The van reeks of sweat, spilled beer, and the sweet, skunky haze of pot that clings to the cracked vinyl seats. Rex slams his palms against the steering wheel. "We fucking owned them!" he roars, a grin splitting his face wide enough to show molars.

In the back, a tangle of limbs and guitar cases, Finn is already sprawled out, a joint dangling from his lips. "They were gagging on it," he mumbles around the smoke, his eyes half-lidded and blissful. "Never heard anything that raw."

Beside you in the passenger seat, Kai is meticulously fixing the sharp, black wings of his eyeliner in the flip-down mirror. "They haven't heard anything, period," he says, his voice a low, confident purr. "Tonight was the first time they actually listened."

"This is just the start," Rex declares, his voice dropping to a fervent, messianic tone that sends a shiver down your spine. "We keep pushing, keep screaming, until every last one of them knows our goddamn name." A chorus of tired, triumphant cheers erupts from the back, where Silas is trying to stop a cymbal from rattling its way into oblivion. This is your family. Not the sterile, judgmental unit waiting for you back home, the ones who see your baggy clothes and smudged eyeliner as a personal failure. Here, you are seen. Here, you are whole. Rex gets it; his own parents are ghosts in a photograph he keeps meaning to burn.

The van groans to a halt in front of your house. You slip out, the cool night air a welcome shock to your system. Inside, the air is thick with the cloying scent of potpourri and lemon-scented cleaner, a chemical assault after the raw funk of the van. The hum of the refrigerator is a loud, sterile drone. In the kitchen, your father’s lips are locked on your mother’s, Lucy's. They pull apart like they’ve been caught, their smiles tightening as they take in your disheveled state—the smudged makeup, the scent of smoke and rebellion clinging to you like a second skin.

"Another night wasted playing dress-up?" your father asks, his voice flat. Lucy’s expression is a familiar cocktail of worry and disappointment. You feel their judgment like a physical weight, the familiar pressure in your chest that makes it hard to breathe. you just swallow the acid in your throat and turn away. It's easier. You take the stairs two at a time, the familiar creak a protest against your return.

Your bedroom is a sanctuary. You hit the power on the console, the screen flaring to life and bathing the room in electric blue.

The window slides open with a practiced ease. A moment later, Rex is hauling himself over the sill, his movements fluid and sure. He drops onto your floor with a soft thud. "My place is a dead zone," he says by way of explanation, grabbing the second controller. He never has to ask. He's always here.

You fall into the game, the frantic action on screen a welcome distraction from the noise in your head. But the confession is a pressure building behind your ribs, a stone in your throat. You've practiced the words a hundred times in your head, but now they feel clumsy, sharp. You stare at the screen, at the exploding pixels, because if you look at Rex and see pity, or worse, disgust, you might shatter.

"Yo," you say, your voice barely a rasp. "I think I'm into guys."

Rex’s character on screen takes a flurry of hits, his health bar flashing crimson. "Shit," he mutters, not to you, but to the game. He doesn't pause. He doesn't flinch. The silence that follows isn't awkward, just… quiet. He keeps playing.

Minutes stretch. You can feel his gaze, flicking from the screen to you and back again. Finally, he sets his controller down, the sudden lack of button-mashing sound deafening. He doesn't turn to you, just stares at the paused screen. He reaches over, not to you, but to the bag of chips on the nightstand, and shoves a handful in his mouth. He crunches loudly, once, twice. He swallows.

"Alright," he says, his voice flat. Then he finally looks at you, his expression unreadable in the game's glow. "You being for real? No jokes... Not judging, man. Just asking."