I want to be found, be craved like things we push away,
these patterns cut like every day, I need you to reach,
I need you to need me
"Ghost" - Voxtrot
As they sped past street lights and houses and drove towards the outskirts of their town, Pete found himself wondering if his companion saw any significance in what they were doing. There was a warmth that blossomed inside his chest at the thought of spending the night together. Friends was a label he'd long since abandoned for Michael, unlucky infatuation seemed more fitting. The music in the background removed a lot of the pressure he was beginning to feel, Michael's breath was visible in the cold air and Pete's breath came in tiny gasps when he found himself staring.
Quickly, he shifted his attention back to the window, not allowing himself to indulge further in observing the wonder that sat beside him. If he looked too much it would be too obvious, he thought, but he wanted to look at him so terribly that he was certain his eyes would leap out from his skull and forever embed themselves onto Michael's person. He shook the obscene thought away. As they drove closer to Michael's house, Pete's mind floated in an ocean of anxieties ranging from a fear of saying something inappropriate to somehow offending his friend. Both were unacceptable.
Once they stopped by the taller boy's home and walked up the stairs and into his room, with no music to drown out the deathly silence, they sat beside one another in perpetual fear of saying a word.
"I feel like," Michael began, "there's an incredibly small line we're walking and I can't help but want to cross to the other side," he absentmindedly lit a cigarette as he spoke, allowing the smoke to obscure his face as he exhaled, "the side where it isn't weird that I'm perpetually attracted to you," he paused for a second, taking a quick drag, "though I already feel weird saying it."
Pete so desperately wanted nothing more than to erase all they stood for in an act of tenderness and abandon, though the best he could do was shakily dart his hand out to cover Michael's, whose muscles tensed at the contact before relaxing again.
Their fingers curled together as if their two hands would merge and their arms would become a bridge from one body to the other, their bloodstreams connecting into one like a system of rivers and creeks. Instead Michael squeezed his hand as if to confirm the interaction, and their cold fingertips pressed together reminded Pete of the way blind people would feel someone's face in order to recognize them.
He closed his eyes as his hand found the taller boy's cheek and he let it slide from his jawline onto his neck, trying to memorize the texture of the cold skin as if he would never see him again.
"I don't want it to be like that with us," Pete's voice felt foreign in his ears as he spoke, "freaking out over whether something is weird or not. I like being with you. I guess we're both weird," though he knew the determination he feigned was slowly leaving him as his hands grew more and more shaky. His fingers gently pressed against his companion's scalp before he brushed his fingers through Michael's curly hair.
"You look good," the taller boy replied as they moved closer together, their shadows slowly becoming one as their noses pressed against one another, mouths inches apart, "are you sure?" it was barely even a whisper, speaking would compromise the moment.
"No," though he pulled Michael closer and pressed their lips together for a mere moment before pulling away and doing it again, properly this time, "yes," and he brought them together once more, speaking between small, nervous kisses, "I don't know."
"Godiche," Michael whispered the term of endearment against his lips, putting out his cigarette and wrapping the free arm around Pete's torso, "me neither."
"Only if you want to, si tu es d'accord," he felt the other nod and wondered why it always felt as if there was something in between them, as if they could never be close enough.
In the back of his mind, Pete wondered if they would even rehearse that night. He hoped not, every cell in his body wanted to remain like this forever, in perpetual closeness as he inhaled the ash from Michael's lungs through his lips. The only sound was their lips waltzing against one another, his tongue on the roof of Michael's mouth, his teeth scraping against Michael's bottom lip, all nervous and shaky. His hands were sweaty when they touched his friend's skin, thin like paper.
Band practice would never be the same, he thought. The band would never be the same. Though he silently imagined what it would be like if it were only the two of them, no Henrietta, no Firkle. Only Michael and himself, their lips and fingers and breaths. It was selfish, he thought, but his sinful mind reveled in the notion.