My university life revolves around attending (or skipping) lectures, drafting plates, and going out for gigs. I constantly manage pulling a balancing act between getting decent marks and getting shitfaced without dying – which only almost happened once.
Francis and Antonio arrive about three minutes after me, immediately followed by Gilbert, Ludwig and Alfred. We stand in a queue with our winter overcoats and a dare to finish the night with our system alcohol-free. It's a lousy joke more than anything. Everyone knows no one will win, but they like the ideation of surviving a night without booze.
A bunch of people from my course walk by and say hi. I smile a little and say hello.
"Someone's pretty popular," says Alfred, leaning in that I can smell his mint breath. He reaches inside his pocket and hands me back my iPod. "Here you go. I like Rum Did It and Independent Punctuation Marks the most, though everything you have there is superbly incredible."
Gilbert chimes in. "He also thinks you have a nice face." This is succeeded by an ouch! as Alfred stomps on his foot.
I blink. Does the eyeliner make the difference, or is it the dim lighting?
"How many drinks has he had already?" I lean in and ask Gilbert.
We get inside after standing in the cold for ages, which seem to have cemented the smile on Alfred's face. Nothing is new with our Thursday night, except for his presence. Each time is an excuse to get rowdy with the crowd (like jostling Francis, for example) and savour intimate moments with these bands before they become too mainstream and get claimed to be everyone's favourite. But tonight every move I make is restricted. I don't quite know what to do with myself. I feel like clawing all my hair over my face and straightening my wrinkled and tattered clothes. My friends notice my lack of participation in the riot because I usually initiate it. After some wild guitar solos and drumbeat intermissions, I'm back to my old gig self with more earworms to kill.
"We should do this again!"
It's 2 am. We are covered in sweat, surrounded with newfound party-friends. Hands on each other's shoulders, everyone boards the Drunk Train. We finish the night raising our nth glass in the air, like we do every single time.
Gilbert has officially adopted Alfred as part of the gang, making him the only freshman to be granted pass to our weekly shenanigans. The next weekend comes and Alfred is the first one to show up. Truth be told, I dislike being alone with him as he's still an acquaintance more than a friend.
"Where are they?" I ask. They're ten minutes later than their usual arrival time.
He shrugs. "They said they'll be coming in a few."
Gilbert and Ludwig are the least people to be late. The possibility of their being late is lower than the possibility of another ice age.
I try calling Francis and Antonio, but none of them are answering.
I text Gilbert.
"Where the hell are you?"
A minute passes, and I get a reply.
"sorry there's been an emergency. ludwigs having a breakdown bc aster ate his notes and our rooms a disaster. im really gutted that we can't come. enjoy the gig with alfred.:)))"
I call bullshit. I want to go on about how their dogs are more disciplined than themselves, but I decide to move on to the bigger problem. What am I supposed to do, left alone with him? I'm going to have my friends' heads.
I guess there's no turning back now. I feel bad leaving him alone, not to mention like a total loser. What must I tell him as an excuse? Er, Alfred, my pet just texted me saying he pooed on my carpet. I need to go home and clean it up now, bye.
So I stay.
He seems to enjoy every second of the gig. As the crowd goes a little wild, I fight the urge to shove anyone against anyone and forget that I'm miffed at my friends for abandoning me tonight. There comes a time when Alfred has to take my hand and pull me close to him, saving me from the wave of people falling in a domino effect. I yank my hand from him when I come back to my senses, and he looks hurt.
"I'm claustrophobic," I blurt out as I bounce away from his chest.
My cheeks feel like they're on fire. I avoid looking at him for the rest of the gig.
"Did you like it?" I ask him after the show.
I decide to try being nice to him and give myself the chance to make some friends. I've only told him hurtful things since we've known each other, which is unfair to him. Aside from the fact that he almost killed my pet, Alfred's actually a fairly nice person.
We agree to stay up all night together, pub-hopping for the next few hours, talking and laughing about nothing. Haziness clouds over our heads, prompting me to suggest we move on to McDonald's. I appreciate that he lets me slip a couple of fries from his box. Near dawn, we walk around the city park until our faces are numb from the cold.
I don't mind hanging out with him, really. I think the feeling's mutual as he calls me up the following days to chill. Silly boy cracks me up; he never runs out of hilarious anecdotes to rhapsodise. I think the best so far is when he 'gracefully' surfed down a staircase with an ironing board and the hospital trip afterwards. Soon enough, we're exchanging opinions on anything under the sun, leading us to talk about our varying interests, and later on trade our favourite reading materials. He lends me some of his comic books, and I let him borrow some of my novels.
"Now I get where your sarcasm comes from," he says, giving me a light nudge. Smiling ear to ear, he hands me the last and my most favourite fiction book that 'no one ever reads'.
First comes music, then books, and lastly films. I am making a cultured man out of Alfred. The following week, I invite him to our university's Film Festival. Together we catch a glimpse of a struggling artist's life after graduation; a queer teenager's complicated relationship with his single mother; and the drastic decline of a socialite's social status.
The theme of the last film we're seeing is tightly close to our hearts, involving an old man dealing with the recent loss of his dog.
"Are you crying?" Alfred asks, leaning in to behold the tears streaming down my face. Surprise overwhelms concern, the way I hear it, which pretty much points out how much of an arsehole he thinks I am.
I sniffle and wipe my tearstained cheeks. "I'm capable of emotions too, you know."
We take a detour from our festive night outs the next weekends. One night, he calls me to ask if I want to go up a hill and watch the sunrise. I have no idea where he fetches these random ideas and what makes me say yes, and though the two of us are the least likely pair to do such sappy thing on a freezing morning, I figure I can use a change of routine.
I have to give him credit for knowing the best spot. The sky is a wash-painted ceiling with its early celestial colours blurring into each other above us, a splash of lavender slowly melting into bright orange, accented by thin, white clouds. I inhale the distinct morning scent of woodland, of the wildflowers outliving the harsh season and carpeting the cold earth. I stand up and reach high as I can, seizing the day with my outstretched fingers. Alfred does the same beside me, his eyes closed and a smile lingering on his lips. I like to think he feels the way I do, the bliss of being reminded how mornings are meant to be beautiful and brimming with life.
I don't have to worry about talking because Alfred does the honour all the time. He is an open book. You can read the pages of his life in his words, ever so often in his face. He is as random as he can get, happily springing from one topic to another. He tells me how frequently he comes here after they've moved from Portland three years ago, finding his new safe haven in this English forest.
"We got her when we moved here," he says, jumping onto yet another subject. He runs his fingers over Mallows' snow white fur.
He wanted to see Baxter after I told him he was almost fully-recovered. I was already planning on bringing him along for our weekend walk, and so in return, I asked him to bring Mallows.
She turns out to be the bundle of sweetness Alfred has always assured me. Our friendship starts the moment she hears me call her name, wagging her tail excitably and rushing to my side to be petted. She flashes me the infamous 'Smiling Sammie' face. We're inseparable since then. Baxter gets a little jealous and sulks behind us like a neglected toddler, his eyes pleading and doleful at the same time. This breaks Alfred's heart into little pieces, so he takes him and gives him a hug.
"Have you always lived here?" Alfred asks me.
"No, I moved three years ago for uni. I'm actually from Brighton," I say.
"I see. Do you have siblings?"
"Stepbrothers, yeah."
"Do you get along?"
"We do now. Sort of. We used to be at each other's throats all the time, but we outgrew that phase," I half laugh, suddenly reminiscing our complicated relationship. "Nowadays, we only have wrestling matches in our dad's living room when we come by for Christmas."
He grins. "Sounds fun. I have a brother and he's pretty much my best friend." He muses into the expanse of ridgeline silhouettes meeting the sky. "I mean, yeah, I make a lot of friends, and I have groups of friends wherever I go, but once the good times are over it's so hard to find the keepers, you know?"
I nod.
"Most times it's just me, Mattie, and Mallows," he says, and baby-talks his pet. "She's really therapeutic. She knows how to make me feel better whenever I'm down. Aren't you a good girl?"
Mallows barks in agreement.
I can sympathise with him because it's been proven so many times that Baxter is the only one who can actually live with rubbish that is me. But I bite my tongue because it will only attract the dark cloud constantly levitating above me, and once it does it's difficult to turn off the loud, detestable thoughts it brings.
And I don't want to ruin the perfectly lovely morning.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This will be the last quick update in the meantime, I'm afraid. I need to work on the rest of the story now. There's only 3 chapters left.