “Why are you talking about vomit? Gross.”

He shrugs, “Everybody barfs. I didn’t say it was ugly.”

“How many fucking words for puke do you have lined up?”

“You noticed!” he turns to me beaming, “Throw up, hurl, spew, regurgitate, chunder…”

A small droplet from the air wets my cheek, and I think he has spat on me. But, then, another, and another.

I interrupt Sean’s enumeration, “Do you feel that?”

He blinks at me, his eyebrows curling down at the same time that his eyes close like a cartoon character being hit on the head with a mallet.

He faces the sky, “Shit.”

The droplets quickly turn to heavy beads of rain. This fucking state. A flood can come out of nowhere at any time. I guess it’s our fault for not expecting it.

Sean starts pulling me back toward the square, “Come on.”

Within moments, it’s pouring. Our socks and the hems of our pants are soaked, and Sean is shielding his head with his empty hand.

“Wait, here. Use this.”

Begrudgingly, I remove my hand from his grasp and pull off my thick jacket, trying to hold it over his head like an umbrella. I don’t reach very well. He takes it from me and successfully shields both of our heads from the downpour, though I have to walk flush against the side of his body to fit. The proximity makes me giddy; he's warm all over and smells like cedar wood. A wind picks up, causing the rain to fall at an angle into our faces and over our clothes. Sean screams aloud, and I laugh as we start running.

We hurry back to the square to look for shelter, only to find that the diner has gone dark. Closed. Twenty-four-hours my ass. We pause in the middle of the street, glancing around in every direction. Now exposed to the elements without my jacket, my shirt is wet, and lace and silk don't do very well in rain. I can't keep my breath steady as I audibly shiver, nor my teeth from chattering.

Sean notices and turns to me. I cross my arms to concentrate my body heat. He drops my jacket on both of our heads and it blocks my vision.

“That's very funny, Sean,” I grumble monotonously.

“Hang on a second.”

What could possibly be the purpose of blinding ourselves in the pouring rain? I feel him rustling around next to me, and just before I lose patience and pull the jacket away, he lifts it up again. I see that he has taken off his sweater and draped it over the shoulder of a navy-blue longsleeve he wore underneath.

“Take it.”

“Oh, thank you.”

I take the sweater from his shoulder and pull it over my head. It's baggy on me and the holes at the elbows are glaringly apparent, but apart from that it's heavier and warmer than it looks. It is wet wool, so I can smell the vague, muggy aroma of lanolin, but it mostly smells like the woods and a body the day after showering.

Sean blows a raspberry, “What should we do? Should I walk you home?”

“I think we'll get sick if we do that,” I reason, “There's gotta be somewhere we can wait for it to let up.”

While I'm pushing my arms through the sleeves, Sean thankfully spots a bus stop with a bench and cover and ushers us over. Hopefully, there'll soon be a gap in the rain for us to escape home, or a bus or cab will come.

We sit on the slightly wet metal bench, which I can feel is freezing, even through my pants. Despite the roof standing over us providing ample sanctuary, some rain manages to blow through sideways, the wind is persistent, and we're all wet.

I see Sean calculating something in his head. He tries to drape my big jacket over both of our shoulders. I scoot up against his side so that it fits over us better, and to absorb some of his body heat, and to be close to him. The jacket is wet on the outside, but the interior lining works like a blanket. I look down to see everything from the knee down drenched in water.

I try not to let on how urgently I am aware that my hip and thigh are completely in line with Sean's while I wear his sweater. I wish someone would appear and take a polaroid. He's not bony—not starving like he seemed to be when we first met—so I can relax comfortably into his shoulder. He slings his around behind me naturally, his hand resting on the outside of my arm. I realize that, if I really focus, I can feel his heartbeat. It's beating about as excitedly as mine. Thank God.

“Are you alright?” I ask, finally getting a good look at him as he puts his gloves back on.

He looks like he just escaped a shark attack. His hair has gotten frizzy in some places while it drips in others. His high cheekbones glisten after being sprayed by the wind, his beaded necklace is twisted around backwards, and a rosy watercolor has spread across his cheeks and sharp nose from the cold.

He wipes wet hair out of his eyes, “Never better.”

Assessing our situation, we pause quietly, listening to the rain patter down around us. What an absurdly long night. What a predicament to be in. I wouldn't dare to look at my watch. I wonder what he has to do tomorrow. I wonder what he's thinking now. If I shift my eyes, I'm looking at the side of his face, his eyelashes angelically batting certainly more often than most boys.

I glance at him at the same time that he looks at me. Caught, we both smile. Whatever nervousness we had while we were at the diner seems to have gone. Neither of us looks away. 

“So much for fixing my hair,” I joke.

He presses his lips together, looking over my head fondly, “Looks great.”

I scrunch up my nose to keep from blushing. Our faces are so near I would only have to lean forward to reach him, and to make matters worse his chestnut eyes are staring right into mine, closer than in Eric’s kitchen, closer than after he smoothed out my hair. He mimics my scrunched expression—maybe to tease me or maybe for the same purpose—which draws my attention to his nose.

I reach up with my hand and lightly touch the tip of my pointer finger to his nose ring. His cheekbones crinkle up in an amused simper.

I ask in a hushed voice, “This hurt to get?”

Sean lightly shakes his head, “No, it wasn't bad.”

“Maybe I should get one in my nose.”

His eyes skim slowly over my face, eyebrows pulling together slightly. The confrontation of it surprises me.

I feel exposed but try to smile it off, “No? Where should I get one, then?”

He glances down, mumbling, “Maybe right here.”

He leans in and softly presses his lips to mine, and the catharsis floods my body like I’ve been waiting for a monster to jump out. All of my muscles relax as my heart beats like a hummingbird. I could swear the sun is hitting my face.

However, when he pulls away, my skin grows colder and I recall that it’s the middle of the night and raining. Why would he pull away? Our noses brush as he backs off a bit—though I can still feel his breath—blinking and raising his eyebrows as if to ask “Was that okay?” There’s an endearing hesitance in his eyes, a clear boyish worry that he could mess things up.

I immediately close the space between us again, feeling the wavelike curvature of his cupid’s bow and full pink lips against mine. Tentatively, his arm around me snakes down to my waist, pulling my body into his as his lips gently part, finding mine again, then again, then again. I reach up to his damp cheek with my hand, brushing over the tiny stubble I hadn’t noticed before.

Before there's any sense of things getting heated, we separate for air, lingering in place. I read in some pseudoscientific journal in college that people try to conserve the innocence of a first kiss. He reaches up to brush my hand from his face, his fingers somehow much warmer than my icy ones. His large, gloved palm meets mine again and our fingers intertwine in my lap. I try to meet his eyes through his wispy eyelashes. When his eyes flash at mine, we watch each other for a long moment, unsure what to say. 

Eventually, he smiles warmly, “Something on my face?”

Of course. I smile back and lean back against him.

I roll my eyes, “No wonder you're not writing any lyrics.”

He’s taken aback, “Ouch!”

“Kidding,” I chuckle, “I'm kidding. I'm sure what you do is totally poetic.”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm… To braille readers,” I tap his fingers with my own.

“Hey! Why does that matter?” he laughs, letting go of my hand so he can rub his face to calm his bubbliness, “What are we talking about?”

“Just how smooth you are,” I titter, mimicking him, “Is there something on my face? Saliva, maybe.”

I erupt in giggles at my own joke while he tries not to. I feel the fingers against my waist come together and pinch the skin of my hip through his sweater. It doesn't hurt, only makes me giggle more.

Sean pretends to brood, gazing across the street, “I don't expect you to understand.”

“Sure. Not everyone can be Bob Dylan. Some have to be Animal, the Muppet.”

He goes on with the fake-edgy movie star thing, “I don't need lyrics, the lyrics need me. The bond I have with my band can't be understood from the outside. We're like… a web. Sticky.”

“Gross.”

“Really,” he insists, “We cocoon together.”

I glance down at how our bodies are curved together as if in a cocoon. 

“I'm sure,” I mutter.

Sean pauses, realizing what he has said, “We do. I'm only kind of joking. We’re stuck together.”

“I noticed. I rarely see Layne without the rest of you, anymore.”

“Yeah, well…”

“That's probably a good thing.”

“Think so,” he nods, “Not to get sappy, but…”

“Oh, please. You kiss me and the worst thing you can do is ‘get sappy’? What are you saving it for?”

He chuckles, “I was just gonna say I always wanted brothers and now it's like I have them. We act like it.”

I don't believe this. Two kisses and he's already spilling his guts to me.

“Seems like it.”

“I do like my sister, though,” he quickly clarifies, “I'm not some… whatever you're thinking.”

“Hm. ‘Someone’s little brother,’ is what I was thinking. I know you gave her hell.”

“Oh, of course. You know, what else am I gonna do? I'm the little brother. But I always sorta looked up to her, and I never wanted anything bad to happen to her. That was my thing. I’d get real upset whenever somebody else upset her.”

“My sister's like that, too.”

“Yeah, she looks up to you. I could tell.”

“Maybe. She's super booksmart, but sometimes I feel like I'm still taking care of her. She's probably asleep in my bed right now.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty.”

He shrugs as if to say ‘big deal,’ “She's gonna have to grow up, eventually. She just trusts you.”

“She's my best friend,” I admit.

“Wow,” he reflects wistfully, “And to think she put a hit out on me. Really makes you wonder.”

“She did not! She's just protective. And you're not her type, so she's not sold.”

“Oh, right. She's only sold on crabs-ridden never-to-be billionaires.”

“That's so fucked. That was in high school.”

“I just didn't know people really lived by that crap. I mean, what's yours?”

“My type?” I tilt my head, looking dreamily at the blurry clouds, listening to the rainfall, “Someone who works in accounting.”

“What?” he cries.

I giggle some more, “Just the thought of finance drives me crazy. Five feet tall, red hair, crew cut, hates music… Never swears… Barely talks…”

Sean catches on, inserting himself in a pause, “…blue eyes, long beard, PhD, British?”

“Yeah, exactly! And, like… just otherworldly. Like a… a…” I gasp, “A unicorn!”

He huffs a humorous deep breath, scratching his head with his free hand, “You know, it's getting pretty late, and I've got a thing, so…”

“Or,” I continue, shedding my wistfulness, now telling the truth, “Just somebody who makes me laugh.”

Sean flashes me a narrowed glare through the corner of his eye like I've just said the corniest thing possible, but he can't help the smile spreading across his lips. 

“Pretty low standards there,” he mumbles.

“Oh, there's way more. But why would I tell you? One wrong move and you're history.”

“I'm really shaking in my tennis shoes.”

I pause, noticing his leg farther from me is bouncing.

“You are shaking.”

“Yeah, you first,” he says aloofly, and I realize he must be able to clearly feel my heartbeat, too, “It's fucking cold.”

It must be pretty awful to be sitting here in only one layer. A pang of guilt for taking his sweater strikes me. I reach up to feel the temperature of his forehead with the back of my hand. Some of his hairs cling to me. He turns to face me, confused, while I pensively wait to be able to tell if he's really hot or cold. He'll be alright. I bring my hand down to ask if we should look for a better place to wait or go back to Eric's.

Only, with the shadow of my hand gone, I find him gazing at me with such striking curiosity and affection that a door in my mind opens. Jesus. There's no chance he only started thinking about me tonight. It would be impossible, with a look like that. How long? Days? Weeks? Months? I couldn't ask him right now…

The realization must show on my face. Sean frowns, running his thumb over where he pinched me. I shiver.

“What happened?” he asks.

I blink, “Sean, can I tell you another secret?”

“What?”

I bring my lips to his again, resting my hand over the necklace on his chest. He welcomes the kiss eagerly, this time moving easily against me, brushing our mouths together slowly. He brings both arms around me as I let him lead, taking my lower lip between his and gently tugging on it for permission. I trace the smooth curvature of his top lip with my tongue, then his slips against mine. I feel faint. I snake my hand from his chest to the back of his neck.

I'd be lying if I said I don't notice the sound of rain fading. I choose to ignore it as his hands start to roam over my clothes and he kisses me dizzy. My fingers tangle through the soft jungle of his hair. He squeezes my hip, which makes me inhale sharply, and he reacts by kissing more softly, rubbing a trail along my waist. 

When it becomes completely quiet around us, though, it's impossible to ignore. We both pull away from each other and glance hesitantly at our surroundings. The rain has stopped. I rest my cheek against Sean's as I check my watch. He rubs my hip. It's not as late as I'd suspected.

“It's three-thirty,” I say.

“So?”

“So, I'll be the walking dead at work tomorrow.”

Sean snickers, “It is tomorrow.”

I scoff out a laugh, staring at my watch. I'd make out with him all night and skip work, if it didn't mean losing forty dollars pay. I can't afford to. I huff and drop my wrist. Sean must get the idea, because he grudgingly peels himself away to stand up, picking up my jacket with one hand and holding the other out to me.

The walk to my place is about fifteen minutes, given how quickly we're stepping, trying to beat the next period of downpour that will surely come. The clouds haven't gone anywhere. Our conversation is less snarky than earlier, but still flowing. I finally realize how tired my body is. 

Layne lives near me in the South end of the neighborhood, and I know he lives with or near his bandmates, depending on the given week. (“It gets complicated,” as he says.) It's another moderate walk away, and Sean is a grown man, but I figure I should still ask.

“How are you getting home? You’re on the Southside, right?”

“Yeah,” he yawns, “I'll take the bus. If I ever see one, that is.” 

The rain begins to fall again as we reach the final stretch of the walk. We jog swiftly into the main lobby, or “community room,” of my apartment complex. It's dead silent, as the other residents are either asleep or shellacking together magazine clippings for their masters program art portfolios, or whatever.

Once under cover, I let go of Sean's hand, take my coat, and ask him to wait here while I run inside. I hurry upstairs into my apartment. But, before I can do anything, I nearly trip over my sister and roommate’s coats discarded in the doorway. Immediately to my left, the two of them are knocked out cold, sprawled across the living room floor, cereal bowls spoiling on the coffee table and Sherlock Holmes playing on our cheap television. Quietly, I sneak into my bedroom to set down my wet coat, take off Sean's sweater, and pull on one of my own sweaters. As I'm about to walk back out, I decide to call a taxi service to send a cab here for Sean so he won't have to take the bus in this weather.

I considered inviting him to come upstairs and wait there, but the sight of my sister and roommate is unavoidable, and I just know they would hate for someone—particularly “that ape”—to barge in and see them like that.

On my way back down to Sean, damp wool sweater in hand, I realize that the night really is ending. When will I see him again? Should I care? Well, I do. He's not like the dopes I met in school or the endless faces from the neighborhood—or anyone, for that matter. Of course, seeming isn't being. But how can I know without finding out? I would hate for this to be a one-time-thing (which is funny to think, when it hasn't even been a one night stand). I'll be disappointed if he doesn't even ask to see me again…

For a moment, I consider seeing if I can go home with him, but then I scold myself. He didn't even insinuate coming upstairs with me. I have work, anyway.

My time to ponder ends as I return to the community room to find Sean towering over the pool table, fidgeting with a billiard ball. I notice the large water stain down the back of his dark shirt. 

“Here,” I extend his sweater to him and he accepts it.

He pretends to be annoyed, “Thought you'd keep it. Sheesh.”

“You wanted influenza?” I retort, “Sheesh.”

“Are you kidding? I'm immune to this shit. Lived here my whole life.”

“Me too, so I know that's not true,” I lean on the pool table beside him, “I called you a car.”

When his head pops through the sweater, there's an expression of surprise on it.

“You didn't have to.”

I shrug, “I think it was the easier thing to do. It'll be here in like ten minutes.” 

He tucks his drying hair behind his ears, “Well, thank you.”

“I know you didn't ask me to, so I can pay for it, obviously, but–”

“Yeah right,” he dismisses, “It costs, like, the same as the bus would from here, anyway. Not far.” 

That has to be false, but how sweet. I explain that I would have him wait upstairs if it weren't for the parasites on my living room floor.

He hums, unflinching, “You have rats, too?”

“I meant my roommate and my sister,” I narrow my eyes, “You do have rats!”

“No,” he insists, “I thought you were bringing the joke back.”

“God, I'm gonna contract the plague.”

“There are. No. Rats,” he spells out, “No Tom and no Jerry for me, no thanks. Just the other one.”

“You don't like cats?”

“Jesus,” he snorts, “I'm just gonna stop talking.”

It goes quiet for a very short time before he does indeed start talking again. 

“When do you get off work tomorrow?” He asks.

“Four o'clock.”

His eyes flick around the little room, “What are you doing after?”

“Nothing,” I smile, shrugging, “Sitting around. Sketching, probably.”

He taps his fingers against the pool table, “Mudhoney’s playing at The Vogue.”

“I know.”

“Right, of course,” he scoffs, “Don't tell me, your cousin's the lighting guy. You going?”

“Are you?”

“I asked you first.”

I tilt my head to read his face, “Should I?”

Sean looks at me like I must be kidding. He squeezes his eyes shut and nods exaggeratedly, mouthing “YES.”

A relief! Not only does he want to see me again, but as soon as tomorrow.

“Sure, I'll go if you go,” I decide, “I'll bring your bracelet."

We hear a screech and splash outside, both turning to see through the lobby windows. A taxi has pulled up to the curb, sloshing through the gutter water. I glance at my watch. 4:00am.

Sean pushes himself up from the table, running fingers through his tangled hair. We step toward the door then both stop at the same time, awkwardly.

“That's yours,” I blurt.

He shuffles his feet, “Yup.”

He turns to me like he might say something, but seems to change his mind. I start to laugh, but he swiftly leans down to kiss me, gently bracing the side of my face with his hand. The cutoffs at his knuckles tickle my cheek. Just as we make contact, the driver honks their horn outside.

We jump back at the abrupt noise. Sean flashes an irritated look at the window. He stands up straight again and appears lost, blinking rapidly. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out again, though this time he laughs at himself.

“Goodnight,” I suggest.

“Goodnight!” He repeats like he just remembered the word existed. He starts clumsily backing towards the door, grinning at me.

“Or, morning, technically,” I add, “Be careful!”

Just as I say it, he opens the door and clips his ear on the doorway. I clasp my hand over my mouth and try not to burst into laughter. He hisses and steps outside.

“I'll see you tomorrow, alright?” he calls.

I lower my voice to imitate his, walking up the lean against the doorway, “It is tomorrow.”

"Oh!" He stops at a realization, "I'll pick you up at eight!"

Oh, I didn't even consider logistics...

I shake my head, "I thought you didn't have a car."

"I meant tonight."

"What?"

"Don't worry about it," he waves, "Is eight okay?"

"Yeah, eight's fine," I smile.

The taxi driver, an old bearded stranger, sticks his head out the driver's seat window, tapping an imaginary watch on his wrist.

“He's not drunk, I promise!” I shout.

Sean gasps and points at the driver with his whole arm, “Hey, aren't you the guy from Howdy Doody?”