Luna

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The fan is the only sound in the room, it's oscillating blades slowly pass over each of them at least twice before anyone even blinks.

"So...," Mia finally murmurs, "Can we talk about it now?"

"No," Selene says flatly and spins around to her gig bag. It's all she wants to say about the matter, the only acknowledgment of what just happened. She wants to pretend the last thirty seconds were a fever dream.

A fever nightmare, if that was a thing.

"Holy fuck," Kat whispers and immediately slaps her hand over her mouth, "Did that seriously just happen?"

"Kat, please don't," she's not above begging at this point, though she knows it won't do any good.

The only shirt she can find in her bag is one of her husband's merch tees, so she yanks it on as she adds, "I'm going to go find a bar somewhere far, far away from here so you three can squeal and squawk all you want about..."

"About what just happened," Kat finishes for her, now perfectly red in the face from trying to contain herself.

"Right."

"... right."

She's halfway down the hallway before she hears the screaming laughter from her friends and she rolls her eyes. She wishes she would've seen which direction he'd bolted in so she could go the opposite, so she relies on her vague memory of festival culture.

The big, rich rock bands never mingle with the lower billed artists, she reminds herself. They have their own wing, sometimes their own floor of the venue, their own tents, bars, security, transport... She'll be perfectly fine if she just sticks to the shitty well bar near the press rooms.

The first bar she comes across is far too busy. Five or six sound guys mill about with red cups in their paws watching a monitor of whatever is happening on stage. So she retreats and quickly finds another little spot, this one tucked away in a black tent closer to the stage.

And completely, perfectly deserted.

The 'bar' is just a pony keg and several bottles of mid-shelf booze floating around in rapidly melting ice, but to Selene, it's heaven.

It's dark that close to the stage, so someone crudely stuck a strip of LED lights around the ceiling with red gaff tape, giving a soothing glow to the tiny retreat. Even the tequila bottle is still factory-sealed.

With her heavily poured drink in her hand, she settles into one of the plastic folding chairs tossed along the wall and listens to the set scheduled after her's.

It's a young band, four kids in their early twenties with that special mix of talent and arrogance, blaring into their first song with zero hesitation. It's a nice reminder that this type of music is still around for those who seek it out. Something she hadn't done in far too long, she thinks bitterly.

She'd been to a few Melvins shows recently, one or two of Gina's husband's gigs, but nothing like before. The perennial excuse is that once she merges east onto the 520 bridge crossing Lake Washington, she's not heading back into the city for anything. She pays a lot of money to live in Medina, goddamit, and she's going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

"Girl!? What the fuck!"

She gasps sharply at the intrusion and nearly sends her precious drink flying over her shoulder, but instantly calms at the familiarity of the voice. It's got an edge to it, ripe with anticipation and amusement, and she leaps up from her chair.

"Pat!"

"I love this!" he yells and pushes strong, calloused fingers into her ashy grey hair once she's close enough, "Silver suits you!"