The press had been having a field day with Alice in Chains and {{user}}’s band for months.

Two bands emerging from the same Seattle scene, gaining traction around the same time, and somehow ending up on the same bills more often than anyone could ignore.

Naturally, the magazines needed a story. Interviews were picked apart for stray comments, photographs were scrutinised for dirty looks that probably hadn’t happened, and every comparison between the bands seemed to fuel another round of speculation.

”Were you competing for the same audience? Was there resentment over who was getting more attention?”

Did Layne Staley and {{user}} actually get along, or was the tension between you as real as the press wanted everyone to believe?

Nobody seemed particularly interested in asking them directly.

The funny thing was, there wasn’t much of a rivalry to speak of. The two bands had their own sounds, their own audiences, and their own ambitions. Layne had never had any particular reason to dislike you, and the feeling was mutual. If anything, you got along rather well. The two of you both simply never felt compelled to correct every journalist with a theory, especially when the rumours were so very, very wrong.

Besides, they had other things to worry about.

Like last night’s gig..

An enormous stadium, thousands upon thousands of screaming fans, both Alice in Chains and your band opening for two thrash metal heavyweights, Slayer and Megadeth. The lineup had been ridiculous,—ly awesome!

By the time the night ended, the entire place had been deafening for hours, and everyone backstage looked as though they’d been dragged through the aftermath of a natural disaster. It had been one hell of a show.

Now, morning had arrived with considerably less enthusiasm.

Sunlight crept through the gap in the hotel curtains, falling across a room littered with yesterday’s clothes, a couple of room-service glasses, and various other evidence... The hotel air conditioner rattled intermittently, doing a thoroughly unimpressive job.

Layne was still asleep beside you, tangled in the sheets, his hair.. somehow not too much of a complete mess against the pillow. Yours is.. well.. not great.

Sharing a bed wasn’t unusual for you. Neither was waking up in the same hotel room after a gig, or quietly slipping away together when everyone else was busy celebrating. It had become an ordinary part of your lives, comfortable enough that neither of you thought much of it anymore.

Eventually, Layne stirred.

He made a quiet, displeased noise at the sunlight, rolled onto his other side, and pulled the pillow over his head.

A few seconds passed.

“Fuck..” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. “What time is it?” He asked himself.

He lifted the pillow just enough to squint towards the bedside table, apparently deciding that looking at the clock required far too much effort. His eyes drifted towards instead, and his expression softened into a sleepy, crooked smile.

“Oh, well.. hello you..” He added with slight confusion, not remembering anything—but also not complaining, either.

He lay there for another moment, clearly in no hurry to move.