"Pete," Michael began, his drone was consistent and sort of airy, like the kind of noise you make when you've just woken up, "why are we sober at four in the morning? Unless you're waiting for the right time to ask for my hand in marriage," and shame pooled in my stomach at the thought of him knowing all the bullshit I felt about him. He let out this laugh that sounded more like a scoff than anything else. Maybe it was.
I picked at my chipping nail polish and thought of something witty to say, though nothing really came out beyond: "We can go to bed if you want."
His gaze shifted so he was looking at me, his eyes looked dark and sunken and I wondered if he ever slept. I thought about how his sleep patterns must have been at least more consistent than mine before realizing he was half-staring at me. Elaborating seemed like a good idea.
"I mean," words were hard, "if you're tired," I felt like a fucking idiot jabbing in the dark trying to form partially coherent sentences he could respond to.
"I guess," was all he said and he ran a hand through his curly hair. I was staring at his jawline for a good 20 seconds before processing what he had told me, "Pete, what's up?"
"Nothing," my chest felt tight in some weird pseudo-philosophical way, like how writers would describe their melancholy and sorrow with a metaphor about dead trees, "why?"
"You're looking at me funny."
"Whatever."
Still, I wondered if I should say anything, the silence beckoned and I found myself clinging to any semblance of attention. I sighed. He sighed in return.
"Michael," I began, not quite sure what I would say, "do you ever wonder if anyone would care if we died?" 4AM was a good time for questions like those.
"I'd care if you died," he responded instantly, like he knew what I was thinking. He probably didn't, "you're the only cool person in this shitty town," a warm feeling bubbled in my chest at that, I tried to ignore it.
"You too," my voice sounded foreign in my ears, though I never was a fan of it. I felt awkward speaking.
"I'm tired."
"Go to bed," I said, "unless you were serious about the marriage thing."
"Maybe I was," he deadpanned and it took me a moment to realize he wasn't being serious. I heard someone say every joke has some truth in it, "I'll settle for hugging under large amounts of blankets, though."
I felt insecure about my shitty bed and how messy it was, I tried to remember the last time I had made it. The soft pillow shooed my worries away and replaced them with a sleepy mist. It was probably subconscious. Michael commented something about my bedsheets smelling nice as he pulled me closer towards his chest, effectively holding me in place. Fuck him and his long arms. I inhaled against his neck, shutting my eyes at the potent smell of cigarettes and cologne. He rubbed circles against my back and I wondered if he saw anything in this.
Maybe I was reading too deep into something that, to him, didn't mean anything. I was probably wrong, He mumbled something I didn't quite catch and I figured it must have been important. I'd ask him in the morning.
