Kinda Complicated

The ballroom lights spilled through the tall glass doors, laughter and music echoing out into the night. Ash Mercer stood just beyond their reach, rain dripping off the edge of his hair onto the collar of his black suit jacket. The cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers, smoke curling into the mist like it belonged there. ''Mercer!'' someone called from inside. A group of half-drunk voices followed, coaxing, laughing, pleading. ''Come on, Ash, stop brooding. One dance, one drink. Don't be such a ghost.'' He ignored them. He liked the rain — it kept people away. A shuffle of movement broke the quiet, and the door eased open just enough for a figure to slip out. Not one of Ash's people. This one didn't move like them. He stumbled almost immediately, catching his shoe on the slick stone step. His laugh — nervous, too loud for the night — filled the gap the music left behind. ''Smooth,'' Ash muttered under his breath, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. The guy straightened, tugging at a bow tie that was already lopsided. His suit was a size too big in the shoulders, and the rain had already left damp marks on the fabric. He hugged himself like the chill had caught him by surprise. ''Oh,'' the stranger said when he noticed Ash. ''Sorry, I didn't mean to—I was just—'' He gestured vaguely at the sky, the rain, the dark. "It's loud in there. Too loud." Ash tilted his head, studying him. ''Then you came out here to... drown instead?'' The stranger smiled sheepishly, rain dripping down his temple. "Guess so. I'm Mikey. Micah, technically. But no one calls me that unless I'm in trouble." Ash didn't answer right away. He watched him fumble, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist like he wanted to disappear into the fabric. Another voice from inside shouted for Ash, insistent now. He exhaled smoke and turned slightly away, his posture making it clear where his loyalty wasn't. ''You're not with them?'' Mikey asked softly. Ash gave him a quick sideways glance, a half-smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. ''Do I look like I’m with you?'' Mikey blinked at him, then shook his head quickly. "No. You look like... like you're trying very hard not to be." He said it like he hadn't meant to, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His face went red instantly. "Sorry. I say things. Out loud. When I probably shouldn't." That earned him something from Ash — the corner of his mouth twitching lightly upward, a dry laugh carried low from his chest. ''Guess you do.'' They stood in the rain together, silent for a while, Mikey rocking on his heels back and forth, Ash finishing his cigarette with steady, practiced long drags. The noise from the party was just a dull hum now, and the rain filled the silence between them. When Ash finally flicked the cigarette out of his fingers, he looked over at Mikey again, slower this time, as if weighing something. ''You're soaked,'' Ash said flatly. ''So are you,'' Mikey replied, then instantly regretted it, his laugh bubbling out again, awkward and apologetic. Ash grinned. For the first time that night, he didn't feel like going back inside. The next commotion came without warning: the door banged open and a burst of light streaked the patio, blinding for a second. Three people tumbled out in a tangle — a girl in red heels shrieking with laughter, a guy with a necktie knotted around his forehead, and a third who immediately slipped on the wet stone and nearly flattened Mikey. Ash instinctively caught Mikey's elbow, steadying him as the group ricocheted past. Water arced up from the flagstones and splattered across all of them, the girl’s scream blurring into hysterics. ''Jesus, it's a monsoon!'' one of the guys howled, then noticed Ash. ''Mercer, man, you coming back in or what?'' ''In a minute,'' Ash called, but the edge was gone from his voice. The guy grinned, made a gun with his fingers, and herded the others back under the awning. The girl lingered behind for just a second, giving Mikey a sidelong glance and a wink before tottering back after her friends. The door slammed, yellow light snapped off the patio, and the wet quiet folded back around them. Mikey wiped the rain off his cheek with the heel of his palm, blinking. Ash dropped his hand from Mikey's elbow, slow, deliberate, but the electricity of it lingered, buzzing in the humid air. They were alone again, and the storm showed no sign of stopping. Ash dug a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tilted it toward Mikey. ''Want one?'' Mikey hesitated, caught in some internal debate, then shook his head. ''I don't smoke.'' Ash shrugged. ''People do things in the rain they wouldn't do inside.'' He lit another cigarette anyway, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp planes of his face, his eyes as shiny as spilled oil. ''I wouldn't know,'' Mikey said, voice thin and wry. '' I usually avoid getting this wet.'' ''Whole point,'' Ash said. ''Comes off in the wash.'' Mikey ran a hand through his hair, which only made it stick up wilder. The rain had pasted it to his forehead, revealing a faint scar at the hairline. ''You don't like parties either?'' he asked. Ash flicked his eyes at the silvered windows, where bodies spun and shimmered in the chandelier light. ''I come for the open bar. Stay for the fire exits.'' Mikey laughed, then caught himself, nodding as though this was the only answer that made sense. He looked at the sky, colorless and indistinguishable from the city glow. For a second, he seemed about to say something, but instead he just stood there, letting water pool at the tips of his shoes. ''I had a panic attack once,'' he said suddenly, still keeping his gaze upwards. "At a wedding. I hid in the coat closet for two hours. Ate half a bag of almonds before someone found me.'' Ash snorted. ''Did they take you to the ER??'' ''I wish,'' Mikey said. ''They just made me dance. After that, I couldn't even look at an almond for years.'' He looked over at Ash, as if weighing whether he'd shared too much, but Ash didn't look freaked out or smug, just sort of... present. Mikey relaxed a little, like someone had untied a knot at the base of his ribcage. They watched the rain beat harder against the flagstones, pooling in the uneven spots. The city was slick, neon-lit, every surface reflecting and distorting the world around it. Ash leaned his shoulders against the cold glass, cigarette pinched between his lips. The smoke curled out around his face, softening his features but making his eyes even darker. ''Who drags you to parties if you hate them so much ?'' he asked. ''My sister,'' Mikey answered immediately. ''She says I need 'exposure therapy.' She's in there somewhere, probably dancing on a table or setting off the sprinkler system. Or both.'' He squinted through a pane of rain-streaked glass, as if he could spot her in the frenetic swirl of bodies. Ash considered this, chewing the inside of his cheek. ''And what do you do when she’s not blackmailing you with almond PTSD?'' Mikey huffed. ''Fail at grad school, mostly. Occasionally pretend to write my dissertation. Spend a lot of time at diners that don't care how long you nurse a coffee.'' The edge of Ash's grin was sharper now, but still private. ''Academic,'' he said, like it was a diagnosis. Mikey snorted. "Not a good one. I'm the control group in a study about not meeting your potential." The rain reflected in his eyes and for a heartbeat he looked almost proud of it. Then he hunched his shoulders again, as if the flash of self-acceptance embarrassed him. Ash flicked the remains of his cigarette into the gutter. It fizzed out in an instant, and he pushed off of the glass, suddenly restless. ''What’s it on?'' Mikey blinked, caught off guard. ''My dissertation? Uh. That’s a weird question. It’s… Okay, don’t laugh.'' Ash raised a sober hand. ''Promise.'' Mikey eyed him, dubious, then surrendered. ''It’s about the architecture of abandoned shopping malls. Adaptive re-use, dead spaces, nostalgia. That whole flavor.'' Ash waited for the punch line. When none arrived, he made a small, surprised noise. ''That’s actually cool,'' he said, like he’d never said that about anything academic before. And maybe he hadn’t. Mikey stared at him, as if recalibrating what he thought of Ash. ''Nobody ever says that,'' he said, and for a beat the rain seemed to hush for it, as if the world wanted to make sure it heard the words. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face, shy but real, the kind that builds in the muscles like a stretch. ''My advisor says it’s both a waste of time and a perfect metaphor for the late-stage capitalist condition. So, you know. Can’t lose.'' Ash leaned in, smirking, ''Could be worse. You could be writing about vampires on t****k or something.'' Mikey made a noise halfway between a snort and a laugh. “That was last semester.” He bit his lip, considered Ash for a long second. ''You strike me as the type who’d last about thirty seconds in a dead mall before you set off the fire alarm or stole a gumball machine.'' ''I prefer the claw machines,'' Ash said. ''The trick is to…'' He stopped, realizing he was about to describe the physics of how to hack a rigged game to a stranger in the rain. His mouth closed, uncharacteristically self-conscious. Mikey watched him, eyebrows raised, waiting for the rest. Ash shrugged, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Never mind. Force of habit." "Robbed a lot of arcades as a kid?" Mikey asked, his tone feather-light, inviting confidence without demanding it. Ash let the cigarette burn between his fingers, looking down at his hand as if remembering something slightly embarrassing and slightly precious. He didn't answer, just shook his head with a kind of rueful affection. They stood like that. A catalog of silences between them, none of them hostile or expectant, just the connective tissue of people who understand there's more to be said and time to say it. The rain had matted Ash's hair even flatter, droplets chilled on his skin. He didn't move. At last, Mikey asked, ''What about you? What do you do when you’re not scaring partygoers or perfecting claw heists?'' Ash didn’t answer immediately. His fingers fidgeted with the cigarette pack, soft-creased and nearly empty. He almost said nothing, or let the question die in the wet air, but the rain made everything raw and oddly honest. ''I work at a pawn shop,'' he said. ''Third shift. You’d be amazed what people bring in at two a.m.'' He sounded almost amused. ''Lot of ex-girlfriends with wedding rings. Lot of people wearing pajamas. Once, a guy tried to pawn his dog.'' Mikey’s mouth went round. ''His dog?'' ''Yeah. Wanted a hundred bucks. Said the mutt was purebred, but it had one ear and smelled like gasoline.'' ''Did you take it?'' Ash shrugged. ''We’re not licensed for pets. I gave him ten bucks anyway. The guy bought cigarettes and left the dog. He looked happier than anybody I’ve ever met after midnight.'' Mikey grinned, tilting his head. ''What happened to the dog?'' Ash c****d an eyebrow, as if this were a test he refused to take seriously. ''Named him Sputnik. He sleeps under the counter and growls at people who try to shoplift.'' ''That’s kind of beautiful,'' Mikey said, as if he meant it. ''Even the shitty stuff has an afterlife.'' A drop of rain hit Mikey in the eye, and he blinked it away, laughing. His shoes were absolutely ruined, and his bow tie looked like a novelty ribbon on clearance at a Halloween store, but there was a lightness to him now, like being soaked all the way to the bone had wrung out everything anxious or brittle. Ash leaned toward him, the umbrella of their proximity just barely a shield from the vast, wet city. ''You should probably get inside before you catch pneumonia and your sister blames me.'' Mikey shrugged, hands spread out, palms up. ''She’ll blame you anyway. She always does.'' Ash snorted, but the sound was softer now, like he’d forgotten to keep his edges sharp. Rainwater beaded along his jawline, and he couldn’t seem to look away from the way Mikey’s smile started crooked, almost apologetic, and then stuck there. Behind them the party surged — a snatch of Eurythmics, the collective shout of a conga line gathering converts, the hiccup of a glass breaking on marble. It was like the world had split and spilled, the storm on the patio a minor kingdom annexed from the brightly-lit empire inside. Mikey looked at the door, then at Ash, then at the dark curve of the parking lot, bleeding into nothing. ''You like the rain,'' he said, not as a question this time. Ash nodded. He reached up and raked his wet hair back, which accomplished nothing. ''It muffles things,'' he said. '' Lets you hear your own heartbeat, or at least pretend you have one for a minute.'' Mikey's lips parted, eyes gentle. "Hm. Sometimes I think I'd like to live underwater. No alarms, no deadlines. Maybe the world would sound better." He rolled his neck, as if testing out the possibility. ''Are pawn shops loud?'' Ash gave a lazy blink, as if dredging up the sensory memory. ''Only when people yell about what their stuff’s worth. Otherwise, it’s just the hum of the soda machine and the click of the register. Peaceful, in a weird way.'' He regarded Mikey, weighing him again. ''You’d like it. Nobody expects anything from you there. You could stare at a lava lamp for twenty minutes and no one would even ask your name.'' ''I do that at home,'' Mikey admitted, ''but the lamp’s broken and my roommate keeps hiding it. She thinks I should socialize more.'' A long silence followed, but for once, Mikey didn't rush to fill it. The air between them had the new, unstable chemistry of an alliance just forming, the kind that needs to be seen from all angles before breaking. Without really knowing why, Ash pulled the battered pack again, offered it out. Mikey shook his head, smiling, but this time he took one anyway and rolled it between his fingers, like a prop, a relic. ''My dad used to smoke these,'' he said, voice low. ''He’d flick the butts at the neighbor’s cat.'' He grinned, sheepish. ''We were very popular in our ‘community.’'' Ash liked that: the slight edge in Mikey’s humor, the way he said things as if he was both apologizing in advance and hoping you’d call his bluff. The rain slowed, shifted to a soft, almost invisible mist. Ash felt it as a tingle on his scalp, a rumor of what had been. Inside, the party lumbered through its hits, the thunder of bodies growing either closer or the night stretching thinner. Mikey held the cigarette between two fingers, then tucked it behind his ear, a barely-there smirk daring Ash to comment. ''I was thinking,'' Mikey said, tentatively, ''maybe libraries should have aquariums. Big ones. Rows of books, then a wall of blue, all that sound —'' he bobbled his head, mimicking the rigid drift of sea life — ''quiet and alive. Like sitting inside a held breath.'' Ash watched him, unable to categorize the feeling that rose up, some blend of nostalgia and longing and something too recent to have a name. ''You ever work in a library?'' Ash asked. “Shelved books after hours. It was amazing how many people came in to use the computers and how few actually read.” He shrugged, tucking his hands under his arms, eyes distant for a flash before he blinked himself back. ''I liked the sound of the carts. All those metal wheels, the echo. Maybe that’s weird.'' ''Not weird,'' Ash said. ''You notice things. Most people don’t.'' He wondered if he was saying this as a compliment or a warning. The mist was thinning now, the kind of not-quite-dryness that made you realize how wet you’d become. Mikey’s glasses were beaded, little lenses for the world’s failures in miniature. Still he didn’t move, as if afraid any step would cancel out the spell of standing there with Ash. Ash looked toward the parking lot, then back to Mikey. ''So. You want to bail on the party and do something more depressing?'' he asked.