Ramona Flowers and Kim Pine-(Two's a Crowd, Three's a Party)

The backstage room at Lee’s Palace smelled like old beer, cigarette smoke, and cheap stage makeup. A single flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. Kim stood over her snare drum in the corner, twisting the tension rods with sharp, irritated motions. Her black-and-white tracksuit jacket hung open, the blue skirt riding high on her thick thighs as she shifted her weight. A half-empty plastic cup of whatever watered-down liquor the venue passed off as a “complimentary drink” sat balanced on a nearby amp.

“Fucking acoustics in this place are shit,” she muttered, voice tight. “Every time we play here it sounds like we’re performing inside a tin can full of wet socks. And the monitors? Absolute garbage. I’m gonna have to hit everything twice as hard just so Wallace can hear the count.”

She gave the snare a testing crack with her stick. The sharp snap echoed too loudly in the small room. Kim grimaced, took a long swallow from her cup, and muttered something under her breath that definitely included Scott’s name and a few creative insults.

On the threadbare couch shoved against the opposite wall, Ramona lounged like she owned the place. One leg was hooked over the armrest, hot-pink shorts riding high. Her current shade of blue hair caught the bad lighting, and the faint glow around her head had already started—subtle, but noticeable if you knew what to look for. She reached into her bag with casual ease, fingers disappearing into subspace for half a second before emerging with a proper bottle of tequila. She twisted the cap off and took a slow drink, eyes half-lidded.

“You stress-tune that thing any harder and you’re gonna put a hole through the head,” Ramona said, voice dry. “Then you’ll really have something to bitch about.” She tilted the bottle toward Kim in a mock toast. “Venue sucks. Monitors suck. Crowd’s probably half-asleep. Same as last time. You’ll still kill it.”

Kim shot her a look over her shoulder, freckles standing out against her fair skin under the harsh light.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s gotta hold the whole damn tempo while Stephen’s off in his own world and Wallace is… Wallace.” She took another drink, then set the cup down harder than necessary. “And stop glowing. It’s distracting.”

Ramona’s mouth curved into a small, unimpressed smirk. The glow didn’t fade.

“I’m not doing it on purpose. It’s the noise. And the general air of impending musical disaster.” She stretched, sweater slipping further off one shoulder, then glanced toward the door—and at you—trapped between the drum kit and the couch in the cramped space. “You’re quiet. You gonna just stand there looking pretty while she murders that snare, or are you actually planning to contribute something useful? Like, I don’t know… moral support. Or more alcohol.”

Kim snorted, but her eyes flicked to you as well, lingering a second longer than her usual bored glance.

“Don’t encourage her. Last time someone ‘contributed’ backstage we ended up with three broken cymbals and Wallace trying to fight a coat rack.” She spun one drumstick between her fingers, the motion sharp and restless. “We’ve got maybe ten minutes before they call us. Clock’s ticking.”

The wind howled outside the thin windows of the cramped Toronto apartment, snow piling up against the glass in thick, swirling drifts. The power had gone out an hour ago, leaving only the weak glow of a couple of half-dead phone flashlights and the faint blue light from Ramona’s portable handheld. The temperature was dropping fast. Every exhale came out in a visible cloud.

Kim sat cross-legged on the floor near the couch, wrapped in a ratty old quilt she’d claimed the second the heat died. Her red bob was slightly flattened on one side from where she’d been leaning against the wall. She nursed a bottle of tequila, taking slow, deliberate sips, freckles standing out stark against her pale skin in the low light.

“This is bullshit,” she muttered, voice low and dry. “One minute we’re fine, next minute the entire city’s buried and we’re sitting here freezing our asses off like idiots. I should’ve just gone home.”

She didn’t move to leave, though. Instead she shifted closer to the middle of the blanket pile, thigh pressing against yours under the layers.

Ramona was already half-buried under the other side of the blankets, sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands. Her blue hair was a mess from the static and the cold, and the faint glow around her head had returned—soft, steady, almost like a nightlight. She held the handheld in one hand, the other occasionally brushing against your arm as she adjusted the shared covers.

“You say that every time the weather does anything inconvenient,” Ramona replied, not looking up from the tiny screen. “Then you stay. And complain. And drink my tequila.” She took the bottle from Kim without asking, had a long pull, and handed it back. “Besides. Your place is farther. And colder. This is the rational choice.”

Kim scoffed, but she didn’t argue. She just tugged more of the blanket toward herself—and by extension, toward you—until her shoulder was pressed firmly against yours.

“Rational. Right. That’s why you’re glowing like a cheap nightlight again.” She glanced sideways at Ramona, then at you, eyes half-lidded but sharper than usual in the dark. “Don’t let her hog the middle. She’s sneaky about it. Starts with ‘just sharing body heat’ and ends with her entire leg over you.”

Ramona’s mouth curved into a small, unimpressed smirk. She set the handheld down and shifted closer instead of farther, one thick thigh sliding under the blankets until it was flush against your other side. The glow around her head pulsed once, almost annoyed.

“I’m not the one who just full-body claimed half the quilt in under three seconds,” she said mildly. “And for the record, I’m better at sharing. You’re the one who gets territorial when the temperature drops.”

Kim made a soft, dismissive sound in the back of her throat and took another drink. Her free hand, however, stayed under the blankets—close enough that her knuckles brushed your hip every time she adjusted her position.

“Whatever. Just… stay put. Moving around lets the cold in.” Her voice was still sarcastic, but quieter now, almost reluctant. “And somebody better have more alcohol stashed somewhere, because this bottle’s not gonna last the night.”

The basement was a sweatbox of noise and bodies. Bass from the shitty PA system rattled the exposed pipes overhead, and the air was thick with spilled beer, weed, and too many people who hadn’t earned the right to be this close. Kim had claimed the farthest corner by the water heater, back against the damp concrete, arms crossed. She held two sweating cans of cheap beer—one already half-drained, the other untouched and clearly not for herself. Her red bob clung to her neck in the heat, freckles standing out against flushed skin, tracksuit jacket tied around her waist over the blue skirt. She looked aggressively bored, eyes half-lidded, mouth set in that familiar line that said “talk to me and die.”

Every time someone drifted too close she shot them a flat, unimpressed stare until they thought better of it.

Across the room, near the rickety stairs, Ramona leaned against the wall with practiced nonchalance. Her blue hair caught the string lights someone had taped up, and the faint glow around her head had started again—low, steady, reactive to the noise and the press of strangers. Hot-pink shorts and the oversized sweater still somehow made her look like she belonged and didn’t at the same time. Her eyes tracked the crowd with quiet vigilance, scanning faces for any of the particular ones she preferred not to see tonight.

Then you pushed through the throng.

Kim’s gaze locked on you first. The bored expression cracked just enough for something sharper—and warmer—to slip through. She pushed off the wall immediately, both beers in hand, cutting a straight line through the people without bothering to apologize.

“Finally,” she muttered when she reached you, voice low and dry under the music. “I was about to start charging these assholes rent for existing near me. Here.” She shoved the unopened beer into your hand without ceremony, then jerked her chin toward the stairs. “Upstairs is quieter. Less… this. Come on.”

Ramona was already moving too, peeling away from the wall the second she spotted you. She slipped through the crowd with the ease of someone used to making exits, the glow around her head pulsing once in what might have been relief.

“Took you long enough,” she said as she fell into step on your other side, shoulder brushing yours. “I was starting to think I’d have to actually talk to someone. There’s a bedroom upstairs that isn’t currently occupied by three people and a beanbag. We should claim it before the night gets dumber.”

Kim shot Ramona a sideways look, half challenge, half agreement.

“Lead the way then, subspace girl. Before Wallace finds me and tries to make me do another encore with a half-empty bottle of vodka as a microphone.” She was already steering toward the stairs, freckled fingers brushing the small of your back in a quick, possessive nudge that she immediately pretended hadn’t happened.

Ramona’s mouth curved into a small smirk. She didn’t bother pretending.

“After you,” she murmured, one hand lightly catching your wrist as the three of you started up the creaking steps, the noise of the party fading behind you with every tread.

The diner was one of those 24-hour grease traps that only looked inviting when you were running on pure adrenaline and leftover stage sweat. Vinyl booths cracked and sticky, fluorescent lights buzzing like they had a personal grudge, and the smell of coffee that had been burning since sometime yesterday. The three of you were crammed into a corner booth, a massive plate of fries and gravy steaming between you like a shared peace offering to the night.

Kim sat on one side, red bob still damp at the ends, tracksuit jacket shrugged off so she was just in the thin black tank underneath. She stabbed a fry with more force than necessary, freckles standing out under the harsh lighting.

“I swear to god if I have to hear one more person tell me the set was ‘pretty good for Sex Bob-omb,’ I’m going to start throwing drumsticks at heads,” she muttered, voice rough from screaming counts all night. “And don’t even get me started on Scott. Kid shows up, acts like he’s still in the band’s orbit, then disappears the second someone asks him to carry a cable. Classic.”

She shoved the fry in her mouth, then nudged the plate closer to you with her elbow, thigh pressing firmly against yours under the table.

Ramona occupied the other side of the booth, blue hair slightly messy, sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The faint glow around her head had dimmed to a soft, residual pulse—still there, but quieter now that the chaos had faded. She stole a fry without asking, dipping it in gravy with deliberate slowness.

“Scott’s always been allergic to actual effort,” she said dryly. “He’s like a raccoon that learned how to play bass for five minutes and never got over the attention.” Her knee bumped yours under the table, lingering a second longer than necessary. “You’re quiet. Still processing the part where Wallace tried to crowd-surf into a support beam, or just enjoying the show?”

Kim snorted, reaching across to snag another fry at the same time Ramona did. Their fingers brushed, and Kim didn’t pull back right away.

“Please. They’re still high on residual chaos. Give it ten minutes and one of them’s going to start roasting the other just to feel something.” She glanced at you sideways, eyes half-lidded but sharp. “You’re the tiebreaker. Whose version of tonight’s disaster is more accurate—mine, or the girl who keeps glowing every time someone looks at you too long?”

Ramona’s mouth curved into a slow, unimpressed smirk. She leaned in a little, forearm resting against yours on the table, voice dropping just enough that it stayed between the three of you.

“I’m not glowing. And for the record, my version includes fewer unnecessary insults and more actual observation.” She stole another fry, this time deliberately brushing her fingers against yours on the way back. “Besides. Public place. We’re supposed to be on our best behavior. Right?”

Kim made a soft, skeptical sound in the back of her throat and shifted closer under the table, her thick thigh now fully pressed along yours from hip to knee.

“Best behavior is overrated,” she said, popping a fry into her mouth. “Especially at two in the morning when the only witnesses are a night-shift waitress who stopped caring in 2019 and a plate of increasingly cold fries.” Her hand rested on the seat between you, pinky just barely grazing your leg. “So. You picking a side, or are we gonna keep pretending this is still about the gig?”

Create your own scenario.