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Homestar always finds himself down in that basement one way or another, but it’s rare that he’s actually invited.
There was a slow progression, from Strong Bad tolerating him walking in unannounced, all the way to inviting him in to see the pay per view channel he’d managed to unscramble. It could have just been a means to brag but Homestar was grateful, anyway. They could always find some old VHS tapes to watch, or make a game of finding the worst thing between the couch cushions; Strong Bad is industrious like that. All of his ideas somehow end up being the most fun Homestar has all week. There are still holes in the ceiling tiles from all of the pencils they’ve gotten stuck up there, piles of bottlecaps that have rolled underneath the couch, and for sure, at least one half-melted army man trapped under the television cabinet. Homestar ends up in that house more often than his own.
If they drag the console downstairs to play video games, or find some old movie to watch, he’s generally sitting on the bare concrete floor. Sometimes Strong Bad sits down there with him just to reach the controller, but usually, he stays up on the couch. Homestar’s used to getting kicked off of it. It’s not really a problem. At least on the floor, he can sit more comfortably with his legs bent, or have easier access to the knob on the TV in case they lose the remote. That doesn’t mean he won’t try to sit on the couch, but Strong Bad doesn’t want his buttprint imprinted over. And, there was that time Homestar accidentally sat on his lap, which didn’t go well for either of them.
Strong Bad’s ideas on ways to pass time eventually culminate in inviting Homestar to a concert. It’s some really old metal band he’s never heard of – the Bone Skins or the Bone Splints, something gruesome – but Strong Bad promises it’ll be the most fun thing, maybe ever. Homestar is inclined to agree. It was a sudden invite, two days before the show, but Homestar can’t be insulted by the chance to spend time with his best friend.
The night of the show finds them both in Strong Bad’s messy bathroom, two hours before they have to leave, with Homestar turning anxiously to look in the mirror. Strong Bad is very nearly blocking his view of the stitching on the backs of his jeans.
“Would you stop? You look fine.” Strong Bad says, smudging something onto his face.
“I never took these ones out before,” Homestar bites his lip. “Think they fit right?”
“Yeah, they fit ‘wight’, don’t worry about it.” Strong Bad tries to ignore Homestar wiggling his ass around in the mirror directly behind him. He focuses instead on the task at hand, which is artfully blurring the liner under his eyes. “No better time to learn about rock concert etiquette than now, and that includes jeans ripped to the nines.”
Homestar finally gives up and sits on the toilet lid, leaning to watch Strong Bad work. “Your pants aren’t ripped.”
“No, man, you don’t rip leather pants.” He shakes one heeled boot at Homestar pointedly. “If I wore ripped jeans and pleated boots, that’d be way too much texture for a guy who’s not going onstage.”
Homestar looks down at his own shoes and taps his toes together. Strong Bad had suggested he pick his darkest pair of sneakers, and from the limited selection he had to work with, that ended up being the black Converse from some Halloween costume a few years ago. He had dirtied them on purpose, and figured they would be grungy enough for Strong Bad’s tastes. The black jeans were ones that had been ripped on accident on Marzipan’s garden fence. He was warned about the dangers of wearing a different band’s shirt to a concert, so he picked one with a cool bird on it over dark long sleeves. He had to admit, he felt appropriately dressed, but it was nothing compared to Strong Bad’s simple yet effective style. The leather pants led up to a studded belt, which had maybe the coolest silver belt buckle Homestar had ever seen squarely on the front, and a pink spotted bandanna around his head, which he had teased a few strands of hair out of. It was a practiced look that Strong Bad made so effortless.
When Homestar leans further, he can see Strong Bad look up in the mirror, glancing to his side.
“What?”
“You’re wearing makeup.”
“Duh.” Strong Bad rolls his eyes, starting on the other side with the tip of his little finger. “This is an eyeliner kind of band. Not the girly kind, either, but see? Just enough to make it look like I’ve already been partying all night.” Homestar approaches to see for himself, and watches Strong Bad work the edge of his lower eyelid until there’s a visible smudge of black.
“Ohh, I get it.”
He moves to lean on the edge of the bathtub instead, getting a better look from the side. The length of Strong Bad’s hair is tied back out of the way, and Homestar can see his tongue caught between his lips.
“I like it, I guess.” Homestar shrugs. “Y’know, Marzipan never does cool makeup like that. Or at all. She just puts coconuts on her face.”
“…You mean coconut oil?”
“That, too.”
Strong Bad shakes his head, adjusting his elbow to get a closer look in the mirror. “Don’t compare me to your girlfriend, man. It’s weird.”
“You mean ex-girlfriend, and, this is kind of like a date.” Homestar smiles at the look Strong Bad levels him with. “We’re gettin’ all dressed up and going out! Like a date.”
“Don’t.”
Strong Bad forces the cap back onto the eyeliner pen, tossing it into a bag full of other similar products with undue force.
“Listen,” He says, pushing a finger at Homestar. “The only reason you are here is because going to a concert alone is for creeps and nerds, and Strong Sad has been banned from show-going. And, I have to see this band before I die, or else none of it was worth it. Capisce?"
Homestar sways his shoulders back and forth, cheekily. “Whatever you say, puddin’.”
Strong Bad’s pouty lip comes back, and it’s all Homestar can do to keep from laughing. He turns his attention back to the mirror, pulling his hair out of the rubber band to tease it back out, being careful of the bandanna.
“None of that crap when we get there, alright? And no running off, either. These are good seats.”
“Yes sir, mister ticketmaster!” Homestar gives an unconvincing salute.
Before they leave, Strong Bad puts a well-loved leather jacket on to complete the look, and makes double sure he has the two tickets in his pocket. Homestar can’t shake the quivering feeling in his stomach all the way to the bus stop. He thinks it must just be cold outside, well after the sun has set, with only a thin sport shirt keeping him warm against the wind chill. He keeps his hands shoved in his jeans pockets and looks to Strong Bad for a distraction. Strong Bad has been telling him all about the band they’re going to see, although it occurs to him that he hasn’t been listening, because Strong Bad is already most of the way through their discography and well past the names of the band members. How he remembers all of this stuff is simply a mystery.
On the bus to the venue, Homestar finds a penny on the floor, and Strong Bad tells him he already has too much insane luck to justify keeping it. Homestar can’t exactly argue with that, watching Strong Bad laugh at his own joke. He’s looking away toward the back window, unaware when Homestar slips the penny in his pocket anyway.
The concert is a different scene altogether. They were allowed in without issue, and the inside of the stadium is not only loud, but packed with all shapes and sizes of people. If not for the loud pink of Strong Bad’s headband, Homestar might have lost him. He’s really the most dressed up, anyway; everyone else is more casually dressed in sneakers and t-shirts. They must not have heard about rock concert etiquette. Homestar feels a greater appreciation for the rips in his jeans. When they do find their seats, they’re fairly close to the stage, and surrounded on all sides by wide swaths of fans. They must have missed the opening band, although Strong Bad doesn’t seem to be concerned. He barely has enough time to finish telling Homestar about the later years of the band before the show starts.
It’s good music, even if it’s a little brutal for Homestar’s tastes. He’s finding it hard to get comfortable in the stadium seat. He looks over to complain about something sticky on the bottom of the chair, but Strong Bad is transfixed by the lead guitarist, which is fair, honestly. Homestar sits back in the stiff chair, pulling his sticky fingers apart. He wonders if there are concessions. Looking around, he does see a beer can sandwiched between someone’s knees. It’s an option, although he felt more like nachos. They should have eaten before they left. When he taps Strong Bad’s shoulder to see if he can borrow some cash though, he’s shushed.
“Come on, man, you can’t leave now! They’re about to do Brain Rot!” Strong Bad tries to shout over the sound of the audience applause. Homestar frowns, looking back and forth between him and the stairs. “We can do food when we get back, alright? Just stay put.” He pats Homestar with a warm hand, either reassuringly or to get his hand off his shoulder, it’s unclear. Homestar feels that shiver in his gut again. He stays put. It’s more fun here, anyway.
He focuses on the audience for a lot of the show. The bass is coming off loud enough to make his chest rumble, and sometimes, it feels like his heart is beating too much. Strong Bad doesn’t seem otherwise affected by the noise. After a very intense guitar solo he whips off his bandanna, swinging it around by the knot and shouting, letting his bangs fan down across his face. The rest of his hair falls in dark sweeps over his shoulders. Homestar watches it shine in the different colored lights. When Strong Bad flops back into his seat, bandanna in his lap, his shoulder rests heavily against Homestar’s. He’s a warm weight, settling there and running his hands back through his bangs. Homestar’s stomach feels tight until the ballad starts.
It’s less an actual ballad and more of a slower song with less deep-throated screaming, and the perfect time for everyone to raise their cell phone screens to sway along with each other. With his phone held up, Homestar looks down to see Strong Bad dig through one of his pockets, produce his lighter, and spark a flame to hold up instead. He snorts, and Strong Bad catches him looking. He insists that it’s the only proper way to show appreciation. That sounded about right.
Whether he likes the music or not, he thinks, it’s still one of the best evenings he’s had recently. Dates included.
It occurs to him that Marzipan would hate this. The fog machine might have dangerous chemicals in it, she would say. The laser lights and pyrotechnics are fire hazards. They shouldn’t sell beer in public. All of these people smell bad. She would find any reason to drag them out of there early and do something else.
Strong Bad wouldn’t, though. He’s throwing himself fully into the experience, gripping his seat during guitar riffs and shouting until he’s hoarse. Marzipan would call him impolite. He’s messy, he’s inconsiderate, he’s uncouth. Homestar doesn’t think that’s a bad thing at all. He wishes he could stick pencils into the ceiling like Strong Bad can, or burp loud enough to shake walls, or draw cartoons that are so funny they make soda shoot out of people’s noses.
He just makes it look so easy. Everything should be this easy.
The show ends after one of the loudest and most exhilarating hours of both of their lives. When they find their way up the stadium stairs, Strong Bad is still sticking close to him, and it makes the headache from the lights all worth it, mostly. On the way out, they pause by a merchandise stand to buy shirts, and Homestar pays for both of theirs as thanks for the tickets. When asked for his size, Strong Bad asserts that he is ‘large and in charge’. Homestar agrees on the same and hands over his card.
Strong Bad doesn’t seem bothered that he picked two identical shirts.
“Now that was pretty cool.” Homestar says once they’re outside on the curb, past the ticket stand, safe from the noise of the crowds.
“Pretty cool? Try mind-blowingly, face-meltingly amazing,” Strong Bad shouts. His voice is a little hoarse, still loud from the carryover of the noise. “Did you see those kickawesome windmilling moves? Those explosions, those lasers?”
“Yeah, super cool!”
“And when Donny totally shredded that solo, like, face down on the stage? Right where a hundred other dudes had their spiky heels? Man, I only wish we were sitting closer.”
They were sitting plenty close for Homestar. When they step off the curb and down onto the crosswalk, Strong Bad’s heel misses the landing and he stumbles forward, grabbing Homestar’s arm for balance. He’s not wearing the highest heels in the world, but post-show bliss is one hell of a drug. Homestar won’t move to shake him off. He’s heavy, but his hands are warm over Homestar’s sleeves. Strong Bad continues on about the show until the bus comes, when they flop down into their seats, and he stays right by Homestar’s side. Strong Bad’s arms are much looser than they were before. He gestures broadly as he talks, runs his hands through his hair, and occasionally whacks Homestar on the knee for a certain emphasis. Homestar feels the weight of their shirts in the bag he was forced to carry. He wouldn’t have pegged Strong Bad for a large, although he is certainly not small. Short, maybe. But he takes up plenty of space on his own. Neither of them notice the looks from the other people on the bus. It feels like it’s just them. That feeling only gets stronger, better, when they get off at their stop by the track, where the last paved street in the neighborhood ends. Homestar helps Strong Bad tromp through the uneven grass behind the line of houses.
They wind up back at Strong Bad’s, where the solid white front of the house is shadowed by the dark windows. Strong Bad digs for his keys by dim porchlight.
“Man, I feel like a couple cold ones.” He says, leaning up against the door to poke his key at the lock.
“Hecks yeah, party all night, right?” Homestar pulls at his own eyelid with a finger. Strong Bad looks up, confused for a second before he understands, laughing softly.
“Yeah, I even have some of those old experimental EP’s I was tellin’ you about. C’mon.”
Strong Bad’s leather jacket hits the back of a kitchen chair as soon as they get in. They take a brief detour in the kitchen to make what might generously be called nachos – the biggest plate Strong Bad could find, loaded with chips and shredded cheese from a bag, then nuked in the microwave and covered with jarred jalapeños – and to grab two bottles of beer before heading down to the basement. Homestar drops the bag with the shirts by the entryway, listening for Strong Bad clomping down the stairs after him. The chains on his boots jingle when he plops down on the couch. Homestar sits down on the other end of the couch without hesitation.
Strong Bad does a few things within the next five minutes or so, including popping a sealed bottlecap with his bare hand, shoving a handful of nachos in his mouth, and getting up to root around in a box full of CD’s.
One thing he doesn’t do is kick Homestar off of the couch.
He turns down the volume on the radio and sits back down. The guitar is much softer, the vocals gentler than what they heard at the show. The ceiling lights are off, and some infomercial on the old TV is lighting the space in front of the couch, casting a soft glow over them both.
Between the occasional swigs of beer, Strong Bad tells Homestar about some old college project about cataloguing cassette tapes. Homestar remembers the old radio station.
The nachos are finished quickly between the two of them, with Homestar avoiding the jalapeños. Homestar keeps his eyes on the one strand of hair Strong Bad has over his nose. He has no clue what time it is.
It startles him back into focus when one of Strong Bad’s hands extends toward his face, reaching up to bat at the brim of his hat.
“Should’ve had you take this thing off before we left,” he says, snatching the hat off of Homestar’s head. “Bet the guys sitting behind us had a good laugh.”
“Naw, propeller caps are totally punk rock.” Homestar jokes. “You know, way less mainstream is all.”
“Oh yeah, totally,” Strong Bad flicks the propeller before he can stop himself. “Punk against punk, I get it. That’s Homestar, for you.” He sets the hat aside on the cushion instead of handing it back.
“You totally stuck it to the man, too.”
“What?”
Homestar leans over on the couch to touch the side of the pink bandanna. Strong Bad reaches up and brushes his fingers out of the way, slipping it off his head again.
“Everyone else was in, like, school clothes. You looked way more rock ‘n roll than all of them combined.” Homestar leaves his arm there on the back of the couch. Strong Bad’s loose bangs have fallen into his eyes again, and Homestar immediately moves to scoot them out of the way. He gets his hand shooed backward.
“Of course, I’m the rock ‘n roll expert! They wish they had my kind of style.” Strong Bad says, pushing himself up off the couch. He shakes his mostly empty beer bottle, listening for the hollow slosh. “I’m going up for another one. You in?”
“I’ve still got half.” Homestar holds up the beer he’s been nursing. Strong Bad shrugs, leaning in to grab the empty plate off the couch before he leaves. That distinct leather smell and his cologne lingers in front of Homestar. His heart beats up into his throat.
He traces his fingers over the divot left by the plate, smoothing out the well-worn fabric. The bottle feels heavier in his lap. That’s Homestar, for you. He doesn’t remember anybody laughing at them. He doesn’t remember being looked at at all by anyone other than Strong Bad. Being laughed at has never really mattered to him, anyway. Marzipan laughs at him all the time. Strong Bad even laughs at him.
He smiles a little to himself, remembering the last spring barbecue, when Strong Bad offered him a beer that had been viciously shaken up when he wasn’t looking. Strong Bad laughed so hard he’d fallen off the table. The points at the bottom of his mask usually cover up the way his cheeks dimple, but tonight, Homestar got to see them every time. He’d take the brunt of any prank for that.
Not as though he never got him back, either. The look on Strong Bad’s face when he fell victim to a bucket of water over a doorway was even more priceless.
When he hears the jingle-clomp of Strong Bad’s boots on the stairs again, though, Homestar gets an idea. He slips the pink bandanna over the top of his hat and shoves it back on his head, leaning back against the arm of the couch ever-so-casually, looking back toward the sound.
Strong Bad takes an awkward step and wobbles into the side of the doorway, catching himself with the hand not holding the bottle. Homestar sits up a little, watching him cross the room the rest of the way and drop down onto the couch, closer this time on the crease between the cushions.
“Freakin’ boots. Beauty is pain, huh?” He says, finally looking up at Homestar and, more accurately, his hat.
“Oh yeah. Got the best of both worlds, now.” Homestar points to the bandanna. Strong Bad glances between it and him before he laughs, barely an exhale, eyebrows raised. It scrunches his eyes up so genuinely, Homestar has to beam proudly. He takes one drink out of the new bottle before he leans down to set it on the floor, putting his shoulder into the back of the couch when he comes back up.
“Here,” Strong Bad gestures loosely for Homestar to move forward. He takes the brim of the hat, twisting it to sit backwards on Homestar’s head, tugging his bangs forward with the friction. He sweeps them aside with a careful thumb. “Like that. Now that’s thoroughly punked rock.”
“Think so?”
“Oh yeah. Lookin’ like a total rockstar.”
“Like a Homestar.”
Strong Bad snorts, pushing Homestar away gently. The hand stays there against his shoulder. His hair has fallen just past his cheek with the movement, and Homestar can’t resist this time, either.
He lifts a hand to brush the strands to the side, cold fingers ghosting over the burning cheek underneath them. Strong Bad looks up at him with those green eyes. He never gets to see them up close like this.
“Got hair in your face.” Homestar says, so softly.
“Uh huh.”
Those eyes flick down, then back up. His knee shifts into Homestar’s thigh.
“Didn’t know if you…”
“Yeah.”
Homestar lets his eyes close. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.
There’s a too-soft pressure on his lips, and he presses back, like it would be rude not to. The hand on him moves up, fingers curling around his shoulder. He angles his head just enough; a confirmation. Strong Bad pushes even closer, and Homestar lets both hands drift into his hair to push it behind his ears.
He doesn’t notice how far back they’d moved until the couch arm nudges into his back, and his hip is bent awkwardly to one side. Homestar straightens out his legs, feeling Strong Bad rise up on one knee between them, both hands on his shoulders urging him backward. He deepens the kiss. Homestar tries to remember what to do with his tongue. He expects beer and jalapeño, but instead, he tastes beer and… spearmint. Holy crap. Was he thinking about this all night?
Homestar opens his eyes just long enough to see Strong Bad’s hand fly up and shove the hat off his head, knocking it onto the basement floor. The hand buries itself in his curls. He’s okay with not knowing.
The rest of the night passes in blurry increments. Homestar’s shirts get briefly tangled over his head before they end up slung over the TV. They laugh when their mouths get tired. Strong Bad doesn’t love having his hair played with, but Homestar does. Homestar stares at the holes in the ceiling tiles while Strong Bad kisses on his throat. Both of them doze off, and neither of them remember who went first.
Strong Bad still doesn’t kick him off of the couch.
--
Homestar feels like he’s been flattened.
The wood in the couch arm is digging into his upper back, and he’s itching from the scratchy fabric. His left arm has fallen asleep. His teeth taste fuzzy, like stale beer. He’s too hot and too cold all at once. Something is crushing his chest.
Oh, right.
He hums, lifting the hand that’s dangling off the edge of the couch to pick some of Strong Bad’s hair out of his mouth. He spits it out with a pronounced ‘ptoo’ and goes to sit up, but Strong Bad is a dead weight on top of him. Ever so gently, he shakes his shoulder.
Strong Bad mumbles something unintelligible and shoves his face into Homestar’s chest.
“Strong Bad,” he whispers loudly, shaking him harder. “You fell asleep.”
He shifts some, lifting up onto his elbow to look around the room. Squinting, he double takes at Homestar’s bare chest before throwing himself up to sit between his legs.
“Woah,” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Really passed out there, huh?”
“Yeah, seriously.” Homestar sits up to face him, balancing on his good arm. Strong Bad’s eyes keep flicking down to his neck.
“What time is it?”
“Uh,” Homestar shoves the now-tingling hand in his pocket, lifting his cell phone to see the little top screen. “Wow, it’s early. It’s two in the morning!”
“We fell asleep at two in the morning. It’s two in the afternoon, ding dong.” Strong Bad pushes at his hand, knocking the phone into his lap. At some point in the past they had all rallied together to convince Homestar to get rid of his gigantic 1990’s brick phone, replacing it with a dinky little flip phone. He’s still figuring out all of the little buttons, although it has gotten easier to carry it around with him. He doesn’t need that junky belt clip anymore.
When Homestar looks up, Strong Bad is idly focused on his neck. He tries to see if he has something stuck there, but can’t seem to crane his neck far enough.
“Do I have something on me?” He asks, and Strong Bad shakes his head.
“No, except for a freakin’ mess of hickies.” Strong Bad’s grin falters. If Homestar didn’t know any better, he might say he looked embarrassed, but that was impossible.
“Oh, man,” Homestar says, still smiling. “Marzipan’s gonna hit the ceiling when I tell her!”
Strong Bad sits back on the couch, untangling their legs. Homestar leans even closer and holds a hand over the dark spots, wishing he could see them better, trying to think of the last time he even had a hickey. At least they don’t hurt. They felt more like a badge of honor, if he was being honest.
“Yeah, y’know, maybe we don’t have to tell the whole neighborhood it was me.” Strong Bad shrugs. “I don’t exactly need her running down here and smacking me with her guitar.”
“Well, if I don’t, she’ll think I gave them to myself with the vacuum again.”
He sees Strong Bad look between his face, his neck, and his chest again before he bites his lip, thinking. Homestar feels like he’s watching another grand scheme being hatched. He can always see the cogs turning when Strong Bad figures out an escape plan, seconds before some brilliant leap. It’s better than any action movie sequence he’s ever seen, not including the ones Strong Bad himself has filmed. There’s no telling what he could come up with this time.
As if on cue, Strong Bad clicks his tongue and jams a hand between the couch cushions. Homestar watches with rapt attention as he digs around, tongue caught between his lips, arm sliding around against the fabric. It takes only a few seconds for him to produce a mysterious fat, black tube. He uncaps it and twists, revealing red, red lipstick.
“…Um,” Homestar points questioningly.
“Oh, The Cheat has girls over all the time. They always leave their crap laying around.”
“Isn’t that… gross?”
“Nah, germs die when you leave ‘em long enough, right?” Strong Bad holds the tube up and points to the TV. “Grab your shirt.”
Homestar scrambles up off the couch, insanely curious, to pull his shirts off the television cabinet and turn them right-side-out together. He tries to hand them to Strong Bad, only to be told to put them back on. He can’t deny that he notices the stare while he stretches his arms over his head. Pulling them on hastily gets him caught up in the sleeves, but after a second, he’s able to right himself and sit back down with a huff. He looks over at the perfect moment to watch Strong Bad apply the lipstick.
He straightens his lip, sweeping a bold stripe of deep red across it, then up around his top lip. He’s not at all careful, either. Between that and the smudged eyeliner, he looks more and more like the Limozeen poster in the corner. Homestar is completely floored until he’s beckoned forward.
Strong Bad kisses him twice: Once just under his ear, and once sloppily over one of the hickies he left. They’re rougher, more purposeful than the night before. Homestar misses that soft pressure. On the neckline of his white t-shirt, Strong Bad leaves a very clear, very red lip print and then smears his mouth with a flourish against the fabric. Homestar looks down to see the marks.
“Aw, I liked this shirt.” He frowns.
“Relax, it comes out with rubbing alcohol.” Strong Bad says, wiping his mouth on his arm. “But that’s a filthy groupie schmear if I ever saw one. She can’t not think you shacked up with some hot concert babe.”
“Awesome.” Homestar laughs, pulling his shirt out to see the extent of the damage. The lip print is as pronounced as it could possibly be. Nothing would make Marzipan more jealous than a sloppy stranger. Homestar can practically see her face, and the little crease between her eyebrows when he pisses her off. The fact that it was undoubtedly Strong Bad would just have to be their little secret.
Strong Bad has gotten pretty much all of the lipstick off, tossing the tube somewhere over the back of the couch. Homestar nudges his knee.
“Thanks, Strong Bad. You’re, like, the best friend ever.”
Strong Bad freezes with his hand halfway to his mouth, eyes on the floor.
“…Yeah.”
He must not be used to stuff like that. Homestar makes a mental note to say it more often.
He gets up and bends to take Homestar’s hat from where it had fallen, shoving it back over his messy curls, careful to take the bandanna off of it. Homestar splutters and reaches up to fix the brim.
“Better get moving if you wanna catch Marzipan at the tail end of her hot yoga.”
“Oh, crap!” Homestar stumbles off the couch, pulling the hem of his shirt to right it. On his way out, he snags one of the band shirts from the paper bag by the doorway, bumping Strong Bad’s shoulder with it. “See you later, S-Bro!”
“Yeah, sure.”
Homestar runs out of the basement quickly, holding the shirt to his chest. He passes Strong Sad by the washing machine and doesn’t find the time to wave to him.
He figures the mad dash back to his and Marzipan’s will more than make up for the morning run he missed. It’s not the most exciting idea to keep a room in his ex-girlfriend’s house, but it’s better than couchsurfing or having to pay for some big empty house. Marzipan claims they’re being economical this way. Homestar won’t disagree with a free place to crash, even if it does mean he gets kicked out some days anyway. He always has the basement to go back to.
Digging around in his pockets for his keys on the front stoop, he realizes he’s left his phone at Strong Bad’s. Oh well, he can go over and get it later. Maybe he can ask for a second round on the couch, too. He knew going to that concert would make it the best night ever, and he was right, it certainly was a date if he ever saw one. It even ended better than most of his other dates. He didn’t know beer and nachos were the perfect combination, but he’s going to have to remember that next time he goes over there.
When Homestar thinks he’s found his housekey, his finger brushes something else. He pulls it up from his pocket.
He holds up the penny from the bus.
He looks back at the front door, touching the penny to the lipstick marks on his throat. They feel a little warm and tingly. Maybe he should go back for his cell phone now.