𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

Afterparty

The bar was dim, all scratched wood and flickering neon, the kind of place that smelled like spilled beer and sounded like someone's busted jukebox gave up in 1987. It was perfect.

Dave and Iris were already posted up at the bar, elbows resting on the counter, half-finished drinks sweating in front of them. They were both a little flushed, laughing about something neither of them would remember in the morning—maybe it was the kid with the mohawk who called Dave a rock god, or maybe it was how William nearly tripped over his own drum throne packing up.

Nate and William stepped through the door, eyes adjusting to the dim light, and immediately spotted the two of them giggling like a couple of conspirators.

Nate leaned in toward William, voice low. "They're already gone."

William smirked. "Yeah, and we're gonna be the responsible adults now, I guess."

They made their way to the bar, sliding into the empty stools beside them. Dave looked over, face flushed, hair sticking in wild directions, and pointed at them with mock urgency.

"These guys!" he said. "My rhythm section. You guys showed up. What a band."

Iris burst out laughing, bumping her shoulder into Dave's. "You're such a mess."

Dave turned to her, overly dramatic. "A beautiful mess. But only because I'm sitting next to you."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile didn't leave her face. "Shut up."

William raised a brow, flagging down the bartender. "We'll take two waters, and keep 'em coming. They need to function again someday."

Nate leaned over the bar. "Yeah, someone's gotta be able to drive. Or at least speak English."

"I'm speaking the language of love," Dave protested, gesturing with his drink. "Watch this: 'Iris, you're stupidly pretty, and I have no idea how you kept hitting those chords so clean when I was staring at you the whole time.'" he slurred.

The silence after that was short, but loud. Nate blinked. William snorted into his water.

Iris laughed, covering her face with one hand. "Oh my God, Dave. What is wrong with you?"

Dave shrugged, shameless. "What? I'm being honest."

"You're not too bad yourself, Grohl." she said, still smiling.

Nate passed them the water glasses. "Hydrate, ladies."

*

They made it back to Dave's place, somehow. The drive was quiet, a mellow contrast to the buzz still humming in their chests. Dave's house was a mess—takeout boxes on the counter, cords snaking across the floor, empty cans shoved into corners. The band had been crashing here for two days straight, rehearsing, eating, living; all in preparation for that show. No one had even thought about cleaning.

But Dave and Iris didn't care.

Lately, they hadn't been able to separate from each other, not for long, anyway. Why would they, they figured, if they didn't have to?

They collapsed onto Dave's bed, still clothed, still laughing, limbs overlapping with the easy comfort of people who'd already crossed every awkward threshold. They'd done this once or twice before, just lying there, unwinding, talking into the early hours like the silence between them didn't exist.

"So..." Dave started, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "That show was nuts."

"Yeah," Iris said, lying on her side, looking over at him. "Best one yet."