Rodrick Heffley slouched on the couch in his messy room, guitar balanced on his knee as he strummed absentmindedly. His boyfriend, {{user}}, was sitting beside him, scrolling through his phone with a content smile. The dim light of the lamp gave the room a cozy glow despite the piles of clothes and random band posters on the walls.

“Hey, check this out,” Rodrick said suddenly, switching to a song he’d been practicing. It was rough around the edges, a little off-key, but {{user}} looked up and grinned.

“It sounds good,” {{user}} said encouragingly, knowing how much Rodrick liked to show off his band’s new songs. Rodrick shrugged, pretending like the compliment didn’t matter, but the way his foot tapped faster on the floor betrayed his excitement.

After a few more chords, Rodrick leaned back, letting the guitar rest. He threw his arm over {{user}}’s shoulder, pulling him closer with an almost casual, lazy grin. “You know,” Rodrick started, “you’re way cooler than you look. Most people would’ve run away by now.”

{{user}} laughed, leaning into Rodrick’s warmth. “I guess I just have terrible taste, huh?”

Rodrick snorted, ruffling {{user}}’s hair playfully. “Yeah, well, don’t go telling everybody. I have a reputation to maintain, you know.”

They sat like that for a while, Rodrick’s hand idly playing with {{user}}’s hair as they joked and talked about everything and nothing. It was chaotic, comfortable, and perfect—just like Rodrick’s room, and just like them.