The sound of the drum is calling
The sound of the drum has called
Flash of youth shoot out of darkness
Factorytown
Bauhaus - "All We Ever Wanted Was Everything"
It came as no surprise to anyone when Michael Lynch and Pete Grey concluded the couple of years prior with moving in to a shitty apartment, but it still required some explanation.
Cold summer days fazed Michael, who, pursuing a more alternative way of existing, did not enjoy the summer heat and yearned for the sun to set, because he liked boots and black shirts. During July, that was a problem.
And while Michael remained fazed as he slowly slithered along the sidewalk at 9AM to his shitty minimum wage job at some hipster flower shop, he couldn't help but catch glimpse of a fellow human of the black-clad persuasion. He'd never seen him before, but then again he grew out of the club scene when he finished high school (read: one year, four months and nine days ago).
But something about this boy's posture was exhilarating. That and he was sitting at his favorite shitty café where he tended to bring his laptop and write for a few hours, just like in those indie movies Henrietta (fellow goth, childhood friend) forced him to watch, convincing him they were cool in an ironic way. They probably were.
He took his usual place behind the counter which, coincidentally (not coincidentally at all, unless there's another way to place a counter in a convenient location) faced the street, and therefore the enigmatic young man across from it. So Michael observed. Just for a few seconds.
But seconds turned to minutes and minutes turned to hours as the curly haired boy fucked up the obviously sentimental bouquet of salmon colored roses.
"Salmon is for desire," he muttered under his breath as he tossed the failed bouquet away before starting over, "as in I desire to leave this fucking job."
But bad faded to worse as the 'annoying fucking noise thing', as he dubbed it, made the aforementioned annoying fucking noise and he walked in.
And he was so much more radiant in person. Like he gave off this energy, Henrietta would say. And Michael just stood there, staring vacantly.
He had black hair and it looked like someone poured red paint on the top of his head. The boy, who Michael was now fully pining over, wore a black button-up and these gaudy, horrible purple winklepickers. It was a sight to behold.
And behold he did.
And then he spoke and it was the most angelically apathetic sound Michael had heard in his life.
"It's my sister's birthday tomorrow and apparently that means I need to buy her a shitty bouquet," he opened, "literally anything could work and I don't particularly care what it looks like," his voice was soft and it sounded like it would still be that quiet even if he was yelling, "I'll just wait here," and he sat down on one of the ugly chairs Henrietta, who opened the fucking flower shop thing with him, bought off e-bay for six dollars.
"Sure," he replied eloquently, "do you want some water or something?"
"I'm good," he put down his messenger bag and pulled out a copy of The Lime Twig, removed the bookmark and slacked in his seat before focusing on the letters.
Michael had concluded that this boy needed glasses. Michael was, coincidentally, right.
He made some ugly bouquet for the guy's sister and asked him if he wanted a note.
"Sure," he shot back, "just write 'from Pete'," and, oh, that was his name.
Wow.
He handed him the bouquet and Pete waltzed out, possibly never to be seen again.
Michael Lynch sighed and looked at the clock. This had been his ninth day that Henrietta hadn't come in to work since she had injured her ankle carrying in some of the new furniture (read: ugly chairs) they got.
But he didn't hesitate to call her as soon as he left work every day.
He was preparing to leave when a suspicious object caught his eye. The book Pete was reading. He must have accidentally left it there. Picking it up, Michael felt like a hero, but then wondered when he would give it back to him. Hm.
"What's up?" her hollow voice sounded through the receiver.
"Nothing."
"What's his name?" and he fucking hated when she did that.
"I fucking hate when you do that," he retaliated, but after no response, "Pete."
"Ooh," Michael could practically hear her cheshire grin on the other side, "feisty."
The façade was going nowhere so he dropped it into a pit of lava when he faceplanted his bed and sighed deeply.
And of course the night was spent describing the mysterious boy in full detail.
"But I'll never see him again," despair was, to Henrietta, evident in his voice, clouded by a thick layer of apathy and monotony.
"You have that dumb book, don't you?"
"Yeah?"
"Ugh," he groaned theatrically, "do I have to spell everything out for you. Open it, assmunch."
"You're an asshole," he mumbled as he opened the curious book and, oh, "oh."
The first page of the book read, in cursive, 'if found, call', followed by a string of numbers.
"There, now you have his number. Enjoy," and she hung up.
This was, of course, failing to comprehend the most important part, which was actually utilizing the numbers in question.
He spent the next week and a half going to work, coming home, staring at the number and going to bed, at which point Henrietta Biggle intervened. By intervened, Michael thought, she meant showing up at his house with crutches and a scowl.
"Michael Lynch, you utter shit, you will call this boy right now," and who was he to say no when she made herself at home and dialed the number herself before pressing it to his ear and shooing him out of the room, "I don't need to listen to you make a fool of yourself," she reasoned.
Beep, beep, beep, incoherent noise, voice.
"Yeah?" and, Jesus fucking Christ, he sounded like a choir of angels except less gay and more vaguely poetic.
"I uh," he began, and oh fuck, he was fucking this up, "you left your book the other day, at the flower shop."
"Oh. Where do you live, I'll come pick it up?" and oh, he was not prepared for that.
Of course he gave him the address, and as soon as he hung up, gave a sigh of relief.
His best friend's head popped out from behind the door.
"So?"
"He's, uh, coming over to pick it up."
And as soon as he said that, Henrietta Biggle was nowhere to be found.
Michael Lynch channeled his inner barista and made two absolutely perfect cups of coffee, which he tends to do every time anyone visits him. AKA never.
A knock at the door indicated Pete's arrival and Michael's imminent sinking into the ground, but he was a champion and he opened that fucking door proudly.
No words were said and the shorter boy sat down on his couch.
"Do you have any coffee or something?" they were practically soul-mates, he assured himself.
"I, uh, yeah, yeah I have coffee," he set the tray down on the living room coffee table and sat down next to him, "sorry about not calling you sooner," he made up some bullshit about his phone.
"No problem."
What he did not expect, however, was how talkative the boy was in private. And they discussed the meaning of life and Pete Grey told him about the book he was reading and Michael Lynch was kind of in love. Kind of.
It would be two weeks until Pete joined the group consisting of himself, Michael, Henrietta and Firkle (high school student, total asshole).
And it would be another month until their relationship would take two steps forward without their other friends noticing. It was after a concert and Michael offered to let Pete crash at his house since it was closer and they were both tired.
Of course, crashing entailed making out on the couch something furious until Pete breathed against Michael's mouth and whispered 'you're amazing' and Michael was speechless. He yearned his tiny teeth on his neck and he yearned the way he nuzzled back against him when they slept together and it was sick how much he needed all of that.
But their relationship made itself evident when they showed up at the Biggle house looking a right mess, hickeys scattered everywhere (read: everywhere).
And if not then, it was made even more evident when Pete took his seat in Michael's lap, which later grew to be their default sitting position. Michael was tall and gangly and scrawny and he felt his legs break when Pete plopped down on his thighs, but he grew used to it within a couple of hours of discussing alt lit and Joy Division. Enthralling.
But they owned the intimacy they had when it was 3AM and their clothes were off and they mumbled promises against wet skin and everything was okay. And Pete was like a firefly and Michael was a moth chasing after him in phototactic yearning.
And he wrote about him, goddamn he wrote about him, he wrote stories and poems and songs about the way his breath smelled like coffee in the morning and the way he made that ugly sound when he laughed, and the way his blond roots would show after a couple of months, he wrote about him.
Thus it came as no surprise to anyone when Michael Lynch and Pete Grey concluded the couple of years prior with moving in to a shitty apartment. And Michael Lynch was still fazed by cold summer days.