And everything was made for you and me
All of it was made for you and me
'Cause it just belongs to you and me
So let's take a ride and see what's mine
Iggy Pop - "The Passenger"
Pete Grey sat silently in his room, his phone glaring white ophthalmologist appointments at him as he slid his finger along the screen absentmindedly, scrolling past old messages as he awaited a new one. A forgotten cigarette burned in the ashtray on his desk, though he soon glanced up in acknowledgement and reached out to grab it, placing his phone down with a sigh as he took a drag. His messy room smelled of smoke and hairspray, two vices he had trouble letting go of, and he tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling.
It was late enough in the evening that he could expect Henrietta to send her obligatory 'what are we doing tonight?' text message, and that he could expect for Michael to decide for all of them. Michael had that air of decisiveness around him, or at the very least it seemed he did. He and Henrietta would then chime in with affirmations of their arrangement, and they all assumed Firkle agreed as well.
It was 9PM, however, and Pete's phone showed no signs of life.
The boy exhaled softly and reached for the cup of now-cold tea that had been sitting patiently on his desk, next to piles of textbooks and empty packs of cigarettes. He sipped it with shaky hands, trying to calm his nerves though he found himself growing anxious at the lack of a call or message. The silence seemed agonizing.
Pete Grey's phone vibrated to life at 10PM, indicating a text message. He would deny the chill that ran up his spine as he heard the sound and saw the screen light up. It was from Michael, a fact he found odd as Henrietta was often the bearer of good or bad news regarding their outings.
'Henrietta's spending the night at the hospital, she sprained her ankle at an IHOP parking lot. Let's drive somewhere,' the message read. He felt guilty at the relief he felt that his friends at least acknowledged their evening plans, regardless of the fact that one of them was unable to participate. He and Michael went on long car rides rather often, usually with Firkle it was the ride to Henrietta's house for band practice, though sometimes the two of them alone made a point of driving all the way to the outskirts of town and wasting time staring at the sky and chain smoking. The latter seemed like a good idea, and he wrote a quick confirmation.
'Pick me up in half an hour,' he wrote, certain it would not take him much longer than that to make himself look at least semi-decent. He stood up and stretched, his tired joints cracking with movement as he wondered if there was a chance he was actually thousands of years old, he was certain there was a breeze inside his ribcage.
The large mirror in his room stood in silent judgment, making him suddenly hyper-aware of himself and the way he stood, his hair, facial expression and the acne scars that made him want to tear his skin off. He frowned in defiance at his reflection, pushing his hair out of his eyes and fixing the eyeliner that had smeared throughout the day.
After spending a good portion of the half an hour he allowed himself backcombing his hair to adequate elegant messiness, he gave himself one final glance. He'd looked worse than he did in that moment, he was sure. The screen of his phone lit up again as he heard a car honking outside. Without looking at the message, Pete grabbed his phone and stuffed it in his front pocket before darting out the door into the sharp wind. Michael's car stood outside his house, a dusty thing the older boy had gotten for his birthday the year prior. He got in and was greeted by a cup being thrust into his hands.
"It's Starbucks," the taller boy elaborated before reaching a hand across to close the door on Pete's side, "I picked it up on the way, figured you might need some adrenaline-inducing poison," and he turned the key, the engine purring to life.
"Thanks," Pete managed, "it's really hot, I guess I'll have it when we get wherever we're going," he leaned back and added, "where are we going, anyway?"
"Wherever. Do you want some music?"
"Play The Passenger," he answered, looking out to the road, "it's topical or some shit," and he picked at his chipping nail polish, suddenly nervous about how alone they were, knowing no one else was going to join them. The strained relationship that stretched between them, oscillating between friendship and an odd display of infatuation, was heavy in the cramped space of the vehicle. Pete wondered how many drunken love confessions and awkward 'goodbye' hugs it would take for their courtship to evolve into something more coherent, though he was scared of defining what they were.
They drove through the town, caught in relationship limbo and uncertain where they would be by the end of it all, when the storm is over. Close, Pete hoped, his gaze switching from the road ahead to quickly scan over his companion's dark eyes and spindly fingers.
"We can go to my house after," Michael said, though he noticed Pete seemed unsure so he hastily added, "to rehearse. We can get drunk off of wine coolers and do bad covers."
"Yeah," the other boy found he was curling into himself slowly, trying his hardest not to seem too eager, "we could do that," though he knew the two of them had never practiced on their own. He wondered what the rest of their gloom quartet would think.
Pete silently took a sip from the cup in his hands, finding it had adequately cooled. Caffeine was always desired, and he felt a calm spread throughout his mind. Everything was alright because he had coffee. His attention turned to the night sky, the dust of stars across the dark blanket above them was comforting. Everything was alright.