If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Rossi Glendale in the four days he’s been my flatmate, it’s that he likes to pretend I don’t exist. I think the only form of recognition he’s given me so far is a sleepy glare in the mornings and a shopping list on the counter.

And that he likes to stand with one hand on his hip–literally. Not on the shirt over his hip, but with his hand under the shirt. Either that or his thumb is hooked through his belt loops or the waistband of his jeans and just kind of rests there. So when I go into the kitchen I see him and his lanky self, either staring out the window or reading the paper or doing something equally odd to be done in a kitchen.

And it’s not like I’m trying to pin some sort of habit to him; no, because I’ve already got one. And as lame as it is, it exists.

His hair is always pulled back.

It’s almost never in a ponytail, just a messily-done bob at the back of his head sporting long strands of hair that twist every which way, black as tar but with much more shine. Occasionally he uses real hair ties, like the ones my girlfriends will use, but normally they’re just rubber bands that look like they’d hurt to try and pull out. Maybe that’s why my hair never gets past my jaw–because I don’t want to have to think about tying it back when I go to work. I’d look awful, for sure.

I’m thinking about this still, when–lo and behold–he comes into the kitchen and like clockwork I exit, semi-automatically changing places. We’ve come to some sort of agreement, I guess: he avoids me as much as possible and I’m just kind of there, complying with his wishes to avoid starting some huge, idiotic conflict. He’s never actually said he wants me, straight up, to go away, but that’s the kind of vibe I get whenever I get near-ish to him. I just hope he doesn’t feel like I’m avoiding him or something.

I realize I have nowhere to go now, because what I wanted to do was eat–and food happened to be, coincidentally, in the kitchen. Not in the crappy foyer-wannabe I was standing in. But I had no backbone at all, and definitely no wish to confront him just so I could eat. For some crazy, inexplicable reason, Rossi Glendale scared me. Really, really, actually seriously honest-to-God scared me. I had no idea why.

So to take my mind off my stomach I needed something to do. Like going to visit the Alzheimer’s patients–but that would require going into work when I didn’t have to, and I didn’t feel like going in unless necessary. Or maybe I could find that stray cat that hangs out around the lobby and play with it–it likes me, I think. I could go and walk the dog–who, since it came with the apartment, belongs to both me and him equally, I guess–but I don’t think the dog, whose name is Maximilian Opal, would appreciate me smelling like cat. So I’d have to skip playing with the kitty and just walk Max–

Over the same cliff my inspiration was falling off. I had no way to occupy myself except for listening to the music that I was just now noticing from the kitchen. And a voice that accompanied it, one that was kind of familiar when I paired it with a snatch of song that I vaguely remembered, but didn’t have that same through-the-radio quality that the rest of the music did–

And once again my train of thought exploded as I realized that it was the guy I shared my apartment with singing. As in, Rossi Glendale, going through the chorus of ‘Williamsburg’ like nobody’s business, probably either not caring that I was here or actually forgetting that I existed. And, to my surprise, he was good. His voice had that crazy addictive quality to it that the best of singers had, giving off the impression he’d be able to hit any note you threw at him.

Maybe he was off-guard and he wouldn’t scare me so much if I came in unexpectedly. That plan I dismissed as stupid in my rational consciousness, but my body acted on it and before I knew it, I’d stuck my head into the kitchen, found him leaning against the counter, and put my vocal cords to use.

“Are you singing?”

Oh my god. Even to my own ears my tone sounded at least incredulous or disbelieving, or possibly even amazed. I was an idiot.

His voice didn’t jolt or quaver at all, but he finished the last line and turned the volume down and looked at me. I almost looked away, trying to become as invisible as I wished I was right now.

“Yeah,” he said finally, and I relaxed a little bit. He hadn’t killed me yet! That was a new record; one civil word and maybe more. “Is that so surprising?”

Mentally, I winced. Okay, not so civil. But it was sort of surprising. “Uhm...a little..” I said, really wanting to look away now. Or run away, whichever was faster.

“Hmph.” He snorted, turning his head to look out the window thoughtfully. I fidgeted, shifting my weight uneasily and waiting for some verbal rebuke, but instead he just turned back and gave me that thoughtful look like he was trying to decide whether or not to tell me something. Finally, I guess he made a choice because he began to speak again. “You know the band Arctic Shine?”

I nodded carefully, not knowing where he was going with this. Something in the back of my head lit up and was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t figure out what exactly it was. “What about them?”

“That’s my band.”

“Oh.” Once again his voice and that bit of song entered my head, but this time I remembered them both. The song was ‘Apocalypse Flourishing’, which was a rather popular song, and I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed it before. But I was never one for really knowing a band beyond their songs and band members. “Oh!”

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” He glanced away again before raising an eyebrow at me. “I’m going back on tour tomorrow, actually. This was a vacation before we had to start playing again.”

“Oh.” I shuddered at how lame I sounded, but what was I supposed to say? Start spewing praise songs at how his voice had captivated audiences around the world? “Cool.” But that was even worse.

He regarded me critically for a moment. “Come with me.”

“Oh–what?” I blinked in confusion, staring at him. What had he just said? For a second there it had sounded like ‘come with me’.

“I want you to go on tour with me,” he explained slowly. “Like, on the tour bus and everything. Go to the shows and suchlike.”

“I knew that!” I snapped, blushing a bit. “But I can’t just–drop everything and leave town! I’ve got a job, I’ve got–”

I cut myself off, pausing in my irritation to notice that my job was basically the only reason I couldn’t leave. As crazy as it sounded–what would I do, anyway?–the only thing stopping me from leaving with him was work.

“We can arrange for you to get time off,” he said smoothly, picking up where I’d left off. “You’d be a tour manager of a sort–it wouldn’t be that hard–can you play any instruments?”

“Uhm...” Again I was at a loss for words; I thought back and picked one instrument that I was reasonably good at playing. But oh, it was embarrassing. “The violin. Regular and electric.”

“Electric violin?” He asked, not sounding at all wowed. I was slightly put off, but more grateful that he hadn’t burst into hysterics. “That might be kind of useful, actually.”

“In what world?” I muttered under my breath. When he looked at me I just shook my head like I hadn’t been paying attention and said, “So you’re being serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack,” he confirmed, giving a tiny nod. I was not very reassured, but he could probably sense this. “Look, the tour bus will be here tonight so you can meet them then. Call your boss, see if you can get some time off. We’ll work it out.”

He stood upright and made to leave, brushing past me, but I whirled around and called after him. “Wait!”

He stopped, looking back at me over his shoulder. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and shot.

“How long?”

He smirked.

“As long as we want.”

He left, and I was left with adrenaline and a resolve to do something incredibly stupid racing through my veins.

I was going to go call my boss (who happened to be my best friend, sadly enough), cash in all the favors she owed me, and then I was going to meet Rossi Glendale’s bandmates.

And then tomorrow, I was going to go on tour with Arctic Shine.