Work Text:
Cleo is too old for this.
That's what she tells herself, anyway, when she's standing in the middle of a room with all of her friends acting like idiots. She enjoys the company of the hermits, a group of people who would always turn up to the same shows and know the same people, until eventually they decided to just make a big group chat with all of them in it to keep each other updated on shows in the area. Many of the hermits are local artists, actually; that's why they're all here in the first place. Doc, a hermit and an anarcho-punk artist, is the third person playing tonight, playing after Ariana, who he invited last-minute to give a small performance, and the Mean Gills, a surf punk band with a guitarist Ari knew in college.
Cleo never really fits in here. They're taller and wider than most of their friends, so the low ceiling of the basement makes them feel like a giant. They've never been much of a beer person, and that's all anyone brings to share, so they end up either staying sober or having to bring their own. And, whereas most of the other people in this room – about thirty of them, if Cleo had to guess, because all of the hermits are here, and then there are a couple people Cleo doesn't recognize – are in their thirties, Cleo turned forty last month. Every second she spends in this basement is another second in which she is painfully aware of how much she does not fit in here.
They’ve never been able to decline an invitation, though. Especially not one delivered by Joe. Sending Joe is how everyone ensures Cleo’s attendance every time, and it always works.
So that's how they ended up here. Standing in a room full of people she mostly recognizes, watching two men Cleo’s sure she'd recognize in different lighting do their sound check.
“You enjoying the show so far?” a voice calls from beside her, as a hand falls on her shoulder. Standing next to her is Pearl, with a beer can in her other hand and her lipstick slightly smudged.
“Yeah,” Cleo says back, “Ari’s always the best.”
“She is, yeah!” Pearl agrees, “I love that, like, bubblegrunge-y sound she has. I can't wait for her next album. Although, she looked a little down when she went upstairs.”
“Oh, did she?” Cleo looks to the stairs, and then back at Pearl. “I'll go check on her.”
“Sounds good,” Pearl smiles, patting Cleo on the back, “but don't take too long, mate! We love having you around!”
Cleo smiles back and doesn't say anything, shoving through the small crowd until they're at the base of the narrow stairs. Their hand glides up the railing, chipping paint gently scraping against their palm as they ascend the stairway. The pink basement lights fade into warm kitchen lights, juxtaposed by more chipping paint and a couple dozen flyers for other shows taped to the wall. They know one of the hermits owns this house, but they can't remember who; if they were pressed, they might put money on Skizz or Etho, but they're not sure. Maybe it's both, they think, as they pick up a beer can to see how much liquid is left. The house is big enough.
As they're reading the label of the mostly-empty can, Cleo hears a single sob from the bathroom just down the hallway from the kitchen. For a moment, they don't even realize it's Ari; they stare at the bathroom door for a moment with the beer can still in their hand. But once her brain catches up with her, she acts on emotion alone, allowing the sick feeling in her stomach after hearing the sob to propel her forward. Cleo sets the can down more forcefully than she intends to and marches over to the bathroom door. They only hesitate for a moment before they tap their knuckles against the white-painted wooden door.
“I'm in here,” Ari calls from inside the bathroom, her voice shaking.
“I know,” Cleo replies, “Can I come in?”
There's a moment where all Cleo can hear is the fan in the bathroom and the chatter from downstairs, before Ari speaks again. “Okay,” he says, a little quieter than before.
Cleo barely waits a second before they're opening the door, struggling with the shitty doorknob and then pushing the door open with their shoulder. They close it behind them, partially to give Ari more privacy. They expect to see Ari standing at the bathroom mirror. Instead, she's sitting on the floor, on her knees, leaning against the closed toilet lid with her makeup running and her head in her folded arms. His tight pink dress shimmers in the cold light overhead as he adjusts himself when Cleo enters, seemingly unable to decide on whether or not he wants to hide himself or face Cleo.
Cleo crouches down in front of Ari. “Ari, darling,” they murmur, setting a hand on Ari’s knee, “What's going on?”
Ari looks up, picking her forehead off of her folded arms. Wet mascara runs down his cheeks, his eyes puffy and red. “I don't know,” she says, finally, as her voice breaks. “It's just– I-I don't know, it's– I can't–”
“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” Cleo whispers, leaning forward and cupping Ari’s cheek, “Is this about your high school boyfriend again?”
Ari laughs through her sobs. “Why do you always know everything?”
“I don't know everything, I'm just not stupid,” Cleo snorts, brushing Ari’s hair behind her ear. “I’d kick him out again. I've been telling you since the beginning: never trust a brunette boy who plays acoustic guitar. Nothing but trouble.”
Ari laughs again, tears still running down her cheeks, and Cleo can't help but smile, too. Right as they begin to consider standing up, Ari jumps forward to wrap his arms around Cleo’s large frame. Sobs wrack through her body as she clings to Cleo, and Cleo hesitates. She's not much of a hugger, but seeing Ari this upset makes her sick to her stomach, and then so mad that she feels she'll go blind with it.
How could someone do this to Ari? How does someone have the opportunity to be with someone as fun and energetic and absolutely radiant as Ari, and choose to ruin it? Cleo would give anything to claw this guy’s eyes out, honestly, because what kind of man does this to someone so–
“Thank you,” Ari mumbles, “I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't…”
“It's nothing, Ari,” Cleo says, rubbing a hand up and down Ari’s back.
“Grian,” she says, her quiet voice bouncing off of the tiled walls.
“Sorry?”
“My name,” Grian continues, “It's Grian.”
“I see,” Cleo chuckles, “Why do you tell people your name is Ariana?”
“It started out as a stage name,” she explains, “Ariana Griande. But then I–”
Cleo can't help but laugh, this time. “That's brilliant,” she chuckles, “I love it. Why don't you tell people that? That's great.”
Grian smiles back at them. “I like when people don't know things about me.”
“You know what? That's fair,” Cleo grins, “Thank you for telling me. Grian is a lovely name.”
Grian smiles, pulling away from their hug. Once they're free, Cleo stands up and extends a hand to Grian, helping her to her feet. Neither of them speak for a moment, as Grian attempts to collect himself, picking his pink stilettos off of the floor and holding them by the heels. When she catches a glimpse of herself, she rubs her cheek with the heel of her palm.
“Ugh, I'm a mess,” he complains, “Honestly, I don't wanna go back down there. It smells bad down there and I already performed, and that's why we're all here anyway, so I might just leave. Thanks for saving me.”
“I'm walking you home,” Cleo decides before she has time to second-guess herself, “It’s dark out. I'm not letting you go on your own.”
Grian freezes for a moment, but then, when she nods, Cleo lets out the smallest sigh of relief they can manage. “It’s not like I have much to lose,” Grian chuckles, a little bitterly, “I already ruined my makeup.”
“It looks good on you,” Cleo replies, the words falling out of their mouth before they have time to think. They want to correct themselves, walk it back, anything to make what they said less stupid. But they don't say anything, because they're too proud to admit when they're wrong.
“Thanks,” Grian laughs, and Cleo finds herself thinking that if she could only hear Grian's nasally laugh for the rest of her life, she'd be happy. “We should get going.”
Cleo opens the door, the once-muffled music flooding the bathroom and bouncing off of the ceramic tiles. They're glad to leave this house behind, with its peeling paint and mostly empty beer cans. They never belonged here anyway, but– but maybe, walking alongside Grian, leaving this shitty house behind and talking about nothing, maybe they could start to belong here.
Maybe. But not yet.