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nico-di-genova · 2 months

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Muffled - Chapter 2

Summary: James likes hearing Alex talk, usually. Sometimes it's better to shut him up. Or: Alex learns something about himself, James helps him explore it.

There are a lot of things James likes about Alex: his sense of humor, his shared love for bourbon, the way he throws himself into whatever catches his attention, how he can recount every bit of information about said interest and share it with James in vivid detail, how he doesn’t smile unless people have earned the expression – James, being one of those people knows, when Alex’s smiles are genuine. He finds his favorite thing about Alex though is perhaps the way the man looks at him the first night James gags him.

Sat at the foot of his bed, James stood between his parted thighs, Alex looks up at him with reverent trust and nods when James asks if he is sure.

“Positive?” He presses, a hand cupping Alex’s jaw, because he likes the way Alex’s eyes flutter closed at the contact, the way he leans into the warmth of James’ palm. Alex is so often avoidant of physical contact, keeps himself guarded and tense, until they are alone in instances like this, and he soaks up as much of it as he can.

“Positive,” he promises, eyes opening so James is staring at black pupils, brown of his iris just barely there.

James is hard in his jeans, can feel the ache of his dick pressing against the restrictive fabric, but he forces himself to go slowly, wanting Alex to trust him, to have the space to back out if he changes his mind. He pulls his hand away from Alex’s jaw, tracing along the skin as he goes so Alex leans forward, chasing the contact. When the bandana replaces it, held hesitantly against Alex’s lips by James’ questioning hands, Alex opens his mouth unquestioningly. He lets James slide the fabric between his teeth, looks up at James with eyes shining in the lamplight. It is reminiscent of the way he’d looked after his 500 win, young and exposed and entirely overwhelmed.

James is careful when he ties the ends of the bandana into a knot behind Alex’s head. Alex maintains eye contact with him as he does.

“That okay?” he asks once he’s done, cradles the back of Alex’s head in his hand and waits for confirmation. His fingers brush lightly over the short hair at the base of Alex’s skull that he keeps neatly trimmed. He’s aware of just how careful he’s being, but a part of him wants to take care of Alex, the part that he often ignores because he knows how painfully self-reliant the man is.

Alex, when he’s buzzed and still half-heady off the adrenaline high of racing, doesn’t seem to mind the comfort as much. In fact, he searches it out, leans into James’ touch in a silent plea for more. He nods when James asks again if the bandana feels okay, makes a noise that’s muffled by the fabric that’s already growing damp with his spit.

“Fuck,” James groans, as Alex looks up at him through his lashes, lips parted around the gag, “It’s- you look- Jesus.”

Debauched. Filthy. Downright pornographic. Angelic almost, like he should be forever immortalized in stone. James could think of a million things to describe him right now, and yet none of them would fit right. There is a vulnerability that the gag reveals, something changed in the way Alex holds himself, lets himself be held. James doesn’t want to fuck him, not tonight, doesn’t want to waste time spreading himself open when Alex already looks so close to the edge, like he’s teetering there and just waiting for James’ command to tip over.

“Here,” he steps back, laughs softly when Alex reaches for him impulsively, hands going for his waist, “Lay back, yeah?”

“Mmhph,” Alex protests, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance, before James gives him a pointed look and he obeys – rolls his eyes as he does so. He props himself up on a pillow, arm held under his head, exposing the underside of his bicep, the flash of his tattoo on his forearm. James was with him when he got it, watched Alex grit his teeth as the needle marked his skin. The tick of his tensed jaw was the only flash of pain he’d exhibited. His restraint, as always, was impressive, if mildly infuriating. Sometimes, he wished Alex wasn’t so hard to read, wasn’t fighting so hard to hide every little thing. Sometimes, he wished he had the same ability.

He climbs his way up the bed slowly, takes his time tracing a hand along Alex’s clothed thigh, pushes a hand beneath his shirt and scratches lightly at the warm skin of his abdomen, until Alex is grinding up against him and making muffled pleas for more. When he reaches Alex’s neck, he rests his palm gently around it, feels Alex swallow beneath him. He leans down, nose brushing along Alex’s cheek, lips following the fabric of the gag until he reaches the corner of Alex’s mouth. Then he pulls back just enough to see the way Alex’s gaze has gone unfocused, so he can hear Alex whine pitifully at the loss of James’ attention.

“Can I blow you?” he asks, as Alex hand, the one not held captive beneath his head, comes to grip desperately at the hem of James’ shirt, a silent request to pull it off.

Alex makes a sound like he’s choking.

“That a yes?” James teases, his grip on Alex’s throat tightening, barely a threat, but enough to have Alex whining, forcing his attention back from whatever foggy space it had slipped off to.

He nods, frantic, the movement jostling the gag enough that James worries for a moment it might slip out. Alex stills when he feels it moving, bites down on the fabric to keep it in place. It would be so easy for him to remove it if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to. He wants this, which is perhaps the hottest thing of it all. James has seen Alex want with ferocity before, take what he desired with level-headed determination, he’s never seen him want with a vulnerability that leaves him desperate.

And James has never been the sort to withhold anything from Alexander Rossi, always been willing to give him whatever he asked for because Alex asks for so little. He can feel Alex asking for this, in the desperate way he’s gripping at James’ hip, in the way he doesn’t try to speak, but remains obedient and waiting beneath James.

“You’re so good,” he finds himself saying, the praise slipping off his tongue with the same ease it always does. Normally, Alex would brush it off, make some excuse for why he isn’t, prepared to say he can do better, push himself harder, correct his error here, and James will become frustrated with the way Alex rejects praise the way he so often rejects help. Stubborn independence and perfectionism are ingrained so deeply within him that James knows sometimes it’s better to let Alex beat himself up. But tonight Alex cannot argue against James’ adoration, the ability taken away by the Andretti Bandana tied around his mouth, and so instead the praise soaks into him.

Alex’s ego is one thing, entirely too large at points, but his self-confidence is another. It is always the latter that James focuses on, that he knows he hits when Alex’s cheeks turn scarlet. He tries to turn his head away, hide half of it against the pillows beneath him, James is quick to move his hand up and grip Alex’s jaw. Alex’s eyes are black when he looks at James, dark pools of want and need.

“No. Wait. I want you to look at me.”

James’ name is muffled when Alex whines it against the fabric of the bandana.

“Please.”

“Mmhph.”

“Alex,” He commands, “I want you to look at me when I blow you, can you do that?”

It is a question and a challenge, one that James knows Alex will want to win, because he is Alex. Because he hates to lose.

James lets him go, pulls back, Alex’s eyes stay on him.

It’s easy to slide his pants off, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease, pulling them down while Alex lifts his hips enough for him to do so. His shirt stays on, only pushed up enough that it’s out of the way, and his briefs are all that’s left. Alex is already hard, wet spot on his underwear turning the navy fabric a shade darker. It matches the grey bandana that is growing dark with Alex’s spit.

Alex inhales sharply when James tongues along the bulge of his dick, breath hot against the fabric. His eyes flicker shut for only the briefest of moments, head tipping back against the pillow, until he manages to force his gaze back onto James, looking down at him through his lashes and biting down on the gag.

He takes his time, and Alex lets him. Despite the fact that these nights are usually less about going slow, and more about getting off before the alcohol wears off. But tonight, neither one of them are drunk enough to pretend this is anything less than what it is, the bandana between Alex’s teeth, and the vulnerable way he’s letting spit trail down his chin is making this far more intimate than normal.

James isn’t naked, not as much as Alex, but he feels equally exposed, even more so under Alex’s heavy gaze.

His fingers find the waistband of Alex’s briefs, pause as they wrap around the fabric, tips of his fingers just barely brushing against the skin beneath as he looks up at Alex. He’s waiting for permission, finds it in the way Alex continues to look down at him, gives just the smallest nod.

When Alex comes it is down the back of James’ throat, his fingers threaded through James’ hair, pulling enough that James knows he’ll feel the residual ache of it come tomorrow. Alex breaks eye contact only to throw his head back against the pillow beneath him, mouth falling open as he cries out – the sound is muffled against the gag, he doesn’t let it slip out.

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The bandana becomes a regular addition to their hook-ups, Alex keeping it on the shelf alongside his bed, folded and waiting for when they inevitably end up on the mattress. James becomes accustomed to tying it behind his head, learns how best to knot it so that it holds, learns it needs to be tight enough to not come off when Alex slides his head back against the pillow.

The night he makes Alex cry, it’s tied perfectly, done with nimble fingers and secured with practice.

James is riding him, one hand on the mattress beside Alex’s head to stabilize himself, the other pinning Alex’s wrists above his head to keep the man from reaching for him. He’s leaned over Alex, close enough to see the hints of green in his eyes and the barest hint of freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. He’d instructed Alex that he wasn’t allowed to touch him that night, wanted to see how long Alex would keep his hands above his head, wanted to see the muscles in his biceps jump as he fought to follow the command. At the first raise of Alex’s arms, he’d leaned forward to pin them to the bed.

“Don’t,” he’d commanded, and Alex had whined, fingers twitching.

The bandana muffled the pleas that poured from his mouth, but not enough that James couldn’t understand them.

“You can listen, can’t you?”

Alex nodded, the movement sliding the bandana down the back of his head, but not enough that it slipped free from between his teeth.

“Then listen. Keep your hands there,” James says, before leaning back, removing his hand from Alex’s wrists. Alex is quick to wrap his fingers around his own wrist, holding himself down as James focuses on chasing his own release. He’s close, so close, when he catches the first tear that streaks down the side of Alex’s face, disappearing in his hairline, leaving a trail in its wake.

Immediately, James stills. Immediately he is reaching for the bandana, attempting to pull it from Alex’s mouth, stopped only by Alex jerking his head away with a speed that might have given him whiplash if he weren’t trained to withstand the movement. James gets the hint, understands it even clearer when Alex thrusts up beneath him in an effort to get him moving again, but the tears glistening where they’ve pooled in the hollow between the corner of Alex’s eye and the bridge of his nose aren’t exactly a turn on.

“Alex,” James tries again, reaches for the bandana again, earns a frustrated noise from Alex in response.

“I’m not fucking you while you’re crying, bud,” He states, pulling the fabric from Alex’s mouth and letting it fall around his neck.

Alex looks up at him, eyes shining with tears, annoyance written clear across his face, an easy expression for James to read given just how frequently Alex wears it.

“I’m fine,” Alex grumbles, even as his voice comes out sounding raw, even as another tear escapes and follows the established track down to his hair.

James wipes the moisture away with the pad of his thumb and shows the evidence to Alex as if it’s proof. Alex stares at it, unimpressed by James’ chivalry, giving him the look he normally reserves for people he thinks are uniquely lacking in the brains department, or people he thinks are too social for their own good. James has been fortunate enough to have only ever fallen in the latter, but never been at the receiving end of this particular look. It’s easy to see why people may find Alexander unpleasant, the look only dampened in its efficiency by the tears that make him look vulnerable.

James stares back, “I’m not doing it, Alex.”

He goes to slide off of Alex’s dick, still hard inside him, realizes Alex still has his hands held obediently above his head because his arms twitch like he’s going to reach for James and then still again.

Slowly James starts to piece it together. Alex watches as he does, blush spreading across his cheeks familiarly.

“You want to touch me that bad?” He asks, not teasingly, but earnest.

Alex’s gaze flickers away, finds a spot on the ceiling, stays there as he grumbles, “No.”

It sounds like a lie, is one, James can tell because he knows Alex’s tell, the way his eyes dart to the left and continue to resolutely avoid contact with James. The tears are clearing now, tracks drying on his skin. His arms are still held above his head. The position puts his tattoo on display, which is partly why James had had him do it, so he could see the heart inked just above where his vein was running prominent beneath his skin. He has the sudden urge to lean down and trace the shape of it with his tongue, follow the faint blue line of Alex’s vein to his wrist where his fingers were pressing crescent moons into fragile, paper thin skin. Alex would let him, now, and then complain about how disgusting it was after the fact, when he was scrubbing at his skin in the shower later.

Alex would let James do anything to him in this moment, which is maybe the problem here. He’s given control fully to James before they could establish the boundaries, before there was any way to be certain the tears drying on Alex’s skin were a welcome addition and not an uninvited guest.

The sex is forgotten, alongside the beer Alex had requested his assistant buy before the race, the Bud Light that still sat untouched in his fridge. It is the second time they’ve hooked up where the alcohol had not been needed, where Alex’s need to have the gag between his teeth took precedence over their ritual of drinking until their heads were fuzzy and the sex could be conceivably brushed off as a drunken endeavor.

Both of them are sober when James makes Alex cry, when James slides off of Alex and says, “We need to discuss safe words.”

#hinch/rossi #my fic #okay so maybe there's another chapter #and maybe this fic has feelings now and is about discovering things about yourself and finding the limits of them #and also maybe coming to terms with the pieces of yourself you've hidden away but that you're trying to slowly bring back to the light #all told via gagged sex or whatever #you know how it is #alex and his repression and his religious trauma calls to me you know #hinch/rossi fic

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shyphonics · 4 months

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Salad Days, Chapter 6: Just You and Me, Punk Rock Girl

(Rodrick Heffley x reader)

chapter directory here

Light sex warning for the beginning- 18+ plz

This chapter took me a while - I wrote the beginning the same night I wrote the first and second chapters. Then I realized I think I'm more comfortable writing horrific and sad moments than sweet moments and I kinda froze trying to fill the plot in around it lol.

Thank you so much to everyone reading this!!! The fact that it's actually getting notes makes me really, really happy :)

Also this chapter's run of songs contains a secret song in the spotify playlist oooooh

Oh my mama mama mo-my-mum

Have you kept an eye, an eye on your son?

I know you've got problems, you're not the only one

Since your sugar left, left you on the run

The gas cans felt good in his hands. Heavy. Smooth plastic snug in his fingers. His grip was tight. He reveled in the sound of the liquid sloshing around. The unmistakable smell.

Everybody fucking hated him. Every second of every day, he felt like his brain was on fire. A full body burn begging him to get out.

Get out now.

It's not like anyone was inside. The old library had been gutted weeks ago. They were supposed to demolish it next week. If he really thought about it… he was doing them a favor.

Yeah. So do it. Who gives a fuck.

He busted a window and stuck his leg inside, stepping into the decayed, old building. It smelled like dust. It smelled like school.

Stupid Frank and Susan.

Stupid Heather Hills.

Stupid Rodrick. Going nowhere, doing nothing, being nothing. Stupid.

The smell was strong, but he liked it.

He grinned, he nearly hyperventilated as he doused as much as he could.

Dizzy in his head, laughing maniacally

Breathing in fumes, killing brain cells.

What did it matter.

He shook the last drops out of the second can and tossed it across the room.

He struck a match. Let it burn out.

Struck another. Toss.

The fire erupted.

He stood there to watch it for a second, and ducked back out the window.

He knew he wouldn't have much time to admire his work, so he started running.

Deep into the woods.

He stopped and saw a ball of flames rise in the distance. The ground rumbled. His eyes went wide. He ran all the way home.

Nobody even knew he was gone. He'd left music playing in his room so it'd sound like he never left.

He watched the living room from the top of the stairs. A news report was on.

The library was directly on top of an open gas line. No fucking kidding.

Half the street went up in flames.

It's not like there was much on that street anyway, besides a strip mall with one or two active tenants. Closed for the night. No injuries reported.

His mom was crying. His dad was in shock. Greg and Manny were already asleep.

How could something like this happen? his mom whispered.

They're saying it was just some freak accident. They can't put it out. It's going to burn straight down to the foundation. Frank, incredulous.

Rodrick was silent.

Words to memorize

Words hypnotize

Words make my mouth exercise

Words all fail the magic prize

Nothing I can say when I'm in your thighs

“Hey,” a cool hand on his face, “where are you? Are you okay?”

He’s sent flying back to reality suddenly, looking up into your eyes. He looks frazzled. He’s not sure where that came from. All he knows is that he can never tell you.

“I'm fine,” he breathes, his hands moving to your hips, squeezing. Like he’s making sure you’re real.

How could he not be fine? The realization of what's going on hits him like a brick and he squeezes you harder.

He looks up at you like you're a goddess. Hips perfectly situated on his, eyes glinting in the low light of your bedroom. Every subtle movement you make sends a twitch through his body. Breath hitching through plush pink lips, mouth agape.

“I'm fucking amazing,” he sighs.

“Okay, good. Thought I lost you for a second.” you smile, placing a hand on his chest. His heart is racing.

You move your hips, just a little, testing the water.

He throws his head back and huffs, moving with you. He always figured that this- all of this- would be good, but he never dreamed it would be this good. It must be something special about you, he thinks.

You keep smiling down at him.

“If you wanna pick it up a little bit, go ahead,”

“P-pick it up?”

You raise yourself up off him a little, and then send yourself back down. He shudders, a grin spreading across his face. You keep it up, laughing softly, slowly bouncing up and down, skin slapping skin. Obscene, wet sounds. A groan comes from deep within his throat. He's thrusting up to meet you, knuckles white on your hips.

You haven’t had an impressive amount of sex in your life, but you’ve certainly had some experiences. Nothing has ever been like this. Rodrick is looking at you- not your body- he’s looking into your eyes. His eye contact has a sense of pleading, his lips are trembling. You lean down to kiss him. It’s tender. It’s intimate. You’d figured he’d be quick and chaotic. Experienced, maybe, but not learned.

Everything just feels so good.

His hands are gentle on your back, rubbing up around your shoulder blades. You feel his hips roll, and it sends waves of heat through your body. You keep a slow and passionate pace together, it feels like your bodies are perfectly in tune with each other.

“I can't believe that you… I…” Rodrick breathes, his brain turned to mush.

“I know,” a sharp breath leaves you as he hits a certain spot.

You speed up, both of you seeming to know what you need. Your bodies glisten with sweat, and you throw your head back, hands anchored to his shoulders. His hands move up to your chest, gently squeezing, then ghosting down your ribcage. His hands- so large, so strong. They’re slightly weathered, calloused from his drumsticks, and they’re so warm. His bony hips poke into your thighs with every thrust. You can just feel him. All of him.

Then you feel him twitch inside of you.

“I think I…” Rodrick gasps.

You look down at him, your eyes warm, reassuring him. You feel close too, still warmed up from earlier. He ruts up into you, flushed and panting. You feel yourself squeeze around him, your vision blurring slightly, as a rush of tingles runs through your whole body, and that seems to send him over the edge. He stops suddenly, breathing heavily, holding your hip down onto his, the other cupping your face. His eyes squeeze shut, then open wide, and roll back into his head.

You both sit and recover for a second, gasping for air, looking at each other. You roll off of him, and lay next to him, exhausted. He reaches out desperately to grab your thigh, as you turn to your side and throw your arm over his chest. You reach up and feel his cheek. His skin is hot, and slightly stubbled.

“I’m glad I didn’t wait.”

“You were gonna wait?” He pants.

“I don’t usually do that. That fast. But now I know.”

“Know what?” He turns his head to look at you, eyes tired.

“That I really, definitely like you.”

He laughs, pulling you closer to his chest and kissing the top of your head.

“I really, definitely like you too.”

You wriggle the comforter out from underneath you, and throw it over the both of you. It doesn’t take long for you to drift off, hands on each other, legs tangled.

For the first time in a long time, Rodrick dreams of absolutely nothing.

I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand

Could these sensations make me feel the pleasures of a normal man?

Lose sensations, spare the insults, save them for another day

I've got the spirit, lose the feeling, take the shock away

Rodrick wakes up before you, lifting his head in confusion at his unfamiliar surroundings. Until he feels your arm draped over him, and remembers where he is. It’s still early, and you’re dead asleep. He smiles, pulling you closer to him. He gazes over your face, lit up in the early morning light. You stir, coming to rest your head on his bare chest, and he’s so happy he could cry.

“Go back to sleep,” you mumble.

He does.

You wake once the sun is all the way up, blinking at the beams coming in through your window. Rodrick has an iron hold on you, and little snores are coming from him.

You can see your alarm clock from where you are, and it’s a little after 9 AM.

You turn slightly onto your back, and feel Rodrick moving.

“You up?” You look over at him. His eyelids are heavy, and there’s a lazy smile on his face.

“I’m up,” he sighs.

“Glad you didn’t sneak out on me.” You chuckle.

“Why would I do that?” His voice is sleepy, and a little whiny.

“I don’t know. Boys are weird.”

He gives you one last squeeze before he lets you up.

“You wanna shower?” You ask, running a hand through your hair.

The water is warm, and you can finally see Rodrick’s lanky body in all its glory. Steam fills the bathroom, and his face is slightly flushed.

“So, last night,” Rodrick stretches under the stream of water. You find yourself admiring the lightly defined muscles in his back, and fighting the urge to smack his ass. Maybe later.

“What about it?” You smirk, squeezing some body wash onto a washcloth.

“It was… real? Like, it happened, right?” He turns around, eyebrow raised, grinning smugly.

“As far as I'm aware,” you laugh, beginning to scrub yourself.

Rodrick pauses, water running down his shoulders.

“Wow,” he smiles, then his face falters just a little, “and… you enjoyed it?”

You give him a look, wringing out your washcloth. Instead of answering him, you just step forward and kiss him, warm water flowing over you. Your hands travel over his body, slick with water and soap. You pull away.

“Duh.” You smile.

You dry off. Rodrick's wet hair is wild, and he still has a little bit of eyeliner on.

He grabs his clothes from the night before, and you stop him.

“Are you sure about that?”

He freezes, holding his boxers with the tips of his fingers, like a deer in the headlights.

“I can… turn ‘em inside out,”

“Ew. I have clothes you can wear,” you laugh, “boxers make good pajamas, and most bands don't really make women's shirts.”

“Really?”

You toss him a pair of plain, black boxers, then get an idea. You head to your closet, where you keep your band merch.

“Y'know what? I'm returning the favor. You look like a medium.” You root through the box, and toss him a shirt with your band’s logo on the front. He holds it up to himself and smiles. You find your Löded Diper shirt, discarded along with your purse by the front door, and put it on. As you come back, he's pulling the boxers on, and you take your chance.

Smack.

“Hey!” he yelps, turning to face you, blushing just a little.

He sees your shirt, and a giddy grin appears on his face.

You find yourself at the coffee shop across the street, sitting on the little patio. The streets are packed with groups of people, enjoying the spring day. Rodrick mangles a croissant as you sip from a large, white mug. You appreciate the fact that the two of you can sit in a comfortable silence like this. You flip through the local alt paper, The Eye.

“Ooh, there's a Pyramid show tonight, my friend’s band is playing. That'd be a good place to show you. They have an entire wall of pinball machines.”

“Are you friends with all the bands?” Rodrick asks, pouring 4 packets of sugar into his coffee at once.

“Not all of them. But a lot of them. I try to network.” You shrug, reading through the event calendar.

“All the major bars are kind of in one strip, with a few outliers. Then you have your DIYs and house venues.”

Rodrick sips his coffee, makes a face, and adds 2 more sugar packets.

“Do you think we have a chance at any of them?”

“You guys are gonna have good word of mouth after last night,” you nod, “I bet in a week you'll have an offer from Pyramid or Dime Store.”

“Wow,” Rodrick breathes, assuming that must be really good.

“It looked like your guys got along with everyone, too, and Mike likes you. You've got a great start. You might even get to open for a real band once they start coming in the summer.” You smile at him, looking up from the paper.

“We are a real band,” he looks confused.

“Yeah, but, y'know. A touring band. The Casualties are coming back this summer… Circle Jerks usually run through with Descendents once a year, D.R.I. has been on a ‘retirement tour’ for the past few years,” you say, adding air quotes, “your name's on the opener list now. And most of the time, picking someone from that list falls to me… but don't expect any obvious nepotism. I try to match people up by sound.”

Rodrick grins, stars in his eyes.

“Do any bands around here, um,” he pauses, unsure how to word it, “make it?”

“Sometimes,” you lean back, thinking, “it's hard nowadays. There was this super popular indie band last year. They got picked up to be on a movie soundtrack, and they're huge now. That's what sells, these days. I'll let you work out the irony of indie selling.” You smirk.

“So, what? Heavier bands are just shit out of luck?” He takes another sip of his sugary coffee.

“That's how it goes,” you shrug, “you give up most of the hope of being famous to be a real musician. There's a reason that even huge punk bands are still just playing at bars instead of stadiums. It was never marketable. Punk’s not even a genre anymore. To me, it's having the attitude of ‘I’m pissed off, and I'm making it your problem.”

Rodrick laughs, “Okay, I do like that.”

You finish the last of your coffee, and roll up your paper, tucking it in your bag.

“You ready?” You stand up, stretching.

“For what?” he looks at you, draining his mug.

“I'm gonna show you the strip, rookie.”

You smile, holding your hand out, and he takes it.

“The Strike’s back that way, you’ve already seen it. There’s a pretty big gap of old shops and abandoned buildings from here to there.”

You lead him down the street, pointing out bars. Most of them will be closed until the late afternoon.

“There’s Pyramid, there’s Dime store. That one’s cool, the upstairs is a drag bar called Fluorescence, and the downstairs is a dive called Dim Bulb.”

Rodrick laughs, taking in the sights of the street.

“First time I ever came down here, I was with a bunch of friends who were 21, and I was still 19. Dim Bulb is all ages if you put the X’s on your hands, but Fluorescence is strictly 21+. My friends went upstairs. Downstairs was dead that night. They told me to wait in the bar and not go off walking by myself, but…”

“You went off walking by yourself?” Rodrick smirks at you.

“How’d you know?” You chuckle, “Yeah, and I had just gotten these leather pants, and I felt so fucking cool. But I was so stupid. And this gross, old guy stopped me and asked if I was ‘working’, and I said ‘no, fuck off, get away from me’,” you say, your tone nonchalant.

Rodrick raises his eyebrows, his mouth falling open.

“So, he starts chasing me down the street, yelling, ‘I’ll kill you’, and I was yelling back all this bullshit, just totally bluffing,”

You stop in front of a bodega along the street.

“And the guy who owns this place came out and scared the guy off. He’s good people.”

You wave at the man inside, who perks up and waves back.

“That place has everything. 9-volt batteries, first aid stuff, you name it. If you find yourself in a jam, head over there.”

Rodrick looks through the windows as you walk by.

“This whole street is, like… a tiny little town all on its own. Also, I'm glad you didn't get murdered.”

“Yeah,” you sigh out, looking over the strip, feeling proud, “it really is. I love it here. I’m glad I could show you around. And thanks.” You laugh, squeezing his hand.

You keep walking, down towards the point where the bars end and the shops begin. Rodrick walks slowly, swinging his hand with yours. He keeps his head on a swivel, trying to take in all there is to see. Old neon signs, graffiti-covered brick walls, and show fliers absolutely everywhere.

“I think you’re gonna like this place,” you turn to look back at Rodrick, who looks absolutely awestruck.

The bell on the record store door rings, and you're greeted by the familiar woman behind the counter, Jennifer. She’s tall and muscular, with a smoker’s voice, and impeccably curled baby bangs.

Rodrick stops as the door closes behind him. It’s a cozy, dark little room. There are houseplants everywhere, among long boxes of records on high tables. The walls are exposed brick, and light is coming in through two long, skinny windows. An orange cat rests on one of the tables, in a sunbeam. The walls are completely covered in posters, framed records, and old fliers.

“It's you! I have pulls for you,” she looks over thick-rimmed glasses at you, reaching under the counter, then sees your shirt, “what in the hell is that?”

You look down at the bold, white letters on your shirt and laugh.

“Best new band in this town. You really haven't heard of them?” You say, teasingly.

“Diaper…?” she squints, looking at you, bewildered.

“I'm just messing with you, they played their first show last night. This is the drummer, Rodrick,” you gesture to Rodrick. He approaches the counter and sticks out his hand, smiling politely.

Jennifer looks back to your shirt, then at Rodrick.

“Kid, I'll level with you. There are worse names out there.” She barks out a laugh, looking down at her hands, both being used to hold a stack of records.

Rodrick notices, and retracts his hand, laughing nervously.

You kill about an hour in the shop, looking at all the things Jennifer has hidden for you over the week. It was once a very kind thing she did when you were flat broke and new in town, but she kept it up as a tradition, because she said you got it.

Rodrick exhausts each box, looking in amazement at all the different records. 'Dad Rock,' 'Punk Rock,' 'Rockabilly,' 'Psychobilly,' 'Synth Shit for Weirdos.'

The ‘misc.’ box contains a Jane Fonda home workout, a square dancing instructional record, and a full album of canine heartbeats, meant for veterinary students. Rodrick pulls it out and looks at it, reading the cover in confusion.

“See something cool?” You perk up and walk over to him, reading the record.

“Canine Heart Sounds? Is that a band?” You squint. He stays quiet, holding in a laugh.

“‘4-10 acquired murmurs', what the fuck?”

You see the text for ‘Berkeley Medical Veterinary Group’ and let out a cackle, lightly punching Rodrick on the shoulder. He breaks too, putting the record back in the box.

“You totally thought I was all cool and underground for a second.” Rodrick laughs.

You leave the record shop, and you decide to take him to see everything. You try on leather jackets way beyond your means at the biker shop, spiked collars at the goth shop, and hats at the western shop. You point and laugh at each other the whole way, except that some of that leather had looked pretty good on Rodrick… and he might’ve thought the same about you.

By late afternoon, you’re both a little worn out, and you wind up back near where you started, at a tall, yellow building. It’s an ancient pizza joint.

Inside is a massive, wooden staircase, and yellow walls covered in sharpie graffiti. Dumb little messages, from mystery people. From who knows how long ago. It feels like a million little voices yelling at him all at once.

Penelope was here!

Aaron is a cheating douchebag!

George Dubya, suck my dick!

And band names. So many band names.

“Whoa,” Rodrick looks up. It’s even on the ceiling.

You lead him to a large window, with a greyed, wooden frame.

You fish in your purse and find a sharpie, handing it to him.

“When we first started the band, we came here to make it official. I wrote our name, right here, under the window.” You look down, away from him, feeling a little sappy.

Rodrick looks at the smooth, black writing.

The Shrieks

10.15.03

He smiles.

“And, if you’ll notice, there’s an empty space right there next to it…” you say, trying to sound nonchalant.

Rodrick smiles, then crouches down, uncapping the sharpie.

He carefully draws his logo, adding the little horns and tail, with a small safety pin and the date underneath.

He stands up, handing the marker back to you. You look down at your two logos together, then up at your coordinated shirts.

“Yeah. They look great together,” you smile up at him, “now it’s official. Welcome to the scene.”

Rodrick feels a swell in his chest, looking down at your genuine smile. He’s been just a little guarded all day, but… now he gets it. You actually want him around. It’s not a joke. It’s not a trick. You’d wanted his band to be immortalized next to yours on this greasy, strangely beautiful wall.

He catches you off guard, pulling you into a tight hug. You blink once or twice, then wrap your arms around him, smiling against his chest.

“Hey!”

You pull away from each other, and turn to where the voice came from. It’s Ward, in an apron, by the counter.

“I got a job!” He’s grinning.

The two of you walk up to the counter and catch up, refusing to give him any details, no matter how much he wiggles his eyebrows.

So we jumped up on the table, and shouted “anarchy!”

And someone played a Beach Boys song on the jukebox

It was “California Dreamin’”

So we started screamin’

“On such a winter’s day!”

The two of you sit at your little table, the sun beginning to set outside. You’re laughing at some high school story he’d been telling you- something about how he’d been in love with some girl and ruined her sweet 16.

He pauses, taking a sip out of his glass bottle, beaming.

“God, and she was really into N’Sync, so we spent all this time learning ‘Tearin’ up my Heart’,”

You cackle, slamming your hands on the table, “Oh, god, no!”

“But last minute, I told Ben I wanted to sing, and he could play drums-”

“Can he play drums?”

“Nope!” Rodrick laughs, “And I sang in this high pitched voice- she wanted us in tuxes, but, um, I kinda wasn’t listening when my brother told me that? Also didn’t have the money. But I figured all black was good enough.”

“Did you learn any boy band moves?” You wipe away a stray tear that had escaped your eye.

“I wish. That would’ve been awesome, but, no. We did set off a bunch of pyro, and I jumped off the stage.”

“Pyro?!”

“Ben’s brother is in demolition,” Rodrick laughs, but feels a little pang of anxiety with the words that leave his lips.

You don’t notice his face change, still laughing. Rodrick grins at you, wanting to make the big reveal good.

“This family was loaded, okay? Country club rich. So, the pyro goes off, and it’s chaos. I was, like, dancing around her? And I backed up right into a giant ice sculpture of her head.”

You look at him, in shock, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, and then she tried to kill me with a mic stand, but ended up knocking over a chocolate fountain, and everyone got absolutely covered in chocolate… and then she hated me forever. Still hates me. That’s the girl from last night, by the way- my ‘girlfriend’?”

“No fucking way,” your eyes go wide. “That’s why you were staring each other down.”

Rodrick gives a satisfied nod, chuckling slightly.

“Well, I guess you learned your lesson: don’t trust the rich. First rule of punk.” You tease.

“Yeah, and if she’d actually liked it, I… I would probably be miserable,” He says, a look of realization on his face. You raise your eyebrows.

“I’d probably be at some fancy event right now wearing, like, a polo or something. Oh, god. I’d probably be working for her dad.” He looks down, eyes wide.

You boo him, giving him a thumbs down.

“I wouldn’t have met you,” He stares at you in surprise.

You smile, leaning towards him, your elbow on the table.

“I’m… so fucking glad all that bullshit back home happened,” He shakes his head, smiling, “Because now I’m here.”

“In a greasy, old pizzeria?” You smirk.

“In a greasy, old pizzeria, with you,”

You laugh, at a loss for words. Something about Rodrick seems to have bloomed today, and you like it. It’s like he finally evened out. You lean closer to him.

“I’m glad I’m here with you too,” You smile.

Your lips almost touch, but the buzzing of your cell phone interrupts you. You groan. It's Mike.

“Hey, what's up?”

“They got us! They fucking got us!”

Rodrick hears Mike screaming through the phone, and feels his heart drop.

“What? Who got us? What are you talking about?” Your heart skips a beat.

“They smashed the window! And wrote all over the walls! It's like Sharon Tate all over again!”

Your jaw drops. He's serious.

“Mike, who?”

You hear the sound of glass crunching down the line, along with Mike's enraged muttering.

“How many people did we kick out last night?” He spits.

You take a second to think.

“A lot. It got crazy.”

“Did we have to put anybody on the list?”

You make eye contact with Rodrick. His eyebrows knit together in worry.

“Yeah, there were a few.”

The List is only to be used in extreme circumstances. Any bar patrons found guilty of irredeemable asshole behavior have their IDs taken, photocopied, and returned as their asses are kicked out the front door. You're not sure how legal it is, but it's very effective.

The guy who had punched Rodrick last night, along with all of his friends, had absolutely made The List.

“I know who it was,” your voice shakes, “I’ll be right over.”

You hang up, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Did he say someone smashed the window?” Rodrick breathes in disbelief.

“Yeah,” you put your head in your hands, “do you know the name of that guy who punched you?”

“Ugh. Bryan Kent.” Rodrick frowns.

“Do you think he'd do something like that?”

“Yeah.” He says, without hesitation.

“Fuck!” You sigh, “At least we have a name.”

Rodrick looks at you, guilty, like he might cry. You feel a pang of sadness.

“No, no, sorry. Shit. Don’t feel bad, it’s not your fault, I’m just pissed off.” You ramble.

The bar is like your baby. Though you’ve only worked there a year, it means a lot to you. Mike had drunkenly promised to leave it to you several times, and you feel a strong protective urge over it.

“I gotta go,” you grimace, “Should I take you home?”

He nods, looking dejected.

There are two cop cars parked outside Rodrick’s apartment building, and you notice him gripping the door handle tightly.

“Wonder what that’s about?” You murmur.

“Could you take me around the back?” Rodrick’s voice shakes.

You look at him, raising an eyebrow, but circle around back anyway.

He opens your car door and gets out.

“Hey,” you stop him, “that was really fun. I hate that it ended this way, but… we’ll see each other again, okay? I don’t want this to be a one time thing. I… I really like you.”

“Me either.” He nods. His voice is cold, and his eyes are void of all emotion.

You know something is wrong, but you have bigger problems on your hands right now.

“Okay,” you give him a weak smile.

He grimaces, and shuts the door. You watch him walk through a grimy back entrance, and pull off.

“Rodrick, dude,” Ben looks at him with bug eyes when he walks through the door, “the fucking cops were here!”

Rodrick freezes.

“Did they leave?”

“Yeah, but they were looking for you, man.” His voice is hushed and panicked.

Rodrick checks the window, and the cop cars are gone.

“What did they say?”

“Something about your name being associated with a crime scene?”

Rodrick turns to look at him, “What?”