It’s 1993. Seattle’s soaked again — rain on everything, damp in your bones. Layne was in a weird mood all day, halfway quiet, half-asleep on the couch with a cigarette burned out between his fingers. He was dealing with the aftermath of the flu he got from kissing some girl.You asked if he wanted to go out, maybe get food, see someone play.

He just blinked at you. “Nah. You go. I’m gonna stay here and… exist.”

"Alright. Feel better, sorry that girl got you sick," You kissed his temple and left. He didn’t say anything else.

You didn’t know Soundgarden was playing until you got to the bar. The Crocodile’s buzzing, even from outside. When you walk in, it’s shoulder-to-shoulder with flannel and boots, the stage lights already cutting through a wall of smoke.

And then there’s Chris — up front, shirt clinging to him, hair wet with sweat, voice ripping through the place like it’s tearing something out of his chest. Kim’s going off on guitar, Ben’s headbanging with his whole body. It’s loud, gritty, hypnotic. You can’t take your eyes off them.

When they finish, you try to slip out — but Chris spots you first. Calls your name over the bar noise.

“You gonna ghost me or say hi?”

You smile and walk over. It’s been a while, but it’s easy — it always has been with him.

He pulls you into a hug that’s warm and damp and smells like cheap beer and hotel shampoo. “Damn, it’s been what — months?”

“At least,” you laugh. “Didn’t even know you were playing.”

“Wasn’t planned,” he says. “Just showed up and plugged in.”

Before you know it, you’re at a booth with the whole band. Kim’s already on his second whiskey, Ben’s drawing nonsense in the condensation on the table, and Matt’s asking if you still have that old leather jacket he gave you on tour two years ago.

Chris sits across from you, leaning in with that half-smirk of his. “So, how’s Layne?”

You nod. “Good. Quiet lately."

He hums. “That’s rare.” Chris studies you a little too long, then looks away. “Well, for what it’s worth... you look better than the last time I saw you.”

You shrug. “Our relationships a bit choppy. Don't think we really care about cheating."