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Johnson’s aunt lived in Vegas. He tried not to overthink it. Not the Vegas part, but the whole him-having-an-extended-family thing. It’s not like he’s completely devoid of backstory, but he knows that other people’s memories usually aren’t so...fuzzy.
But he definitely has an aunt, and her name is definitely Marta, and she and his uncle Antonio and their daughter Ximena definitely moved to Vegas shortly after Johnson and Ximena graduated high school. He’s pretty sure.
Actually, high school as an entirety had always been pretty fuzzy.
And then, post-college, the Appalachians started to piss him off, so he left and crashed with Holster and Ransom and Lardo at Haus 2.0 for a few weeks. Maybe he occupied the pull-out couch on purpose so when Shitty came to visit he insisted that sharing a bed with Lardo was fine. And maybe that led to a series of emotional revelations and conversations between the two and also the need for Johnson to use industrial earplugs when he slept for about a week, but it’s whatever. He was busy applying to jobs at state and federal parks.
After a lengthy process that included a harrowing online video interview, he was accepted to be a trail guide at Yosemite. He flew home to Minnesota to see his moms and have some of their cooking before he left, which is when Ximena called him to tell him that her parents had just remodeled and were having a housewarming party, and that since he’d be in the area he was “legally obligated” to stop by. He wasn’t Shitty, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t a thing.
But he missed them and he had also just spent like a year alone in the Appalachians. So even though parties weren’t really his thing, and he knew he’d probably just chill in the kitchen the whole time, eating all the snacks, he told her yes. He could be a normal guy. For a night.
So here he was, coming down the escalator in the Vegas airport, walking past the slot machines, and surprisingly feeling himself smile as he spotted the palm trees and mountains through the glass. Ximena was waiting for him by the baggage claim, in a boxy hoodie and black jeans smothered in silver chains despite the approximately five hundred degree weather outside.
“Johnny!” She ran towards him and captured him in a tight hug.
“Oh!” He tried to hide his surprise. “Hey, Ximena.”
This new cheerful demeanor was a change from when they were teenagers. Only a year and a block apart, they had been close, but back then, while Johnson had been a nervous wreck, Ximena had been a paragon of teenage disillusionment, where direct eye contact would’ve been a heart-warming amount of human connection.
She was still deadpan sarcastic over text, and still had her signature all-black wardrobe, but now, his first time seeing her in person since she and her parents had moved away, her smile was spread across her entire face, and she was clapping him on the arm. Clapping.
They drove out of the city and into the suburbs, windows down even in the August heat, Ximena’s music blasting from the speakers. Johnson let his eyes drift closed, warmed by the sunlight streaming in from the open sunroof.
“Hey, I have a friend I want you to meet tonight.”
Johnson turned to look at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, we’re neighbors and he’s...he’s really cool.”
She looked happy. New boyfriend?
“I’m excited to meet him.”
She turned and flashed him a smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
Johnson closed his eyes again and let the warm sunlight melt into his smile. “Yeah. Sometimes it’s good to be grown up.”
“It is” She hit him lightly in the arm. “And you’re not talking my ear off like you used to, that’s a change.”
“Ha. Very funny.”
She dropped him off at her parents’ house, driveway stretching past immaculately manicured natural rock garden lawn flanked by stout, flourishing palm trees, leaves gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
Ximena helped him haul his suitcases out of her car, even though he insisted that he was fine otherwise (he hadn’t lost all his hockey muscle, thank you very much), as he greeted his aunt and uncle, who had come out to see them.
Antonio clapped his hand and pulled him into a tight hug. “Glad you made it. We missed you, kid.”
“Johnny!” Marta kissed him on the cheeks. “It’s so good to see you!” She stepped back and held his face, examining him with a sharp eye. “My god, you’ve grown so much.”
Two years ago this would have triggered an internal spiral about how Johnson couldn’t really remember growing, how the idea of him being small was a vague and colorless idea, how he wasn’t sure if he had ever been smaller, actually, and he would have to excuse himself to curl up on the floor of the bathroom for thirty minutes. But he was a changed man now. He had been in the mountains. He could cope. He could be a normal guy.
The smile came less painfully than he thought it would. “It’s good to see you too.”
He breathed out. I can be a normal guy.
Ximena drove off and soon, Johnson was busy helping set up for the party, stringing up lights, chopping cilantro, and setting up chairs in the backyard. Before he knew it, the house was fully reared up to go. He felt the usual pre-party, pre-social-interaction-with-people-he-didn’t-know jitters starting to set in, so he borrowed Marta’s truck for a last-minute liquor run.
Outside the small white store, sunset glowing behind the mountains, he leaned against the wall and took a minute to breathe. Maybe a few years ago, the internal litany of “don’t fuck this up”, would’ve spun out into a whole...thing. But he was older now, and more experienced. He could be a normal guy. So he focused on his breathing and the pink clouds and the feeling of the wrinkled reusable bags in his hand, and felt the ground through his sneakers. And he was okay. This party was going to be okay.
“I’m going to be okay.” He said, entirely to himself, but an older man walking out of the store at that exact moment gave him a knowing nod. He felt his cheeks heat with brief embarrassment and nodded back.
When he pulled back into the neighborhood, awkwardly parallel parking his aunt’s truck with unpracticed hands, the party was heating up.
Greeted by the overabundance of praise granted to anyone walking into a party with more liquor, he made his way through the house to the backyard to stack the boxes of assorted drinks on the ever-growing tower.
Satisfied with his handiwork, Johnson maneuvered his way through the mill of people to dig into the spread in the kitchen. Yeah, he didn’t have to lock himself in his room anymore, like he sometimes had to during his Samwell days, but he still felt way more comfortable staking out a spot on the couch with a plate of shrimp tacos than making small talk with people he didn’t know. So there.
His comfort zone was in the role of observer, absorber of the party energy and conqueror of the couch cushion closest to the kitchen.
“Johnny! Thank you for running down to the store for us.” Antonio clapped him on the back, basking in the satisfied glow of a successful host. “Take as much food as you want, we already have a box packed for you tomorrow.”
“Thank you. And the party is amazing.”
“Glad you’re here.” his uncle placed another plate of food into Johnson’s unoccupied hand before he could protest and then disappeared away into the crowd.
It really was as close to a perfect house-warming party as you could get, with just enough people to make the small space feel cozy but not overwhelming, a mix of what looked like neighbors and friends of his aunt and uncle and friends of Ximena and a blend of both, everyone with their guards down from the evening breeze, and a fantastic set of speakers and an even better playlist playing in the living room and the backyard.
In Johnson’s long career of party-observing, this was definitely one of finest. A fair rival to even the best Samwell kegster.
After finishing his food and making pleasant small talk with another couch-sitter, who was apparently an avid bird-watcher, he went to the kitchen to throw his plate away. Glancing at the clock, and to the open sliding door to the backyard to his right and the living room to his left, he realized that the party had been going for over two hours and Ximena still hadn’t shown.
Huh. He stepped around a deep conversation about wine into the backyard and leaned against the wall bordering the neighbors’, nodding his head to the music and enjoying the colorful light being cast on everyone. He loved watching people dance, seeing them enveloped in their own stories, their own moments, absorbed in the person whose hands they were holding. Even if it made him feel a bit lonely.
Sure, he had mostly conquered the fear of messing up Bitty’s life, his story, but if he was honest, he was still terrified of messing up his own.
In the midst of his melancholy, someone suddenly grabbed - hugged? - him from the side, making him jump.
“Johnny!” It was Ximena, smiling, which he still had to get used to.
“You scared me dude, what the hell?”
“Oh what, your psychic abilities couldn’t pick up on that?”
Ever the logical thinker, Ximena had never gotten past her perplexity at Johnson’s periodic metaphysical reflections.
“Oh no, turns out my weakness is my annoying ass cousin.” He tried to ruffle her hair and she swatted his hand away. “What took you so long?”
She waved a hand. “Agh, Kent insisted that we arrive ‘at the height of the party’, whatever that means. And I agreed, because he’s finally stopped rolling up to house parties in his stupid Ferrari, so-“
Johnson’s brain short-circuited. Kent?
He interrupted her. “Sorry, did you say Kent?”
“Yeah.” She said nonchalantly, plowing on. “And then he insisted-“
No. No, this couldn’t be happening. He was always so careful to keep the right footing, to not interfere with events or people that he wasn’t supposed to. And it’s not like he could leave in the middle of the party. His flight was the next morning, and he had promised his aunt and uncle that he’d stay overnight, and he was going to help clean up. And, what if this messed up things for Jack - shit, wait, where was Jack supposed to be right now? Or. Or Bitty? He could not, he couldn’t live with himself if -
“Hey.” Ximena tapped him on the cheek. Her smile had twisted into a concerned frown. “Earth to Johnny.”
He tried to wipe some of the panic from his face. “Sorry. I’m stupid. It’s fine“
Her frown didn’t waver. “Are you good? Do you need some air?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” He steeled his face. I can be a normal guy. “It would be great to meet him!” His voice sounded too stiff, too forced.
“Okay.” She still looked concerned. “He should be in the kitchen, I think? He brought in more drinks, so of course everyone thinks he’s a hero.”
Johnson followed Ximena back into the house, morbidly intrigued, a little, as to what Parse was doing here, and how Ximena had apparently started dating him. And if this whole party wasn’t part of the narrative, which he would’ve known, then…
What the fuck was it?
At least, Parse wouldn’t know who he was. So, he could just introduce himself normally and play the part of Ximena’s wallflower cousin. And then they could go their separate ways and Johnson could stop worrying about potentially accidentally tearing the fabric of the narrative, and probably reality, to shreds.
He shook his head again, trying to clear it for good, and watched Ximena elbow her way through partygoers with much less grace than he had earlier. And with each pointed jab, like he was in a movie, the shadowed crowds blocking the glowing lights of the kitchen seemed to gracefully part, revealing none other than Kent Parson, white t-shirt perfectly rumpled, sunglasses gleaming in the lamplight, messy blonde hair barely tamed by a backwards baseball hat, sitting on the counter like a prince.
Kent Parson, who turned toward them with an easy smile, taking off his sunglasses with a practiced hand, and said, “Hey, you’re Johnson, right? From Samwell? Kent. Nice to see you again.” As if Johnson had forgotten who he was. As if anyone could forget who he was.
This motherfucker.
They had met once. A kegster his junior year. He’d been fleeing the Haus for the sanctuary of the graduate library (open late nights on Friday) when he’d run into Parse, literally, on the front porch. Like he was supposed to, Johnson had pointed Parse in Jack’s direction and ignored the bizarre and insistent desire to stay there and keep looking at him and keep talking to him. As if Johnson was some kind of main character. So he had kept his hat tilted over his eyes and left when he was supposed to. Like a regular normal guy.
Parse was not supposed to have remembered him.
Out of muscle memory, Johnson shook his outstretched hand. He tried and failed not to think about the immaculate manicure on Parse’s nails. He tried and failed not to think about the fact that Kent Parson was here, and in front of him, and unavoidable.
“Nice memory. Welcome.” He prayed that his easy-fun-normal-party-guy smile wasn’t betrayed by the tornado of panic currently sweeping its way through his brain.
“Thanks, I try.” Parse hopped down from the counter.
“Wait, you’ve already met?” Johnson felt slightly relieved to see that Ximena looked almost as bewildered as he felt.
“Yeah. Um” Johnson’s brain spun. “Uh. Hockey. A while back.”
Parse nodded at him. “He’s pretty memorable, this one.”
The words would have felt cruel if they didn’t sound so bafflingly genuine.
Every single small-talk conversation starter had flown from Johnson’s head. Ximena still looked confused, so she was no help, and Parse was still smiling, almost expectant. Johnson managed to sputter out a “Um. Good…nice to see you” before turning on his heel and beelining for the bathroom.
Breathing hard over the sink, he looked at himself in the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, deep brown skin not betraying the heat he felt in his cheeks and his forehead, sweat beading at his temples below dark curls. The molecules in the air felt too real and too raw. It had been so much nicer in the haze. He had to get his shit together.
You are chill. You are grown. You can handle this. You are a normal guy.
He was going to lighten up. He was going to have a good time. And if he was fated by the narrative to suffer through a dangerously charming Kent Parson, then so fucking be it
He took a deep breath, splashed some water on his face, immediately regretted it as it soaked the front of his shirt and spilled onto the floor, attempted to clean up the mess with one of the decorative hand towels, took another deep breath, and re-entered the party.
Pointedly avoiding Parse and Ximena, who were engrossed in the spread of food, he escaped to the backyard. The music shifted to upbeat reggaeton, and he stole a spot on the outdoor couch from a couple that jumped up to dance.
Shifting back into people-watching mode, trying to distract himself from the mess in his head, tapping his foot to the music, he didn’t notice Parse until he was standing right next to him, shrimp tacos in hand, sunglasses tucked carelessly into the collar of his shirt.
“Hey. Sorry if I spooked you earlier.” Parse sounded genuine.
And what the hell, Johnson was capable of at least making light conversation with other people’s narratively-significant boyfriends. Wasn’t he?
“Not at all, man. I just…wasn’t expecting to see you at my aunt’s house.”
“Neither was I.” Parse let out an easy laugh. “Can I join you?” He nodded towards the couch.
“Sure.”
As Parse moved to sit, Johnson was suddenly distressingly aware of his own posture. He tried to will his body back into hockey-bro mode. It felt itchy and strange, like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore. He was suddenly very aware of his knees. Johnson did not want to be very aware of his knees.
Parse interrupted his spiral, sprawled on the couch with a practiced laziness. “Still playing hockey?”
“Um. Not really.” Johnson suddenly felt woefully ill-prepared to make small talk.
Every word that entered his brain carried with it millions of possibilities to ruin everything. This was why he kept his distance at Samwell. This was why he ran away to the woods. This was why he didn’t like to think about the fact that even his best childhood memories with Ximena felt like they had been scribbled on paper and then left out in the rain. This is why no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be able to just be a normal guy.
And now here he was, making a fool of himself. He would have been better off just going to Yosemite. He’d be better off with the bears. They didn’t give a shit about narrative.
Parse was looking at him like he was expecting Johnson to say something. Johnson did not want to word-vomit all over a Stanley Cup champion.
“I’ve been backpacking. Um, a lot, actually.”
“Oh, that’s sick.” Parse sounded like he meant it. “Why backpacking?”
“Um. Being outside is nice. Helps me calm down.” Johnson cringed at himself.
“I get that. It’s nice to have something for yourself.”
Parse sounded so genuine. Johnson was realizing it had been a long time since he had talked about himself with someone. It felt nice. What was not nice was the impending word vomit he could feel coming on. He tried to stop it.
“Yeah, um. Yeah, it feel like it’s just for me, like. I don’t have to worry about it having any, like, contingencies,” oh no, he couldn’t stop it, “on anyone else’s character arc, or the narrative, or canon as a whole.” Oh God, he really couldn’t stop it. “Um. Or something like that. So I went to the woods.”
Bizarrely, Parse was nodding, like what Johnson had said had been cogent and normal and sane. “Yeah.” He leaned a bit closer, to be heard over the music. “I understand that, like. You gotta figure out what works for you, and not just for someone else.”
Direct eye contact with Kent Parson felt like getting hit with a direct beam of sunlight through a magnifying glass. Johnson had to pivot.
“Um. So, what about you?”
Parse‘s eyebrows furrowed. “Like, do I go backpacking?”
“Like, are you still playing hockey?”
“I...Um.“ Johnson could tell that Parse was struggling to string team captain stanley cup champ record book torn to fucking shreds together in a humble way. It was kind of endearing
“I’m kidding! Kidding.” He elbowed Parse. “I was in the Appalachians for a year, not under a rock. Congrats.”
Parse’s cheeks flushed the tiniest bit, showing off the smattering of freckles on his nose. “Oh. Um, thanks.” He paused. “Wait, did you say that you were there for a year?”
Absurdly, miraculously, the conversation flowed on from there. Parse’s mom lived in New York and Johnson’s moms ran a farm in rural Minnesota. Parse had a cat that he adored and Johnson’s only pet had been Rosebud, the pretentiously named and tragically fated guinea pig. Parse’s family was Cuban and Johnson’s family was Afro-Mexican. Parse didn’t skate until he was seven years old (which was something they had in common) and Johnson didn’t like pineapple on his pizza (which was something they did not have in common), and Parse had met Ximena through a series of events that included her spearheading a rent strike against her landlord.
Parse was charming, which Johnson expected, but Parse also listened to his tangents on existence and narrative culpability in a way that took him completely off guard. He was definitely going to make a great match for Ximena. And Johnson was having the most enjoyable time at a party he’d ever had.
Johnson’s aunt called him over to introduce him to some of her friends, and he and Parse were separated, caught up in the flow of the party. Drinks flowed, and as more and more people were drawn to the dancing underneath the glimmering backyard lights. Johnson went to stand next to Ximena, who was swaying to the music.
He planned to congregate in amicable silence, but Ximena had other ideas.
“So, you and Kent are getting along?”
He smiled, instinctually. “Yeah. He’s pretty cool.”
Ximena had a mysteriously conspiratorial look on her face. “You know, he helped my parents out with the remodeling.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Yeah, and it wasn’t just a money thing, he actually came by to help with the work. He’d never admit it though, he’s surprisingly modest now.”
“He wasn’t before?” It was a redundant question - he remembered the flashy car, flashy watch, flashy smile.
“Oh, he was definitely kind of an asshole when we first met, but now, off-season, he’s over for dinner almost every other week.”
She nodded towards the dancefloor, where Parse was dancing with someone’s grandma, twirling her with a graceful hand. His hair gleamed under the lights.
“Nice.” Johnson was kind of dumbstruck. “You two will make-”
He was cut off by the song change to a swaying ballad, and the sight of Parse dancing towards them, hand outstretched, eyebrows slightly raised in a you coming?
“Go - I know you want to dance.” He gently pushed Ximena towards Parse. “Here, I’ll take your drink.”
“I-” She looked back at Johnson, eyebrows furrowed.
“Seriously, go. I got you.”
He leaned back, watching them spin and sway, and when his aunt came up to him, he gladly swept her onto the dance floor, grinning at Parse and Ximena when they bumped into each other.
Hours later, with most of the guests gone, he found himself somehow back with Parse, doing dishes together in the kitchen. Ximena had disappeared off somewhere, and his aunt and uncle were outside, drinking by the last embers of the fire.
Well, half-heartedly doing dishes. Johnson kept finding himself distracted when Kent was talking, getting focused on the gleam in his eyes and the way he gestured so animatedly when he was telling a story, and suddenly realizing that he had been scrubbing the same glass for five minutes.
So it was going kind of slow.
“...and like, growing up in New York and spending most of my time on the East Coast, I had no idea I’d love it out here so much. Something about being able to go outside and see the mountains, in the same spot, always there, no matter where I am in the city.”
“Like, it’s grounding”
“Exactly!” Parse gestured emphatically with a knife and Johnson dodged on instinct. “Oh shit, sorry. But yeah, like coming back from being on the road and just seeing them in the distance.” He paused, starting like he was going to continue his sentence, and then stopped.
“Do you miss New York?”
“Oh, definitely, especially ‘cause my mom’s still there. But I visit often enough, and I definitely don’t miss the subway, or the subzero weather...” Parse pointed with a champagne glass. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Where’s home for you?”
Johnson was quiet for a moment. “Not sure. Minnesota, with my parents, was home for sure, but when I was younger. I don’t know. For a while, Samwell, maybe.” It felt too honest. He willed his mouth to stay shut.
Parse nodded, reaching across Johnson to put away a cup, bare arm brushing against his. “We should hike sometime, before summer ends. How long are you in Vegas for?”
“Ah. Actually, this is a one-night visit for me.” Johnson scratched the back of his head. “I fly out tomorrow morning.”
Parse’s face fell slightly. “Well.” He let out a dry laugh. “Guess I fucked up, then.”
‘Sorry,” Johnson set down the glass he was scrubbing. “Fucked up how?”
“I-” Parse waved a hand. “Trying to, uh, flirt. And stuff”
“And stuff?” Johnson felt like a broken record.
Parse leaned on the counter, head in his arms, muffling his voice. “Sorry, I should just-I should. Shit.”
Johnson felt like the air was broken. “Wait, were you just flirting with me?”
Parse’s head remained buried. “Have been, all night. Not very well, apparently”
“But you - and Ximena, and -”
Parse lifted his head up and laughed, still avoiding eye contact. “I’m gay as shit, dude. And I’m pretty sure Ximena’s in the bathroom making out with that girl who's, like, really into birds. So, uh-”
He stood up, face a professional mask of a well-practiced smile. “I’ll just leave now, and call an Uber, and -”
Johnson wanted to say something, but his brain was still trying to process that Kent fucking Parson was shuffling around his aunt and uncle’s kitchen, hands in his pockets, embarrassed from some house party flirting.
From flirting with him.
“Parse.”
“-I’ll just let Marta and Antonio know, and of course it was great to see everyone, and-”
“Kent.” Johnson set down his dish towel. The night replayed in his mind on fast forward.
Oh.
“You were trying to dance with me?”
“Yeah.” Parse was still refusing to make eye contact
“And when you kept leaning in -?”
“Yeah.”
“And when you gave me your number…shit.”
Parse gave a defeated shrug. “Yeah, that was - I’m trying my best, here.”
“Okay.” Johnson’s head was spinning. “That was a really concise set of narratively-significant moves. Okay.”
“Alright, so.” Parse tentatively looked at him. “Let’s - let’s just establish. Um. You are into guys?”
Johnson laughed before he could help himself. “Yeah.”
“And.” Nervousness was a strange look on Kent Parson’s face. “You’re into me?”
Saying it would be ill-advised. Would be potentially timeline-destroying. Would be more true than anything he’d felt in a long time. “Yes.”
All of the tension in Parse’s body melted into confidence.
Johnson couldn’t look away. “And you’re into me?”
Parse grinned, beautiful, life-ruining. “Yeah.”
The spiral quieted. “Cool.”
“Cool.”
“There’s, um. There’s some records in the cabinets, if you want to actually have that dance.”
“Been waiting all night.”