Pete's room was fairly humble, not exactly roomy and the combined smoke from the incense they were burning and their cigarettes engulfed it. Pete half considered opening the window, but it was too cold outside, and pneumonia totally wasn't goth.
Something felt off in the way that Michael's hands scrambled over his phone screen, and the intense look on his face, like he was focusing really hard on something. His friend hoped he'd say what it was soon because it was excruciating straining his eyes against the smoke to get a good look at his face.
"I don't think I can go home tonight," he announced, before elaborating, "dad and I got into a screaming match via iPhone 5," he pointed the screen at Pete who skimmed the conversation, only registering the excessive use of capital letters and the amount of texts his dad had typed vs the amount he had sent back.
"Wanna sleep over?" Pete offered as he edged closer to Michael and, goddamn, the smoke was making his eyes water so he wiped them with the back of his sleeve, "if you wanna, I mean," he added softly.
"Thanks," Michael had the habit of being very deadpan about everything, Pete wasn't sure if he was always serious, or if it was some new level of nonconformity that even he couldn't understand.
Still, Michael's eyes bore through his in a way that made his chest tighten every time he spoke. He shifted in his seat and picked at his black nail polish, which was already chipping somehow.
"Pete, dude," the taller of the two waved his hand in front of his friend's face, "why are you so nervous?" and when he saw no answer was coming, "we've been intimate enough."
Pete almost laughed, but it came out as more of a scoff and the corners of his mouth edged upwards. It was a rare sight, "if you count making out with Beetlejuice playing in the background as 'intimate', then we have been intimate, yeah."
The incense smelled noticeably of lavender and it was evident against the potent smell of their cigarettes. Pete preferred cloves. Michael commented that that was the gayest thing Peter had ever said. They moved familiarly closer to each other and Pete took refuge in the way Michael nuzzled against his hair before announcing, "you need to get your roots done."
Peter Grey rolled his eyes so hard he felt them descend into the back of his head as he gingerly pressed his mouth against Michael's collarbone, biting down gently, leaving tiny teeth marks in pale flesh. Michael hummed gently and leaned forward to the speaker to turn the music up, before leaning back against the wall and tangling his hand in Peter's hair.
When you grovel at my feet
Oh sin in my heart
It's short and sweet, oh
Siouxsie Sioux drowned out the sound of Peter nibbling constellations into his neck like a leech as he shifted onto his lap and straddled his tights before pulling away.
"Your dad's a dick," the younger of the two began, wiping his mouth with one hand and running his fingers along the bruised skin of Michael's under-eye with the other. He cringed lightly, and Pete pulled his hand away, "we should put laxatives in his morning tea or something," and Michael erupted into airy giggles.
Pete was sure no one had ever seen his best friend laugh like this, he seemed to function on a dangerously high stoic level. But there he was, his face contorted with laughter with his hands on Pete's sides, "my face would be in an obituary, Peter."
Peter Grey placed his hands over Michael's and shifted in his lap slightly, "I'd be lying if I said romantic endeavors weren't the definition of conformity," he began, the silence in between songs emphasizing his point, "but I really wanna kiss you right now."
But oh, oh your city lies in dust, my friend
Oh, oh, your city lies in dust, my friend
"I'd call you out on it, but," Michael leaned closer until his breath ghosted against Peter's lips, "I'm no saint either," he announced, pressing his mouth against his hastily. It wasn't an extraordinary expression of his courtship powers, they cautiously moved against each other like it was the first time they'd done it.
Truth be told, Pete was never a big fan of kissing, he thought it was too sticky. But the way Michael's skin felt hot as he pressed one of his hands to the back of his neck reminded him the world was alive.