𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

Reconnection

The next morning, Seattle wore its usual gray coat of drizzle and clouds. Dave pulled up to Iris's apartment in Barrett's old station wagon, windshield wipers clicking in slow rhythm as he watched the front door. His leg bounced nervously. He wasn't sure why he felt so on edge. Maybe it was the time that had passed, maybe it was the things left unsaid— but as soon as Iris stepped out, her familiar gait and gentle smile calmed the static in his chest.

She slid into the car beside him, buckling her seatbelt with a warm, slightly curious look.
"You found it."

Dave smiled, a little sheepishly. "Had to do some detective work, but yeah. Looks a lot better than the last place."

"It's quieter," she said, settling in. "It's mine."

They drove to a diner nestled between Capitol Hill and Pike, the kind with vinyl booths, fogged-up windows, and jukeboxes that worked only when they felt like it. They took a booth by the window, steam rising from their mugs of coffee as the sounds of rain and silverware filled the background.

"So," Iris said after a moment, cradling her coffee, "tell me about Ireland."

Dave nodded, staring out the window for a second before speaking. "It was quiet. Like, really quiet. I think that's what I wanted—just to disappear into some place where nobody expected anything from me." He paused, then added, "But it didn't work. I kept thinking I could outrun what happened, but it just followed me around. Every thought, every day, every place I went."

Iris studied him carefully, her expression open and soft. "I can imagine."

"I couldn't sleep most nights," he admitted. "I'd go days without talking to anyone. I thought being far away would fix something inside me, but all it really did was put space between me and the people who might've helped."

Iris nodded quietly, and Dave took a breath, turning his eyes to her for the first time in several moments.

"About that," he said, voice quieter. "You know... I've been meaning to tell you this. Why I kind of disappeared."

She looked up from her mug, patient.

Dave ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. "It wasn't because I didn't want to talk to you. I did. But I felt like... if I stayed in touch with you, or with anyone who cared, I'd have to admit how bad things really were. I wasn't just mourning Kurt. I was terrified I'd never be able to play music again, or feel anything but numb. And I didn't want you to see me like that."

A silence passed between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was contemplative—something real settling in the space they shared.

"I kept telling myself I'd reach out once I got better," Dave continued, "but I never got better. I just got quiet."

Iris's voice was gentle when she responded. "Dave... you didn't owe me perfect. I just wanted you to be okay. I never needed you to pretend."

He looked up at her again, relief flickering behind his eyes. "I know. I just—I couldn't face any of it. Not even you."

"I get it," she said, her hand brushing the side of her coffee cup. "But I'm really glad you're here now."

He smiled—small but genuine. "Me too."

They let the moment breathe, both of them warmed by the unspoken recognition that this wasn't just picking up where they left off—it was something new, maybe more honest than it ever had been.

After a minute, the conversation moved again. Iris leaned forward, her eyes curious. "So... what now? With music, I mean."

Dave let out a soft laugh. "Not sure yet. But I've been feeling this itch again. Like... maybe I want to start writing. Recording. Something."

Her eyes lit up. "Do you have anything from before?"

"Some stuff," he said. "Back when Nirvana would wrap up recording sessions, I'd stay behind. Barrett always let me use whatever tape was left. I'd lay down quick demos, mess around. Guitar, drums, weird vocal ideas. Nothing fancy."

"That's amazing," she said, fully leaning in now. "Could I help you go through it? Like... see if there's anything you want to build on?"

He blinked, a little surprised by her excitement. "You'd want to help?"

She gave a small laugh. "Of course I would. You kidding? That stuff is the purest kind of music—just you, alone, creating without anyone watching. I want to hear what you were like when no one else was in the room."

He smiled, that same flutter in his chest returning—familiar now, every time she said something like that. "Yeah. Alright. Let's dig through the shoebox."

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A/N

I low-key slightly love this chapter

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