#fi2a

When Mom died, I didn’t feel anything. I’d felt all I had to feel a week before, fingers curled around the delicate etch of a necklace that I…barely remember the weight of, now. I barely remember what it looks like. I barely remember much of anything—

The necklace. Mom.

Dad.

Gabe.

It’s kind of funny how the mind sort of cherry-picks stuff out of a bin of memories—the things you hold onto when it gets really bad mixed with the things you keep when it is really bad—until all you’re left with are these blurry-faced ‘kinds-ofs’. These ‘must have been’ approximations of what could have been, but you’re never really sure was .

One time I confessed to Dr. Lynn that I felt like my emotions weren’t my own. I regretted it. She immediately asked me, tape recorder skipping on the edge of its monotonous hum, her voice that calm, steady note like someone who’s held down an A on a piano too long:

‘If you feel like your emotions aren’t your own, Alex…how do you feel about your memories? Are those your own, too?’

“So…want me to put something else in?”

Alex’s hesitant, balmy voice skirts along the edge of Steph’s cold shoulders like she’s dipping her toes into the icy waters around her friend’s far-away chest. A blink, turning away from the glaze of a shaking window to look over towards those searching eyes, face highlighted by the flickering lights of the credits of a movie Steph barely remembers paying to the start of quietly scrolling down the screen.

Shit. Get out of your head, Gingrich.

“I’m not really—” Tucked knees shift along the soft fabric of the couch, so well-worn beneath her that Steph could sink into it and disappear. It doesn’t sound too bad, right now, but Alex’s eyes are tethered to her like a rope outside of a canyon and the sigh wells up so fully in her chest that it lifts Steph like an air balloon and twists her around to stare at her fully, smile thin and apologetic. “Sorry, Alex. I’m not really into anything right now. Just…don’t mind me, okay?” The wind howls and howls against the glass—a constant—and she wonders if there’s ever been a storm this bad in Haven Springs, where the whole town swayed with wind.

There must have been, but where was she? In the soundproof walls of an isolated booth? Tucked in the darkness of a bathroom with the shower running, palms pushing soap out of eyes? Drunk on this very couch, too dull to hear it, at all? Does it matter? “I’m just…tired.”

It’s a blatant lie and when Steph’s eyelashes flutter open, Alex is nice enough not to call her on it, even though she hasn’t looked away from Steph for a second. Because there is Alex, searching her eyes before she…shifts forward on the couch.

“Okay, so that didn’t help.” It’s a muttered sigh.

“Huh?”

“The movie.” But Alex doesn’t explain further. Brows furrow when Alex stretches out her hand, bracelet brushing along Steph’s up-tucked knee. She felt like they were sitting much further away than they apparently were. Guess there’s only so many places to tuck inside a couch. “But I think I know something that will.”

“Uh…what are you—”

“Come on,” Is all Alex says, just her hand stretched out between them. An offering. A rare offering, like so many Steph’s gotten a glimpse of seeing, today. Like so many Steph’s gotten to see all month. The wind rattles outside and a drummer’s shaky hand hesitates in the air. “These windows are, like…the worst windows I’ve ever seen. And that’s? Coming from an intercity kid who lived in a group home for the majority of her life. Where state funding was non-existent. So…you know it’s a pretty bad review. They probably need to be re-sealed, or something.”

“Do they even seal windows?” Steph tries to joke but it doesn’t hit quite right. Alex doesn’t call her on that, either.

“I don’t know. But the point is that the wind…sounds a lot worse than it is. Let me show you.”

Alex says, like she knows exactly everything in the world Steph’s ever been afraid of, her palm stretched up towards that raining sky and Steph’s darting tongue and her short breath caught between the rock and hard place of her nose and her trembling, clenching jaw.

Hesitating for only a moment in the air, Steph reaches forward to take it.

I remember the hospital—the constraints of the walls—the heat that stuck my clothes to my skin—the pitcher of water that always tasted dusty no matter how fresh it was. I remember the clean, pressed sheets of an empty bed Gabe and I weren’t allowed to sleep on and the chair that Dad claimed as his own placeholder. A bookend to the white-lined etchings of mom’s lips with thousands of words in-between never said. Dad was always in that chair…to the point where it’s difficult for me to remember the chair ever being empty without him in it, save for the only time I’ll never forget.

I remember Mom’s keychain. I remember the way Gabe’s shoes would squeak along the freshly-mopped tiles of the hallway.

But I don’t…remember Gabe outside of those squeaking shoes and the scratch of his shirt against my arm. I don’t remember Dad outside of the darkness of his sagging eyelids. I don’t remember mom outside of the quiet way her chin would tremble even when her voice was always so steady. Like an earthquake beneath the crust of the earth.

I remember snapshots—her eyes and the last promise I made to her—I remember her telling me I was strong—but…everything else? I don’t remember conversations, or…the hours I must have spent there, day after day. I don’t remember school or the unimportant stuff—the stuff I kind of would have liked to hold onto.

I remember my mom used to cook, but I can’t remember what it tasted like. I remember she used to watch those cheesy rom-coms, but I can’t remember us talking about them. And that patchiness has sort of taken over all of my memories.

I remember how Dad and Gabe used to fight—I remember the record player and the clothes by the couch and my never-fail recipe for rice. But I don’t remember the silence that used to threaten to drown us whole—maybe…because I drowned it out before I could breathe it in?

No matter how hard Dr. Lynn tried to get me to remember, there’s a lot of those details that I’d rather forget.

The truth is…I don’t even remember what they looked like. Even writing it now, I feel…

I don’t know.

Guilty.

I don’t have any pictures—I didn’t have any pictures of Mom or Dad or Gabe. I don’t even have anything of Mom, since Dad took it. And now I barely have memories of Gabe because I feel like Dad took him, too.

At least when Mom died, I felt nothing.

With Isabelle, I felt—

I only felt Isabelle. And I only felt her for so long, after.

With Gabe…

I wonder if Dr. Lynn was right. Are these memories even my own?

“So…when was the last time you played the drums? For a show? Or just…” A faint shrug, “Played them?” Alex asks her so unceremoniously, like it’s such a simple question to ask someone and Steph stretches bare feet, foot skirting dangerously along the edge of the rooftop awning.

Somehow, Alex made it sound like a not horrible idea to come up to the rooftop in the rain, its gentle, consistent splash wetting the roof in tinkering patters, rain cascading all around them, wind much quieter than it’d been in the apartment below. It’s…rhythmic and it keeps Steph calm to gently tap her thumbs along with the beats on her stomach—thoughtless thumps lost in the fabric of a bunched up, dry t-shirt.

But like most things, it doesn’t seem like it’s lost on Alex’s freakishly observant perception.

“...a while, I guess.”

It’s…not so bad up here, laying on the cement patio, shoulder warm from where she’s pressed up against Alex. Both of their legs bent upwards, hanging over faded, rickety wooden chairs, and she leans up to watch Alex’s bare foot bounce beneath the rain.

Alex had told her they could go back in the moment she watched Steph’s shoulders ease, a little, at the sound of the soft wind outside, but somehow they wound up staying, anyways.

“I get that.”

“You said it’s been a while since you played guitar? Like, until recently.”

“Yeah. My last one…” Alex shifts a little on her back, chair scooting along cement as she does from her foothold against it, knees bumping against Steph’s bent, very dry pair. “Well, I lost my last guitar and I couldn’t afford a new one. This one…was a gift from Gabe, so I guess I just never got around to buying another one. I don’t know why, I just…” A second shrug, like there’s a world in Alex’s sigh before her shoulders fall back into the depth of the dark cement, the sound of the wind chime hung above gently tingling as the air sifts through both of their hair, rain pushing a little into the dry safety beneath the awning. But Alex settled them directly where the rain wouldn’t touch—like she must come up here often enough to know. More than just with Steph and Ryan and putt-putt and beers. “Didn’t. Why’d you stop?

“I just…” Teeth tuck at lips, “Didn’t feel like playing?” The sigh caught deep in her chest, beneath the putter of her thumbs along her chest, pushes out unnecessarily heavily, eyes closing as the rain consumes her voice. “Or maybe I felt guilty playing? Really…who knows, dude? I don’t. It was so weird. When I was younger, my fingers used to…they’d itch all the time. Like what they talk about with smokers? But with sticks. I used to want to play all the time. I’d play in class at my desk or in the car on my steering wheel or in the shower—just…everywhere. It was like breathing for me. But then I traveled everywhere with Izzie—my…we used to be in the band together.”

Yeah, Steph. That’s way less complicated. Fingers wave at Alex’s always-unwavering, steady look, like she has all the time in the world—

It’s funny, really. Alex does kind of make a great bartender.

“And…were more than just in the band together. Like, long-term, very serious dating. After we came here, I realized that there was something missing—there was a different kind of itch. I started to realize that...every time I played it…just wasn’t what my hands wanted, anymore. At least, not then. Not like how I was playing. Not when I was wrapped all up in that head space, you know? We used to say that we were always playing for ourselves—not the industry or for fans or any of it—but I think as we started to get a little more popular…not much, but a little, it just…changed. Everything changed. We changed.” Steph wonders if she reaches up high enough from the ground, if she can run her fingertips beneath that dangling wind chime, “I looked at Izzie and I didn’t want to play, anymore. I didn’t know what I wanted, but it wasn’t what I thought it was. We came here and played this…totally lame show for what felt like just Gabe—seriously, just Gabe—and I had more fun than I’d had in…years. It should’ve been lame, but it wasn’t. It was like I was finally doing something I wanted to do and…this got really deep, didn’t it?” A quiet, nervous laugh, but Alex is still just looking at her with those steady eyes, wet toes retreating as glasses shift and suddenly Alex is sitting up, looking down at Steph splayed haphazardly on the rooftop concrete.

“I think it’s okay to go a little deep. You should cut yourself a little slack." Alex volleys words right back at Steph with that gentle smile.

The real foosball champion.

It’s so calm—so steady—that Steph’s knees bend, as well, sitting upwards and hooking arms around the mountains of them with a sigh.

It's way easier than it should be to talk to Alex.

“I came here and…I don’t know. I wound up staying. I found out that I really liked DJing—that I was really good at it. That there were people here that mattered. I used to—I had this friend that I lost touch with that traveled all the time and I always thought that was what I wanted—and it was. It is. But it’s…I don’t know, there’s so much more to just…traveling and music than what it looks like on the surface.”

“Understatement of the year. Real life is…kind of always more complicated than what we think we want.” Alex agrees, their knees brushing a second time as she scoots on the cement to look fully at Steph, knees tented down and open while Steph happily holds her own to her chest. Muscles ease, just a tad.

“...yeah.” A quiet laugh, “Yeah, I guess life can get pretty complicated.” Arms finally fold outwards, leaning back against the patio as she looks around at the rain quietly falling down around them, breath…calm and easy. Maybe it’s not the rain that’s the problem. “And unpredictable.”

“Totally.”

“That’s kind of what makes it good, too.” Her chin bounces, looking back towards Alex, “I guess…” A dry tongue rolls on a drier lower lip, “I guess I started to realize that what I was doing—even if I loved doing it—it didn’t feel right, when it felt like I wasn’t sharing it with people that mattered. I wasn’t…connecting with people with my music, anymore—or connecting with who I was playing with. I just haven’t really picked up the drums, since. It’s not that I didn’t want to, I just…don’t think about it, as much, anymore.”

It’s a heavy statement for Steph—the kind of thing that had been so thick it’d taken up all of the air in her chest—and now that it floats between them, her shoulders feel…lighter, somehow. And instead of feeling nervous or awkward or like she’s totally over-shared, Alex just looks at her…and smiles, and Steph feels nothing but relief.

“So…does that mean I’m not going to get to hear it?”

Somehow, it’s the last thing Steph expects.

“What?” It’s said on the tail-end of a laugh, bent knees stretching back outwards over Alex’s rain-dampened leggings.

“Come on, it’s only fair—you’ve heard me play. You don’t have to, I did actually hear what you just said,” That smile spreads and Alex shifts but doesn’t drop Steph’s knees—she moves so that Steph can settle them comfortably, instead. The rain surrounds them like a curtain, outside, lightning so far away Steph can barely feel it crack beneath her fingertips as she stares at her, “But I’d be totally lying if I claimed I didn’t want to hear the infamous Steph Gingrich wail on the drums.”

“You want me to just do a really sweet drum solo with no accompaniment?”

“Karen Carpenter could do it.”

“Not the reference I expected, but I guess the one I deserved.” A second laugh—this time brighter, “You know…that last show with Gabe?"

“Let me guess, Gabe told you it was going to be packed, didn’t he?” It’s an expert, on-the nose guess. Steph nods with a quiet, bobbing laugh. “That’s Gabe.”

“Bingo. He rocked the whole time, though. And he bought a t-shirt. And a hat. I mean, I didn’t even know we had hats. Beanies, sure, but he bought a trucker hat.”

Alex laughs—quiet and gentle—glasses sliding a little down the bridge of her nose, rain framing that spreading smile in a background haze. “Nothing could be more awkward than that, so what do you have to lose? I don’t know if I’ll be as good of an audience, but I’m definitely here for it.”

“True…” Steph searches her eyes before standing back up, offering Alex her hand, this time. “But I loved it, playing like that. I…” It’s a pause, tilting down to look at Alex as she helps her up, “Did actually play at the Spring Festival last year. I totally forgot—it didn’t feel like a show. It’s not that I feel nervous about playing,” Her chin tips a little, looking up towards that dancing wind chime, fingertips warm.

Warm, she realizes after a moment, because she’s still holding Alex’s hand, and Alex doesn’t ask her to let go.

“I just haven’t really thought about playing. Until…right now, I guess. Tell you what, I will give you one entirely exclusive show in the store tomorrow,” Steph holds up their joined hands, finger ticking off to wave in the air, “If you give me one. Right here on this balcony.”

A long pause.

“Right…now?” Alex blinks.

“Doesn’t have to be. But those are my terms, Chen. Today, tomorrow, sometime? I want an exclusive show of my own.”

Alex laughs, just a little—a dancing noise underneath that serene windchime—nose ducking before she nods…and looks back up at Steph with a kind of freaky level of determination.

And then lets go of her hand just to reach up to offer to shake it, again.

It’s the kind of thing Ryan would do that would make Alex, herself, call him a dork, and somehow that makes it even better.

“Okay, you’re on.”

Steph falls asleep downstairs on the couch a few hours later to the sound of rattling wind and Taxi Driver on in the background—what? So they’re on a DeNiro kick, sue—and blinks an owlish look towards Alex when she prods her shoulder and nods towards the bed.

“Come on,” Alex says again, that same gentle smile, voice an up-turned hand in the dim, flickering light of the credits behind them. “The rain hasn’t let up and…it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve crashed here. And it’s definitely not like it’ll be the last.”

“I’m only here for the pop-tarts.”

“Whatever you tell yourself, Steph. We both know you’re here for the sweet, eclectic jams.”

“Okay, maybe that too.”

And it’s the third time that Steph follows her, anyways, sleepily kicking off one of her damp shoes by the bed before she flops on top of it to Alex’s quiet laughter behind her, sure enough…other girl slipping beneath a flopping, shoe-clung foot to sneak fingers beneath the rim, helping to take it off.

“Alex, seriously?” Steph’s muffled laughter sinks into the pillow that smells like—

Steph smiles, realization donning that she knows exactly what it smells like, now.

“Hey, you’re the one that doesn’t have the excuse of being drunk, this time.”

Steph pulls away and toes off the other shoe before offering a smile down the bed at Alex, the darkness of the apartment lit up by a flash outside. Wind rattling the thin glass as she watches Alex slip off her glasses and slide into the bed next to her, this time under the covers.

It’s familiar.

“Sleeping in bed with your shoes on isn’t comfortable, Steph. Barefoot is the way to go.” It’s murmured. Already sleepy—exhausted—like some weight of the day has taken its toll out of Alex’s bones.

Steph wonders what it is—wonders what's exhausted her.

"You okay?" Steph asks before she can think anything against it, watching her shift and ease and turn towards her. A hint of surprise basked in shadows beneath clear eyes, no glass between them.

"Yeah. Are you?"

Alex is warm—she’s always so warm—and Steph listens to the wind and the sound of Alex’s laughter and knows…

"...right now? Yeah. I actually am."

It’s a little easier facing storms with people you know just as good as the bad.

Enter Haven Springs.

I felt a lot that first day. From him—from everyone —but it was the most I felt like myself, too, in…a really long time.

When I saw Gabe for the first time, I suddenly remembered what he looked like. The way his lips curled up in a smile was like an old, wrinkled piece of sheet music. I just needed to read it to remember how it went, again. It never really went away—the music was always out there in the world, and maybe part of me knew it; hummed it in the morning or the afternoon or at night—but I really needed to see it to make sense and find the tune, again.

I remembered teasing him about trying to grow a beard when he was thirteen (but missed all the nicks and scrapes and burns in-between the actual growing).

I remembered him talking about making it out of Seattle—busking his way with his little sister all the way down to Reno so that we could make something of ourselves. (Thinking back on it, who knows why Reno? Maybe Gabe didn’t know why, either).

I remembered the way he always hugged so tightly, without a hint of hesitation. Hesitation was just never in Gabe’s dictionary.

I remembered him and filled in all those gaps of what he used to be with who he was, the moment I met him again, in an instant.

He smiled and…I didn’t feel as guilty, because I knew he remembered, too. Which means he’d forgotten. He looked at me and didn’t recognize me but did at the same time—and…I don’t know.

Suddenly, I wasn’t really alone, anymore. Suddenly a decade of guilt washed away like sand in the rain.

Suddenly, I wasn’t the only person out there who filled their mind up with snapshots of things they could barely remember and who held onto too much of what they didn’t want to hold onto, at all—

I didn’t do what Mom asked. Gabe was the one that chased Dad halfway across the country. Gabe was the one that held onto her more than I ever did—that reached out and tried to patch me together. But I decided to do something a little selfish, in that moment.

I remembered Gabe for me.

I remember Gabe.

And when Gabe died, all I felt was him.

All I still feel is him.

All I’ll ever feel is him.

What if all I ever feel is him?

What if none of the memories I have of him are even mine to have, in the first place?

Dreams rarely make sense, especially for someone that avoids them. It’s the feeling that remains.

It’s a blur, the way the phone cracks in her palm—the way the wind creaks and splinters and shatters, like tinsel-dried bones. Crumbling to dust beneath torrential rain and winds, the noise of it rattling—quaking—thunderous—

I’ve got to go , Steph—

A familiar hand reaching out—a beam of wood; blood; screaming; eyes widening—

Eyes rolling, her hand reaching out, and then nothing—nothing—nothing, just thunder and—

Thunder cracks like a roaring boom in the sky.

Mom. Fine. Dead. Gabe and Rachel and Mom—

And all Steph feels is the horror. The bone-deep horror that chills like ice from fingertips to creaking bones to—

Her gasping lungs, bolting upright like a stiffened board, sheets bundled around hips, chest gasping for air. Panic creeps up her neck at the sound of the rumbling outside, hand snapping up to her chest to—

To—

Someone's jolted up right with her. Sudden. Sharp. Panicked, and it takes Steph a moment to shake the fear. To shake the dream.

But she doesn’t quite shake the memory of her mother’s eyes.

Eyes flick to the side, seeing Alex sitting up next to her, blinking through the flash of lightning nearby to see sweat dotting that normally-calm brow, blink owlish as Alex’s heavy breath pants in sync with hers beneath the flickering streetlight outside, obscured by pelting rain, thunder rumbling the windows. Shaking the trembling earth of Steph's bones. Loud. So loud.

And Steph tries—fuck, she desperately tries to get her breathing under control—

Tries to push the panic down and—

And--

Lightning lights up the room and a sharp, hissing breath sucks through teeth, trying not to count the thunder that follows.

Steph sounds fine. Calm and measured and a little oddly urgent, but fine. Practiced and totally cool--

“I—” Fingers are clawing—clawing—clawing at her chest like she’s trying to pull her heart out of its cage, but her voice is even. “I should go—” She manages to stumble but quivers as she tries to get out of the bed. The last thing Alex needs is Steph’s own graveyard baggage. And Steph can’t—can’t—

Hot, clammy fingers snap up to catch along Steph’s retreating wrist, gentle and careful, pausing Steph before she can stumble off of the bed, completely. Fingers that immediately snap backwards when flexing muscles tense beneath the knowing touch, raising up like Alex is trying to calm a bull, or something.

“Steph, wait. It’s okay.” Her voice is…quiet. Gentle. Even as Steph can see her ragged breath, and something about it unravels the tight knots of Steph’s spine. Another flash lights up the apartment and she can see so clearly how Alex's brows knit in concern, no glasses in sight. “It’s okay. I’m not going to make you talk about anything you don’t want to. But…I’m going to take a wild shot in the dark and guess nightmare, right?”

After a long moment, Steph quietly nods, looking away. Swallowing. But reaches out anyways to falsely assure her friend, fingers curving, because the last thing she wants after all of this progress is for Alex to stop feeling comfortable touching her just because of a stupid fucking nightmare. But when her hand trembles beneath Alex’s at the sound of the sky quivering in deep, close rumbles, she regrets not keeping her stoicism.

"Yeah. It's...fine. I'm just not big on storms. I think I'll just…" Calm. Calm. Calm. "Go home and watch a movie, or something."

“It’s pouring outside.”

“I’ll be alright, my apartment is right down the street.”

Alex searches her features, eyes looking around the room like she’s placing something—placing everything—and Steph wipes a free arm beneath her brow, sweat still slick and tracking beneath skin.

“Hang on.” Alex squeezes before she lets go of her hand a second time, “Sit on the bed for a second, okay?"

“I—” Steph’s heart is still hammering and, stupidly, she doesn’t want to be alone right now, even though every single cell of her body is screaming to get out—

"Trust me, Steph." It’s an almost loving plea, lightning casting Alex's whole body in a soft blue glow as she stands sturdy and calm in front of her, the world rumbling like it's threatening to swallow them whole. But Alex is looking at her like she doesn't need glasses to see right through her--

Alex is looking at her without an ounce of that...that thing that everyone else does--that thing that curls nails into skin and turns veins to quivering rattlesnakes--

Alex is looking at her like she'd let her go, if she asked.

Steph's jaw barely trembles as she nods. Breathes through her nose, sinking back onto the bed like an anchor whose string was cut.

A crack of thunder stiffens her spine right before the familiar sound of a scratching needle cuts beneath it and Alex, in all of her infinite wisdom, puts a record on. It’s loud enough to drown out the booms, but she can still feel the windowpanes rattle and shake nearby. Can still feel—

Can still imagine—

“Mom? Mom—”

Steph blinks open when she feels something warm slide onto her ears, a swimming, hazy vision of Alex’s face coming into view, all of the lights in the apartment suddenly on and blinds drawn, and she can see her clearly, now.

Headphones are now settled on Steph's ear, Dido of all things playing calmly, covering up the music skipping from the record player. The rain and the thunder and the lightning melts away to a calm, lilting voice and Alex's familiar eyes. Sweat plasters hair to Alex’s craning neck—her forehead—a thin shirt clings to her frame, wet through like she'd ran through the rain, herself, and it’s in this moment that more than just panic laces beneath Steph’s thunderous heart, because it looks a hell of a lot like Alex had a nightmare, too—

“I’m okay.” It’s mouthed through a smile the moment she sees Steph notice her and Steph thinks now is the literal worst time to think that Alex is literally the most beautiful woman she's ever met, every inch of her the least put together Steph’s ever seen. Hair disheveled and wet—glasses who the hell knows where—not an ounce of self-preservation or care as Alex drops everything in the world to stoop in front of her with that soft, worried smile that somehow doesn’t drive Steph up the wall.

Just fucking…beautiful and for a second Steph is overwhelmed by it. Clings to it.

Maybe it's just an easier distraction, fingers stiffening at the sound of thunder underlying the two conflicting melodies in the apartment the moment she starts to pull up one of the headphones to hear her.

The song starts over in one ear while the record keeps going in the other.

Alex reaches over to the nightstand to slide glasses up the bridge of her nose, turning back towards Steph with such open eyes. Such earnest sincerity. “I’m going to get behind you. Breathe with me, okay?”

“W-what?” Steph is holding one of the headphones askew on her head, the cacophony of songs only adding a bit to the chaos.

The sentence does not make sense—not right now.

"I...okay? I guess?"

Alex without another word slides behind Steph on the bed and guides her backwards, lifting up one of the headphones for just a breath to murmur in her ear. “Is this okay? You can kick me off. I’m not trying to—”

Steph's whole body tenses, a faint tremble in her chest at the feeling of Alex's breath along her neck.

A dusty swallow.

“I…yeah, yeah it’s—”

Her heart is still hammering. Her chest is still raging. She can feel the storm in her fingertips. If she could just—just calm down enough to stop freaking out, Alex wouldn’t even have to know she’s a total—

“Breathe with me.”

“Are you trying to zen me into compliance?” Steph tries to joke but it comes out strained—thin—and against every single logical thought in her mind, she finds herself leaning back into Alex’s arms, anyways.

This is why she avoids people. There’s something in her that makes it so, so difficult to say no, when they’re close—something so difficult to pull away, when someone’s already there. And then what self-restraint does she have? It’s better to just shove the problem out the door and never have to test her will, than to—

Alex’s chin is on her shoulder and her chest is against Steph’s back and she can…she can feel her breathe. Can feel her chest inflate and collapse—can feel the air, so warm, sink into her neck. Thoughtlessly, she breathes with her. In—slowly, slowly, slowly—out—slowly…slowly…slowly. Repeated, over and over and over again until the shaking windows become the quiver of Alex’s breath and the lightning becomes muted with the soft apartment lights above. The thunder melts into music and after moments or lifetimes or maybe the fiftieth repeat of Thank You angelically humming in her ear, Steph slides off the headphones to listen to Alex, instead.

And then laughs, a little--this small little chuff of an exhausted puff--when she finally recognizes the album playing.

Sliding Doors.

Her heart has calmed, the panic gripping her before melted into something strained but…livable.

Alex is quietly humming along to Thank You the moment it plays on the actual record player, headphones unknowingly settled on Steph's knees.

“You…have a really good voice.” It's murmured and exhausted, but fuck it--Alex does.

Alex pauses and the way she shifts—Steph doesn’t know—it feels like…maybe she smiles.

“I was going to plug in my phone and play the actual album at the same time,” She sounds a little nervous—a little embarrassed—and when Steph turns her head, they’re so close she can taste her breath. It’s even warmer on her lips than it was on her neck. “But I...couldn't find my glasses. I always have this up for emergencies, so..."

“What, you can just find long lost relics for NPCS, not for yourself?”

“I don’t know where to go without a glowing quest marker?” Alex jokes, still a little new at the whole genre experience, and Steph is proud of the fact that it totally lands, quietly laughing. Just a little. Feeling a little more of the tension melt from her spine.

It’s still there, in the back of her mind—a thousand different images and a thousand different ways—a thousand different versions of her mother, lost to some angry vehement God—but it’s always there, underneath the surface. It never goes away.

That’s the thing no one tells you about grief—it’s like an iced over-pond. At first, it breaks easily—slivers and cracks the moment you shift feet along its surface. But as time goes on and the weather turns colder and colder—as snow falls and skin numbs—it’s a little firmer to step upon the ice. But if you look down, it’s always right there, clear as day—always there, right beneath you: water. Cold ice waiting to engulf you on a trip—a fall—a slip—and when it cracks open, it takes time to heal, again. Over and over for years and years and years.

In Steph’s experience, it will always be that way.

"It was...really sweet." Steph finally murmurs and she can see that smile, now. "So...Dido is your comfort music, huh?"

"Guilty."

The thunder rumbles beneath them and Steph closes her eyes, tucking her head on Alex's shoulder.

Waiting for the world to be easy, again.

“I liked you singing—you should totally keep doing that.”

Alex’s knees are tented around her hips on this tangled mess of sheets on the bed and Steph is nestled fully in the warmth of her arms, against her chest, so that every single breath of air from Alex’s lips might be another gust of snow brushing along the open fissures, promising that it will pass—it will pass—if she just keeps herself from falling in. Alex, gently singing in her ear until the storm turns to background noise beneath the music and the lights and their shared breaths. Her skin is cold and clammy, now, sweat sticking to it beneath the fan, and when she shifts, she feels Alex’s shirt do much of the same to herself.

They must get through the entire album before Steph's self preservation instinct turns into absolute embarrassment.

“This is not my proudest moment in history.” Steph laughs, a little, strained, “It doesn't even happen that often, anymore. It's just...so random. Normally my friends never find out about this, if I can help it. I’m more of the…shut myself up in my apartment and ignore everyone for weeks trauma response type.”

“I’ve been there.” Alex offers but it doesn’t sound weak—it doesn’t sound so thin and full of pity like it does on most people’s tongues. “I…” Instead, when Steph turns around, Alex just shrugs. “Okay.” She sits a little taller behind Steph’s curved spine, offering in a swell of confession: “Hyperventilate in hospitals? If that helps. Now we’re even. You know something about me that…well, no one does.”

“It does help a little bit.” Steph’s smile is slim, the anxiety curling in her stomach like a wounded animal, still snarling and whimpering, but resigning itself to its fate as it fights, quieting down. Resting. “I…used to lock myself in the bathroom during storms and turned on the water. Especially… When they were bad. Just in case. I mean, freaking out is rare, but Izzie never knew. How could she have? I never told her. Totally healthy, right?" Alex is still holding her, the record softly skips to repeat Side A, both of their bodies settled on the bed. “I haven't had a nightmare in years, I guess it just...surprised me. I’m sorry I freaked on you. I know you were just trying to help. I just…"

“It’s okay.”

“Thanks." Steph's hands thoughtlessly and boldly have raised up to Alex's knuckles, tracing along the ridges of a bandage. Tellingly, Alex lets her. "You’ve…always been there for me when I needed it, Alex. So…maybe it’s hypocritical of me to ask, but…” Steph shifts in her arms, fingertips itching to cup her cheeks—to push through that wet, sweat-soaked hair curving around Alex’s cheek even though that’s probably the worst idea she’s ever had. Instead, she just hesitantly cups her shoulder—safe territory—and meets her eyes, “Why'd you wake up like this? And don't tell me it's because you were hot.”

Alex visibly hesitates and looks like she might say something else entirely before admitting, “I…had a nightmare, too. But I was more worried about you.”

“You always are.” Steph’s lips tug a little downwards, but she doesn’t pull away, instead just sucking in a deep breath. “Did…doing all this help, at least?”

“Yeah.” Alex is smiling at her and Steph takes a deep breath, feeling a little of the panic she’d felt chip away and away and away with each faithful breath rising Alex’s chest. She can feel it. Can feel her heartbeat if she focuses enough— “It feels like it’s calming down a bit, now.”

“Good.” Steph turns back around, teeth tucking lips, “I…really should probably go. I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for a night, and now I feel like I definitely need a shower. I'm not freaking out, anymore. It was just...”

Steph doesn't want to remember the nightmare, so she doesn't. She doesn't say anything else, at all, and Alex doesn't ask.

“...you could stay.” Alex’s voice is barely a murmur in her ear—gentle and…hopeful? No, Steph’s reading too much into it. Still…she turns a little, once more, and feels Alex’s hands tense above her stomach, but only for a second. Those steady, calm eyes right there—always right there, it seems like. “It’s definitely not walk-friendly out there. And…you staying here would help me feel calm.”

“Why do I feel like you’re just saying that to make me feel better?”

“There is maybe a slim chance that I also think staying here will help you, too. You don’t have to, Steph. Seriously. But by tomorrow morning, tonight’s going to be over, and I know you want the poptarts in the cabinet.”

Alex makes it sound so easy. Alex makes it feel so easy.

It’s…a choice. It’s a choice, to let herself be here—to open up and…actually let someone in. She already has, hasn’t she? Whether she meant to, or not, hasn’t the worst already passed? She thinks of Mikey and Gabe and Chloe, somewhere, and her tongue runs over her lower lip, nervously searching Alex’s eyes. The worst has already passed—Alex is already here—what would running do? Keep Alex from seeing it, again?

Keep Steph from having to talk about it?

She remembers the way Alex had quietly tucked into her shoulder during Raging Bull and thinks, for just a moment, like she’s thought so much with Alex—

Would it be so bad?

There’s none of the pitying looks—no questions—nothing but music and gentle hands and someone who Steph thinks…might know what all of it feels like. Might really, genuinely, know what it all feels like.

All Alex asks is for Steph to stay.

Is that something she's even built for?

“You’re really not going to ask to talk about it? No…probing questions? No friend-break-up texts at me if I do leave or—”

“Steph,” Alex shakes her head, serious and gentle. “We don’t ever have to bring up any of what just happened for the rest of time, if you want. It’s totally cool.”

“Wow. Okay.” A breath. A nod. Shifting just a little, starting to untangle herself from Alex’s warm limbs. As much as she wants to be held—as much as she feels safe and secure and warm—she does not want to put Alex in the place of having to—

Beyond bad idea. The line is already starting to get so thin.

No, she’s not going to ask Alex to hold her through the night. Waking up like that is one thing. Actively seeking it out? That would just make her feel like she’s taking advantage of Alex’s—

“I don’t want this to sound weird.” Alex sounds hesitant—looks like she’s trying to work out a word problem in the back of her mind—like she’s trying to figure out how to say— “But do you think we could…”

“What?”

“I’m trying to think of a better way to say ‘cuddle’ without it sounding like I’m...crossing a line. And not using the word ‘cuddle’, which retrospectively is a horrible word.” Alex sighs, eyes flicking down to where Steph is pulling away, “It's kind of not a good look when your best friend is freaking out."

The instant relief is dwarfed, for a moment.

Steph's gaze immediately softens. "Did you just call me your best friend?" There's no hint or tease--it's the first time she's heard Alex return the sentiment, at all.

"Yeah, Steph." Alex smiles, soft and sincere as lightning curves up her chin to her eyes, bathed in the warmth of the apartment and the cold of outside. Steph, for a moment, feels like the storm is hundreds of miles away as she smiles back, slim and...fuck, she's not going to be emotional or conflicted about it. “Of course I did.”

"I guess in that case I can allow your totally weak, thinly-veiled excuse to hold me for the night." Steph tries to joke, but her throat is dry and her stomach is clenching even as Alex smiles and tugs her back onto the bed. Brave and never backing down.

"Thinly-veiled excuses are under-rated, more people should try them.” A little more serious, “I don’t think I’ve ever…really had a chance to do this with someone, before, anyways. Not without them expecting something else." Is all Alex says, arm wrapping around her shoulder so naturally that Steph doesn't even care that she feels like she woke up in a swamp--she probably smells like one, which is a totally not good look--dried sweat still sticking to her neck and her hips and her knees. It's like this doesn't matter, at all, as Alex shifts her closer in a loose, rare hug on the bed.

The fear slowly eases into her breathing and the room feels bright and clearer, the same side of that Dido album softly humming in the background.

Maybe Steph will ask her, sometime--ask her how Alex always know what Steph needs. Ask her how Alex always...is what Steph needs.

Maybe Steph will get the chance to ask her if she’s the same for Alex, sometime—maybe—maybe—

Steph grows a little bolder, shifting in the bed to wrap Alex’s arms around her, settling back against her front.

Little spoon is a new look on her and she…really doesn’t mind it. Like…at all. Not with Alex holding her.

“Well…being the first sounds cool with me. Cuddle away, Chen.”

This time she does feel Alex’s smile, having pulled her close enough that she can feel lips curve in the air above her neck.

It should be awkward. It should be tense or weird or a thousand other cliches that it totally isn't. Instead...Steph just lets herself exist in it for a moment.

They fall asleep with the lights on and Sliding Doors blaring and a pair of headphones sandwiched between them repeating the same song over and over and Alex’s arms wrapped so warmly around Steph that she forgets what ice ever felt like on the tips of her fingertips.

She dreams nothing, at all, and when she wakes it's in the crook of Alex's neck, having turned around in her sleep, their limbs still tangled and sweaty from where they'd touched—it’s to an obnoxiously bright apartment and Dido and Alex's phone at 2%, sandwiched between them, headphones digging into her side.

Steph shifts along the sheets and swallows at the sight of Alex uncomfortably shifted in the bed to accommodate Steph, her neck curved a little backwards at the world’s weirdest angle. Her glasses are still on her face, askew, and Steph carefully--carefully--reaches forward to slide them off. Small, painful crescents pit skin where frames dug in throughout the night and Steph quietly folds them up and reaches over her to nestle them safely back where they'd been tugged from the night before, so careful not to dislodge Alex as she does.

The rain is barely a trickle outside, now, fully covered by Dido's voice.

(Hopefully the rain will stay away from the Larp, next week).

It would be easy to untangle and slip out--to disappear into the morning and claim she wanted to be at the station. It would be easy to steal a pop tart from the cabinet and start one up for Alex, maybe, and never talk about this, again. She knows Alex won't mention it.

But then who will tell Alex where her glasses are when she wakes up? That's what Steph tells herself--repeats like a hopeless idiot as she sags back into the pillow and gently traces the divot her best friend's care had left upon her skin before her hand retreats back to rest around the curve of Alex's hip.

Is staying such a bad thing?

Maybe not. Maybe…

Just maybe not. Maybe staying is the opposite of a bad thing.

Maybe staying is something Steph really, really wants to do, right now.

Alex cracks open an eye and slowly, slowly smiles at her like she's been awake the entire time, and Steph tries not to let her heart (skipping across this thin, wrinkled river of sheets between them like a stone) sink into it. She lets herself lean into it, instead--just for a moment--tugging Alex against her and making a show of going back to sleep.

"Does yesterday count as my private show?" Alex thoughtfully murmurs into her shoulder and Steph laughs into her hair, eyes fluttering closed as they relax into the bed.

She'll worry about how totally ambiguous and definitely not friendly this is later. Right now?

She agrees with Alex. It does feel calm.

The rain gently patters on the windowpane outside and Steph closes her eyes and recognizes that scent on the sheets, now, with ease and comfort and certainty:

It’s Alex. It doesn’t smell like anything else. It just smells like her.

"You wish."

Alex sighs—long-winded and totally suffering—before her nose tucks into Steph’s neck, the tension in her back melting away beneath Steph’s fingers. She feels it. She feels all of that heat in Alex’s body simmer lava and turn to steam beneath the cool ice of her hands.

And she knows they both fall asleep with a smile.

With Isabelle…I couldn’t leave for a month.

With Gabe…

How am I supposed to ever leave when I’m surrounded by him? At the wake, I heard everyone talking about it—about how he died.

‘Maybe it was quick—he wouldn’t have felt a thing—’

People keep saying this to Charlotte like it somehow makes it better. Like it somehow makes any of it better.

What am I going to do, tell them that it wasn’t? That I crawled to the edge of that crumbling mountain and that all Gabe felt the whole way down was fear? Terror? For so long. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t painless, it was injustice. It was fury. It was this hell of reality so strong that even when Ryan pulled me away, I felt it. I felt Ethan and I felt Ryan and I felt that monster in the bottom of an endless black hole…and I felt Gabe.

My big brother, whose face I barely remembered, lost down in the depths of the monster I thought I’d helped quell.

Would it help if I could tell Charlotte that all he thought about, the whole way down, was them? Charlotte and Ethan. That he didn’t want to go? That he still had so much more to give them?

At the wake, yesterday…Steph told me that it’s not my job to keep it together but I

The writing stops abruptly, resumed down the page.

Maybe I’m not the only empath in town.

Maybe it doesn’t matter, now that Ryan knows.

Ryan and Steph actually showed up with beers and a surprisingly sincere invite to go watch a movie on their phones in the park. Ryan says it’s because they can’t afford a projector and Steph is claiming that it’s because it’s just for the aesthetic (with that kind of half-smile she does). They held open the door and they both…felt so sad and hopeful that I went, anyways. It’s kind of hard to turn them both down—not when I knew how much they wanted it to work.

Don’t get me wrong—I hated every single second of it. All I wanted to do was crawl in bed and stop having to smile, or pretend, or do anything at all. But I also kind of loved it, too. It…didn’t really feel like they wanted anything from me. It felt like I didn’t really have to do anything but follow them outside. They let me into their world and I…

I don’t know.

When mom died, I was forced to leave.

With Isabelle, I couldn’t leave, at all.

With Gabe…I could have drowned in it. But I didn’t.

I don’t know what it means. Maybe I’m not supposed to know what it means.

Maybe all I know is that now I’m not feeling it alone.

Steph saluted when she left and Ryan walked me up to my door like a total gentleman and even now that I’m sitting here, surrounded by pictures and memories of Gabe that I wasn’t in…I don’t feel alone, anymore.

I feel like these memories belong to me. Like they mean something. Like they can’t be taken away.

The rain has settled on the pavement outside, turning into soft moisture in the air—so light it can barely sink into the lungs of the sparse tourists traipsing down Main Street.

It’s barely a mist, now, drizzling against the pavement, rising steam up into the warm afternoon air.

The ‘be back whenever’ sign is flipped on the rain-dotted glass of Traders’ closed door, a faint percussion beating beneath the gentle breeze and the rain outside behind chipped wood. Barely there—only found if looking in the right places.

Inside the closed-off store isn’t the world’s most intimate display, but it feels like it to a performer—a black box theatre show for two.

Steph’s hands curve around sticks and Alex’s back against the wall with a guitar she’s been talked into grabbing, both of them jamming out like there’s no tomorrow. Like the music was just there, waiting for hands on strings and feet on snares to show up. Like the music was always there—like a song that Steph got stuck in Alex’s head, waiting to break out into the soft store sun.

They rock out underneath a Girl Power poster, voices settling on top of each other in harmony, no audience.

She can’t help but wonder if Gabe’s the only one watching this performance, too, rocking out somewhere up in that big old sky…

But when Alex smiles at her, initial nerves bled out into ease and confidence and something that’s just…so beautifully, wonderfully Alex…

Steph realizes it doesn’t matter, anyways.

This show’s just for them, and that’s okay, too.

Maybe that’s what was missing, all along.

Maybe it’s not that bad.

Maybe being here with Alex…it’s not that bad, at all.

I hope…I can help Steph and Ryan like they’ve helped me.

I just need to work through my own shit while doing it, right?

And part of that is turning that fear of Gabe’s into something else, isn’t it?

Part of that is turning that fear…into finding who did this to him.

Part of that is…learning how to let go.

Maybe Steph was right. Maybe my job isn’t to keep it all together.

Maybe my job is finally learning how to let it all fall apart regardless of who’s picking up the pieces.

I remember Dr. Lynn telling me that it’s not my fault that things are broken…and maybe that includes me. But maybe everyone’s a little broken—just as broken as me—so maybe Gabe wasn’t omniscient and was wrong, just about this.

Steph is…more person than I think I’ve ever felt, before.

She’s nothing like the poster that used to hang on the back of Dr. Lynn’s office. This carefully organized, clinical depiction of feelings.

I thought colors were always so simple. That what people felt was dynamic, but focused—singular. Overwhelming. I never knew how…subtle emotions could be. That colors don’t just fit into a carefully organized box, or a clinical classification or diagnosis.

No one is just happy. No one is just sad.

No one is just one anything.

Steph is all of them, sometimes, and I wonder how I never saw it, before.

I wonder…how much of that is knowing her.

“You have a superpower?” Slackened fingers hang from the edge of the scratched wood of a familiar bar chair, the way she’s dipping down showcasing a careless ease that stiffens for only a moment, shoulders curling tight like a taut bowstring. And then, a quiet laugh. A spreading smile. Almost a psh like a rattling cymbal at the end of a drum kit from her own lips, because there’s nothing else but emptiness in her lungs. “You’re both fucking with me, right?” 

Alex’s head dips only enough for hair to cascade in front of eyes and Steph’s back straightens.

“Do Ryan and I look like the fucking with you type? It’s all true.”

Fingers slacken.

Alex has superpowers and Steph immediately believes her. 

It’s the sort of thing that makes no sense. She doesn’t know why—she laughs—tries to rationalize it away—but the moment Alex says it, she believes her.

It’s stupid, right? The moment Alex says it, Steph just—

Just—

“Fine, then tell me what I’m feeling right now.”

The curve of Steph’s back slouches over the chair, the soft afternoon of the bar creating the sort of ambiance din that coffee shop youtube streamers love to take soundbites of and play for three hours straight, idle conversations lost beneath the serious weight of Alex’s nervous, steady eyes, and Ryan’s calm smile.

“You’re feeling disbelief,” Ryan twiddles fingers in the air—

But Steph barely spares him a glance, fingers flexing and curling and flexing again in the air so that they don’t stay so stiff—so that they don’t nervously bounce like a drum beat against wood—before they settle once more, watching Alex.

Just Alex. Who takes in a swell of breath through parted lips and tips barely to the side as her eyelashes flutter closed, listening like Ryan looking out for a particularly rare bird in the forest. Nails curl into biceps like she’s drawing the very energy from the ground up into flexing muscles and her lips part. Her brows knit.

The guitar trembling from the jukebox fades. Duckie’s story around the corner about the time he did a civil war reenactment on a showboat fades. The din and the gin and the world just fades away…to Steph watching Alex listen to nothing but the air.

And Steph’s stiffer than a set of sticks left out in the snow, chest tight.

“You’re…” A wistful, quiet laugh—the same noise her mom used to make when she looked around the entire house for her glasses before realizing they were on her nose the entire time. Like she’s found something that’s been there all along, just out of sight—out of mind—but always in reach. Like Steph’s is Alex’s glasses on the edge of her nose. “Actually a little annoyed.” Alex smiles, a little, like she’s got the whole world pegged in a few sentences and Steph swallows, dusty and dry— “You feel hurt that we didn’t tell you until now. Whether it’s true or not, you don’t like being left out.” 

She says it so plainly. So factually.

Steph feels like one of those kitschy tourist trap telescopes they put on the edge of the Seattle harbor, rusted but somehow still too loose, heavy edge flopping its overweighted top over every time a kid scrambles over to look across the cold, frigid waters towards the boats on the river, no spine left to keep it upright from years of voyeuristic abuse. Her bones rattle like a coin’s rolled down her very spine and her eyes flick up like a sharp snap of that cold telescope towards Ryan—towards Alex—before they finally downcast.

“Well…” Brows knit—lips part—and Steph wonders why her throat feels like sandpaper when she finally makes her way back up to Alex, again. “…okay.”

What else is there to say?

Because…really? The crazy idea that Alex has superpowers makes a lot of shit make sense. 

Steph always used to laugh anytime Ethan gave her some weekly comic about a superhero whose best friends were utterly oblivious to the people they spent all their time with being heroes but…in reality? Why the hell would anyone logically wake up one morning and think, ‘Oh, the girl who I saw spit milk out of her nose while watching cartoons when she was high obviously has the capacity to read other people’s emotions’?

It’s not a logical leap. It doesn’t even cross the mind—

“How much am I going to regret existing tomorrow?” Alex’s giggling laughter is muffled by the thin veil of a paper towel Steph has so graciously nabbed her from the kitchen, leaning over the couch to watch Alex stare up at the small little television from the floor. At least her legs are on the ground, now. Kind of progress. The milk soaks through its white scratch.

“Dude, you’re probably not even going to remember tomorrow.” It’s an honest reply and Alex just beams up at her before she snorts through her nose, again, this time milk-free. It’s probably a little telling that Steph finds it kind of cute.

Noticing Alex was freakishly observant? Okay.

“Alex, okay, seriously what are you—” Steph grunts, shifting from behind the car where she’s been dutifully propping up the torch on her phone to shine into the murky street below, sunlight above eclipsed by the rust on the car’s frame. The light hovers above the drain and the gutter (both of which are about as clean as the grease trap in the Lantern) and eyes squint at the barely-visible, totally scrambling profile of Alex’s face, concentration incarnate. Digging like a really cute Indiana Jones through the muck and something glints beneath her palm— “…are those someone’s keys? How the hell did you even—”

Sure enough, Alex pops up from behind the gutter with a dangling set of twinkling keys, an ecstatic dude immediately materializing at the noise like some Pavlovian experiment in the wild, rushing over from around the corner.

Elated. Ecstatic. Overwhelmed.

Steph hadn’t even noticed him when Alex halted mid-conversation with an apology and started digging around behind the rust bucket parked on the side of the street.

“My keys!”

Noticing Alex…also picked up on other people’s emotions? Definitely.

“You’re sure you’re okay, Steph?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, not to pry, but if you ever need to talk—”

Noticing a million other things—

The feeling of Alex’s nose brushing along her shoulder—her neck—the faintest whisper of a smile that probably wouldn’t stay particularly long in the sun hidden in the shadow of Steph’s neck.

Yeah, cuddling definitely wasn’t so bad—

A million small clues—suddenly, with knowledge and possibility of actuality to fill in the blanks—

“How about a quick match?”

Feet turn along creaking wood, hearing Alex come into focus like the twining upkick of a long note on the bass. Unexpected and perfectly inbeat. Most people don’t pick up on the bass in a song, but they’d miss it, if it was gone—

“Did Gabe tell you we played?”

“Oh, yeah. He also told me he kicked your ass.”

“Asshole.” A strangled, distracted laugh that threatens to suffocate the thin bobbing fabric of her neck, shaking her head—turning away, because the last thing Alex needs is for Steph to load this on her after that shit-show downstairs. But there’s something selfish, too. This unbearable weight. This emptying pit deep in her chest—this crawling coldness that frosts from her chest to her shoulders to her curling fingertips— “I don’t think now’s a good time.”

Alex pushes. Steph doesn’t know her well enough to know the difference, the sound of that rattling little foosball handle whirling in the afternoon sun that feels so cold outside, even when it isn’t.

A huff through nostrils. The words eat away, just a little at her. The challenge. The distraction. Just a minute. Just a minute. She can fake it, right?

And she can totally kick Alex’s ass.

It all just—

“Fine.”

Alex’s smile is soft. Steph doesn’t know her well enough to know the difference about that, either.

—makes sense.

“Oh shit.” The chair squeaks as Steph leans back into its familiar weight, laugh caught on the edge of that tight, dry throat, “The foosball game! You knew exactly what to do.” 

“You needed to focus on the positive memories, not get lost in the sadness.” A nod. A quiet, nervous laugh. An explanation: “I thought it would help.”

The feeling of fingertips sliding warmth down ears, the storm rattling outside, steady and there. Alex is always so steady and there, eyes clear in the murky haze of the night, constant and calm and caring—

Alex looks up at her through her eyelashes and Steph reminds herself it’s not the weirdest thing she’s ever heard about a person. Actually, it’s not even in the top ten for oddest claims. Living on the road in a ratty old makeshift tour bus (that was actually just a van bought off of craigslist and littered in enough stickers to make it aerodynamic) sort of amps up the median for weird behavior from the average person met in the world.

“It did.”

Steph, in this second—this actual moment—tells herself a lot of things and tries to think about none of them.

Does Alex know her well enough, now, to know the difference in the smile that softly tucks up the edges of Steph’s lips? Can Alex…feel her, even now? Or is the rest of the world still too loud—is all of what composes Steph practically a bird of a noise fluttering away in the trees to a woman who’s spent too long honing her ear to the empty sound a drummer’s chest makes? Is the tightening ache of Steph’s chest like a bird call lost beneath the wind?

Maybe she’d be more comfortable, that way, if Alex couldn’t hear her, at all. If Steph just disappeared into the background din that feels so far away, now. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe…this is a lot to wonder about this early in the day.

Steph won’t understand the full nature of what she readily accepts for months—for years—but she’ll learn loving someone is accepting every inch of them—that you never fully learn someone until you’ve loved every inch of them you thought you’d hate.

She’s not in love, today, but she’s brushing her feet along the waters of it. She’s looking down into a pond she’s absolutely aware she’s about to be pushed into.

By the time she understands anything at all, Steph will learn she’s fallen in love with Alex a thousand times over and cracked her rib cage open against reckless palms a thousand more than that.

Today she just smiles in a way she’s not certain Alex understands even when she thinks she might.

Today, she thinks it makes a lot of sense that Alex can pick up on things others can’t. That Alex is more extraordinarily different than anyone she’s ever met, before.

Today, another piece of a puzzle she’d thought she’d solved but isn’t even close just slots into place.

“Just…warn me next time, okay?”

The relief in the air is palpable from the bartender’s side of this scratched wood top but kind of…tentative—like how Alex reaches across distances towards them, sometimes--and Steph’s hand curls on the chair.

“Deal."

“Never thought I’d have a freaky empath friend. Pretty wild.”

This is the closest Steph’s pretty sure she’s gotten to making Alex actually blush, at all, and her knuckles rap against the bar, just along the edge.

Ryan changes the subject and it’s not long until Alex moves on to go finish up her shift and it’s enough of a reminder that both Ryan and Steph have bigger fish to fry, anyways.

Namely the woman who is probably responsible for their best friend’s death whose heels click through the door not even a full jukebox track later. She barely gets a chance to even start asking Ryan about Alex’s empathic mic-drop before they have to come up with a plan.

(Her plan’s killer, by the way).

Because that’s the thing about life. It just keeps moving. It doesn’t wait—it never waits. It keeps moving faster than Steph can keep up with it, sometimes—it moves so quickly that she goes with it, because she always goes with it. Moves with it because there’s no choice not to. It moves and moves—

Right onto Alex calling her a hotter distraction than Ryan.

(Fuck yes.)

So she flirts and she’s pretty close to sealing the deal (not important, but good for the ego) and it’s not until they’re both upstairs laughing that she lingers because she has to go back to work and Ryan has got to finish whittling and Alex…

Soon it’s just them in the apartment and when the sun dances over fingers that shift glasses, Steph looks up to see Alex smiling at her and Steph…smiles back.

She knows Alex’s different smiles, now—can pick them out like deep drops on an obscure EP playing on the radio—and this one…is new.

Amazingly, Steph’s smile doesn’t falter as she shifts on the touch to fully look at her. Doesn’t worry if there’s anything in her hair, this time. Doesn’t wonder why Alex is looking at her like this, at all, not today.

All Steph wonders if Alex knows the difference in Steph’s smiles, now, too, and life just moved on too quickly for her to pick up on when the change happened, at all.

I’m starting to realize that just because I know what someone’s feeling, it doesn’t mean I know them. Not really.

I always knew that what I expect to happen isn’t always what’s going to—I’ve learned that lesson the hard way more than…I really want to remember. But I’m starting to realize that there’s just…a lot more to a person than what they’re feeling.

There’s so much behind those feelings that I only get a snapshot of, like a faded polaroid hanging on someone’s fridge. They’re this small little piece out of thousands of other memories I haven’t seen and can’t reach. I do see into people—I can see their souls and their wants and their desires—but only a moment of them. Only this fraction. Only this small little piece.

I don’t think I’ve ever known people from anything more than snapshots of the things they didn’t want anyone to see. I used to think it was because it was because I didn’t have a chance. Now?

I don’t know.

I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone fully, at all.

The wind rustles through a cracked window, curtain fluttering in the soft Spring breeze, the sound of Ryan talking right outside of the door disappearing into descending footsteps and the clicking of an apartment door, tucking them away from the rest of Haven not so far away.

An apparently encrypted USB still dangles from the edge of a laptop littered with at least a dozen stickers she recognizes as having gifted Gabe. It’s like a dangling carrot at the end of a dungeon. Like someone just turned the final chest into a fucking mimic.

And now that the afternoon sun is easing away on her busy day of espionage and subterfuge (and clear sexual awakenings for Diane) all before noon, all Steph can think about is the literal thousand-bullet-point list she has in her apartment of minutia details to take care of for tomorrow.  

“You should let me help you with the LARP stuff, Steph.”

It’s a quiet offer to Steph’s right from where both of them are sprawled out on the floor, their legs tucked up on the couch cushions, laptop and desk slightly pushed to the side. Steph had claimed that this was where she did her best espionage thinking and, unsurprisingly, Alex had joined her on the floor with a look and a shrug.

She only had an hour before she had to go back to the store to do the afternoon DJ shift, and there wasn’t anywhere else she really wanted to be, before then.

Eyes flick over to take in the way Alex is…looking at her, now. Relaxed. Totally relaxed. Like a thousand burdens have gently released from Alex’s barely-healed fingertips up into the sky like a lit lantern, yellow bracing against pitch black clouds. Like even with all the shit with Typhon going on, maybe Alex feels…a little lighter, somehow.

Steph rolls over onto her side, arm tucking beneath her ear, legs curling back up on the floor. 

“No way, participants aren’t allowed into the inner sanctum. You’ll just have to leave the mystery and intrigue up to the NPCs, Alwynn. I can handle it.” Brows barely knit— “Which…is something I didn’t say anything about. Which means you did the mind-reading thing, again, didn’t you? The mind-reading thing which is…apparently more than just the textbook definition of empathy because the only emotion I’m feeling about the LARP is mild stress?” That’s not true—Steph feels a lot more about the LARP than even she knows how to decode—but it’s not exactly fiction, either, and from the way Alex winces Steph shifts up on the floor to look down at her.

(This at least cuts off Alex’s completely logically fallible argument that she has no idea what she’s doing, anyways, and isn’t going to remember any of it because that’s total bullshit and the GM in her so isn’t going to stand for any outside interference).

“Kind of?” After a long moment, Alex blinks beneath that thin layer of glass between them, teeth chewing on the edge of her lip. This sort of stillness falling over her cheeks—her chin—her lips. This tightness there that Steph wants to ease away with fingertips and—

(Holy fuck, she really hopes Alex can’t actually read minds. Not because Steph is scared of it, but because now is not the time—)

Alex’s voice is quiet and even and suddenly Steph feels every single inch of distance between them like a cavern.

“I can…hear you, sometimes. I’ve never told someone what I’ve heard them think, before, so I don’t know how accurate it is, but a lot of times I just…know things that I shouldn’t be able to know. It’s almost like I can…hear you, like for a moment you’re right—” Alex’s hand idly reaches up to rest over a yellow-plaid covered heart before she looks away and Steph swallows that sandpaper, again, eyebrows raising. But Alex seems to catch herself somewhere along the line from saying anything other than that—catch herself so swiftly, lips pressing tightly as her hand falls back down to her side, curled inwards and away from Steph. “Like I can hear what you’re thinking.”

“You…can actually hear what I’m thinking?”

“Not all the time. Just…sometimes. When you’re really feeling something, or if I listen hard enough. I used to have to really focus—to touch someone, or they had to be really worked up--but I’ve…I don’t know, I’ve gotten really good at picking up on you and Ryan, I guess. And…a few people in town I’ve been around, too. I don’t know why it’s getting easier with you guys, but it’s not all the time. I don’t even know if what I’m hearing is what you’re thinking but…I think it can be. Sometimes.” It’s a lot less elegant than Alex usually is when she speaks—like she’s never vocalized it, at all.

“Woah.” It’s a murmur, Steph wordlessly easing back down onto the floor. “That’s…a lot.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You said…” Steph’s tongue darts out over dry lips, searching the familiar dusty ceiling that houses a garden up above. “You feel it more when you touch someone.” It’s a murmur, arm draping over her stomach, idly running fingertips along the wood grain of a river between them as she thinks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Is that why you’re so careful about touching people?” 

Alex blinks, surprised, and Steph can feel her eyes on the high rise of her cheek, head slowly lolling on the floor to search familiar eyes, turning fully onto her side to scoot closer to her. Just a little. Just enough so that she can actually look at her. Alex doesn’t shift away. 

“I feel mildly called out.” Alex’s smile is slim, but she doesn’t deny it.

“That’s a yes.”

“I never really thought about it, but I guess it’s a yes.” Alex agrees.  

“So you can’t always hear me, but can you…feel what I’m feeling all the time?” 

Alex seems to think over the question like she’s tasting it on her tongue, eyes closing, “...kind of? It’s sort of like–this really muted sensation. Like background noise, I guess. Or like…walking into a room and there being a faint…perfume from someone that was there an hour earlier? If I focus on it–like if I really focus on you, I can always feel it, now, but…I try not to. It doesn’t—it feels like I’m violating something, if I press too much.” Alex’s eyes open, looking up towards that garden, too, but Steph watches the way she murmurs, “But if I do feel you, I always know it’s you.”

Steph doesn’t know what that even means, but it makes her stomach tighter. 

“So…it’s not intentionally.”

“Only recently. Only if I thought I could help.”

“Like…with the Foosball” 

“Right.” 

“So before then, it would just…”

“Before then, I could only feel really, really strong emotions. I mean, I could feel people’s energy—it would affect me, sometimes—but I couldn’t…it’s different. It’s stronger, when I feel someone’s emotions. And…usually I couldn’t help but feel them when they were bad. Bad emotions are always the strongest. They would take over me. Suddenly, it was all I could think–all I could feel–all I could taste–”

“Is that…what happened with Mac?” 

Alex’s eyes flick away. A long moment before she nods.

Steph shifts, hands flexing in the air by her hip as she leans over Alex, the hair that’s escaped a beanie dancing along her chin, eclipsing the sunlight from the nearby cracked window in shaded hues of blues along Alex’s eyes.

“That’s what happened that day with the fight in the street.” It’s a quiet realization, resisting the urge to lean down and run fingertips along the reddened ridges of knuckles, “…Alex. Come on, look at me. We don’t have to talk about it, I just think I…kind of get it, now.”

Alex finally looks back up at her, jaw rolling enough that Steph realizes she’s trying to keep herself composed. Trying to hold something back.  

“I was…scared I was going to hurt you. Like I did with Gabe. I hit him after that fight with Mac, you know. I’m the one that gave him the black eye.”

“I didn’t know.” Steph’s voice is so quiet, now, but so is Alex’s—so quiet that the sound of the wind might threaten to swallow it whole.

“That’s why I ran.”

“So that you wouldn’t…hurt me?” Steph tries to piece it together and just like that, it all slots, “Alex, you didn’t—”

“I could have.” Alex cuts off the sentence like she’s heard it before and for some reason, it ties Steph’s stomach into knots.

“You didn’t.” Steph sits up, voice serious as she shifts closer, reaching forward without nearly enough thought as her hands fall down to Alex’s, thumbs running along those puckered edges of skin, feeling hands stiffen but curl beneath her, clenching on. Holding tight.

Steph swallows.

“Steph—” 

“It didn’t ‘take over you’,” The recollection tastes like such a foreign concept on her tongue, “You controlled it. You helped them. You broke it up. You’re…are you learning how to control it? You’re talking about things like they’re kind of different now.”

All of Alex tightens up like a coil beneath Steph’s palms before, miraculously, fingers break free like vines and curve around the edges of the stone of knuckles that were never scarred like her own, not just holding on but holding, slotting fingers so easily into the empty spaces of Steph that it’s such a cliché that it feels so natural.

“...yeah. I think so. That’s how I helped Ethan. That’s how I’ve helped a lot of people, here. Eleanor—Riley—You—Ryan. I’m…I think I’m getting better at it, but I’m still—I’m still so scared of—"

“You know you’re not the only one who has the trademark on hurting people you care about, right?” It’s a blunt, knowing question, “My M.O. is to historically run away when people are trying to help, and lashing out to make them fall back. We all do shit that we work at being better at.” It’s not a thing she expected to tell her, today, but it’s the truth, nonetheless.  

(Then again, anything Steph’s told Alex wasn’t exactly something she planned for, it always just sort of comes out, so she’s gotten pretty good at running with the punches.)

Alex searches her eyes so thoroughly that Steph wonders what…emotion it is that Alex sees in her–what she knows of her, looking at her, like this. It’s a little unfair. 

It’s a little unsettling, being seen so thoroughly.

Steph’s not certain anyone’s ever known how to look hard enough to try.

“You haven’t pulled away from me.” 

“Yet.” It’s serious and quiet, lips pressing thin. Eyes flick down and settle on the hands she’d stolen before settling back on the eyes behind those thin frames of glass, “You…haven’t made me want to.” Teeth tuck away lips, trying to stay chill because now is totally not the time for Alex to know she–

Steph definitely—

Not the time. It’s never the time.

“I can’t promise I won’t.” Steph continues, because Alex…deserves to know, doesn’t she? After everything? “But I try not to. And you tried not to hurt me. And so far both of us? Pretty successful. And…if we’re not successful…I don’t know? We cross that bridge when we get to it.” 

“Just like that?” Alex shakes her head, smile small and hesitant. “Cross the bridge when we get to it.” A heavy, rattling breath as those stiff bones of Alex Chen sink a little into the floor, “Now who’s giving all the advice?”  

“Hey, I’m fantastic at advice. Radio show, remember?” A little more serious, “Friends should stick by through the hard stuff.” 

“Not to sound completely depressing but I’ve…never really had any that did.” But Alex, brave and quiet and sincere, doesn’t look away. “I don’t really know what it looks like.” 

“I’m not a very good example. But I’m pretty sure between Ryan and I, you’re stuck with finding out. You can’t get rid of us, now. We’re too dependent on the free drinks.” 

Alex smiles and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“What am I feeling now?” Steph asks when she lays back down and when Alex squeezes her hand, she realizes she never let go. 

“Maybe I’ll tell you later. Right now? I’m kind of just enjoying it.” 

“Yeah…okay.” Steph shifts just to make her back a little more comfortable on the floor, again, and stiffens only a little when she feels Alex hesitantly shift to rest her head on her shoulder, heart beat quick before both of them settle into the spaces that used to be between them.

“Steph?” Alex breathes into the thin fabric of a baseball tee like she’s absolutely determined not to look up and Steph fights down the ridiculous twittering swallows fluttering around in her stomach and smiles down at the crown of floor-messy hair and the tip of barely-visible, askew glasses that are buried into her, right now.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” Alex tips her head upwards and offers a smile so small and quiet and genuine that the world shifts beneath Steph’s steady pulse—something shifts in her lungs and her back and her smile, quietly falling into something serious—something different—something new.

There’s this puzzle of Alex, whose cardboard cut-out image of possibilities has full shades of tone behind it, now, so real that Steph can no longer see the lines of the pieces that slotted her together in her mind in the first place—those lines of knuckles of red and smile of sunlight and heart of so many shades of color Steph’s never seen, before—all Steph can see is Alex. This woman whose spine is made of impenetrable oak that shapes into a door that Steph stands on the outside of, cracked. A sliver of light shining inside to the deepest places Steph has never seen—a sliver of light showing how endlessly vast a person can be in the slimmest sights she’s seen of her.

There’s so much more.

Alex, who Steph keeps thinking is someone Steph knows, but who she finds out each and every day is more complex and different than anything that’s ever existed in her world.

Here’s Alex, who feels what others feel and holds Steph in storms because of it; whose eyes had only been hidden in the thin fabric of Steph for a moment before looking up, not truly hiding, at all—fearless and brave and independent; who makes Steph feel…nervous and unsure and fantastic all at once, without doing anything, at all.

Alex, who Steph doesn’t want to leave behind to see the world…but feels like she would never truly leave, at all, for once. Maybe she’d find a way to stay in touch. Maybe she’d find a way to—

To—

Steph wonders how loud a dice would rattle against the floor next to their settling knees.

You thought you never told her. You thought she only knew because she knew you but you didn’t know how right you were.

You wonder how many times you’ve told her you’re falling in love with her and you wonder how little it matters. You leave and you keep her close to you like your father keeps a polaroid tucked away in his beaten wallet. You leave and you wish you’d asked her to leave with you, and you’ll spend your whole life missing the future you let yourself imagine in the deepest spaces of the night before you fall asleep.

A future where you’re not so scared of her knowing you, because you know she’s the only one you want to know you, at all.

Alex’s brows knit and her fingers tighten, only a little, on Steph’s hand, and that tight feeling is back in her chest, again, eclipsing and eclipsing until she lets out a quiet huff of a breath through parted lips.

She’ll find a way to stay in touch. Life will move on. It always moves on in thin sheets of ice, so many people buried beneath its surface.

Steph’s always been better at focusing on the now than the future, even when she’s planning it.    

Alex thanks her and Steph doesn’t have to ask why.

Instead, she just shakes her head and smiles.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Chen.”

In a rare display, Alex looks almost a little…nervous for the second time today when she offers, “You…don’t have to stay, Steph, I know that you have to get back to the station.”

“Yeah, I do. But…I can hang out here for a little bit longer, my alarm’s set. So…enjoy that feeling of mine, I guess? I still don’t really know how this works, but it sounds pretty awesome.”

“Yeah.” Alex settles her head back down and closes her eyes, glasses pressing into the soft part of Steph’s neck and after a moment Steph’s hand wraps up around her shoulder to lightly hold her close, Alex shifting closer. A smile softly curves along her neck—the soft breeze dances through the curtains by the window, underlining the soft puffs of Alex’s breath—that faint scent settles into her chest like a breath of fresh air—and life moves on around them, like it always does. “It’s pretty great.

People feel so much more than I’ve ever seen.

Seriously, I feel like I traded my glasses for a set of EnChroma lenses because somehow, now, when I look at everyone…I don’t just see this one, loud, overwhelming color, anymore. I’m starting to see…all of them. I’m starting to see the blue and the red in the orange and the yellow and blue in purple. I’m starting to see violet in shades of red and blue. I’m starting to see that there’s so much more beneath those heavy emotions on the surface.

I’ve never noticed that yellow can be like sunlight in someone’s eyes, curving around the green of them like the set of an expensive ring—this quiet happiness that’s there, that doesn’t burn as brightly. I’ve never noticed that sadness and joy can cling to people like…rain after a heavy storm. That fear can do that, too.

Colors compose people and constantly shift.

I’m starting to see people for more than just those snapshots of emotions I feel. It’s…amazing. It’s amazing how everyone’s so different. How subtle the red is when Ryan stubs his toe compared to the vibrant red when Steph does. How quietly the purple dances off of the vibrating drum of Diane’s nails along the edge of a bar table when she thinks no one is looking, perfectly calm and still whenever she notices someone does. This…purple that lingers on the shine of Jed’s shoulders that I don’t think I’ll ever understand that he wears like a raincoat in the snow, so thin I can barely even see it.

And I think…I’m like that, too, deep beneath the surface. I’m more like an impressionist painting of colors, a thousand dots blurred together to make…Me.

Just like everyone else.

The thought of feeling all of it—of recognizing it—it used…to be terrifying. It still kind of is.

The thought of someone knowing me well enough to pick out the way the yellow curves down my cheek when I hear a song I really like on the radio—or the way my blues mix with reds when I look up at the picture of a plaque on a dirty bar wall—of someone seeing the passion in my hands and the energy in my steps.

I don’t know what colors I’m made of, but I know what colors light up Steph when she walks. Most of them, anyways. I wonder how much more there are to see.

When I think about what colors I see, I always think of Steph. Maybe because she’s so expressive, but maybe…there’s something else there.

No, there’s definitely something else there.

I know what Steph’s colors look like, for the most part, even as I start to see more and more of them, everyday, filling out this…picture of her that’s full of gaps that I still don’t know how to read.

But what do those colors look like on me, to her? What does she see of me, if she doesn’t see colors?

“Okay, so…that only looks mildly complicated.” Steph notes from behind Riley’s shoulder, Ryan’s head bobbing, assessing with a total nod next to her.

“Oh, yeah, and only mildly…super illegal.”

“Getting second thoughts, Ryan?” Riley calls from her hunched position, darkness outside only causing a stark contrast from the blue light from her laptop, fingers moving way faster than Steph has seen anyone type. Even Mikey, and she’s pretty sure if there was an Olympics for typing, Mikey could be in it.

She can’t wait to take a video and send it to Mikey, just to let him know someone else would totally mop the floor with him.

“Pfft, no.” Ryan side-eyes Steph who shoves his shoulder. Mumbling, “…maybe.”

“Come on, it’s fine. Riley doesn’t even want to know what it is or where we got it from, not if it’ll help Gabe, right Riley?”

“Totally.” Riley immediately offers.

“And she’s going to crack it like the awesome tech-chick she is, right, Riley?”

“Totally.” Another swift series of key strokes before Riley finishes setting up…whatever it is she’s doing with the USB before turning back towards the both of them. It’s oddly reminiscent of those fake breaking in scenes in movies like Hackers, but Steph knows way too little about any of this to even hope at making a sly comment about it. “Although you guys do know this is definitely not admissible in a court, right?” Riley’s eyebrow hikes upwards and Steph and Ryan nervously look between each other to Riley to the USB. “Seriously…am I the only person who watches CSI?”

“Probably not since it’s been on for like…four decades? People have to watch it.” Steph shakes her head.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Law and Order.” Ryan scratches his beard. “Or maybe…what was the one with the Air Force—”

“Stargate?” Steph’s brows knit. “What does Stargate have to do with this?”

“What?” Ryan shakes his head. “Stargate was about…aliens?”

“She’s right, Stargate was Air Force. And I’m pretty sure you’re talking about NCIS, Ryan. But, no, like--” Riley offers with a vague gesture over her shoulder, “We’re getting…whatever you’re getting illegally. They can’t use that.”

“Yeah, but maybe if it’s incriminating enough, it’ll make people look.” Steph presses, looking between the two of them. “Look…Alex needs a lead. Like…any kind of lead, and we need to know what we’re dealing with. She’s pretty sure about…who’s mixed up in all of this, and I believe her.”

Ryan and Riley share a look but nod anyways.

“Yeah, I do too, Steph.” Ryan stuffs hands into pockets, that smile of his softening. Easy. Certain.

“Of course, Steph.” Riley immediately piggybacks. “Especially for Gabe, I just…wanted you guys to know.” It causes both of them to smile, grateful, and Riley shakes her head and shifts on her feet beneath it, blush highlighted by the computer, “Alright, I better get back to it.”

“You sure you don’t need help setting up for the festival?” Ryan double-checks.

“I’ll tell you guys tomorrow after the LARP. If I don’t drown in flowers before then.”

“Well, if you need anything, let us know, alright?” Steph is already backpedaling out of the shop, waving, not hearing the tail end of the conversation between the two as she steps back out into the cool night air, eyes flicking down towards a lone streetlight outside of a barely-lit apartment window, its blinds drawn. It’s not because she doesn’t want to help—Riley deserves a hand—but more because she has way too much to do, before tomorrow.

She waits for a couple of seconds until the door jingles, Ryan stepping next to her.

“So…you seriously knew our best friend was an empath this whole time?” Steph shoves her hands into pockets, too, curling, voice calm and casual but she knows Ryan’s got a lock on her the moment he looks over.

“I didn’t always know but…yeah. She told me. If it helps, I…was having a really bad day.” He says it with all the levity in the world but when she looks up at the way the shadows of the night catch in his eyes, Steph knows exactly how midnight black bad days can be. And wonders how much of herself Alex would give away to help him cope with it. Wonders, knowing Ryan, how much of himself he gave to her, back. And knows that she’ll never know, because she wasn’t there. “I don’t think she’s ever told anyone else, before.”

“Seriously?” Eyes flick back over towards the bar.

“Yeah.”

A breeze rips through the air, chin tipping upwards the watch the wind rustle down the street, dancing up clattering metal signs and street corner marking, the now-closed sign safe behind glass from the wind’s careless twirl in the record store across the cobbled path of a town Steph’s learned to call home.

There’s another sign ready to be plastered over that one in the morning for a LARP Gabe will never see and when she shifts on her feet, her shoulder brushes against Ryan’s bicep.

“It…kind of makes sense?” Her chin tips backwards—away from Ryan and the shop and the bar—to look up towards the cloudy sky. The rain’s passed, but the night air is still thick with the aftermath of it and it makes her fingers curl and her tongue dart out over lips and her laugh, just a little, catch in the back of her throat.

“I’m…sorry if you were hurt that we didn’t tell you—”

“I wasn’t hurt.” Steph cuts off. Sighs, one shoulder raising up and falling like a sack of bricks, “Yeah…okay. Maybe a little. But it’s…well, it’s not yours to tell, anyways, Ry. There’s nothing to be sorry about. Secrets like that—stuff that define us, whether we want it to or not? It’s not the kind of thing only we should ever tell people. It’s Alex’s story, she has a right to tell who she wants to. I…guess I’m just glad to be on the list?”

It’s an ingrained truth. Maybe it’s the queer kid from a small town in her. Maybe it’s the punk. Or maybe it’s the girl with so many secrets Ryan’s never known hidden in the wrinkled crevices of her cold hands. It doesn’t really matter.

Either way, she gets it.

It stings, but she gets it.

“Yeah.” Ryan looks at her like he isn’t so sure. “Well, the good news is maybe we’re a step closer to figuring out what happened to Gabe.”

“Yeah.” Steph looks back down towards the record shop, nodding. Serious, “Good.” Because it is. Gabe deserves more than what he got—but justice is a good start. “Alright, well, you’ve got some whittling to do.”

“I know, I know,” Ryan’s hands raise up in submission, backing towards his own street, “Let me know if you need any help?”

(Oh, Ryan’s definitely going to help. She’s not going to take any enjoyment in telling him just how much tomorrow morning—really. Like, none.)

“You know it.” She’s already across the street, hand flattening on the record shop door when she pauses. Bites her lip.

Valkyrie meows as she curves around Steph’s ankle, a tameless creature of the night, hips bouncing as she strolls down the cool cobblestone towards the lit window across the street. Steph unlocks the door just to replace the closed sign with the Magpie Emporium instructions before locking back up and going the opposite way towards her apartment, hesitating just for a moment as she watches Valkyrie dip into the shadows behind the Black Lantern.

She’s seriously still got a lot of shit to do…but there’s this lingering thought. This lingering taste of maybe in the back of her throat. This itch in her fingers for more than just music—more than just drums—more than just similarity and the things she knows.

Maybe there’s magic in the air tonight, after all, and the Mysterious Proprietor spends the whole night writing about it—about magic and faraway lands and Emperors who fall into the trenches of demons in a time of darkness—she writes until her fingers cramp and her back aches and even rolling her neck doesn’t fight the stiffness from hunching over for so long.

The window is cracked open, the heavy moisture of long-fallen rain clinging to the night.

Maybe if Steph can imagine it hard enough, she can pretend she tastes magic in the thickness of it.

Maybe then it’s easier to imagine her familiar in her place, perched in another open window across the street, moonlight highlighting the darkest parts of her fur, tail slinking in a lazy bat from one side to the next.

The thoughts we never want to think are always the ones that find us when the air is thickest with something like magic, sleep so close to sagging shoulders and sighing lips.

So Steph will wonder, crawling into bed and staring up at the cloudy moon, eyes heavy and bones weary—she’ll wonder it, for the first time, the thought sinking into her bones like sand sliding through the thinnest tube of an hourglass—

Can a bard sense the magic in the air and pull it into her fingertips along the steel-woven tines of a guitar? Can a bard tame the music of a witch? If she could…would Steph let her pass the roll-check?

Can Alex sense her, now?

Now that there’s no bar full of people between them—no quiet youtube coffee shop din or other emotions or places or things—now that there’s nothing but an empty streetlight and rain that was so thick even the air couldn’t shake it—now that there’s an empty space where people used to be in apartments once owned by people other than them—now that there’s nothing, at all…will Alex look up towards Valkyrie perched on her window sill and feel Steph wish that she was there, instead?

Can Alex hear the small little swallow in Steph’s chest, twittering like a lost bird in the rain, aching for a reason to stay?

Does Alex know? Does Alex…know?

Steph swallows. Her fingers curl into the pillow as they tremble, just a little, before her brows knit.

And then ease.

Life moves on so quickly and it takes her with it to a dream she won’t remember, sheet half curled along her thigh and bed empty beside her.

When she wakes up, she doesn’t remember anything but the hazy thought of kissing Alex on the scratched surface of a floor that belongs to neither of them and looks towards the window where Valkyrie sits, soundly sleeping beneath the soft sunshine of morning.

I’ve never been…very good with my own emotions, I guess. The girl who’s been in therapy for the majority of my life thinks that’s because my whole life I’ve been told I’m not feeling anything enough while simultaneously being told I should only ever feeling one thing at a time. But the truth is?

Maybe I’m feeling all of those emotions. All the time.

I look at Steph and I feel what she feels and…it scares me.

In kind of a good way, I think?

I look at Steph and I’m…everything at once. I’m…angry about Gabe and angry he left, again. I’m sad for what I’ll never know and I’m scared of Steph and I’m happy to see all of the colors that compose her smile. I’m guilty that I’m feeling any of it when Gabe is feeling none of it. I’m…hopeful, I think, of things I don’t even know how to vocalize and totally, completely, utterly unprepared for all of them.  

But for the first time I think…it’s okay.

I feel…safe? I think.

I feel safe in Haven.

I feel safe with Ryan and Steph and everyone else here.

Steph is totally the opposite of what I expect, every time. Steph is a true drummer punk, I guess, because she subverts literally every single one of my deeply held, probably trauma-infused expectations of what a person should do. And yet, somehow, I feel like I know her enough to know better.

Steph’s…complicated. And kind of emotionally messy. And totally amazing.

Steph looks at me without seriously a single ounce of expectation for me to fit into any mold. I feel everything I never really thought was mine to feel, at all, with her.

And I wonder what it looks like to her.

The truth is, I think I know the answer, and that’s what really terrifies me. I think I just…look like me.

I think she looks at me and just sees me, and is totally here, anyways.

And…at least I know I’m not the only one scared of it.

“Did you go over there, Val?” Steph’s fingertips so carefully curve behind the delicate, curving arch of Valkyre’s ear—the beast that scratched people who scratched all who dared to get too close, but somehow lets Steph stay. A singular green eye cracks open beneath the sun, spine lazily stretching before she eases fully onto the sill. “Do you think all of this…do you think it’s all just wishful thinking? Am I going crazy over nothing?”

Valkyrie just closes her eyes and doesn’t answer and Steph shrugs and gathers up binders and binders of magic lore, pamphlets, and spells and a singular red cap with a feather stuck inside because time moves on.

And so does Steph.

At least I know I’m not the only one alone.

Steph’s kind of uncharacteristically scared about it, but she’s still here. I feel a little bit guilty about that, too.

But I’m also a little happy? How messed up is that.

Is it messed up? I don’t know.

I’d ask Ryan if I didn’t feel guilty about that, too.

Valkyrie came to my window, last night. She only hissed a little bit when I brought her some food Steph left. (Just in case—apparently Valkyrie used to like sitting on the window when Gabe wasn’t around, even though no one has any idea how she got up here). She didn’t let me pet her, but she let me get close enough to drop off the dish.

It felt a little bit like a sign. I don’t know why.

Thumbs hesitate along the edge of the page and a thick laugh quietly dances through the air, thick with tears.

It feels like I’m doing something right.

The pages rustle beneath the gentle wind and a careful, tipping thumb, pushing back—back—back—

I can do this.

A page. Another. Two—

I can…write about just me, again.

Settling, fingertips skimming along the indentations of words like a painting. Hands treating words like something someone who values them might. Precious and sacred and hidden in the pillow-case suitcase they'd unearthed from.

I can do that…right?

“Ok, you seriously think you’re going to get away with disappearing into the crowd after this?”

The humidity is heavy in the air, wind rustling through the trees and bouncing waves off of the lake as their feet skirt along the water, toes dipping into the cold.

“It’s—” The laugh that bounces up Alex’s shoulders is easy and quiet, smile spreading so open and wide like it always does. It's kind of disarming. More than kind of super distracting. But she's used to it enough that Steph remembers to look towards the water—or the mountains—or the grass under their hands—anything other than Alex’s smile for a very-obvious lingering five seconds. “Kind of street kid charm, I guess? I just sort of blend in ,” Fingers tent in an airplane, smoothly gliding through the air as those laughing shoulders end in a faint shrug, shifting on the jacket laid out on the grass beneath her. It’s rare both of them have had a morning off that aligns in more than just hours spent at the other’s job, air crisp and clean.

It's kind of nice. Steph’s just happy she got to Alex before Ryan could convince her to go mountain biking again.

“It’s easy for no one to ever recognize me—people usually forget me, actually. Which…isn’t nearly as depressing as it sounds.” Alex leans up on elbows, idly blowing a piece of hair away, wind picking up just enough to dance its fingers through it leaving it scattered and disheveled, “Not to brag, but it’s a pretty impressive skill. I’m like one step away from working for the CIA.”

“I’m calling bullshit.” Steph scoffs, popping her last cold fry from yesterday’s takeout (and today’s breakfast) into her mouth with a completely unsatisfying lack of crunch, “Not that you’d work for the CIA—they’re always hiring guitarists.”

“I mean it Steph, you’re pretty much talking to Patrick Swayze in Ghost.”

“Ignoring the fact that CIA and Ghost don't really go together and the...classified images of you doing pottery with Demi Moore that you’re clearly trying to spread around—” It’s a thoughtless flirt but, surprisingly, Alex doesn’t blush. Alex, fearless and brave and more confident than Steph would have ever pegged her for, months ago, smirks like she knows exactly what she would do in a situation with Demi Moore half naked between her legs probably solely to needle Steph. And then laughs.

Now, it’s very disarming. Very distracting.

What point was Steph talking about, again?

For some reason, Alex gives her a weird, curious look before the smirk turns amused. Softer.

Steph settles into it like sheets of a bed that smell like something she still can't place—this box labeled Alex in the back of her mind.

“I don’t know how hot it would be watching a pot flop around. Char would kill me if she saw the total abomination I would probably create from a lump of clay.”

“People are into weird things, Chen. Don’t kink-shame.” Steph’s hand waves, “Everyone remembers you.”

A cloud passes overhead, shade cloaking Alex’s soft smile as it mutes—quieter—like a flame flickering out on a candle, breeze the only thing ticking up its edges.

“Everyone just knows me here because I’m Gabe’s sister.” It’s calm and gentle—factual—and Steph shifts on the grass to look fully down at her, brows knitting.

“Everyone knows you here because you’re freakishly helpful. It’s like running around with the main hero of an RPG doing everyone’s fetch quests.”

“What?” There’s another laugh, at least—

“Yesterday I watched you help fish someone’s keys out of the sewer, Alex. Not only did you know exactly where they were, but do you seriously forget that they apparently had a keychain that belonged to their Great Aunt Silvia from the war attached to—”

“It was their cousin Ruth who lives in Wisconsin.”

“Close enough."

"Not...even remotely close? But okay. She gave it to him when he moved away to college in Michig—"

"See? Most people do not know those things. It doesn't come up in conversation and not just because they wouldn't have helped them in the first place. Did he seriously tell you that when I wasn't paying attention?"

"Uh…" Steph shifts again, but this time her smile looks oddly…guilty. "That would be a plausible answer to your question?"

"Ignoring that really weirdly specific way to say yes, that means you somehow knew just what to ask. Hero fetch quests.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m memorable , Ste—”

“Why wouldn’t you be? Something like that makes someone’s day. You made their day Alex—” Steph remembers the way her own fingers slacked around the wooden dowel of a Foosball rod. Remembers taut shoulders easing—the gentle good-natured ribbing of a younger Chen—remembers the way Alex smiled and looked at her like…like she just knew, somehow. Like she knew what Steph needed, in that moment. “You make a lot of people’s days. Honestly? It’s kind of awesome. And is also probably totally killing my aloof untouchable DJ vibe, hanging out with you.”

“Yeah, right. Ryan told me all about your Psychic DJ show.”

“Yes, my totally believable, certified, Made-in-America bullshit psychic DJ show—” Steph recalls, leaning a little further over her on the grass to swipe one of Alex’s remaining fries.

“Hey!”

“I need this fry. I’ll be emotionally destitute without it. It reminds me of my long lost Great Aunt Silvia from the war—”

Alex rolls her eyes. But there’s that smile, again.

“Your show’s helped a lot of people.” Alex shifts on her elbow, fingers brushing hair away from glasses so that she can look fully at Steph—unwaveringly—a little more serious. “It helped Gabe.”

“Ryan told you, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Another long pause, fry colder beneath Steph’s thumb than it had been in the fridge, somehow—and definitely colder than it had been, freshly microwaved. How long have they been talking, here? Didn’t they just come out?

When she looks up, Alex is looking towards the clouds, settled so deeply into the ground that hair might be made of silk vines and a smile might be composed of grass curving towards the sun--reaching; reaching; reaching.

“Well, I never claimed to be forgettable.” Steph chuffs—placing the fry back on top of Alex’s stack when she isn’t looking. Hey, someone has to look after the hero, right? She needs to get all of her calories if Alex is going to keep solving all of Haven’s crazily mundane problems.

And…murders.

“You’re not, you know. I mean it. I feel like...you should know that. That you should hear that.” Steph continues, quieter, resting fingers on the soft, rain—wet ground near Alex’s knuckles, tips flexing before they curl in on themselves. Eyes track tensing muscles that seem to anticipate Steph shifting closer—like she’s worried Steph’s going to touch her. Like she’s not too used to the idea of people just…doing that. Still. No matter how much Steph (so thoughtlessly, sometimes) does it. “You’re not . Forgettable, I mean. You’re totally, 100%, absolutely memorable. Everyone in this town doesn’t just see you as Gabe’s sister. Okay,” Her head dips to the side, admitting, “There’s a lot of people that…that’s all they know, but anyone who meets you?” Fingers flex against that grass--the urge to ford the distance barely resisted--and Alex looks back up towards the sky and Steph and the beanie she tugs down when she doesn't, something…totally unreadable in eyes. Something…a little vulnerable. It makes Steph swallow.

What would Gabe say, if he knew Steph was here for her?

Does Alex know?

Does Alex know she isn’t alone?

“Anyone who gets to meet you is totally blown away by how good of a person you are. I mean it. I’m telling you, long lost aunt war guy wrote an entire essay on the community MyBlock page about you.”

The flirting didn’t make Alex blush…but somehow this does.

“I don’t think I could hold a candle up to you, Steph, but…thanks.”

Steph smiles, both of their noses ducking, and the smile spreads when Alex hands her the same fry she’d apparently totally not-so- slyly put back on the top of the pile.

“See? Actual super hero.”

“This isn’t a fetch quest. I’m just…making sure to look out for my party, right? Got to keep your HP up. Why don’t we split them?” Alex is already dividing up a line down the middle and Steph doesn’t have to be told twice. “Besides, it just means you have to buy me some, next time.”

“Buy you some, huh? That implies interest. Well-played, Chen. Maybe there’s some street kid in there, after all.”

Alex laughs and smiles and her shoulders visibly ease back into the grass.

The wind dances through the air and Steph dips her toes into the water as Alex passes up a fry towards her, their fingers brushing with a smile.

“Hey, seriously, how’d you know about those keys, anyways?” Steph asks much later, hands comfortably settled in pockets. Way later than she expected to be—it means she’ll be up all night in the record store arranging the new albums section that she was supposed to do earlier and (so only mildly) procrastinated through, but…it feels kind of worth it, somehow. It’s been weeks since she’s let herself actually relax outside of an apartment down the street.

“Not all of us need a d20 to be psychic, some of us are just cursed with it.” Steph doesn't think twice about the fact that their conversation is thoughtlessly continuing towards the record store, Alex a welcome shadow behind her steps.

“Okay, keep your secrets.”

“Hey, did you need help organizing those new albums?”

Did Steph—she doesn’t remember mentioning—

“Okay, seriously. ” Feet scuff along cement as she whirls around, holding up jingling keys with an arched eyebrows, “Do you get a toaster each boring side quest quota you reach?”

“Wait, are you telling me I…don’t get a toaster oven as a reward? I should’ve read the quest...deets?" Not what they're called at all, but Steph lets it slide. This time. A for effort, Chen. "Closer.”

“Nope, no toaster. Just cat gouges and a very thankful friend.”

Who doesn’t want Alex to go. She spent all morning with her—all the day before—all the day before that—and still doesn’t want her to go.

It’s the second time in the past few weeks Steph finds herself talking and walking and pausing when she realizes Alex’s stopped in the middle of a stride, but this time Alex is only looking at Steph. With…this kind of deer in the headlights look. This really unexpected, totally out of place, deer in the headlights look.

No panic. No anger. No yelling tourists.

Just pure...unadulterated shock.

“Alex?” Teasing turns to concern, “Are you okay? I was just kidding about the cat gouges.” A wince, “Uh…kind of.”

“I’m…yeah. Yeah, I’m cool.” A blink. A breath, like she's sucking up all the air in the city into her shoulders, pulling them confidently up and out before they settle.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Hey…” Alex bumbles for only a minute before her chin dips upwards, gaze certain and voice…kind and gentle and serious , “Hey Steph?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad I met you.”

The smile crawls up Steph’s features so easily it would put Valkyrie scaling her apartment curtains to shame.

“Me too.” The attempt to hide her kind-of embarrassing smile with a cleared throat and a thrown-open record store door falls pretty flat, so she wears it with pride, instead. “Now who’s ready to Alphabetize?”

“Holy shit, Steph, you didn’t mention the 'New Record' stack was literally spread across the entire shop floor.”

“Just remember,” One hand clasps on Alex’s shoulder while the other gestures towards the stack with a sweeping, DM hand, Mufasa of bad news. One evening, this shall all belong to Alex Chen because she had the misfortune to offer her services. At least that's the vibe she's going for, “Tooooaster oooooven—”

Alex shoves her shoulder.

“It better come with toast.”

“Only if you like it as black as the depths of Grimdale’s deepest darkspawn trenches.”

“I never should have told you I started playing Dust and Daylight” Alex moves into the store, anyways, comically lunging over the overflowing stacks of records (barely makes it to the other side by her tip-toe) that, sure enough, are exactly where Steph left them the night before: avalanched over the entire floor. Mostly categorized, already—but still in need of some sorting and cataloging. “So are you seriously telling me all of the ladies you wooed have been served blackened bricks in the morning?”

“There’s a reason none of them stayed.” A long, dramatic sigh that turns into a chuckle—

“I don’t know, I think there’s plenty of reasons for them to stay.”

Steph blinks, looking up towards that…sincere look on Alex’s face. So earnest and calm and smiling as she stands in front of a sea of cover art. There isn’t a hint of flirt there as much as Alex is just—

Alex is just—

Heat rises up from Steph’s swallowing throat to clenching cheeks to lips where a tongue darts restlessly over them, nose ducking as she shakes her head—

Is she blushing?

(Fuuuuucccckkkk—)

“Hey, stop trying to charm your way out of the quest—” Steph tutts the moment she gets some sense to save some fucking face and Alex just smiles and keeps filing, humming the last song that had played in the studio across the room the night before, likely played in a bar a few hours to last call.

Steph watches her bouncing along, fingers effortlessly sifting through bins and bins as the mid-morning sun settles at her back, a few blades of grass still stuck to shoulders—and Steph just smiles as she slides up next to her, working in tandem.

I shouldn’t be nervous to write in my own journal, but here I am. Nervous. Like an idiot.

Ugh.

A series of scratches. A dozen different started sentences all muted after a single word, half a page of paper lost to quick slices. Names unknown—places—adverbs and verbs and nouns—

Until the next page where a calm, settled hand starts.

I can do this.

Gossip spreads faster in Haven Springs than the Colorado fires and it’s approximately five entire days before literally everyone in town (camera-happy small town visitors included) know that Alex Chen successfully stopped two tourists from beating the ever living shit out of each other on mainstreet. The recalling of Alex’s heroic deeds (all done by people who were not there ) range from stern finger-wagging to Bruce-Lee backflips—a mountain-legend growing each and every retelling in the hushed, drunken whispers of the miners’ corner in Black Lantern. No one really cares, but Alex still winces (for what Steph can only assume is more than one reason) every time someone claps her on the back for it. Usually while jostling the beers she’s carrying.

“Hey, no, I have total sympathy.” Steph reaches up to wipe some of the spilled beer off of Alex’s neck from her perch by the bar, “It’s got to be hard being an actual literal badass.”

“No offense, Steph, but I’m starting?” Alex’s brow dips as she gives Steph that look, “To think you really have no clue what literal means.”

“Oh you mean like the thing—the word literal—where it’s an actual representation of a situation and not an allegory? Say, like…if someone were to make the town gazette and I was just quoting it?”

Steph’s been holding onto it all day, small smirk turning to an absolute grin at the look of terror that washes over Alex’s features as the small little article bounces up from behind the bar, headline splashed on the top.

“‘Local hero stops violent crime’—” Steph slaps it down like a fiver on the bar-top, “Sounds pretty badass to me.”

“I hate you.” Alex groans, but there’s that smile, small and horrified and…a little soft at the edges.

“You’re going to make me blush, Chen.” Steph leans a little closer, elbows folding inwards on the bar. “I think we should roll this into your mic night persona—”

“Well there goes my plan of wearing a Zorro mask.” It's drawled, plucking up a nearby tumbler and tipping the edge beneath the tap.

“Does this mean you’re doing it?” She's stretching fully over the bar, now, practically Alex’s height, like elation has crawled her entire spine upwards.

“This,” Eyes flick up from glass to slit playfully at Steph before focusing adamantly downwards, “Just means I’m humoring you enough to lull you into a false sense of security so that you don’t expect it when I totally disappear on mic night."

"Come on, don't wuss out—"

"No one said anything about wussin—"

“Alex!” Hector bellows the moment he walks in, roughly clapping her on the shoulder as he passes, “Way to go! I would’ve done it if I was there, but…y’know. Okay, I wouldn't have. That's pretty awesome!”

Alex winces.

“Hector, seriously?” Steph calls, gesturing down towards the drink now covering Alex’s hands, reaching forward to help her clean it up. Again.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Alex sighs and Steph raises up her hands in surrender before pointedly swiping up the article and dropping it in the trash.

“Fine, I won’t do a follow-up expose on the show. But I’m still framing a copy.”

Despite the amusement, an hour later a very pointed post is typed up onto MyBlock from the corner of the bar titled

"Maybe Instead of Assaulting People, Just Use Something Equally Lame Like Finger Guns To Say They Did a Good Job. [Topic by: Steph Gingrich]"

Stop smacking Alex. This has been my Ted Talk.

-Steph G.

People are smacking Alex?

- Riley L.

Yeah, guys, maybe tone it down. Everyone’s just really excited about the fight thing. But I agree with Steph, maybe we can just shake her hand or something?

- Ryan L.

And finger guns aren’t that lame.

- Ryan L.

They are when you do them.

-Steph G.

Good job fighting crime, Alex. <3

- Riley L.

Can I also get on the ‘don’t smack Alex’ train? Don’t know what people are doing, but already don’t like it.

-Charlotte H.

Guys, she’s shown she’ll smack back, don’t smack her first.

-Josh Q.

She’s not smacking anyone that doesn’t deserve it, Josh.

-Steph G.

It was just a joke. I figured everyone was talking about that shootout you stopped on Main street.

-Josh Q.

Shootout??

-Ryan L.

LOL. The legend grows

-Steph G.

There weren’t any guns, Josh.

-Riley L.

Good job, Alex!

-Eleanor L.

Thanks, Eleanor.

-Alex C.

How about next time someone spills a beer at the Lantern on my bartender, they have to pay double and only get half?

-Jed L.

And then no more beers were spilled in the land.

-Steph G.

Good job, dad! 👉😎👉

-Ryan L.

How do I delete someone else’s comment?

-Steph G.

The next morning, there’s a laminated, printed out copy of Ryan’s finger guns settled innocently on top of a greasy styrofoam container full of eggs on the Record store cashier desk. Maybe a thank-you—maybe revenge for bringing it up, at all, on the community board when both of them know Alex doesn't want the attention—either way, Steph laughs and tapes it to the wall by the bulletin board.

What Steph doesn’t understand is why Ryan thinks the not-shootout is somehow even mildly relevant to the time Mac got his face bashed in by Gabe a month and a half prior. He brings it up in the middle of the lunch rush while Alex is in the back, plaid shirt rippling underneath the rattling AC up above as he comically leans backwards to sneak peeks towards the door like he’s worried about a set of freakishly tuned-in ears overhearing. Which is stupid. Since Alex was there.

“Gabe tried to tell me in the car that ‘nothing happened’.”

“Did you just use air quotes?”

“What’s wrong with air-quotes?”

“Don’t even get me started, Ry.”

“Hey, I ‘rock’ air-quotes.”

“The fact that you just used air quotes for ‘rock ’ is only making this comedic gold. And the original point is, like…so beyond debatable that I might open up a poll on the show. It’s wrong.”

“No way, Steph—my MyBlock profile is still getting pinged from the time you polled the town on whether or not I should change from plaid. Which, reminder, they all said I look awesome in.”

“Hey, I wasn’t knocking it,” Acquiescing with a dipping head, “...for once. I just figured that someone out there had to want to see you in chaps or something. It was a slow news week. The air-quotes? I am knocking that. Just want to be clear. Anyways,” Steph’s eyes flick over towards the kitchen door, as well, because Ryan's making her paranoid, “He said nothing happened?”

“He said nothing happened.”

“Well…sounds like Gabe.”

“I figured he just kind of lost it on Mac.”

And then she suddenly realizes why Ryan thought this stupid conversation was relevant.

“Wait.” Brows wrinkle, “He…didn’t?”

“You don’t know?”

“Don’t know super juicy gossip that you’ve been keeping from your BF? No, dude, do I look like I know? This is not my ‘oh, I knew it all along face’.” Steph slaps his shoulder, taking an extra-long sip out of the corner of her drink, straw rattling against the edges.

Alex had slid a hilariously long bendy straw in her soda earlier, package complete with a complimentary super-tiny umbrella that Jed accidentally ordered an extra case-load of in preparation for tourist-aggedon.

Steph may or may not be really into it.

“Do you have to call it gossip?” The scowl above that suspiciously well-kept beard is evident, nervous eyes flicking upwards towards the kitchen door again. Okay, it's starting to make it obvious to everyone that they're gossiping about Alex, so she lowers her voice, not wanting them to overhear.

“Yeah, because that’s what it is . Spill!”

“It was Alex.”

“ What ?”

“Riley told me it was Alex that took down Mac.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Cross my heart.” Ryan, of course, literally crosses her heart and Steph’s too blown away to even tease him for being such an earnest boyscout.

“No way , Lucan.”

“Seriously. Riley said Alex didn’t really want to talk about it, but when Mac tried to blame it all on Gabe, she called him out. Alex told her Mac barged into the apartment, started with Gabe, and Alex just…” A shrug—

“Became Dwayne Fucking Johnson?” A sweeping, wild gesture towards the staircase and the sparsely-filled bar in laughing disbelief. Even though…well, no, that actually kind of checks given what she saw on Mainstreet. It's actually...absolutely believable. “Mac sounds like he deserved it—”

“That’s what I said.”

A chipper voice, sly and a little amused , if tired, pipes up behind Ryan’s stiffening shoulders, eyes comically widening over his fries.

At least it’s not Alex.

“R-Riley–we weren’t—”

Steph smacks his back a few times once he starts coughing, inhaling half his lunch in the rush to look cool and aloof. A bit of fry comes out and lands on the table and she's not sure whether to grimace in sympathy or disgust.

“You okay?” She settles on sympathy.

“F–fi–” Ryan doesn’t fully make it out, but waves his hands anyways. Steph offers the super-long straw. “Fine.”

“We were talking about you.” She eloquently side-steps Ryan’s poor attempt at what was definitely going to be a lie, “Well, talking about Mac. And Alex kicking his ass. Seriously ?”

“Totally.” Riley affirms, leaning over the stool with a hushed whisper, eyes flicking up towards the kitchen after looking around the rest of the bar to make sure Alex doesn’t sneak up on them. Seriously, does everyone think Alex is the boogeyman? She does always seem to know everything. (Wouldn't that make her more like Santa Claus? Steph shakes her head). “Gabe avoided me the rest of the day—I think he was scared I was going to be mad at Alex. No way. I mean it, Mac deserved it. What an asshole.” A long sigh that barely trembles at the edges, Riley’s shoulders sinking beneath the muted browns of a dirt-stained apron, “God, I’m an idiot.”

“Hey,” Ryan’s finally stopped coughing, his own downward slouch from being caught gossiping like an issue of Cosmo seemingly forgotten in favor of reassuring, “No you’re not.”

“Agreed, you’re not the idiot. Mac is.” Steph leans closer, too. Riley’s still sagging but…she smiles, too, behind that rallying sigh, pushing forward.

“Thanks, guys. Alex didn’t say exactly what happened outside of calling him on his bullshit, but Mac told me—and obviously he could have, like…been exaggerating to try to win me over—but Mac said he ‘ just lost his cool for a minute ’—“

Yes, Steph would say to Ryan later, Riley’s usage of air quotes in a sentence was totally valid. His was not. It was lame. (And he looked lame doing it).

“But that she —” Ugh, Steph can just hear that man-splaining piece of shit trying to force blame of a confrontation that he started on someone going on the defensive—“Screamed like a bear before she tackled him through the door and started wailing on him.”

“Really?” Ryan’s brows barely furrow, fingers curving along the frosted rim of Steph’s drink, the faintest noise of a whistle lost beneath the jukebox nearby. “I mean…I think Alex has had…pretty good reason to be angry, any of the times I’ve seen her angry.”

“Even if she did do that, so what if ‘really’? Mac was beating the shit out of Gabe. Gabe, who did nothing wrong . Shit-beater should get the shit beaten out of . It’s the way the world should work.” A hint of annoyance swells in Steph’s chest, eyes flicking up to the door for a different reason entirely, lips thinning. Pressing. Fingers curling on a familiar bar.

It doesn’t help that she hasn’t been able to get the image of white wrapped around knuckles bleeding through, tinged with red as they curled around the scuffed wood of a door upstairs out of her mind—can’t shake the memory of Alex trying to shoo Steph away—can’t get the image of hair hanging over eyes in a sea of street-blue out, this haunting look settled deep— deep —there as Alex nervously looked up towards Steph.

Like she was…

Scared. Or something close to it. Something different than she’d ever been in front of Steph, before.

So what if Alex was angry?

So what if Steph thinks she deserves to be, sometimes?

So what?

“I didn’t know you got into a lot of fights, Steph.” Riley smiles, a hint of that exhaustion gone, a small twinkle replacing it.

“Um, hello—resident DM. Giving people their comeuppance is, like,” A wide gesture once more towards the bar before pointing both hands towards her chest, “My creed .”

“Ohhh right.” Riley laughs a little, eyes flicking towards Ryan, who's on another planet entirely, gaze scanning along the afternoon-sun tinted bottles behind the bar like he's reading star charts.

“Hey, you okay?” It’s a little more serious from Steph, this time, gently patting his back instead of smacking it.

“Yeah, I just…it's nothing."

"You sure?" Riley's fingers curve over his shoulder and he looks between them, brows knitting and hesitating—

"It's just…" A pause, voice dropping into something quiet and lost, "I...remembered something Gabe…did say in the car.”

“In what car?” Riley presses.

“I thought you said he didn’t say anything.” Steph shifts closer on the bar, smile falling as her stool skirts along wood. Just as serious—just as quiet—

“Yeah, he didn’t. I mean, about Mac. Or Alex. I thought. ” Looking up towards Riley to explain, “When I took him to go get first aid at the clinic—” His shoulders hang and Riley hums a soft oh , shifting on her feet and maybe that’s how all of them are anytime they think about it—different parts of them just shift and bounce and pop around like corn kernels burning in a pan. “Gabe wouldn’t tell me what happened with Mac—he was…pretty quiet the whole time.” Drink clinking as it’s set back down on the bar, tiny little umbrella rattling against the rim, its bright glowing fuchsia a stark contrast against Ryan’s knuckles. “All through the clinic and…smiling and laughing even though it was sort of off . You guys know how Gabe is—” The smallest puff of breath, “—Was . I just thought that maybe—I didn’t want to pry because Gabe didn’t want to talk about it. But after the clinic when we got back in the car, he—”

Ryan’s thumb curves around the straw—bends it—slides it back towards Steph, arms crossing on the counter even as his chin tips back, searching the lines of the old headlines on the walls like they might hold a memory in them. Like they might hold all of Gabe in the cracked paneling and scuffed wood and swelling beads of caulking peeling off near the drywall. Like Gabe's life might have left a bit of an imprint here—enough that Ryan can find the exact words—

“He said something like…he asked me—’

Steph imagines it like she’s rolling a d20, like the rattling of a die skittles along chipped, scuffed wood as she looks towards that closed-away kitchen, Ryan’s voice humming along her curved shoulders, lost in memory—conflicted:

The sun is setting behind the postcard-esque peaks of the mountains, the rattle of Ryan’s engine filling the empty space of silence in the cabin as they bounce along familiar terrain. Mountains that Ryan knows so well still torturous, winding roads to Gabe even after all his time here. And this is a fact they both know—he could get lost up here, all alone, without Ryan to guide him. Two of the windows are cracked—they always are in Ryan’s car—just enough so that fresh air can always sink into the stale monotony of a truck left in the same places in the same town every day.

Maybe he likes to take the sun in the mountains with him, wherever he goes.

Gabe is hunched in the passenger seat, fingers idly running along the edge of the window—pensive. Far-away. Every time Ryan’s asked about the day, Gabe’s smiled—deflected—pretended like that fading sunlight in the mountains has reached his eyes when it’s died somewhere along the glinting edge of his crooked smile.

He's not smiling, now.

“When do you think people change?”

They’ve sat in silence for the majority of the car ride.

“ When do you think a person goes…from breaking up every fight to being in them? What has to happen? How bad does it have to be? What makes someone go from always trying… so hard to like…to just… fix it—to…”

This time he does trail off.

Ryan’s voice is a poor match for Gabe’s, but Steph let’s herself imagine it, anyways. That rumbling, familiar rush of soothing sound. The quiet way he talked like there was a hush in trees. Steph could give a rat’s ass about nature, but she cares about the way Gabe sounded like wind when he talked—she cares about the way his whisper was like the shaking branches of the tallest trees in the mountains—she cares that sometimes, when she steps outside and a gust of wind brushes along her beanie, it reminds her of him.

Fingers skim along the bar, this pressure curling her chest tight as she looks up towards Ryan, watching him talk—explain through stumbling memories—

"I remember I said—"

“What?” Ryan looks away from the road towards Gabe’s quiet face in fleeting flicks, eyes mainly on the road. There’s a weight to his best friend’s words that’s unusual and burdening and Ryan, always wanting to help—always wanting to be the hero—probably immediately feels the urge to wrap it in his palms and bandage it like a cut lip and a bleeding nose.

“ It’s…nothing. I’m probably just…you know, overthinking—” Surprisingly, Gabe doesn’t actually cut himself off this time, turning in the chair to look Ryan over. It’s a shift in pace—an unnerving, brazenly undiscovered territory—so rare, Gabe Chen opening up. (Steph only sees it twice in all of the time she knows him). “Okay, I’m definitely overthinking. But maybe you never really notice how…how someone changes until you realize the things that they used to do are different than what they do, now. And maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe that’s just who they are, now. Maybe no one has a right to that, anyways. Telling someone who they should be.”

“Are…we talking about Mac?” But Ryan isn’t dismissive—he never is. He’s so steady. He’s a rock—a kind, gentle warrior of a dude—and Gabe probably wouldn’t have turned away. Right? No. Not Gabe. He would look Ryan head-on—would never look away—

“No. But, like I said—it’s just…I’m overthinking things. I guess getting your ass handed to you in your entryway kind of does that.”

“ Hey.” Ryan shakes his head, the truck bumping along, “Everyone changes sometimes, Gabe. Even you.” Ryan misunderstands—leaps to conclusions to help like he’s jumping over a canyon to put out the forest fire he sees instead of looking below to the one raging in the fog below. “Change isn’t always a bad thing. You know? And I mean, I’m not trying to pry, but it sounds like you were just defending yourself.”

“ Yeah.” Gabe lets out that crooked smile, again, before turning to look out the window, “Yeah. You’re right. Everyone changes. So…maybe I should just try to let the guilt go—”

“That’s what he said?” Steph’s quiet, the scene still playing in the back of her mind, fake but as good as she'll ever have, now, outside of static-clung memories of Gabe, fingers curling in on themselves until they’re paler than the piss-poor IPA in the tap.

“Yeah, he said something about guilt and letting it go and knowing it wasn’t his fault. I thought he was talking about doing some serious damage to Mac. I…never thought—”

“He was talking about Alex.” Riley murmurs but all Steph can think about is the cold nip of the nighttime air in a lonely, empty studio near the end of the year.

All she can think of is the way Gabe’s voice trembled in its honest, kind laugh on the other end of the line, the d20’s lacquered edges glinting beneath the ghastly fluorescent lights overhead in the booth.

But then someday you’ll remember something a wise psychic said—

“You know…I think he would have wanted us to make sure she’s okay.” Ryan tries to summarize, visibly uncomfortable talking about things shared in confidence, at all, both women next to him stiffening, but nodding. “Support her."

“Yeah.” Riley’s lips barely purse, head hanging, "Alex has always been a total sweetheart."

"I didn't mean—" Ryan's features twist and turn and Steph reaches up to gently squeeze his arm, feeling it ease.

"Oh, yeah, totally. I know." Riley immediately offers, "I didn’t think you meant she was in the wrong, or anything. I just meant...I don't know what I meant."

"I think...she just feels what other people feel too much, sometimes." Ryan is tensing, again, but this time he's looking off towards that door like he's lost at sea within its chipped blue hues—like it's a heavy, strangling statement. Like he knows way more than Steph thinks to about a woman she thought she knew better than anyone in town, if not just as well as Ryan—"I guess I'm just...worried. And we're all her friends, right? And Gabe wanted us to look after her. I think we should just...make sure she's okay. That's all."

Steph looks from Ryan to Riley to the door, releasing a tight arm in favor of lightly flicking the edge of her straw, shifting in her rickety, familiar seat.

Steph—

Steph agrees. And swallows. And doesn't understand why the thought feels so heavy—so wrong—because maybe what Gabe wanted wouldn’t have been to do it for him , he would’ve wanted them to do it for—

Alex.

Who's doing it for Alex? Are all of them? Are none of them? Nothing's ever so clean cut in life. But...

But doesn't Alex deserve—

"Speak of the hot fighting devil…" The kitchen door shakes and swoops across the distance as Alex Chen, herself, reappears and Steph’s eyes flick down to the bandages around knuckles and remembers a matching set from...how long, now? A month ago? Two?—it seems like ages. Years. Millennia. Something Steph had just assumed came from the rocks—came from the quarry—came from only physical wounds to a horrible, much deeper-cut night. “Hey, Chen!” She calls out across the small distance between them and Alex looks totally distracted before their eyes meet.

Steph is the only one that manages not to look absolutely disgustingly guilty, the other two gossipers still managing to turn around and offer smiles and waves, regardless.

“Oh…hey, Steph.” That shuffle—those fidgeting hands at sides as she stays so far across the room, eyes flicking across them like there’s something that makes her want to walk the other way like some kind of spooked stallion. Which might be totally weird for a woman that can apparently tackle a full-grown man through a door and beat the ever-living shit out of him but somehow looks more familiar on Alex’s features than a well-worn shirt. “Guys.”

“Come over here—I'm pretty sure it's been unanimously decided you’re on our zombie apocalypse team so you have to help us prep.”

Alex’s brows barely knit, eyes skimming along Ryan and Riley before they seem to settle on Steph and for a moment, she feels like Alex is looking straight through her before that sheepish smile softens the room—nods. Whatever spooked her stepped aside as she strides closer.

“O…kay? Is there something I should know about a pending apocalypse?”

“Only that it’s totally going to break out from the CDC in Atlanta before spreading this way. It's probably going to be viral.” Riley offers, “So statistically we’ll probably have around a month to prepare and go into full lock-down mode. Just enough time to narrow down our weaknesses before the virus makes its way here.” Everyone looks towards her. “...What? Okay, you’re literally planning a town-wide LARP.” Riley points towards Steph, “And you can do every bird call." Ryan. "I can know things.”

Steph tips that super-bendy straw in her direction, “Right on. Hell yeah you can. So, to recap our very valid offer—so far we have: mountain man, freakishly knowledgeable tech expert, and me…whose phenomenal looks and high list of accredited skills goes without saying. So, you in, Chen?”

Alex looks between them before she smiles.

It’s that same sort of crooked smile that Gabe has—had—and it hits Steph like a ton of bricks. The sun cascades in through the rarely-dusted blinds and catches Alex’s eyes and her smile and the white cloth of those twice-bandaged, once-healed hands (hiding old wounds never once mentioned to anyone but Riley, here— and even then, she only mentioned it for Gabe)—

Fuck.

Steph will never get a chance to ask Gabe what he was talking about—what history was so thick between the two of them, broken and crumbled over time—

But maybe someday she’ll get the chance to ask Alex.

“Well,” Alex sits down on the open stool next to Steph and Steph smiles towards her, watching the way the other girl shakes some of the rain off of her shoulder from bringing the trash out back, “Guess…it’s lucky for you guys that my secret pastime is stocking up on 20 pound barrels of re-fried beans from prepper stores?”

Their laugh dances beneath Ryan’s rapping knuckles on the bar, “Well that’s my queue because you just reminded me I told Dad I’d help him unload the latest delivery truck before the storms come in. No, no—” Ryan raises a hand towards Alex, “You’re supposed to be off, anyways, right? Dad would want you to relax. I promise it’s totally okay. I’ll be right back, guys.”

“You know…” The sound of Ryan’s footsteps fade, “Mac actually had one of those…apocalypse rooms? Like, the actual apocalypse prepping rooms.” Riley sighs, once more, shoulders slumping as she shakes her head.

(But, hey—maybe next time Riley calls into a mystic-dj radio show and asks for her fortune to be read and the totally hot psychic DJ host tells her to dump her sack of potatoes boyfriend, she’ll actually listen).

“No. Way.” Steph’s laugh turns into a chortle. “You’re lying. Tell me you’re lying.”

“Nope.” Riley’s smile is nothing short of sheepish, settling towards Alex who just leans out from behind Steph’s stool and offers a commiserating look.

“I’m so sorry.” More than just commiseration, those condolences are real behind that rumbling laugh, Alex’s shoulders bouncing a little from trying to hold it in .

“He had this whole room in his garage—he called it his vault . He…also buried ammo. Ugh, I can’t believe I used to think it was, like…a quirk —” Steph is still laughing but she’s surprised by the soft shift of Alex’s voice—

“Hey,” Steph turns to see her, a little closer since she’s leaning over the bar to look at Riley. But she doesn’t touch Steph, at all. Even leaning closer—even shifting—even sitting next to her—Steph suddenly realizes that Alex avoids Steph's body and Steph's eyes and Steph's curious look— “You know it’s…” A small breath, “You know it’s okay if not everything was bad with him, right?”

“What?” Riley looks a little stunned, distracted gaze immediately blinking towards Alex like she’s been caught. Her shoulders tighten, only a little, and Alex’s fingers barely stretch towards Riley on the bar, but don’t ford that gap. Steph watches curling digits flex on the wood of the bar, off-white, dirtied bandages blending in with its dark hue, before they clench.

“I mean that it’s okay if you miss him, sometimes. You just went through a breakup. Those totally suck.”

A wince.

Right. Riley did.

Mac might have been a total Grade-A tool, but Riley was still with him for…wasn’t it like, a genuine half a decade?

Steph still remembers things Izzie said and laughs to herself in her apartment, all alone, sometimes...and the feeling of empty guilt might threaten to swallow her whole.

“...I’m sorry, Riley,” Steph offers seriously. Gently. “I haven’t been trying to make fun of Mac. I mean, I have , but you know I—”

“Oh. I—yeah. Yeah, I know. I mean—” A rumbling sigh, “I feel like I’m still defending him. He doesn’t deserve it. And I’m so… pissed about it, but…”

“You still loved him.” Alex acknowledges and Riley nods after a moment. Alex's palm flattens on the bar. “I mean, he’s a total asshole, but you still loved him.”

“I feel so bad about it, you know? Especially with everything...” Riley turns away, "With everything."

“Don’t. Everyone’s had their fair share of being in love with an asshole at some point, okay?” Steph immediately offers, shifting upwards in her stool. “Feeling bad for loving someone is just a way for society to invalidate you. Loving someone is a totally wonderful thing you should never apologize for,” Her thumb tucks in the edge of her straw, rolling it around to find the bottom of a half-full glass, “As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone and is consensual and not anything totally Single White Female, love is great. It sucks , but it’s great.”

“Thanks, Steph.” The last of that renewed tension seems to ease from Riley’s shoulders and when Steph leans back to grab her beer, she realizes Alex has been curiously searching her face since her palm flattened.

They seriously have to talk about this—the immediate urge to make sure there’s no burger in her hair ( again ) is overwhelming, shifting beneath that weighted look on her rocking, squeaking stool.

“Thank Alex, she’s the one that totally noticed I was accidentally going across the recent-breakup battlefield zone.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Alex protests.

“Says the girl who totally did everything awesome.” Riley ignores, “You know…Mac told me you talked to him when I talked to him, this morning.”

“What?” Steph’s brow arches and Alex shrugs as Riley fills in the gaps:

“Oh, yeah. Last week, before he moved back in with his parents to—he said he was trying to lay low from Typhon? I don't know. He’s going paranoid—he thinks they’re watching him, but…well, he told me he was only alive because you calmed him down. So I don’t know what the hell that meant, but I kind of felt the need to thank you, anyways. I mean, the way he said it…I don’t know. The way he said it made me feel like it was…serious. Like he meant it.”

That eyebrow creeps further.

“He was paranoid.” Alex murmurs, “But I…don’t think he was wrong to be.” Alex, herself, looks a little around the bar before sighing, shoulder brushing against Steph.

And doesn't pull away.

It’s always like that, isn’t it? Alex always sort of…eases into physical touch like someone stepping into a cold pool. But it’s coming into spring, heat starting to settle like dew in the trees outside, and it seems like Alex has started warming up faster to Steph’s cold waters, these days.

"Typhon is bad news. I mean, Mac’s a lot of things but…he did try to do the right thing for Gabe. Even when the rest of Typhon didn’t." Alex is quiet and serious, brushing hair from her eyes, and Riley swallows.

“Thanks, Alex. I mean it.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Riley.”

"Yeah. I kind of do."

The silence hangs a little too thick for Steph’s taste, waiting a solid ten seconds before offering:

“Anyways,” Steph doesn’t know why she’s happy that Alex hasn't shifted away from her, but she’s starting to get some sneaking suspicions. The d20 would probably say that none of the outcomes would look good for her on this particular path, so…she's just going to do the totally emotionally mature thing and ignore it for the time being. “Let’s come up with a cool name for our apocalypse team before Ryan gets back and tries to name us after an African Swallow.”

Riley and Alex both immediately nod.

An hour later, the rain has started to pelt down harder on the windows and for once, Steph doesn’t notice.

“Okay, serious question, do we conscript Duckie?” Alex asks. “He seems like he probably also kind of has a prepper basement somewhere? And I somehow don’t mean that as an insult. Also, he’s kind of really sweet?”

“Ooooh Duckie. Tough one. Tough one. I vote absolutely yes. Riley—thoughts? Opinions? Totally hilarious and seemingly irrelevant but great Duckie anecdotes?” Steph twists on the barstool, smirking towards their tech geek. “My favorite one is the time I found out he once was a backstage dancer on MTV for an episode of some obscure show shot in Portland, once. We can lay that story out later, it will blow. Your. Minds.”

“I’m both nervous and a little intrigued,” Alex laughs.

“How have I never heard that one? Definitely. Oh, Jed, too!” Riley immediately adds—

“My dad would be great in the apocalypse.” Ryan calls from the kitchen, door propped open, the sound of rain filtering in beneath the jukebox. The bar has fully cleared, now, only a few day-drinking, wobbling drunks left in the thick of the rainy afternoon.

“Well, duh,” Steph nods, “He’s a bona-fide total real-deal hero.”

“Okay, so, I know I’m kind of new, but isn’t this list just, like…half the town, pretty much?” Alex adjusts glasses, eyebrow hiking up over the rim. Their forearms brush and she doesn’t even tense.

(Progress. Total progress. Total progress that Steph shouldn't be paying this much attention to).

“Uh…yeah, kind of. Pretty much all the bar regulars but Diane—seriously do any of us know what she does?” Steph polls. “Like, what’s her job title, even?”

“Nope.”

“No clue!" Ryan calls from grease-Narnia. "Evil corporation stuff?"

“I literally have had three conversations with her that didn’t revolve around a drink order.” Alex reminds. “Oh, and not that bald guy who’s always yelling on his phone—”

“Who?”

“Just…trust me. No bald guy on his phone. The guy that’s always out on mainstreet—just…no. He can’t be on the team.”

“Oookay, freakishly specific request against Lex Luthor.” Steph whistles, jostling down on the grease-dotted Black Lantern notepad they’d stolen from behind the bar and underlining each word for dramatic effect and Alex’s benefit, “No. Bald. Guy. With. Phone. Got it—”

They all cheer when Ryan emerges with hot onion rings.

Another hour passes underneath the sound of laughing and rain before Ryan’s walking Riley home with an umbrella nearby and Steph nervously drums her hands against the heavy door, feeling the familiar wood beneath her palm. Listening to the rain.

Regretting literally everything in her life, for a minute.

She’s checked the weather alerts twelve times and flipped away messages from her old manager twice.

Lips press, thin. Tight.

It looks like the weather that suddenly was supposed to completely bypass them yesterday is aiming straight for them, tonight, and has started even earlier than projections. From the time Ryan’s left all of five minutes ago, the rain’s started to pound, and her heartbeat's kicked up along with it. A feverish, unfortunately contagious erratic rhythm.

“You okay?” Alex’s voice is calm and gentle, like she already knows something isn’t okay and Steph can practically feel the warmth from her as she steps up behind tense shoulders, radiating that sincerity and heat all the way to fingers tapping against the door.

Seriously, she always fucking knows when something—

“Yeah, I just…would hate to get my beanie soaked. It’s laundry day and I’m down to my last one.” It’s a nervous, shuffling laugh, wincing at the sound of thunder rumbling, a sharp crack lighting up the sky.

Steph is pretty sure she still totally sells it, though.

(She should, given practically half a decade of practice).

“Hey, look…I know that you’re literally just down the street, but why don’t you come upstairs? You owe me a movie and…worst case, you can crash here if it gets late. I don’t think the storm is letting up anytime soon. So you’re…kind of a while away from a dry beanie. No need to...get it wet, right?”

Steph tenses and when she turns around, she’s starting to figure out that curious look Alex is giving her, like she’s trying to figure out a word problem from things unsaid.

“I’ve even got clothes you can borrow. We can stretch out your laundry day.” Alex adds.

“Oh, rad—full-service at Chez Chen.” Steph bobs her head and Alex just shakes her head. Fond. Soft. It helps the nerves, just a little.

Tame Impala, of all things, plays listlessly from its last queue from the Jukebox—the remnants of Steph’s victory, for once, Alex’s cheeks still a little flushed from the bitter, lip-smacking shot she’d mixed herself behind the bar—and there’s nothing better than fitting music, is there? Nothing even like it. Nothing even compares.

Somehow, Alex makes it sound like it's not the worst idea ever, when when it totally is.

And Steph can’t help it, she shakes her head and smiles before flicking the shop lock and following Alex up the creaking stairs.

"You just want to see me in your clothes, Chen. Admit it, you're trying to overload our small gossip scene."

"Ohhh yeah. You know me, I love being the center of attention." That lilting drawl underlines the quiet drum of rain, outside, and somehow, it sounds more like a percussion accompaniment than anything else. It sounds familiar and quiet and…

Feet pause at the bottom of the stairs in donning realization that it sounds like...nothing else, at all.

When do people change?

Ryan’s voice had been so quiet—as quiet as Gabe’s had always been—and breath catches against tight lungs. Against the expanding confines of a prison of a chest, hand idly reaching up to skim beneath the heavy, jingling weight of a necklace pressed against her collarbone.

The rain is louder in the slim, claustrophobic confines of the steps ascending to the heavens and Steph pauses for just another moment—just another breath—stares at Alex’s back as she turns around at the top, smile soft and gentle and kind. Pauses, for just another moment as Alex’s bandaged hand curves around the door frame, patiently waiting without a single question as Steph's brows knit and a quiet, disbelieving laugh catches in her chest.

It sounds like nothing.

Disbelieving, this quiet kind of acknowledgment settles over shoulders like a blanket, chin tipping upwards to look at the roof above them, knowing a second set of stairs barely twists above that to the rooftop door.

Years later, she’ll murmur against Alex’s shoulder something unimportant and thoughtless, skin wet from rain, hair dripping onto the pavement as the heat of her laugh sinks into Steph’s smile until all she can taste is dew and rain and Alex—

Alex will kiss her back and Steph will know everything changes when things that are terrifying turn into things that are safe.

Alex will bury her fingers in stringing, clinging hair that someone could wring like a mop and tug her close and Steph will know that not every bad thing about them has to be condemned to silence and shadows.

Alex will laugh as they stumble into a puddle, splash lost beneath a torrent of rain and Steph will know everything changes when storms don’t have to be weathered alone, palm snapping out to catch them with a sputtering, happy laugh of a noise, cheeks flushed and cold.

Alex’s voice will be softer than the heavy rain and the howling wind and the cement will feel so cold beneath Alex’s fingertips that for a moment, Steph will know it’s far better to hold Alex than to be away from her.

Alex will chase rain angels down the goosebumps of Steph’s cold skin with heater fingertips and Steph will know everything that matters beats like a drum beneath the thinnest sliver of skin above Alex’s wrist.

Alex will tell her ‘Everyone Changes When They Fall In Love, Steph’ and Steph will know it’s the truth.

Because Alex will tell her she loves her and everything has changed and will change and will probably change, again.

Alex will bury it against her mouth and her neck and whip her wet hair underneath them like a puppy as Steph hovers over her, bare shoulders pelted from the clouds above, tank heavy as it sticks to every inch of her skin and say it again…and again until the rain isn’t the only tracks chasing down cheeks.

Alex will tell her she loves her and Steph will know she means it without a single doubt in the world.

Alex will tell her she loves her and Steph will say it back.

But the future is opaque—a constantly-changing web of possibilities and scenarios haunted by endless memories of shadows before it. Steph doesn't know what the future holds. In this moment, she just looks at Alex and thinks—for this outlandish, totally inappropriate moment—that maybe if the world got its shit together, it wouldn't be too bad to want one with someone like Alex.

Today, Steph looks across these steps into Alex’s eyes and her heart skips like a rattling d20 along a dashboard before it settles into something calm.

Today, the only thing that’s changed is the way Steph looks up at the ceiling. This small little crack—this small little shift—because no one ever knows the world is turning underneath their feet when they’re turning with it.

Today, the apartment door shuts with a click as Steph follows Alex up into the rain and isn’t sure what they have, anymore—but she knows it’s not what it was when they first met. It’s different. It’s changed, somewhere along the line, even if Steph doesn’t know when. Even if she doesn’t know how.

They have too many things, now, to list them all…and somehow—inexplicably and unreasonably—in this moment Steph’s as scared of it as she is the coming rain when Alex tangles their fingers and guides her up the second set of steps nearby—towards the clouds and the rain and the lightning that would be so easy to hide from in the shadows of this familiar stairwell:

She’s not scared, at all.

Take two—Side B.

The last time I was on a bus like this, I was trying to leave town. I didn’t make it too far. I think I got all of maybe two cities over before an off-duty cop took one look at me and thought he was doing the right thing by personally driving me back to Seattle in his beat-up Honda Accord.

And…here I am, on a second bus a half-decade later and…I keep looking over my shoulder for the cop. I keep turning to see who’s going to step in front of the door on the next stop and gesture for me to leave. Who’s going to show up to drag me back?

No one, so far.

Instead, I’m left on the bus heading to…a long-lost future I’m pretty sure I was never supposed to have and a brother who I don’t really know (not anymore) to a town thats postcard looks a little too much like a Stepford Wives poster. Idyllic. Breathtaking. The sort of place that’s the set-piece for a Hallmark movie, not…Gabe. Not who I remember of Gabe.

Definitely not what I know of me.

But I’m still here. No cop’s taken me, yet. No one’s looked at me and told me I didn’t belong to sit here, at all.

Is it a bad sign that I feel like I’m faking it before I even meet him?

I don’t know.

All I know is that…he told me he’d like me to be there. He told me that I’d like it there. He told me I could build a life there.

I don’t really know what any of those things mean but…I’m excited to find out.

He sounds like he’s really made a difference, there.

I can’t help but wonder…

I don’t know.

Maybe if the cop doesn’t come to tug me off the bus, maybe I’ll find out what that looks like for me, too.

Like—

The pages of something precious crinkle beneath fingers, trembling and aching as they curl and curl before snapping open and almost apologetically smoothing out the wrinkles of the edges of what been disturbed.

On the corner, small little drops of moisture sink through the page, blurring a word. Two. Quick, fervent hands wipe beneath eyes to stop the damage.

Gabe sounded happy…maybe I can watch him actually be happy. There’s a crazy thought. Us...happy.

Maybe if I watch him do it long enough, I’ll figure out how to do it, too.

Why is that so hard to write? What does that even mean about me?

Why is it so hard to imagine that maybe I can be happy, too.

Barely scratched out by a shaking, brave hand. Resolute.

I used to watch those (kind of questionable) rom-coms with my mom when I was a kid. You know the ones–those movies where He shows up in pouring rain anyone normal would drown in outside of her safely shut window. A boombox that probably won’t work the next day because its speakers are likely filled with enough water to rival the nearby lake declare his love through a contemporary pop song that speaks to a generation? Those movies where He shows up at Her press conference with nervous, twiddling thumbs but looks at her with this small little secret smile as he tells her He Loves Her. And in that moment everything is different–in that moment, she lets herself love him back. Those movies where it’s a He always showing up and a She that always opens her door to greet him. Where He had Her at hello because he was the only one that bothered to show up, at all.

Those movies where society teaches girls at an impressionable young age that someone pursuing them instead of respecting their boundaries is the key to a long-lasting relationship? Not even getting into race, gender, or heteronormativity….

Yeah, you know the ones.

I would probably never admit it out loud, but I loved them, anyways…probably because they reminded me of Mom.

“Okay, this one’s not so bad–”

The sun filtering in through the soft, muted colors of the Spring Festival poster (only slightly crooked with its barely-clinging tape like one of those office ‘ just hang on ’ motivational cat sketches that can’t actually be real) plastered on the shop window cascades a warm kaleidoscope of greens and pinks along the cashier counter. It bathes the side of Alex’s hesitant face like rose-colored glasses and when she looks back up towards Steph with a very visible wince, the de-facto manager has to hold back a snort.

“Oh, yeah, not bad at all. I asked her to list three contemporary rock artists and she said Blake Shelton twice . ”

Alex’s lips pull behind her teeth. “Okay, okay bad, but–” Both hands raise, résumé waving in the air as she leans forward for Steph to hear her out, “Maybe that means she’ll bring in more of a country crowd into–”

“Do you see where we are–do you see the state of our existence, Chen? Like, in the middle of nowhere in Colorado? This is already as much country as I can take. Have you seen Ryan’s truck?”

“ Okay , also a fair point.” And there’s that wince, again, half-buried behind amusement, seeming to war with herself for a moment before asking: “...what was the other one? The contemporary–nevermind,” Those hands wave, paper flapping in the small-shop AC along with it, “I don’t want to know.”

“You don’t. Trust me. Alex–” A sea of albums (that Alex has frequently helped customers flip through to find a specific artist they can’t remember the name of when Steph watches by with a small smile through the booth, not once getting paid for it) sits stoically to their right and Steph is happy to use them as a prop, gesturing vaguely in their direction. “When she saw Portishead in the trip hop section, she said ‘oh, wow, it’s so great a whole town came together to write an album. Was it–’ And I quote ,” Pained features twist upwards into a barely-contained grimace, “ ‘For charity or something?’”

Of course, Alex’s eyes immediately flick over to the slim trip-hop section on the back-end of the main bin before letting out a sputtering hiss of a laugh.

“What? No way.”

“ Not shitting you, Alex.”

“Did she…” That warm laughter fills the space between them, brows knitting in confusion that Steph immediately sympathizes with, “...think Portishead was Portland, or – ”

“I don’t know , and that’s what makes it totally scary.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m just gonna…” A popping noise sounds from Alex’s curving lips as she drops the résumé into the overflowing trashcan nearby, Country-Girl’s name joining the small sum of others that have met a similar fate. The only reason Country Girl was even still in the stack was because only ten people have applied for the position, period. In literal months.

At this rate, Steph is certain the record store is going to permanently stay a one-woman shop.

“Yeah,” Elbows settle comfortably on the desk, “You could flip over to the next one… or –”

“Come on, Steph, there’s got to be someone in here that’s–”

“Or– ” Steph presses again to the expected groan in front of her.

“ Steph .”

“Come on, Alex, you see what’s happening here. You feel the chemistry–the pull. You need it–you crave it. You don’t just keep coming back in here for the hottest DJ you’ve ever met in person, you come for the love of that fresh, sweet album scent and the joy of being the second best music nerd in town. It’s fate.”

“I’ll happily take second place. Okay, not ? To diminish your hotness, Steph, because that’s a totally valid and legitimate point for anyone seeking gainful employment–” Steph’s not preening– totally not–but it’s not like Alex’s playful admission is hurting her ego. “But you’re literally the only DJ I’ve met in person.”

“Semantics. Come on, this place? All of its unending indie charm? The lukewarm fridge in the back? The rare indie albums? All the cat gouging you could ever possibly imagine? It could be yours all for the low, low price of 40 hours of your life a week. List a singular con, I dare you.”

“Oh, I don’t know–I’d have to quit the job I’m already pretty bad at which is…potentially the only reason I have an apartment, to come do a job I also literally have no idea how to do?”

“You have ears and we have, like, no customers, you’ll be fine. And ,” Steph stands tall, turning on her full charm, watching the way Alex ducks her nose in response–shakes her head–looks up at her with that small , almost fond smile with hair hanging in front of batting eyelashes, “You get to spend all day with me. Which you already do. Win-win.”

“Yeah, Steph, the you part is a big perk.” That rose-colored smile is sincere enough that Steph can’t help but return it in kind. “But I’m sorry, really. I appreciate the offer. Again . For the fifth time today. But I’d…feel like I’m letting Jed down.” Quieter, eyes settling on the edge of the stack of papers, fingers flicking the edge up. “He’s…done so much for me, already. I’m not big on feeling like I’m owing someone something. At least if I work at the bar…”

A long moment passes before Steph leans closer to Alex–close enough that their forearms brush on the counter, feeling muscles beneath denim tense for only a moment before the other girl looks back up and smiles, again, not pulling away. This soft sort of thing that tucks up the edges of lips.

“Hey…” Fingers gently curve over Alex’s wrist, resting on a small stack of names–black and white Times New Roman and Arial living tombstones of the world’s most boring lives–and Steph resists the urge to trace the star shooting towards her on the dip of a thumb. The touch is fleeting–the smallest momentary comfort–her own smile softening when she catches Alex’s eyes, “It’s cool. I get it. But I’m still going to remind you that you could get paid every time you walk in here until you actually take me up on it. That’s what friends are for.”

Alex laughs and Steph watches her fingers flex on the counter before they pull back just enough to flip over the next résumé, turning it over.

“Thanks, Steph.”

“Don’t thank me, I’m just selfishly trying to make sure you stick around for a while.” It’s a thoughtless comment, sighing as she looks down at the next résumé with nothing short of horror. Really, Steph would have stayed in bed if there was literally anyone else in the town that worked in the shop, right now.

She only catches the tail end of the look Alex is giving her, difficult to decipher and…sort of unnerving in a ‘my stomach is definitely clenching’ kind of way.

“What? Is there food on my face, or something?” Fingers sift through hair, making sure there’s no sauce in it from the burger Alex brought by because that would be only slightly debilitating to her image.

Alex’s smile softens–the quietest shake of her head as a nail taps along the page.

“Okay, this one says they actually used to manage a record store and they’re just looking to get their feet back in the water. That’s…neutral, right?”

“When they got here, they asked me when the real host was going to get in because a pretty thing like me shouldn’t be stuck in the booth. I must have forgot to burn that copy after ripping the first one to shreds in front of him.”

The sound of the page tearing before it’s dropped into the trashcan is admittedly very satisfying.

She used to tuck me in her lap as she gathered us up around our flickering tv, small little box settled at home in the cluttered corner of our living room. It’s hard for me to remember that corner, now–not how it probably really was when we watched those movies. Instead, I remember it being populated by small little knickknacks I’d kept of her. I guess memories are funny, that way, aren’t they? I remember tucking my head underneath her neck as she blew her nose into a tissue, hiding her tears away from Dad when he got home, her necklace hanging from the small little headphones I only started to keep in a box once she was gone. That’s not how it really was–that room–that moment–that memory.

The truth is, all that’s probably true about the memory is Mom crying and that flickering scene of two movie stars professing their undying love for each other in the rain.

Thinking of love with Mom, it’s all like…flashes. These sort of snippets of moments, buried deep in the back of my mind. But I learned something back then, I think. The sort of thing a kid carries with them like their totally depressing wardrobe selection packed tightly into a rucksack:

I looked at Mom and I looked at Dad and I knew, even then, that love was something you lost before I even lost them. But I still thought you’d always have that moment to remember them by–the important thing. That second of perfect time. I thought that it was that moment–that big, epic moment where He shows up–and figured happily ever after was the silence that comes after. The moment you fall in love–

That Moment. That Second. That Instant.

That’s what’s important. That’s what love is.

What else matters?

Steph gets to know Alex like she’s becoming reacquainted with someone who she’s known for years, but hasn’t seen. Tip-toed conversations that started off so new become rooted in familiarity–certainty–like Steph has some solid, inherent idea of who Alex has been and was and will become. She learns Alex’s favorite books over lunch at the record store and learns her favorite bands by the jukebox in the bar–hours spent with bent heads turn to knowing looks–moments turn to days–days to weeks–Steph learns Alex in a series of small moments, fragments of caught time:

Alex does a horrible Sean Connery impression around a mouthful of burger–like… bad- bad.

Puns are apparently a certified genetic predisposition when Alex chirps to have a berry good day when a smoothie is plopped down on the counter in the sunny afternoon.

Alex can pick locks when Steph leaves a dangling set of very important keys in her apartment mid show one time (okay, so Steph got a little too cocky and decided that exact moment would be a great time to run home and grab her copy of Oldboy to lend Alex, even with the on-air sign blinking overhead).

Alex can not help but hum songs if they get stuck in her head, and will always bounce her feet to them, even when she’s standing. (And maybe Steph’s taken to humming them, herself, to see how many she can get stuck in Alex’s head. So far, the record is five in one day).

Alex , who Steph sees every day and doesn’t think about the alternative–Alex, who becomes a fixture in her life so recklessly–so carelessly–

So… easily that Steph doesn’t even think about it.

Before she knows it, Alex starts to work her way into conversations with Ryan when she’s working–starts to worm her way into idle thoughts when Steph is away–starts to phantom guide fingertips along records during playlists because there’s no doubt one waitress in particular will be flipping on a specific radio station at the bar–starts to slide her way into lunch orders off of the realistic expectation that the record store bell will jingle above that quiet, knowing smile smile–starts to save a place on a long, rarely-used contact list to send videos and songs and memes.

Soon, it’s like there’s a space filled by Alex that was always filled by Alex. Soon, somewhere along the line Steph stops tying the name Alex like a weighted package in a river to the name Gabe and learns to taste it on its own .

(Because, God, Steph misses the fuck out of Gabe, but Alex isn’t anything like him).

Alex, who wordlessly shows up at the record store with greasy eggs from the kitchen in a styrofoam to-go container that squeaks along the cashier desk with a note of arrival, cheeks tinged red from the cold outside from having brought Ryan a similar package by the docks before he undoubtedly disappeared into the woods.

“No, no, I’ve just…I’ve been having a tough time sleeping. It’s no big deal.” Steph admits after making self-deprecating notice of her own raccoon eyes.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Alex’s voice is a murmur of a sigh, mouth probably opening to offer something ridiculously kind to help and Steph fords on ahead before she can.

“Well, hey…if you ever can’t sleep and you need some company, you can give me a call. And I meant that in a…not-hitting-on-you-way.”

Why does Alex look so surprised that Steph offered, at all?

Alex, who never mentions sneaking into the flower shop when Riley isn’t there (and never answers Steph’s questions for why) before she comes over to the radio station and flicks through the records in the afternoon.

“I maybe slid some albums I knew you’d like into the listening bin–”

“Really?” Genuine surprise morphs into gentle gratitude, “Thanks, Steph.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Alex, who becomes a series of actions and events in her life that are so easy to take for granted–

Most days, they get lunch, their feet swinging by the pier. The sight of the water relaxes Steph, now that they’ve started doing this, when it used to coil her stomach into a hissing, snapping snake–

At nights, Steph usually winds up downing green, questionable shots–

“Seriously, how are you so good at this game?”

“I’m not giving away my secrets.”

Movies in apartments. Video game sessions. A totally failed attempt at taking everyone camping (far, far away from any ravines or mountains or Haven) last week from Ryan that ended with the pair convincing Riley to come pick them up–

“Come on, he’s going to hear you–” Steph’s snickering laugh is muffled beneath fingertips, their breaths dancing heat in puffs of air up into the sky as they crouch down behind Ryan’s still tent, Alex’s hand waving frantically in the air trying to find signal. Zero bars. They were going to die out here.

“He won’t if you–get down!” Alex’s bark of sharp, panting laughter is cut off as she pulls her heroically down onto the forest floor, Steph snapping over to flip over the phone on the twigs when Ryan sits straight up in the tent, soft light illuminating its cloth. Or…neoprene whatever whatever Ryan had explained it was made out of. ‘Its stretch, durability, and breathability is seriously unmatched’--Steph only snorted a little when Alex calmly asked if he was talking about a tent or a shirt with genuine, amused curiosity.

His giant shadow looks around for a few moments before the light flickers out, both of their laughter lost into the forest brush.

They finally find signal after Steph helps hoist Alex up into a tree, watching her disappear into the higher rustling branches before valiantly whooping into the air.

When Riley picks them up, she nervously looks between them both, covered in twigs and the pricking, scattering brush of a thousand douglas fir needles, and probably mentally makes the note to never accept the camping invite.

All three spend the night at Alex’s gorging on chinese and actually heated walls before slipping back into the campsite with coffee in tow.

And when Ryan emerges from his tent looking freakishly well-rested for someone sleeping on stones by wild animals and inhaling fresh air that resembled God’s crack cocaine according to his easy smile, Steph is certain he has absolutely no fucking clue.

“ See! I told you guys it wouldn’t be so ba…d? Riley? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I uh–” A cough that’s hidden beneath Steph’s nudging elbow, “I just showed up to bring some coffee?”

“Okay, I knew everyone was going to break the no phones except emergencies rule–”

“Thanks, Ryan. We had a great time.” Alex offers and all of them smile around the fire Ryan starts (restricted to certain hours, apparently, due to recent wild spreads).

In the afternoon, Steph realizes a month-old thought when laughter trills up into the sky, the sound of a Alex’s voice dancing up into the air like smoke and embers and crackling, warm heat: Alex does feel like a campfire.

And, lately, a phone call. A text. A video from one or the other showcasing someone drunk at the bar, or the dark, depressing corner of the recording booth. Sometimes with Ryan. Sometimes not. Something that’s close to goodnight as much as it is thinking of you .

It’s all sort of predictable.

And it should feel…stifling, right? It should feel suffocating, like it’s the same thing, every day. Like she’s eating a white-bread bologna sandwich on the regular–but instead it just feels…natural.

Like Alex has always been here.

And like every day feels new, even if it’s the same thing, never really changing.

Somewhere along the line, Steph comes to the realization that the only thing that has changed in Haven save for the things that compose its very bones to her, is Alex.

But, hey, any realization is better than no realization, right? Because Steph’s both pretty sure she can’t afford therapy on her penny salary and that there’s no actual therapists in Haven Springs.

Except maybe Duckie, who seems to have done everything once in his lifetime. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had a PhD in Psych sitting somewhere in his car, probably rolled up in the glove box, just waiting for the right rainy day to casually bring it out.

The bell rings overhead as her arm sneaks into the sleeve of a jacket.

“It’s always so weird to see this street so packed. It was the same last year.” Steph explains, tugging down on the edges of her beanie as they step out from the bar onto main street, the cool morning air starting to turn warmer as they push into spring, the scent of the flowers and the cold air filling lungs in a swell, unavoidable rush. And yet, she still sighs when she checks her phone and sees the severe weather warning coming–it’s supposed to pass them over, but–

She swipes away a message from her old manager before she gets the urge to read it, teeth chewing on the edge of her cheek.

The sound of chattering tourists is clear, a few of them boisterous but ultimately background noise to Steph’s conversation. Judging by the tone, it’s just some east-coast assholes getting into it on a parking spot, or something.

“I’m trying to get used to the fact that three people is considered ‘packed’.” Alex reaches down to clean off glasses before catching up to her, the humidity from the air outside fogging up the edges of their wide curve. The chattering outside gets louder and Steph leans forward to thoughtlessly pluck a piece of fuzz off of the outside of glinting glass before stuffing hands in pockets, continuing forward. Alex just spent all that time cleaning them, didn’t she? It’s the least Steph can do.

“In Haven? Yeah, dude. Anything more than the usual nothing is considered packed. It still doesn’t turn into Seattle or New York once hiking and climbing season starts back up for the mountains, but it definitely gets more crowded than this. People looking for small-town charm and clean air.” .

“You’re right, it is kind of–”

Whatever Alex is about to say immediately cuts off.

Steph is four full long-strides ahead, flipping through various weather news blurbs with dancing clouds and frowning meteorologists on her phone when she looks over her shoulder half-expecting Alex to have tripped over a rock, or something. Instead, Steph is greeted by nothing but…

Pure panic, unusual and pale on Alex’s features , eyes widened and lips parted, curling, trembling fingers held out a little in front of her like she’s trying to stop a truck barreling towards planted feet.

The memory lands on Steph like a ton of tumbling rocks from a mountain slide, weeks ago–nearly forgotten.

“I’ve never heard anyone scream like that.” Ryan murmurs around his beer–the first time he’s ever said it, at all. Ever said anything about that night, ever said anything about–

About Alex. Everyone talked about Gabe. About Ethan. About Ryan, even, but no one talked about–

Maybe she needs to get Alex to cut off his drinks. Or maybe Ryan needs more of them.

She tries to imagine it and can’t–

“Alex?” Steph swallows. Dusty and quiet and aching, fingers curling around the edge of the bar as she looks up and over towards familiar shoulders and a tucked bar tray. Alex holds herself easier, now, than she had when she first started waiting tables. Still slim smiles–still so careful with her hands, like she never wants to touch anyone , even though she’s lightened up on that rule with Steph and Ryan apparently–but…easy. Relaxed. Calm. Shuffling her glasses as Riley says something around a mouth-full of pretzel across a sea of rowdy people.

Steph’s never even heard Alex raise her voice , let alone–

“She was about to crawl off of the cliff after him, I had to–Steph, I had to –” Choking and aching and curling up Ryan’s throat like cutting, sharpened knives. Steph can hear it. Can feel it, and her hands immediately curl over his shoulders. “I pulled her back and–”

“Hey, hey–you don’t–we don’t have to talk about this. It’s okay–” The bar stool squeaks from shifting weight, so utterly unsurprised when she meets Alex’s eyes when she leans a little back, the other girl already laser-focused on Ryan with precision. Like she knows. Like she just always knows.

“She screamed–she screamed so loud , Steph–”

The din of the bar is so thick–so heavy in the nighttime, unruly miners clinking hard earned beers together beneath dirt-stained nails, a chorus of some butchered drinking song bouncing off of the smoke-stained walls and practically deafening the whole room. There’s no way Alex heard him, but she looks at Ryan like she heard every word, those shoulders tight and spine stiff, holding up a tray against her chest like a shield. And without a single gesture or prompt, Alex just…walks over and tells him this story about a bird-caller that started t-posing to mimic a bird in the middle of a field that takes his mind off of the entire world, for a second, and makes him…laugh and turns guilt into a smile –

But while Alex is watching Ryan, Steph is watching her .

Steph’s eyes skim along loosened shoulders that curl–hear laughter ring hollow when it never reaches focused eyes–shifts in her chair as Alex leans up against the wall when no one’s looking, tucked by the kitchen, breath coming in thick, deep gasps. Alone. Trapped.

It makes Steph wonder, thumb swiping along the whistling rim of a water (still haven’t quite forgotten the hangover from hell weeks ago), where emotions go when they leave. What happened to Ryan’s despair--his guilt–his memories of an Alex Steph has never seen? Did they bounce off of the walls like a drunken song? Did they get absorbed into the wooden floorboards like a pint of piss-quality, cheap beer that most of the miners here drink like water, mopped up and pushed away? Or did Alex scoop them all up like a drink order and settle them on her platter held so closely to her closed-off chest, not reaching out. Not touching. Never breaking through her own walls, just…

Just winding up her shoulders like an over-tuned e-string, ready to snap.

It’s a ridiculous thought. It’s crazy. But for some reason, it doesn’t leave her.

She’s never seen Alex cry–never seen her whimper or scream or shout–she hears her laugh most frequently in a chorus of people, not solo. Not often. Like an ember heated by fire. An accompaniment of reactions–a chamber orchestra of smiles and sounds. When they’re alone, Steph sees it, sometimes–sees shadows of emotions on Alex’s face like the hanging notes of a 2nd string violin, back-up to a melody. She hears her laugh and hears her tentatively step feet out towards everyone else…but it’s in this moment that Steph realizes she’s never seen what Ryan has. She’s never seen Alex do anything for just herself, selfish and thoughtless–she’s never seen her rightfully lay claim to anything. She’s never seen Alex Chen do anything but give herself away.

And instead of screaming, or turning away, or doing anything that Steph would do, Alex fearlessly fords a gap between them and offers Ryan comfort, where Steph would have taken it and ran.

And Steph sits here and marvels at her stiff back and wonders how to ford that gap, back–wonders how to be like Alex , brave and selfless and insightful–wonders if Alex would even accept it–wonders if Alex even knows, in this moment, that anyone even notices how much of herself she gives away?

Where do those emotions go?

Where do all those emotions of Alex’s go, if she never lets them out?

“Hey, Alex, you’re…okay, right?”

Fuck it, she tries.

The moment Steph tries to reach out when the bar has closed after final call and she helps wipe up Ryan’s drink with a rag, his legs likely hanging over the couch end upstairs despite cutting himself off before he reached that sloppy stage, again, Alex just smiles this thin-lipped, uneven thing, and Steph–

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Steph’s never been good at breaking down walls–not when she’s the master at building them. She just tries to smile back, instead.

It doesn’t reach either of their eyes.

“Cool.”

Alex isn’t fine.

Alex’s hands barely quiver by tight sides as they curl in by her gasping chest, furling in on paling digits like a kicked puppy as heavy steps carry her swiftly back away from Steph–away from the street, back towards the bar with a sharp, audible gasp of air, like suddenly her only thought is of running . Her eyes are wide–alarmed–and it’s so sudden that Steph feels a sharp spike of worry and fear mix in extra measure, turning around to frantically take in the entirety of this sparsely populated mountain town street to half expect a bear running them down.

(Ryan told her about the great black bear trash-can domination of 2015 and she does not want to deal with this shit, today).

But there’s no bear. No disaster. No imminent doom. There’s nothing , really, except a couple of bickering tourists and morning air and twittering birds and sunshine and–

“...Alex? Are you okay?” Steph steps forward as Alex takes another, visibly shaking step backwards, clearly trying to untangle herself from conversation. Trying to unwind herself from Steph’s presence, entirely.

“I’m–” But Alex is looking firmly over Steph’s shoulder, fixated on–a roll on Steph’s heel showcases the street, again, focusing on the two men arguing, one of them shoving the other’s shoulder. She spent enough time in cities to make sure no one has a gun from the way Alex–

No, they’re just arguing. Pissed, but–

“I’m fine, I just need to–I forgot I had to–” Alex’s strained voice stumbles thoughtless, practically tripping backwards over feet–

Steph feels like an asshole, eyes flicking downwards to lips in realization.

“Shit, are you having a panic attack, right now?” It’s the only thing Steph can think, immediately rushing forward to reach towards her hands, “Breathe, Alex. It’s gonna be okay, why don’t we go into the record store and–”

The voices carry towards them like a knife sawing away at a grizzled steak.

“I told you to watch where you’re going, you ignorant motherfu–”

“Hey, will you two shut up?” Steph yells over her shoulder before looking back towards Alex, who’s visibly… trembling, wincing, eyes fixated entirely on them.

“You ran into me and you have the nerve to call me an ignora–”

The sudden memory of Gabe tensing at the sight of a bar fight, knuckles trembling–a fleeting, seemingly unimportant memory of his gruff, laughing voice. Trembling but always laughing it off– always.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

“Shove me again, one more time, I dare you–”

Fuck. Is this–

“Alex.” She says it as gently as she can, trying to step in front of the sight, at least, watching as Alex’s eyes scrunch closed and her brows knit–watching her visibly raise her hands up to her ears as she…she counts…?

“Don’t touch me, Steph. Not…not like this. I don’t want to–not again. Not again –” It’s hushed. So quiet that Steph can barely hear it–can barely make it out–has to play it over and over again in the span of a second to even get a grasp onto the request.

Yeah. She is–Alex is… counting , barely audible–a whisper tempered by nostrils flare–like she’s trying to…to calm down. Or reign in her–

Steph’s hand curls around her shoulder, hoping to guide her away from the arguing men somewhere a little more safer. To get her out of here.

“I said–”

“I said.” Eyes snap open–

“Don’t."

“Don’t.” It’s…jarring, devoid of anything but–but– anger– her voice sounds so– so –

“Touch.”

Different. Lost. Furious. It doesn’t sound like Alex, at all–

“Touch–” Steph’s hand immediately snaps backwards, apologetic, heart leaping into her throat at the unfamiliar sight of those normally kind eyes, dark and–

Alex’s hands fall.

“Me!"

There’s the dull, barely-registered sound of a fist connecting with a jaw, behind them, so far away.

“Me!” The apology is already caught like a dead animal in a trap in the back of Steph’s throat as Alex’s nostrils flare–as sharp breathing pants like a bull through lungs–hands visibly trembling as Alex takes another couple of steps back before her eyes snap further upwards towards the men now fighting on the side of the street. Alex’s body is curled forward, shoulders rolled and… prepared , like she’s the one taking a blow–like she’s the one in the middle of the fight–her chest heaves before suddenly Alex is running across the street and–

“Alex! What the fu–” Steph, stupidly , follows immediately after, finally taking in the scene–

One of the men is pressed up against the wall of the antique store, the other’s raised up above him, clearly already two or three punches in, blood starting to sink from nostrils to teeth to chin. The red of his knuckles blends with the shades of red in front of them.

Alex dives into the middle of the fight with…really fucking unnerving precision, ducking beneath a volleying arm before she rolls it backwards, using her body weight to completely twist Angry Tourist #1 around and slam him face first into the storefront’s brick wall, instead, right next to where the bloodied, sputtering Tourist #2 wheezes. He immediately tries to recoil backwards with a furious elbow, but she slams him into the wall, again.

“He said to stop! ” It bellows from Alex’s small lungs with so much fury and ire that Steph halts in her steps, eyes widening as the great protector of main street shoves the man away, body heaving as he stumbles and trips along the ground before collapsing on top of it, crumbling into a pitiful man-heap. Those kind, careful hands still quiver, hanging beneath the city’s warm sun–her body still curls forward–like she wants to go after him–like her muscles are ready to kick and strike and lash out and–

The wind whistles on the now-quiet street full of two men’s surprised, beaten groans and Alex’s rapid breath. One of them might thank her–the other might tell her to go fuck herself. Steph would normally tell him to go fuck himself, too, but she can’t look at anything but Alex–

“...Alex.” Steph could give a rat’s ass about the tourists, but the concern is etching deeper into her brow, watching the tense way Alex turns around–the way her chest still raises and collapses. And suddenly–sharply–Alex keels over, hands clasping her head in her hands as she breathes–breathes–and before Steph can reach her, she bolts , running down the nearby alley.

“I’m–I’ve got to–”

The stupid fight broken up, both men sputtering and embarrassed and still visibly furious at having been interrupted and successfully bodied by a freakishly efficient girl, Steph chases after her.

(And okay, maybe it’s definitely therapy worthy that she found that kind of hot in a total Xena way, but there’s more important things to focus on right now).

Steph doesn’t exactly run very often, so it doesn’t take long for her thighs to start burning . Thankfully, Alex doesn’t seem to run very long, either, stooped over the edge of a wall, her breathing still breaking into the air in staggered, restless gasps, forehead resting above a flexing forearm.

Knuckles are smeared red with blood, skin left behind on the jagged edges of the winding, secret graffiti’d pathways of Haven Spring’s main street, Alex suddenly seeming so small, dwarfed against the endless blue of the mural.

Did she…did she take out her anger on the wall?

“...hey.” Steph tries, because there’s really not a good way to start a conversation like this.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, I just–”

“What are you apologizing for? You kept those guys from beating the shit out of each other in the middle of the street.” It’s dumbfounded, stepping a little closer, “I came to apologize because I could tell it was bothering you and I flaked on your very obvious boundaries you were throwing up and I–”

“What?” Alex looks…similarly dumbfounded. Stunned. Those bloody, shaking hands stand out so painfully against the wall that Steph steps forward but hesitates, this time. Teeth tuck her lower lip, stomach muscles tightening in something far more complicated than just worry.

“Can I touch you, now?”

“What?”

“Earlier, you said not to touch you but you’re…seriously bleeding–”

“I–of course you can, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t want me to, right?” It’s gentle. Quiet. “Not to step out of my lane, but it’s okay to have that boundary. Even with friends. Okay, especially with friends. Like…no one has the right to just assume to be able to touch you. I’m…sorry I did.” And just like that the confident veneer of the person Steph had so selfishly built Alex up to be slowly starts to have shadows behind it–it takes a full shape. The paper drawing of that spreading smile and those calm eyes suddenly shade a depth to unwavering eyes.

Here Alex stands, slowly becoming more 3D. More than just this person who gives so much–who feels so quietly–Steph remembers how worried Gabe had been. How guilty he had felt, for the person Alex would be forced to become without anyone next to her.

Here Alex is, kind and gentle and full of emotions no one can see–here Alex is, bloodied and bruised and deflated in an alley she ran away to just to get away from Steph–just to keep Steph from seeing… this.

The fact that Alex looks so small at the notion that she has the very option for boundaries only hammers home this fact.

Alex’s lips part and she visibly hesitates before she turns away, burying the small shake of her panting shoulders in the shadows of sunlight hitting off of the mural, forehead resting against the wall as she nods.

“Yeah. Okay.” A swallow. “You can touch me, now.”

A few of the crumbled-up napkins Steph had slid into her pocket from their shared take-out lunch are about the best she can muster, holding them up to the sunlight like she’s checking for the authenticity of a twenty dollar bill to ensure absolutely no grease stains before gently wrapping them around Alex’s torn knuckles. Those curled shoulders flinch from more than just the pain, Steph is sure, and Alex stays tense for a long time before she eases, lowering her hand from the wall to let Steph gently hold a wounded fist in her hand instead of the awkward angle. Dutifully, Steph wraps another napkin around both and squeezes.

“There’s…a medical kit I bought in Gabe’s apartment in case I–” Alex’s eyes still haven’t met Steph’s, “There’s a kit up there, I can take care of it, Steph. It’s okay.”

Steph doesn’t turn away.

Where do all of Alex’s emotions go, Steph wonders, if she doesn’t let them out?

Nowhere healthy, it turns out.

But Steph’s not one to judge. Her emotions never go healthily whether they’re out or in. Whose do?

So she tugs Alex towards the bar like it’s totally normal and guides her unusually compliant, quiet form up the stairs to pull out the med-kit and starts fixing up her knuckles because what the hell else is she going to do?

Steph can’t knock down Alex’s walls–it’s hypocritical for her to ask to, right?--but maybe she can help patch them up.

“You know, if you told me how badass you were, I could’ve rolled you as a Warrior instead of a bard.” Steph finally offers once the silence eats a little too far away at her. “Although, for the record, I still totally think you’ll rock the hat.”

Finally, looking exhausted and small on what used to be Gabe’s bed, Alex smiles, even though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re…not freaked out?” Alex finally asks an hour later after she’s–eerily willingly given the fact that Steph’s tried to get her to watch it for weeks –accepted Steph putting in Raging Bull (Which Steph also totally realizes half an hour through was probably, like, the worst movie she could have picked for the situation. But she’s a DJ Jockey , not a netflix recommends bot) with no protest.

“Why would I freak out?” Steph pulls her feet up onto the couch, tucking them beneath her legs, finally turning to fully look her friend over.

Alex has stayed tucked entirely into the corner, arms crossed and knees tucked up against her chest. Steph’s pretty certain those piercing, calm eyes have settled on Steph longer than they’ve even attempted the movie, by now.

“Because I just freaked out?”

“So…you’re human?” A singular foot stretches out across the worn fabric of the couch to gently prod one of Alex’s, watching the myriad of emotions tangle on features before they crumple, just a little, Alex looking pointedly towards the TV. “Alex, maybe you should learn to cut yourself some slack, sometimes. I don’t think the wall is going to sue. After everything you’ve been through this month? I think feeling angry is…pretty normal.” Silence is her answer. But…after a couple of seconds, Alex wordlessly crawls across the distance and…settles her head on Steph’s shoulder and Steph tries not to think too much about how much she smiles in relief down at her.

There’s that feeling–that complicated worry in her stomach curling in on itself until knots press against her abdomen.

“...thanks, Steph.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah .

In silence, they watch Robert DeNiro get pummeled in tinges of black and white and gray, deep caverns of black puddling on the edge of a boxer’s mouthguard as sweat clings to his forehead–his neck–his chest, an endless series of hits pressing him into ropes that have little give, bouncing his body up into each and every strike. He stands, panting, encased in an endless field of grays–staring down the fists that have beat them. And he goads them on–always goads him on, back up against an invisible wall of his own creation. His opponent towers above him, but wobbles from exhaustion–from hesitation–the crowd goes wild as this indomitable opponent punches and punches and punches, shadows of blood spattering against them, camera flashes highlighting haunting, gaunt features. His bloodied brow. His barely recognizable nose and eye and pulpy flesh where skin had been, swollen and beaten and resilient.

The match is called, an unbroken tree of a man splayed against the ropes, referees pulling the winner away. Jake LaMotta has lost, but spitefully stands in victory despite the call. His staggering body follows after, fueled by anger and resilience and indomitable, twisted spirit.

“You never got me down, Greg.” He calmly mutters through the mouthguard, laughing as the couch holds him up, his hands spread wide as he laughs. “ You never got me down, see? You never got me down.”

“This was…the worst movie choice.” Steph acknowledges out loud in a mutter beneath the sound of a movie’s camera clicking, but when Alex looks up at her from her perch on Steph’s shoulder, the sound of the dinging of a bell in the background, Alex just…smiles.

The sunlight sinks into it like they’ve sunken into the couch.

“I could make a joke about how kind of on the nose it is?” Alex shifts, soft hair falling down Steph’s chest and glasses catching sunlight off the frames, bouncing up from that smile, “But I can’t think of a good punchline .” Steph gently shoves Alex’s shoulder–half-hearted and smiling–and Alex just shakes her head. “Actually, it feels…kind of good for someone to not tip-toe around me for once. Everyone used to act like I was… broken all of the time and they didn’t want to deal with it. At least you’re not just acting like it didn’t happen. Sorry, this is…” She starts to get up from her perch, but Steph reaches out an arm to catch her before she can completely untangle themselves. “This is way too much for me to unload on you.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve definitely unloaded enough on you. Since I’m too on the nose , why don’t you pick tomorrow’s movie?”

“Okay. We’re watching UP .”

“Seriously?”

“What? I’ve had the song stuck in my head for, like, a week.”

“I know, you keep humming it everywhere we go.” A little more serious, “Do you want me to change it?”

After a long moment, Alex finally tucks herself back onto Steph’s shoulders, both of them relaxing into the couch.

“No, it’s okay. I’m kind of into it, now.”

Steph isn’t really sure what they have, but they have this.

She changes the bandage on Alex’s hands before she leaves for the studio and Alex lingers by the doorway when she leaves and Steph has to shove down the feeling that she doesn’t want to go , not yet and Alex looks at her like she doesn’t want her to, either, before closing the door.

It’s more than a start.

It turns out, love is nothing like that, at all.

I admitted to Steph yesterday that I liked romantic comedies and all she did after laughing was ask me to spill what my favorite one was.

Somehow, we spent the next hour arguing whether or not Annette Benning had any agency in American President .

It’s not my favorite movie and I know none of them we talked about were Steph’s, but she talked about them anyways. She talked about all of them and found it on some old forgotten Youtube upload and propped it up with a chinese food container by the couch so that we could watch it–

The lock jingles with a thudding, rusty click as the thick moisture in the air dances Steph’s hair around her cheeks, the soft moonlight cascading down on the now-empty streets of Haven Springs in streaks of white and gray. It’s so peaceful, at night–at the slimmest hours when the On Air sign has switched off and all of Haven Springs has been lulled to sleep by a host’s calm good night, Haven Springs.

Shoes scuff along the pavement as she heads back towards the bar, knowing that the jukebox is in full swing, tonight, tourists pouring into its cramped, cozy confines until walls swell like a balloon, full of hot air and white claw. Final call still waits to hang in a few hours, but she knows The Black Lantern’s only waitress is probably settled high above it in the clouds below the moon, the backdrop of the noise lost beneath the television or the guitar or, least likely, sleep.

But where the bar is alive, the streets are quiet–gentle; soft–empty pathways full of the scent of dew and the trickling lake bubbling up against the pier.

She’s about to head towards it–to watch the moon dance along the waves for just a moment, like she used to when she was a kid, some when far, far away–when she hears it.

The faint, soft strum of a guitar, almost mumbled into the night.

Brows knit, leaning past the kayak shed with flicking eyes up towards the hill, looking around for a few moments before she starts up the winding pathway, shoes scuffing on smooth cobblestones. A soft voice barely hums above it, nearly lost to the wind–

“Outside…too deep–”

The guitar strums quietly–tentatively underneath the night time air, growing a little louder as Steph comes closer, tugging down on the thin fabric of a beanie as the wind sends a shiver down her spine, fingers shoving down into pockets to curl in warmth and heat.

“Feeling…touched–”

The song is clearer, now. Familiar. But the…voice–

“Feeling pretty far from home, so I sit to write this down. I guess…it’s not really brave–” It’s a simple strum–a lilting voice. Feminine and hanging–rasping and sincere –It fills her chest with warmth the moment she crests the hill to watch moonlight cast Alex Chen’s silhouette in shades of gray, hood of her jacket rustling in the water-clung wind, guitar settled in so comfortably in her lap, legs hanging off of the nearby embankment’s grassy ledge, “I know I’m not awake.”

A strum–a pause–

“I haven’t written this part, yet.”

It’s like a spell Steph doesn’t want to break–like some invisible tripwire in the most magical part of a dungeon she’s scared to set off by coming closer, pulling Alex away from the music. Away from that guitar–away from the rumbling way her voice so gently fills the empty town with such a haunting feeling that Steph–

Steph–

Her feet quietly crunch in grass as she closes the distance between them, anyways.

“Will you help me write it ?” Alex laughs, the noise caught like a tripping boot on sand, like some kind of joke to herself, the wind and silence around her the world’s only answer. For a second, Steph’s scared that’s it before the guitar starts again, picking up pace–

“ You are bug bites on vacation–you find the sad in everything–can’t see you cry. You’re down the street. I wonder when…you’ll talk to me.” Steph comes closer and closer, still, fingers curling and curling and curling in the soft depths of her jacket, wind freezing the tip of her nose, “Your eyes reflect the greenish moon, you move towards me and I love you. I…love you. I…love you…”

Alex’s head barely tilts upwards and back as Steph turns around the corner of the small hill, watching the way brows barely knit beneath the moonlight above the rims of glasses. She looks so peaceful and torn and real , like a painting she can touch–a song she can see , painted fully in front of her, the lakes soft waves dancing moonlight up onto cool checks.

Steph hasn’t felt this way listening to someone sing since–

“I haven’t finished this song yet.” Eyelashes flutter as their gaze meets and Alex’s eyes widen behind large frames before she and…smiles, bandaged fingers halting above the fret of a gifted guitar. A visible hesitation, ducking her head in what should definitely not be embarrassment before she looks up and sings the last line. “Will you help me fix it?”

Steph swallows and smiles and quietly hums the final bar of the song along with her, carrying Alex’s quiet voice in a steady harmony like a child holding something precious in their palms, the wind rustling through the grass next to them as she sits down and plucks a spear of it, tossing it into the river below.

There used to be a time when Steph always carried a set of drum sticks in her back pocket, itching, curling fingers ready to pluck them out and run a line along anything they touched, but tonight all Steph has is the quiet way Alex looks at her with a smile and the wind and the silent streets as she leans forward and plays a gentle, steady percussion against Alex’s knee as they hum in perfect harmony.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe love isn’t a singular moment, at all. Maybe it’s not that one startling second–that one memorable instant they show up--that one giant moment you accept them in–maybe it’s all of them. All of those moments, big and small and scary.

Maybe love is like someone looking at you and making you feel like you deserve that big confession moment where someone shows up at the door…and all the other times they show up at the door in-between.

Maybe love is like someone making you feel like the weirdest things about you aren’t so weird, at all.

Maybe love is a lot like Steph arguing about American President while holding a Criterion copy of Bladerunner in her hands all because she knows I've seen it.

Water beads on the edges of hair, cascading waterfalls down her cheeks to her neck to her chest, cool–-cold–-cold–-cold -–now that a rattling AC pricks at clammy skin. curving this reckless line before they fall, forgotten, onto the scratched wood of an upstairs apartment. The cool air has settled on Steph’s cheeks until the warmth no longer permeates them–-shields of ice masking the trembling, barely-contained water beneath–-a woman’s bones composed of a raging, ephemeral river. Although the heat of Alex’s breath is making a…surprisingly valid effort to break through, causing fissures of laughing lines where deep caverns have started to chisel into ivory, their skin pressed flush together as Alex helps hold up the curving spine of Haven’s second-most notorious but foremost drunk DJ.

Warm. Alex is warmer than the cold air, up here. If heat rises, it seems to have all risen up to Alex’s careful, curling fingers and gentle, closed-off smile.

Warm Alex. Easing Steph up against the wall as she helps unravel a sopping wet jacket off of shaking, laughing shoulders and–-okay, yeah. It’s kind of sad how long it’s been since someone helped Steph take off an item of clothing, let alone while she was drunk. There's a concerted effort to memorize this fact-–it will be her totally not mortifying excuse for almost smacking Alex in the nose while she wiggles out of denim in the morning–-

Wait, she doesn’t own any denim jackets. Not anymore.

Oh, right–-the jumbled memory of Alex’s fingertips sliding coarse fabric onto shivering shoulders once raindrops started to fall outside of the bar, the scent of alcohol and smoke and dew clinging to the air. That warm voice gently suggesting both of them come up before they drown in the puddle by the bar–

“It just really seems like a bad idea leaving you two alone.”

“Yeah,” Ryan’s sighs–-long-winded and resigned–-large lumbering shoulders soaking through with water in a way that will never bother him as much as it does Steph. Like a Paul Bunyan Elsa. “It usually is.”

The jacket smelled like nostalgia--smells like nostalgia--and it wraps all around her, now, bursting up through flaring nostrils as she laughs . This sort of scent that the DM in Steph has been going crazy all night trying to place–-to categorize-–this untouchable sort of unfamiliar familiarity that she’s just labeled into the box of ‘Alex’, for now, because it clings everywhere on the girl. It clings to Alex’s hair and her shuffling glasses and her closed-off fingertips and her cheeks…but Steph has time to figure it out, right? They’ve only known each other for a handful of days, now-–they’ve got time.

(Everyone thought they had time with Gabe, too).

The smile falls, stuttering a little as Steph desperately tries to pull at the thin strains of what the hell she was talking about.

“And I said–-”

The faint sound of snoring from inside the dimly-lit room accompanies their staccato, intermingled laughter as wet denim inelegantly smacks against the scuffed wood of the floor once Alex has finally managed to peel it off, Steph swaying from the effort.

“Heyyyy now, DJ. Stay against the wall. I’m too tired from helping carry both of you up the stairs to do any last minute rescues.” Alex catches her with wet fingertips that are somehow still so warm underneath the cool sheen of moisture covering them and helps peel Steph’s back off the wall, too.

Seriously, how is Alex so…she’s really warm. She’s like this kind of short space heater, calm, steady voice like simmering coals by a campfire (not Steph’s scene, but she’s sure Ryan would back her up on the analogy, if he wasn’t sinking into the couch like a black hole)--

Steph’s curling body slumps over a shoulder that seems to have no problem bearing the weight of people–-limbs made out of noodles and Jameson and way too much mysterious green devil shots–-and sighs. Seriously her cheeks are freezing and since Uven Rune shields don’t actually exist, Alex is like the next best thing to it. Is it too bad to drunkenly nuzzle into a girl who she only kind of knows for all of five minutes? Previous experiences say no. Nuzzling typically goes in Steph's favor.

An owlish blink as her world goes a little upside-down, the room spinning as she’s plopped down onto a bouncing mattress, eyes slowly taking in the room with an ache she doesn’t want to place–-not right now–-before she blinks up towards Alex, instead. It’s like a haze around her–-everything blended in the background in shadows of this apartment a faded memory–-but here’s Alex who looks so different than Gabe but still feels so familiar, being so…patient and–-

“So what did you tell him?” Alex cuts off any those creeping, spreading shadows of thoughts like she always somehow does, adjusting glasses that had been knocked a little askew (probably from trying to help Steph’s drunk, useless ass), eyes flicking over to Ryan, whose Ryan grumbling snore skips off beat, seeming to realize they’re both there. Waking up just enough to cough and actually breathe air before letting it out like a foghorn through his nose.

“You guys ‘kay?” It’s barely intelligible, one of those long, long legs of his swung over the edge of the couch, socked toes brushing along the pole in the middle of the apartment, other leg very uncomfortably swung to the side off of the other edge.

(At least it’s got to be uncomfortable for Ryan. She still remembers him hobbling after that one attempt at a yoga session Riley talked them into. He woodenly stomped around the bar for two days after like some kind of fascist Pinocchio, rigid and always at attention).

Alex must’ve thrown him on the couch as best as she could’ve the moment they got up. It's a pretty valiant effort. The last time Steph tried to carry him up her stairs, she barely made it to the bathtub, closer by far than the couch.

Steph snorts, “You’re totally about to fall off the couch.”

“Wha-–”

She apparently still has the gift of prophecy. Or Ryan is really bad at reality roll-checks.

A thud. And then a grunting, intoxicated note of surprise sounds from the floor--delayed by a good five seconds-–chortling laughter the only reply from the bed. Alex’s lips quirk up at the edges, sliding over dutifully towards the couch like way too good of a person, the one lone streelight outside of the window casting her bare, denim-jacket-less-shoulders in its warm, persistent glow. It bathes over her like a delicate spotlight on an outdoor set. It dances along Alex’s hair and her glinting glasses and her tired eyes and Steph can’t shake the image from her mind. Even as Paul-Bunyan-Elsa apologizes profusely while Alex inelegantly flops him back onto the couch. It's stuck.

She won't remember all that much from tonight (she'll remember more than she expects) but she'll definitely remember this.

“Sorry, Alex–-I’m normally…normally not like thi–-”

“He’s always like this.” Steph protests. It’s slurred, but it’s still true. Then again, Steph nearly falls off of the bed trying to untie her shoe, struggling to curl frayed laces with clumsy, normally completely deft (she swears) fingertips.

“Miraculously, I believe both of you exactly enough to get me out of picking a side.” Alex chirps from the couch now that Ryan’s fully on top of it, walking back over to–-

“Holy shit, are you actually helping me with my shoes, right now? Oh my God, I love you.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“Huh?”

“You were telling a story.” Alex reminds, fingers skimming through the loops like a brush through hair, totally effortless, smiling up at her with nothing short of amusement.

A story?

Right.

Wait…what was she talking about, again?

“The guy that wanted to be your manager.” Alex pipes in perfectly, like she always seems to do.

Right .

“And I said, look, it’s not about–-not about the chicks! Like, who even calls girls chicks?”

“Totally. Although...you.” That small little smile curves up further. It’s kind of nice. Steph hasn’t seen Alex smile all that much–-not since the first day they-– “You...definitely called me a chick literally in the first five seconds of meeting you.”

“This was not a poll question, Chen.”

“I think it’s disrespectful to call women chicks.” Ryan offers from the couch, muffled a little now that he’s seemingly flopped onto his stomach.

“Not. A poll.” Steph re-iterates (and resists tossing her shoe at him across the room because this is Gabe’s–-Alex’s, fuck Alex’s–-apartment and she might break something; she’d also have to lean down and grab her shoe and that seems like a lot ).

“No, I was agreeing with you.” It’s a whine into his bed for the night.

“Oh.” A quiet laugh, looking back towards Alex, bouncing her now-free foot. “Right. See? Ryan gets it. We can call us chicks but not-chicks cannot call us chicks unless they’re chicks. Not in the way he said chicks, like he was looking at us like we were actual livestock. So I told the guy to get lost and–-holy shit,” Steph leans forward a little too quickly, wobbling a little from the lack of equilibrium as she does to snatch up the shoe with a spreading, spreading smile-–a thing of awe and wonder–- “Did you just snort ?”

“Aaaalright, Steph, you’re gonna have to help me get you onto the bed.”

“Hey! No deflecting. A snort? That’s adorable-–”

“Steph,” Alex rolls her eyes and snatches back away the shoe to toss it towards the entryway, shoving the girl’s shoulder so that she flops back onto the bed, but she’s not easily deterred, leaning up onto one shoulder, hips slowly sliding down the edge of it as she does.

And amazingly…Alex laughs. She stands up fully over Steph, who’s certifiably Patrick-Starr’ed her bed, slowly falling off the edge of it, and smiles. Like a full smile, the kind that people write songs about–-write entire albums about–-write post-band-break-up albums about–-

And Steph pauses a beat.

“Wow, you have…the best smile I’ve ever seen.”

“Your endless charm? It’s not helping you get on the bed, right now.”

“Weird. Toootally where my charm gets me, usually. Into beds.” Steph’s smile spreads past a smirk into verifiable goofy territory as her ass hits the ground with a dull thud, “That was a good one. I mean my joke. It was good. Like, would’ve totally gotten viewers on air good.”

Alex’s laugh remains–-this breathy, rumbling thing, like a drum kit that’s been shoved in a closet for too long, dust bouncing along its surface when it sees good use for the first time in ages. Those warm, damp fingers curve into Steph’s side, shirt barely riding up over knuckles as she helps flop Steph back over the bed, a little practiced. How many people has Alex done this for, anyways?

Steph makes a mental note to let Alex be the drunk and not the drunk-sitter, sometime.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that. Might’ve landed better if you weren’t,” A grunt and Steph shivers at the cold when Alex’s fingers leave, but doesn’t notice for long–-not when she’s already crawling forward towards bundled up sheets, nuzzling into them like Valkyrie does when no one’s looking. “Slurring, though.”

“Slurring is part of my charm–-oh my God, are you taking off my other shoe right now? You are just so nice. ” A frustrated groan that’s nothing but smile as she rolls almost a little too far off the bed, head thudding against the dresser. She barely catches Alex’s wince. “It didn’t hurt.”

“It will tomorrow.”

“Hmm…yeah, prob’ly. C’mere–-” Several pats on the bed next to her, other arm already thrown over eyes. “Can’t just take your bed that’s…so not cool.”

“I…don’t know, Steph–-”

“What are you gonna do, sleep downstairs?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept in a bar.”

“We can unpack that tomorrow. I’m not stealing your bed, Alex.” She might not be sober, but she’s certainly adamant, “ Ryan’s…already drooling into your couch and I’m not that drunk, I promise. There’s, like… no Ubers in Haven but I can totally–-and I mean totally--go home if you’re not cool with sharing–-” Steph’s head lolls upwards to see Alex hovering over her, shuffling, hands stuffing up those cute, fitting glasses. “Seriously, how are you so cute ?”

Another laugh from Alex and Steph really, really likes the sound of it, watching the light from the hall bathe her cheeks in soft, amber hues. It’s a different sort of light–-different than the streetlight. “Not really pleading your case for sobriety, Steph.”

“What, because I said you were hot?”

“You…actually said cute-–”

“Oh, well I was thinking hot,” Steph shrugs, rolling over on the pillow. It must smell like Alex. Maybe Steph still can’t really place what Alex smells like, but this definitely doesn’t smell like Gabe. Eventually, the bed dips and Steph cracks open an eye to a completely dark room and Alex’s silhouette, highlighted by only the street light outside, shifting underneath the covers Steph’s pinning down from on top, only a thin layer of fabric barrier between them. “Gabe used to do this for us all the time, y’know,” The slurring might be from near sleep, now, and she sighs at the suffocating feeling that’s not numbed nearly enough by alcohol for this thought-train. “Seems like the Chens are good people.”

Steph can’t see Alex’s face in the shadows–-she hopes there’s a smile there. But the truth is without that hope, all Steph knows is that there’s just...this. This comforter, shadows, and space. Just this.

“...A few of us Chens were okay. Gabe was definitely one of them.”

“Thanks for taking care of our drunk asses, ‘lex.” It’s slurred and sleepy and sighing, sinking into the bed, kicking away some of the covers to inelegantly try to roll underneath them. She’s surprised when a quiet chuckle greets her and warmth envelops her, Alex tucking the soft comforter around her just like she had that jacket. Freshly washed. Gabe’s blanket always smells like mildew–-like dust–-the kind of thing never used, tucked away in a closet and stained from friend’s beers and slobber (in Ryan’s case) from their drunken stays.

Smelled. Past tense.

But now it smells like the pillow–like…what is this? What’s Alex smell like, anyways?

Is that a creepy thought? Is it creepy that she keeps coming back to it? It’s like when you can’t remember the name of a song and you just keep humming it all day and–-

Whatever.

She cuddles closer into the blanket–-

‘Sorry–-’ she might mumble or think or hum when she brushes up against Alex, knowing the other girl likes her space.

“No, it’s okay. No it’s…” Alex’s voice is practically wind it settles so softly between them and Steph fights so hard to open her eyes to see her–-to see a glimpse of her, now that she’s not blinded by darkness. And there’s Alex, glasses set somewhere other than her nose. Steph can barely see her, curled in on herself…so rigid in the bed, like she doesn’t know how to settle into it. Like maybe she never has. “It’s okay. It’s kind of nice, not being alone in here, I guess. It gets pretty quiet. Freakishly quiet.”

Sleepy, sagging eyes search Alex’s calm features.

And Steph imagines her.

Maybe Alex is used to the city-–to cars and trains and yelling, outside–-used to thin walls and something more than just the sound of breathing. It used to suffocate Steph when she got here–-all this fresh air; all this open sky; all this soft peace-–it reminded her too much of home. If she closed her eyes at night, she’d hear the ocean instead of the mountains–-she’d hear the faint whir of a lighthouse instead of the buzz of the singular streetlight outside of her apartment window, all the way down mainstreet, too far out of reach–-

“Know what you mean.” Steph sleepily searches and searches and searches those features, alcohol muting into exhaustion before she reaches forward to thoughtlessly wrap arms around Alex in the only comfort her brain thinks to provide. It’s probably not much, tangling cold, damp biceps around warm heater arms as she sags like bricks into the pillow, but it’s what Steph can give. “Don’t worry,” She mumbles. She won’t realize Alex tenses until the bleary hours of the morning, when horror and regret always set in after Jameson. Right now, all she thinks is to reassure her that it won’t be quiet, at all: “Ryan snores.”

She falls asleep to the quiet sound of Alex’s laughter and the feeling of tense muscles relaxing beneath Steph’s touch.

It’s a total cliche in the morning. Like, a total absolute fucking cliche .

It’s not Steph’s first rodeo at waking up from way too fucking many at the Lantern. It’s actually a very, very familiar feeling.

The birds are twittering out of the windows so loudly that Ryan is seemingly trying to identify them in a series of morse code snorts from the couch in his sleep. The sun is bright enough that it’s likely later than Ryan’s supposed to be awake…and it’s definitely bright enough to burn a hole through Steph’s skull-–which means it’s probably close to when Steph is supposed to slam down some form of caffeine and make her way towards the booth. But she’s not in a rush.

Because what’s not familiar is the warmth. Gabe’s scratchy, smelly-ass blanket and pillow and too-close dresser are replaced with a very throbbing (bruised? Fuck) head and a soft, clean scent, and–-

Fingers flex and the feeling of skin is unmistakable underneath them. The momentary drunken panic of waking up with someone (especially in a town where she literally knows way too much about everyone ) is immediately replaced by the soft hum of someone shifting…closer, that scent tickling the back of Steph’s nose as hair brushes her cheek and her chin and–-

It’s worth bracing the way-too-bright to realize Alex Chen is the warm weight, hot, sleep-pulled breath spun like fine silk gently skimming along Steph’s ticklish neck in a way that makes a hungover heart pick up, just a bit. Eyes barely widen, this… ache swelling up within her breathless chest, blinking and blinking and blinking away sleep before tense muscles relax into the clean, musk-free sheets. Guilt doesn’t last for long when Alex shifts closer a second time when Steph pulls back, and she takes full stock of the situation with as clear of a mind as she can aim for: bare ankles tangled; a bunched up shirt skimming below Steph’s knuckles where she’s held her close throughout the night; comforters bunched up by Steph’s hips from where she probably got too hot, but presumably (drunkenly–-stupidly) pulled Alex closer anyways.

It’s been a year since Steph held anyone like this, and even then that lasted for all of a weekend before…well, it was never going to work out, anyways.

And the last time she held Izzie like this, she–-

A quiet sigh.

It’s been longer than a year that Steph woke up like this and didn’t grind her teeth into the bitter copper urge to run.

Everything else about the apartment is the same, isn’t it? Save for this small little corner of it. This small little bed with small little sheets and small little, fire-warm Alex Chen curling into her body in her heavy sleep. Everything else is the same. Steph’s hand gently smooths up the curve of Alex’s back to the rumbled fabric of a shirt spread across shoulders, pressing Alex a little closer in apology for pulling away while eyes once more flutter closed. This is the most relaxed she’s seen Alex all week–-and maybe Steph–-

Maybe Steph--

Maybe the station can wait a little while longer. It’s not quiet up here–-not with the birds and Ryan snoring and the gentle, soft sound of Alex’s breath brushing along her ear like the soft pulling tides of Arcadia Bay. The familiarity doesn’t unnerve her, even though maybe it should.

It’s a cliche, but it’s still a cliche she needs.

Sleeping a little longer doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

– – – – – – – – – and that was e m p i r e a n t s wrapping up your afternoon delight – – tune into KRCT for more where that came from, your little haven away from haven springs – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“How many did you take?” Steph muffles laughter behind her curving palm, teeth tucking into a lower lip.

“Uh…enough that I can’t tell whether or not my legs are actually on the ceiling and my head is really on the floor? Or maybe my head’s on the ceiling and my feet are on the–-” It’s curious-–a little disoriented. “Are my feet on the ceiling? I think my feet are on the ceiling.”

Steph can personally attest to Charlotte’s gummy-bear goods: Alex sounds…very, very chill, at least. Eyes flick upwards towards the light hanging above blinking a garish red hue across the soft sound-proofing of a booth.

“You do know that you called me at the radio station, right?”

“Yeah.” Very, very chill.

“No, Alex, like… at the station.”

“Yeah.” Too chill.

Both lips pull in this time to keep from laughing.

“As in, you’re on air right now.”

There’s a long, long pause. A very hilarious long, long pause, as the horror of reality likely makes it through Alex Chen’s blitzed as fuck mind. And okay, maybe Steph enjoys it just a little bit.

“You’re enjoying this waaaay too much, Chen.” Steph’s head falls harder than the beat in ‘Empire Ants’, thudding into a slackened, useless palm.

“Oh, yeah. Totally.” Alex blows the steam away from the curving edge of a mug, the logo of the nearby high school team emblazoned proudly on its chipped side. The steam curves warm fingertips beneath Steph’s chin, practically beckoning red eyes slowly upwards to slit at Alex’s now-familiar smile, endless sunlight sinking into dark hair. “Hey, you wouldn’t be so hungover if you just believed that I am absolutely better than you at the Jukebox game.”

“It’s witchcraft.”

“Unsanctioned witchcraft. I’m not in a coven.”

“I’m not convinced. But you are the nicest witch I’ve ever met, even if you keep laughing at my pain. I can’t believe you made me breakfast after taking care of my sloppy drunk ass last night.”

“They’re pop-tarts.” Alex argues, but there’s something soft in her eyes, “My only two specialties are this and rice from a rice cooker, so you’re just lucky these were even in the kitchen because Gabe does not have a rice cooker.”

“They’re better specialties than quick-dialing the only chinese place in Haven.”

“I don’t know, that’s a pretty useful specialty.”

“Maybe I can show you for lunch. Want to meet me at the booth? I’ve got to repay your endless kindness somehow.”

A denim jacket hangs from an open window nearby, its heavy weight now fluttering in the soft Colorado mid-morning breeze. Alex shuffles her glasses and looks out towards it and then towards the small, closed-off kitchen that’s been cleaned of all the clutter Gabe had left behind. Their eyes meet again and there’s something–-there’s something there-–but Alex just smiles.

It’s somehow the only thing that makes sense in the world, the fact that Steph doesn’t feel weird at all at offering-–at knowing Alex is welcome here, now, and has found a place in the cold spaces of Steph’s drunken arms anytime, if she needs them. They’re friends, now, from more than just shitty, thrown-together circumstance. They have denim and poptarts. That’s something, if Steph helps add onto the wager, isn’t it?

That’s something.

After a long moment, Alex smiles–-quiet and calm and slim, but there-–and just simply says:

“Okay.”

And it seems like the bag of pot Steph had taped to Alex’s door in both gratitude and an intention to up that wager has had its successful conclusion.

“...shi–-”

Steph, being the phenomenally kind friend that she is, immediately presses the mute, “And that could be you, too, Havenites! Yes, the mystique–-the intrigue–-the idea that your head could actually be floating above you in an endless cycle of bliss and potential confusion if you don’t follow the very clear instructions on the packet. If you’re over 21, go down to the Silver Dragon and buy your premium, never-fail supply, today! However, all of your good friends here at the station-–which is just me-–remind you to always partake safely and preferably while sharing. Again, with me. Nervous or unsure of how to go about your first foray? Ask our favorite genus-genius and Silver Dragon owner Charlotte who will guide you through like a pro. Located across from your own favorite record store, the Silver Dragon has low prices, high quality, and a great time in store, just for you. Alright, everybody, we’ve got a life-changing line-up prepared for you for the next ad-free…” Her head bounces back and forth as she decides, looking down at her now-lit phone for the time before figuring– “...hour. Tonight and tonight only-–aren’t you lucky? Only here at KRCT, your own little Haven from Haven Springs.”

There’s no time wasted flicking up the mute switch on the mic and Alex’s snickering laughter is contagious through the line only a second later. Steph’s kind of bummed she missed her going through the five stages of high (paranoia; anxiety; abject horror; resignation; laughter at how funny the blinds look, probably) by the time the ancient landline is once more pressed against her ear, the laughter a little louder.

“Okay, so that means you took all of them.” It’s not exactly the craziest conclusion to jump to-–especially when Alex just keeps laughing.

“I’m sorry-–I–-” Alex clearly can’t seem to stop laughing, “I’m not used to real drugs! I’m used to the ones you get from sketchy neighbors named Billy…who’s a kind of hypocritical flat-earther drug dealer who lives next to a Lowes dumpster? And has a sign not to trust the government. Who’s willing to sell it to you for very, very cheap for your kind of friend’s birthday party.”

“Did you get that from a really lame after-school PSA?” Alex laughs harder and Steph can’t help but smile. Yeah, the laugh is really infectious, “Okay, I’m funny, but I’m not that funny. I’m officially concerned and coming over.”

“No! I’m okay, really. I just texted Charlotte–-”

“Did she say you took too many?”

“Definitely. I might have also called her pretty. But I’m fine!”

“Ok. Sure.” Steph shifts the landline on her ear, leaning up against the board, “Just stop laughing and I’ll stay right here.” There’s only two seconds before Alex starts cracking up, again, and Steph can’t help it–-the smile grows. “Yeah, no, I’m not missing this prime blackmail material. Me coming over? It’s actually very selfish.”

“The radio!”

“Is on auto-pilot. I just debuted commercial-free, music--only for the next hour. I’ll get Ryan to swing by and lock up.”

“Can’t someone break in and change the music? Do you want someone playing Miley Cyrus on your conscience? I don’t.” Alex sounds unnervingly serious, all of the sudden, and Steph pulls out the keys from her pocket. Locks to the studio. Locks to the store. Locks to an apartment that haven’t changed and Alex hasn’t asked for.

“If someone wants to break into the record store, leave all of the records, and then break into the booth, and only play a Miley Cyrus song, I think we have worse things to worry about. Although I guess it depends on the song.”

“ Start All Over is kind of nostalgic, I guess–-”

“Yeah, you’re high. Just stay put, Chen, I’ll be over in fifteen.”

“But–-”

Landlines are much better about hanging up with that really satisfying click. Ancient, but really serve a point.

A quick call to Ryan, a locked up studio, and a small handful of bar patrons giving her a knowing look as she rushes up the bar stairs later, Steph Gingrich opens up Gabe’s–-Alex’s-–door to the sight of the other girl laying on the floor…save for her feet that she seems extraordinarily concentrated on holding in exact, precise position.

Up in the air, perpendicular to the ceiling. Stock-still, firm as a board.

“What the fuck, Alex?” It’s Steph’s turn to double over with laughter, the abject terror in Alex’s eyes turning conflicted at the sight of the other girl materializing.

Alex’s arms throw out in frustration, anger, and confusion...and way, way, way too much pot gummies causing a mess of conflict that bubbles out in her frustrated voice. The struggle is visibly real:

“You told me to stay here!”

“I meant here like the apartment, not here like–-”

“Well I didn’t know! And besides, look, they look like they’re on the ceiling, right? I wanted you to see it.”

The wide gesture up towards her airborne feet really cinches it.

Steph will tell Alex half a year later that this is the exact moment she fell in love with her.

Right now, Steph tries to blink through the tears in eyes, laughter warming cheeks and chest and smile as she kicks the door closed and immediately moves to crawl onto the floor next to Alex’s flopped, strung out form. Watching Alex’s mess of over-emotions slowly morph over into the widest, most genuine smile, as she does.

(There’s a thought that stuck through her drunken haze the other night: the reality that Alex has the most beautiful smile Steph’s ever seen).

“Lucky for you I took a gift tax,” A small bag materializes from her pocket, a lone soldier gummy bear remaining. Without much thought, she pops it into her mouth and smirks. “We’ll go through this together, Chen.”

Alex looks so grateful that Steph doesn’t know what to do with it, so she just reaches down and clasps her hand, instead.

Alex doesn’t pull away.

But she does lower her feet to the ground, so…progress.

“Although I’m definitely not going to be a fourth as high as you are, right now.”

“Good.” Alex nods and squeezes her hand and…shifts to rest her head on Steph’s shoulder. A breath rattles and catches in her throat before she lets it out through her nose, the air fluttering Alex’s hair. “It sucks.”

“Yeah.” A long beat, “...wanna order a pizza and play Dinoracer 2?”

“Totally.” Alex immediately sits up, “Can we,” It’s drawled out, raising their joined hands up towards the door in gesture, “Get two pizzas?”

“What the hell, why not?”

Alex’s smile is totally worth it.

They spend the night on the floor listening to Plastic Beach, occasionally getting up to eat pizza or play air guitar or dance, together, talking about everything and nothing and trying (and failing) to get Ryan to sneak them a rice cooker from a very closed general store that he has no access to. Alex has re-iterated at least a dozen times (namely, every time Steph asks because rice sounds really good) that she makes the best rice, after all, and Steph wants in.

It's a bummer, but doesn't kill the mood. Next time, they say, like there will be a thousand of them.

They fall asleep on a mattress made of pizza boxes, both of them dedicating a slice to Gabe somewhere in-between.

“Do you like it?” Steph asks two days later, a carefully-wrapped gift now settled on Alex’s counter. It’s not the best rice maker in existence–-actually, it’s twenty bucks and all they sold in Haven Springs–-but it’s the best she can offer, for the time being.

Alex’s fingers curve around the edge of it so timidly--so carefully--like the fact that it’s likely the smallest one in existence don’t matter, at all.

“You know…” The sun’s settled fully on her back, now, fingertips nervously tucking hair behind ears as she turns around. Smiles. Slim and quiet and all Alex. “I’ve…never had my own.”

“Your own rice cooker?”

“Yeah.”

Steph looks around at an apartment that was someone else’s and is now Alex’s...looks to the bed to the sheets to the small little bag still tucked against it, packed. Like Alex doesn’t know how to unpack, at all.

Steph shifts on her feet and leans forward to carefully settle a hand on the other girl’s shoulder, tapping the edge of it far more delicately than a drum.

“Well, now you do. And I fully expect to get some of that rice you’ve been bragging about all week.”

“Um, have I really been bragging ?” A psh hidden behind that Alex smile, “It’s not really bragging when it’s fact and there’s no competition.”

“See? I’ve got to taste it. Put your rice where your mouth is, Chen. Or...something like that. The phrase was close.”

Alex lets out something that might be close to a happy sigh--barely heard and carefully contained--and Steph isn’t so sure why she’s…nervous. Like there’s this tangling mess of vines in her stomach. Like she really actually wants to be Alex's friend for more than just obligated memory.

“I love it, Steph. Thanks.”

In the quiet afternoon sun filled by nothing but mountain air from a cracked window and the rustling of now-dry denim that's still hanging near it, they both smile.

Yeah, there's something.

They have denim and poptarts. They have pot and rice cookers. They have Plastic Beach. They have the fact that both of them knows how much the quiet bothers the other--they have memories, now.

That’s something, right? Yeah, that's something.

That's a start.