It all goes like clockwork now. Maybe it did before, but if so, Tim had never noticed it. Maybe because now he is sober. Maybe because now things are easier to focus on without his attention constantly being divided. One can't really stare at the singer during the whole show when they're the one in front of the mic, can they? Regardless of the going-though-the-motionsness of it all, it's still undeniably exciting.

Best friend and a roommate, same old crowd with a few new faces, new band, new songs, first show. The response hadn't been quite as warm as any of them had hoped. Matt chalked it up to people "expecting Operation Ivy part two." But Operation Ivy is dead and gone, has been for almost three years. Tim was a lot happier then. Now he's been through some rough times, he's taken a few falls, and he's fucking pissed off about it. No room for bouncy ska there. Just hard, guitar-driven music and screaming scratchy slurring vocals he'd been too shy to belt out just a few years earlier.

There are more than a few coming up to give their praises, despite the jaded assholes. Billie Joe had (jokingly, Tim thought) asked if they were looking for a second guitarist. A boy named Davey he'd known for a few years told him in his typical soft-spoken way that he was very impressed. And a tough, drunken kid who looked like some sort of a drugrunner for the Hells Angels had embraced him and breathed out in whiskey-breath that they were "the best fuckin' band I've ever heard."

Tim discards another sweat-soaked towel, clipping his guitar case shut and standing up. He glances around for his bandmates.

"Someone gimme some fuckin' water!"

He's tapped on the shoulder, and turning, is glad he doesn't have the guitar in his hands anymore because it would be a shattered mess on the floor if he did. Jesse raises an eyebrow smoothly and offers a bottle of water to him.

It only takes Tim a second to swallow his surprise, take the water from him, and nod as he opens it then takes a long swallow. "Thanks," he slurs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "How ya doin', Jess?"

"Fairly well," Jesse answers with the same simple eloquence that Tim tried so hard to forget. "And yourself?"

Tim shrugs passively. "Not bad. Enjoyin' myself, actually."

Jesse nods, pausing a moment as if in thought. "The band...you guys are quite impressive. Who is your drummer?"

"Ah, that's Brett...he's been livin' with me for a while. He can't really play much yet, but Matty's teaching him."

"The crowd seemed to like it," Jesse notes, glancing around at those who are still milling around the small club.

"Yeh...once they got over us not being...well, us," Tim says. Just a hint of regret and resent.

"Everything's meant to come and go, right? It seems to me like you're doing fine," Jesse states with an easy smile.

"I guess," Tim replies noncommittally. Of course, Jesse is oblivious to the two and a half years of hell he'd gone through since the last time they'd seen each other. But Tim isn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how completely his life had been ripped apart by simply watching Jesse walk out. "So what've ya been up to?"

Jesse fluidly lifts a shoulder and lets it drop, glancing once again around the club. "Just...here and there. Studying some. Travelling."

"Not playin' with anyone?"

"Not as of late," Jesse tells him nonchalantly. Of course, Tim doesn't know how Jesse hasn't been able to even look at a guitar without feeling like vomitting for the past two and a half years. And Jesse isn't about to let him know their past held on that tightly to his own present and warped it into something unrecognizable.

"'s too bad. The scene sure could use someone with yer talent about now," Tim states. The closest thing to a compliment Jesse would hear from him.

"Well, that's ridiculous. Why would they need me when they have you?," Jesse asks with a little grin, then plunges ahead. "So you're going on tour now?"

Tim doesn't let on to how empty the first comment makes him feel, instead giving a nod. "Yeh, jus' a little trip 'round the country. Nothin' big. We got an EP we're releasin' so thought we'd head out an' do some promotion."

"I hope you enjoy yourself," Jesse says, adding as an afterthought. "I'm sure you'll do well."

"As long as we're doin, I guess," Tim replies with a shrug. Sensing that the small talk has gone as far as it can, he continues. "I'll see ya 'round, yeh?"

Jesse nods once. "Probably so. Good seeing you again, Lint."

Tim can't help a tiny smile at the nickname even though it brings back memories too painful to be put into words. "Yeh, you too, Jess."

Whatever they were doing on that tour, "well" was not the adverb Tim would have described it as. He couldn't count the shows that ended with a crowd which he could count on one hand. The nights in the cheap motels with their stiff mattresses and unreliable water supply all seem to blend into one big blur of discomfort. Even Brett's patience is wearing thin now, and he had never been through something like this before.

Then the big catastrophe hits. A night in Michigan, the dead of winter, and a snowstorm for the history books. Matt has resigned himself to the tiny bar in the lobby of the hotel and Brett is camped out in the other room with the road crew, trying to find something decent on TV. Tim is left alone, staring out the balcony window at the flurry of snow falling.

Tim could remember the first time he'd seen snow. It wasn't a commonplace in California, even in the Bay. And he'd experienced it in Texas of all places. January of 1989, out the window of a beat-up green Chrysler Newport with a dumb box on top. He had been enthralled with the white flakes, his face pressed up against the glass until they'd stopped for the night. They stayed in a hotel that night, the only night they had on the tour - just because it was such a long drive. The snow then, unlike the snow now, was nowhere near hard enough to cause a break in procession.

After checking into the hotel that night, Tim had spent hours outside of the hotel door just watching the snow fall. Matt had been amused with the way the snow had accomplished something nothing else did - making his lifelong friend calm down and stay quiet. But Jesse sat with him. Simply sat, holding his hand until dawn when the rising sun turned the fragile little flakes into drops of rain and they'd finally decided to get some sleep.

Tim sighs heavily. There have been lots of things on this tour that reminded him of Jesse, and even though most could be accounted to his random appearance right before they set off, he knew that twenty years from now if he saw snow he would think of Jesse. He couldn't help wondering what had wedged itself in between them so firmly as to completely tear through the strong bonds that once held them together. He couldn't help wondering why now every word was forced when not long ago they would have flowed like waterfalls.

Resignedly, Tim tugs a comforter off of the hotel bed. Grabs up a small bottle half-full of liquor that Matt had left. Grasps the phone by the reciever. Then he throws open the balcony door and walks into the angry white-black gusts of wind. He settles onto the snow-blanketed concrete of the balcony and wraps the blanket around him, setting the liquor to his right side and the phone to his left.

After much debate, Tim lifts his left hand and closes it over the phone. He lifts the reciever and dials a number with his shaking right hand. Half of him is praying that the number won't work anymore, and the other half is begging that it will. And when the ringing stops, it's just "Oh please, God, don't let me fuck this up."

"...hello?," Jesse's voice cuts through the earpiece for the second time. He's the only person Tim knows who could succeed at that tone of patient impatience.

"Ey, Jess," Tim says, relieved that his throat doesn't close up on the two syllables.

"Lint? Hey...," the tone changes to one of barely-masked surprise. "Where are you?"

"Michigan. It's...it's snowing," Tim states, as if that would explain everything. He really hopes it will.

"That's nice...," Jesse says. He still sounds confused, and Tim curses under his breath. So much for understanding.

Tim chances a glance at the liquor to his right, unsurprised to see that it's now mocking him for making the wrong decision. He gives a little inward sigh.

"I just...called to say goodnight," he tells Jesse, shaking his head at the lame statement.

"Lint? Are you all ri--," Jesse cuts himself off when the line goes dead, pulling the reciever away from his ear and staring at it wonderingly.

Tim looks forlornly at the phone then reaches for the liquor, picking it up and falling back, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders.