"Do you think pink is my colour?"
I sigh deeply and squint at the piece of clothing my best friend Mary Terrafino is holding. It's a shirt, and before she said the word pink. I'd have said it was just light red.
"If you're looking for fashion advice, ask Astrid," I say, shrugging.
"Jesus, calm down," Mary laughs. "I'm just teasing you. You're worse with fashion advice than Quinn, and he wears fedoras."
I haven't properly spent time with Mary all summer, and part of me knows that's because I'm slightly afraid of her. But the other part of me feels guilty about this fear.
Fear fucks with your head. It twists you in ways that you'd normally never be twisted.
Mary is staying with Sam and Astrid. Her new bedroom here is pretty nice and girly but barely decorated; it screams "Astrid".
"Besides," Mary adds, "I'm not a shallow pathetic girl who befriends gay guys hoping they're the next Gok Wan. And if I was, I'd ask Howard."
"Howard?"
"Howard Bassem. The DJ."
"What DJ?"
"You know, the DJ in the FAYZ."
"What the hell is the FAYZ?" I ask hopelessly.
"The club in the middle of Perdido Beach." She replies. "It stands for Fallout Alley Youth Zone. Howard named it himself, he said some radioactive crap happened here, like, a shitload of years ago."
"Okay. Okay," I begin. "Not only is that a really stupid name for a club where hormonal teenagers go, but why would you ask Howard for fashion advice?"
"No, Edilio, you're not getting it," Mary huffs. "I wouldn't ask him for fashion advice, because I'm not an asshole who thinks all gay men have brilliant fashion sense."
"Howard is gay?"
"Yes."
"Seriously?"
"Yes," She throws the shirt onto the bed, which I'm sitting on, and covers her face with her hands. "He's dating Orc."
"You mean the big guy in Caine's band?"
"Finally, we're getting somewhere," She says jokingly and answers my question with a nod. "And, by the way, I don't think you'd be so quick to diss the club's name if your boyfriend had chosen it."
"Roger is not my boyfriend!" I cry defensively.
"Are you sure?" My best friend smirks.
"Yes."
"That's a shame," Mary says as she sits down next to me. "I think he's your type."
"I'm pretty sure I don't have a type," I insist.
"Skaters are hot though, right?"
I think of Duck Zhang's obsession with Victorious. "Not all of them."
"Oh, so just one specific skater, then?"
I'm only digging myself deeper. I feel myself blushing.
"I'll take that silence as a yes," Mary grins.
"You're impossible," I say as I look away and smile to myself.
"No, I'm Mary."
"See what I mean?"
"Whatever." She shrugs and stands up. "I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"To the bathroom, I'd rather if you didn't join me," She replies, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. Mary leaves the room with a spring in her step that I haven't seen in a while. She's on the right track, at last. Thank God.
I take this opportunity to check my phone, and I discover that I have a text.

From: Roger
DEKKA IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN OVER ANIME WHAT DO I DO

I send one back.

To: Roger
Talk to her about Arctic Monkeys?

I can't deny that seeing his name on my phone makes my chest a bit tight.
The short silence that I sit in is torn apart by a loud, desperate yell followed by a chilling laugh from the bathroom.
It's Mary, and it's a pair of sounds I'm too familiar with by now. This is the transition between my best friend who I've known since moving to Perdido Beach, and the terrifying other personality inside her head.
I jump to my feet and rush out of her bedroom. The bathroom door is closed but not locked. Of course, Mary knew this would happen, and she knew that if she locked the door, no one would rescue her.
I shout for Sam and Astrid, and then gingerly open the door, bracing myself for whatever state Mary may be in.
She has an electric razor in her hand and is shaving her hair off.
The first thing I notice is that the razor is in her left hand, the dexterous hand of her second personality. This is not Mary.
The second is that there is no blood in the room, which is the only good thing about this situation. Even then, the sight puts me on the verge of screaming.
Astrid is by my side within seconds. She mutters something under her breath that sounds like a prayer, even though she hasn't practised her religion since high school. Then she steps forward slowly.
"Mary," She says quietly, fighting to keep her voice calm. Mary turns away from the mirror she stands in front of. Her eyes are glassy, as if she's looking right through Astrid, not at her.
Then it's as if something is switched on inside Mary's mind and she recognises the blonde. She points the razor at Astrid and smiles like a child. She walks up to her and holds the razor mere centimetres from her throat.
"Edilio," Astrid murmurs desperately as she backs away.
This is my responsibility now. This is my cue to risk my own safety.
"Mary," I say softly, and her eyes move reluctantly from Astrid to me. She recognises my voice; I'm one of the only people that has successfully handled this personality.
"Where the hell is Sam?" Astrid hisses.
"Mary, step back," I firmly instruct.
Mary's eyes are fixed on me, wide and fearless. I take a deep breath, attempting to stay calm.
She takes one step back.
"Move back," I say, but it sounds more like a beg than an order.
Another shaky step. This new weakness means that Mary is on the verge of returning.
I tell her to switch the razor off. She does it.
I tell her to put the razor down. She does that, too.
Her knees buckle beneath her and she falls like a rag doll into unconsciousness on the bathroom floor.
I kneel down beside her and press two fingers against her right wrist to check her pulse. Weak but regular. Sam decides to turn up at this exact moment, and is greeted by a furious glare from Astrid.
"Shit, what happened?" He asks, looking alarmed. "I was on the phone to Quinn."
Astrid opens her mouth to explain, but I don't give her a chance to speak.
"Oh, nothing much, you know," I snap, "except Mary just had one of her episodes - which, by the way, are getting more frequent than they ever have been in the past - during which Astrid's neck almost got cut by your own razor. But who cares about that? How's Quinn feeling today?"
"Man, are you okay?" He frowns.
"Oh, I'm fine," I force a smile onto my face, "I've just witnessed one of my best friends nearly slice your girlfriend's neck open. No big deal, you know."
Sam actually manages to take the hint for once, and shuts up.
I pick Mary up gently and carry her back to her temporary room. I lie her down on the bed that we were both laughing on only minutes ago, hold her hand gently and sit by her side until she slowly opens her eyes.
"Did it happen again?" She asks quietly. Mary isn't dumb. She's also getting familiar with this.
"Yeah. Hey, let me help you," I reply as she attempts to sit up. "You're okay. You didn't hurt anyone; it's all okay."
"I'm sorry," She whispers.
"It's not your fault." Her hair falls into her face as she leans forward, and I tuck it behind her ear. "Don't be sorry."
"I need help." Mary says, suddenly decisive. "I'm going to get help."
I hug her tightly and smile as I pull away. "That's good. You're brave, you know that? You've always been brave."
Mary squeezes my hand. "So are you."
I leave her alone to rest for a while and go downstairs. Sam and Astrid are in the kitchen, talking in quiet voices.
I cough to make my presence known.
They both turn to look at me. Astrid looks grateful. Sam looks like he's just seen watched a puppy die.
"Is Mary okay?" Astrid asks with concern.
"Yeah, she'll be fine," I reply.
"Man, I'm sorry -" Sam begins, but I interrupt him.
"Don't worry about it. I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. Mary is important, not me. What matters is that she gets help. And she wants to," I look at Astrid, "so make sure she does, alright?"
"Of course," Astrid nods and smiles.

-

That was the first disastrous event that took place today. It's likely that there won't be another. That's what I'm hoping, at least, when I walk all the way to the trailer I call home.
My mother is the only person inside when I arrive. I don't get a greeting, but then again, this woman's not actually the most cheerful person on the planet. She's sitting down on the couch, staring into space, seemingly oblivious of my presence.
"Mama?"
No reply. She doesn't even blink.
"Have you been out today?"
I don't need to ask. The answer is almost definitely a no. I doubt that she's seen proper daylight without it being behind a window for weeks.
"Where are my brothers?"
"Where is your father, Edilio?" She asks softly without looking in my direction.
This is not good.
I sit down next to her, in her line of vision, but she still won't look at me.
"You don't remember?"
"Why?" She whispers. "Por que?"
"I don't understand what you're asking," I say gently.
"Why is he dead?" She says with a sad frown.
I mentally tell myself to keep breathing.
At last, she sees me. "Why is my husband dead?"
"He took his own life," I reply, looking away from the cold gaze of her brown eyes.
"What?"
I look down at the floor, at the rug that's been tread on too many times by people that shouldn't even be living in this country. "He killed himself."
"But why did he kill himself?"
"I-"
"Don't tell me you don't know!" She shouts, jumping to life in all the wrong ways. Her eyes are open wide, and the sadness that formerly flickered in them is now a burning fire of anger. "You were the last person he ever spoke to. Of course you know!"
I edge away from my mother. This could result in her hurting me, or even worse, herself.
"What did you tell him?" She demands, and her rage slowly dissolves into desperation.
"Are you hungry? I'm sure we have some food here," I ask her, hopelessly attempting to distract her, although I'm fully aware of the fact that the only things we have in our cupboards are beans and cobwebs.
"Tell me, you idiot!" My mother screams. She raises her hand which is tanned and too wrinkled for her age. I flinch as I notice that the skin of her arms has been scratched raw.
I'm going to get hit if I don't tell her, and then she'll persistently attempt to get an answer out of me. I could lie, but that would haunt both me and her for the rest of our lives, and it'll be my fault.
I have to tell her. The outcome won't be a good one, not in the short term at least, but anything else I do will result in things that may be much worse.
I take a deep breath, force myself to look into her eyes again and say, "I'm gay."
It doesn't seem to register.
"That's what I told him, Mama," I explain apologetically.
She drops her hand in shock and stares at me. "No you're not," She states, like a teacher giving a student detention.
"Yes, I am," I reply before I'm forced to stop talking as tears begin to choke me.
A few seconds pass, and she looks at me, trying to read me like a book.
"You're disgusting,"
"I'm your son."
"You're no son of mine." She growls. "Get out."
"Mama," I plead.
"Get out! You are dead to me!" She spits. Her words are heavy. The lump of tears in my throat feels like a boulder.
And then it's as if she is switched off, just as she was when I arrived, and she looks away without blinking.
I stand up and turn to face her. "You're not serious, right?"
I don't know if I truly expect a reply but I don't get one anyway.
"I'm you're son," I say once again. "I'm right here, look at me!"
My mother doesn't move. She hardly blinks, unlike me as I blink back tears that threaten to fall and humiliate me.
I turn away, walk over to the chest of drawers that holds the clothes of all five of us, open my drawer and pull out the rucksack underneath my clothes. Then I shove as much as I can into it. I'm about to leave when I look at my mother again, one last time.
"I'll come back soon," I tell her, more of an offering than a statement. "I'll check on everyone, see if you're all okay."
I know she probably won't even let me into the trailer again.
I step out and look around. There are about twenty caravans here. Some are permanent fixtures, some just holiday homes, although God knows why anyone would come here on vacation, and why this shithole is called a caravan park.
Or perhaps God doesn't know why. Maybe God would refuse to acknowledge my existence and ignore anything I ask him, because I'm a sinner, full of unholy thoughts and words and experiences. I don't expect God to love me. I don't expect anyone to love me. If your own family can't love you, then who else ever will?
The park is as dead as I currently feel, humid air creeping through every open window and trapping the people inside since it's too hot to move in this part of Perdido Beach, so close to the desert. I have the urge to sit down and simply not do anything but then I realise that if I stay here, my mother will almost certainly come outside and tell me in her politest Spanish to fuck off.
I start to walk.
As my old, torn sneakers hit the ground with each firm step, I consider that this isn't the first time a man has been chucked out of his home by his own mother just for being gay. In fact, this situation is identical to that of at least one other person in my life. And I know that person isn't doing a hell of a lot today.
Okay, so I know where I'm going.
It takes twenty minutes to walk to the center of Perdido Beach, because although it's a place that's barely large enough to be spotted on a map, the heat is like torture. Like a punishment. The idea of going to Sam and Astrid's house crosses my mind, but then Mary would start worrying, and the only thing she needs to worry about is herself. I could go to Caine and Diana's apartment, but it is quite honestly one of the worst places in town to live, so visiting isn't an enjoyable experience. It's not exactly safe, either. Caine nearly got stabbed there once, but he's Caine, so the attacker ran away before possibly shitting himself.
The idea of going to Quinn's house actually makes me want to laugh, but, given the circumstances, a frown remains on my face and I keep walking soundlessly.
I turn the corner onto the street I'm starting to become familiar with, and start worrying that Roger won't be home, or that I'm on the wrong street, or that I'm actually in the middle of a really messed up nightmare right now, but then I spot him sitting on the steps outside the apartment block. As I get closer, I realise that he's drawing in a sketch pad, earphones in, completely oblivious to the world.
It must be nice to have something you can get so lost in.
"Hey," I say loudly enough to make him jump and pull his earphones out.
"Hi," He says, grinning. The smile disappears when he notices how pathetic my attempt to return it looks. "Are you okay?" He asks.
It takes me five seconds before I reply with, "I'm fine, you?"
"That was four seconds too long for you to be fine."
I sigh and sit down beside him. "What are you drawing?" I ask, out of curiosity, and to change the subject as subtly as possible.
"It's supposed to be Chloe Grace Moretz," He explains, suddenly enthusiastic, "because she plays Hit-Girl and Dekka loves Hit-Girl, so I'm drawing it for her. Well, trying to draw. Right now it's less badass superhero and more moody potato."
"What exactly does a moody potato look like?"
"I don't know, but something like my bad attempt at Chloe Grace Moretz."
I look over at the sketch pad and immediately think it's a picture, not a drawing. The detail is amazing and the shading is almost flawless. I don't think I've put pencil against paper since leaving high school, and during the lessons in which I did, the results were hilariously disastrous, so pretty much any piece of art looks good by my standards, but this one is especially spectacular.
"It's not even nearly finished," Roger adds quickly, "so it's only a rough sketch right now and her eyes are too close together and I can't get her lips right, it's really hard to draw her lips..."
"You're joking, right?" I ask, glancing quickly at him before looking back at the drawing. "This is already brilliant."
"It's not, seriously. Far from it."
"Honestly," I look up at him again, his nerves clear on his face, "it's amazing. You're amazing."
Then I realise what I've just said and I feel my face go red, and then we're both blushing, so I very hurriedly say, "I didn't mean it like that. Well, you know, I did mean it, but I didn't mean it to sound like that."
"You did mean it?" Roger frowns.
"Um."
"Is that a no?"
"No."
"No as in no, you didn't mean it, or no, it's not a no?"
"I don't know, alright?" I cry, exasperated. "Yeah, I think you're amazing."
"Thank you," He says quietly as he looks down at the pencil in his hand and smiles.
"Wow, uh, the weather's pretty nice today, isn't it?" I murmur, looking away to hide my face, which is probably growing redder by the second.
He laughs, and I look back at him. "What?" I ask.
"You," He replies, then he leans forward and places his lips against mine.
He pulls away gently after a while, and asks, "are you sure you're okay?"
I give him a small smile and nod half-heartedly. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Have you had lunch?"
"Uh, no."
"Do you want to get lunch?"
"I don't have any money-"
"Edilio, I'm asking you to get lunch with me. Of course I'm going to pay."
I open my mouth to argue but he quickly suggests, "McDonalds?"
I smile and shrug. "Okay, sure."

-

"None of this makes sense," I sigh as I stare at the menu above the counter. "It makes less sense than German. And German doesn't make sense."
"Less sense than that time when Alex Turner and Miles Kane formed a band and made an album together." Roger says.
"What?"
"Never mind," He huffs. "I'm guessing you don't come here often."
"Hardly ever, actually. Why can't I just get a burger?"
"Because ordering just a burger in McDonalds is like ordering just a coffee in Starbucks."
"I've never been to Starbucks."
He groans loudly. "My point is, if you order just a burger, you'll be here for about two centuries, and you'll be asked, like, a million questions."
"Okay, what do I ask for, then?"
"I don't know, a McGangBang?"
At this point, we're at the front of the queue, and the employee on the other side of the counter looks like he wants to kill himself, or perhaps kill us instead. Then again, most people in Perdido Beach are too lazy to be murderous, with the exception of Drake Merwin, perhaps.
The guy's nametag claims that his name is Jonesy. "What d'you want?" He asks with such lack of enthusiasm that I wonder if he's just a cleverly designed robot.
"Um, can I just have a burger?" I ask. Roger runs a hand through his hair in utter despair.
"Beefburger, cheeseburger, Big Mac -"
"The first one." I reply, frowning.
"Is that a meal or just a burger?"
"What comes with the meal?"
"Fries and a drink." Jonesy answers. "You can have a Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Fanta -"
"Coke."
"Do you want to go large?"
Before I ask the spotty teenager how large is large, Roger cuts across impatiently. "Regular. And I'll have the same."
Jonesy taps on the screen in front of him a few times then wanders off, presumably to get our food.
"Never go to Starbucks," Roger sighs, "you'd get lynched."
"Noted."
"Do you even know what the fuck you ordered?"
"Nope," I shake my head hopelessly. He starts to laugh.
Five minutes later we're sitting at a table, my rucksack on the seat next to me, which now contain's Roger's sketchpad. He glances at it suspiciously but says nothing about it.
"How is your just burger?" He asks.
"Very nice, thanks for asking," I reply between mouthfuls.
"Hey, how many pimples do you think that Jonesy guy had?"
"That's a weird question."
"I'm a weird person."
"Thirty two," I reply decisively.
"I'd say thirty four."
"How specific."
"Says the one that specifically said thirty two."
"I didn't say I wasn't specific."
"Fair enough. Okay. What's your favourite band?"
It's an unexpected question, although not surprising coming from the lips of someone so fanatical and specific about music. Plus, I haven't listened to many bands. Truthfully, I usually just listen to whatever Caine is raving about. "Fall Out Boy are pretty cool," I say. "What's yours?"
"You're going to regret asking this," He smirks and I roll my eyes. "I'd have to say Arctic Monkeys, because, well, they're obviously fucking awesome and they've experimented with so many genres and they're talented as fuck but then my favourite type of music ever is skate punk, and Arctic Monkeys will never ever do skate punk, so my favourite skate punk band would have to be FIDLAR. But yeah. Overall, without a doubt, Arctic Monkeys." He takes a deep breath, his expression growing more serious. "What's wrong?"
Goddamn persistent cute guys. "I'm fine, what d'you mean?"
"I mean earlier. You looked really down. Did something happen?"
I look down at the straw wrapper, which I've torn into shreds. "Yeah, a couple things."
"Do you want to talk about them?" He offers. "Talking helps. I mean, you don't have to, but -"
"My day didn't exactly start well." I say bluntly, cutting to the chase. "I went to see Mary. She's staying with Sam and Astrid now. This is the first summer since starting college that she hasn't spent at home in LA, since that's where she goes, so she can't go home, and now nobody wants her to stay here on her own, just in case something happens. And of course, something did happen today."
I continue to rip the straw wrapper.
"Let's just say, next time you see Mary, don't say anything about her hair. She shaved half of it off."
"Mary did?"
I know what he's trying to ask. "Her other personality."
"That's horrible," He says, reaching across the table to take my hand.
"She's alright. Mary's strong." I tell him and myself. "But then I went home."
"Right," He says, encouraging me to continue.
"And now I can't call it home," I say quietly, looking down again.
"Fuck, I'm so sorry," He squeezes my hand firmly. The change in his voice is noticeable. This is empathy, not sympathy.
"My mother asked me why my father died." I speak slowly to control my voice, aware of the possibility of tears. "Why he killed himself."
"Edilio, it wasn't your fault -"
"I told her it was because I'm gay. And she said I'm not her son and I'm dead to her and -" I swallow quickly, but my eyes cloud with tears anyway.
"It's alright, you don't have to say anything else." He says patiently.
So I don't say anything. I untwist my hand from his, slump back in my chair, and eat some more fries although I'm not hungry anymore.
"Do you have anywhere to stay?" He asks.
"I'll talk to Astrid later," I shrug, "I'm sure she'll let me stay there. They've got more than enough room."
"Oh, yeah," He nods. "But if you need somewhere, you can always stay with me and Dekka." I look up at him. "I know it's pretty small," He continues quickly, "and kind of messy, and Dekka probably won't even let you look at her room, let alone set foot in it, but -"
"Thank you."
He offers a small smile.
"Okay, is it my turn to ask you a question now?" I ask.
"Sure. What do you want to know?" He takes a sip of his drink.
"What happened with your mom?"
Roger chokes.
"You don't have to answer," I say quickly.
"No, it's only fair," He replies, coughing. "Where do I start? Okay. When I was fourteen I went on a date with a girl. I'd never really even spoken to her but we were in a lot of classes together and she asked me, so I just went along with it. She pretty much just wanted to stick her tongue down my throat so I faked an asthma attack and went home halfway through the date."
"You're asthmatic?"
"No, but she didn't know that." He grins. "Not long after that, I realised it wasn't this particular girl I didn't like. It was just girls, in general. So, fourteen years old, confused and surprisingly quiet artist kid Roger realises that he is brilliantly homosexual."
"Brilliantly." I repeat.
"Of course. I kind of knew my mom would have a hard time dealing with it, so I waited until I was fifteen, and by then I figured, what the hell, I'm always going to be gay so I might as well just tell her already."
"You are a very good story teller," I chuckle.
"Thanks, I'll put that on my CV," He jokes. "I tried not to make a big deal out of it when I told her. I just told her I liked guys and not girls. Simple as that. But then she hit the roof."
It's amazing how calm he is when he tells the story, but with six or seven years since it happened, that's not entirely surprising.
"She told me I was a sinner, I was going to Hell, God would punish me, loads of other shit. She'd never even been that religious. I thought it was raining Bibles or something."
I laugh softly, since he doesn't really seem sad about it, and he smiles.
"So then she sent me off to Coates. But that's another story. You know what pissed me off the most about it, though?"
"I don't know, what was it?"
"Throughout my childhood she taught me to "love thy neighbour", not "love thy neighbour unless he likes to fuck those of his own gender"."
"The eleventh commandment," I mutter.
"I was eighteen when I came back from Coates," He says, resuming the story, "and as soon as I arrived on the doorstep my own mother told me in no polite terms that a faggot like me should not step into the house of a holy woman like her." His voice is bitter. "I saw her a couple times since then, but I pretty much just turned around and fucked off."
"Where did you go?"
He looks away for the first time in our whole conversation. "A lot of places."
My eyes drop to the fries in front of me, probably cold by now.
"So you're not religious, then?" I ask gently.
"No," He replies, "but I never was anyway, not really. Before going to Coates I just kept my head down and spent most of my time drawing and painting." He pauses. "It doesn't freak you out, does it?"
"What?"
"That I went to Coates." He says.
"No," I shrug.
"Everyone thinks I was some kind of hopeless case, being sent there, but it was mainly just a school for rich kids and gay kids. And your occasional psychopath," He adds. "Everyone has different ideas and prejudices about me, you know?"
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I went to Coates so I must be fucked up. I'm an art student so I must be dumb." He counts them on his fingers. "I hate a religious woman so I must hate religion. I don't. I just hate my mother."
"Don't forget "I'm gay so I must be a fashion expert"," I say.
"Yes, because we are both the most fashionable boys on this planet."
"Of course."
Silence settles over the table for a few moments. I eat more fries. Roger starts to steal my fries.
"Do I talk too much?" He asks reluctantly.
"No, not at all."
"Is that sarcasm?"
"No!" I smile. "I like listening to you."
"Really?"
"Definitely. You're interesting."
"I guess that's a compliment," He says slowly, and I laugh.
"Can I ask one more question before we get out of this shithole?"
"Go ahead."
"You absolutely don't have to answer if you don't want to."
"Alright," He says as he nods, prompting me to ask my question.
"Why don't you like cigarettes?"
He winces as the words leave my mouth, suspended in the air between us.
"First of all, the lighters freak me out," He shrugs. "I'm not good with fire." I look at him, trying to guess whether or not he'll elaborate, but he says, "that's yet another story. Secondly, they kill." He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and looks down. "Not just physically. People start smoking for lots of reasons. It helps with stress, for example. Some people smoke to make themselves look cool. Some people can control themselves, they don't smoke too much, whatever. But for some... Some people need more."
"I don't understand," I frown.
"Okay, think of chewing gum," He instructs me. "It's all great at first but the longer you chew, the more flavour is lost. The novelty wears off, right? So you chew more. Does that make sense?"
I nod.
"Tobacco is a drug." He explains. "Some people will get tired of it, need something better. So they turn to other drugs."
If Roger were a puzzle, a very large part of it would just have been solved.
Drugs.
"Everyone begins with smoking. Some people don't move from the starting line. But some people move very far away from it."
The finality in his voice is like a line being drawn under our conversation, ending it on his terms.
"Are you done?" He asks, pointing at my tray of food.
"Oh, uh, yeah," I reply, amazed by his sudden smile, the cheeriness in his voice. He takes our food to the bin and after ten seconds of staring into space, trying to comprehend the discussion that quickly ended, I follow him.
"Thank you," I say as we walk out of McDonalds into California's signature heat.
"No big deal, it's only McDonalds," Roger shrugs nonchalantly.
"No, I don't mean that," I reply, "well, I do, since you didn't have to buy me food so that was really nice of you."
"Uh, you're welcome," He glances at me, confused.
"I mean, thank you for telling me all of that."
"Oh." He nods. "I guess I can trust you. But if anything freaks you out, anything about me, seriously, I'll just leave you alone."
"I don't want you to leave me alone."
"Then I won't leave you alone."
"Good." We both chuckle. "I know it's hard to talk about, though," I say, looking down. "I mean, talking about my family isn't exactly as easy as making small talk. So I appreciate it."
He doesn't reply but instead he reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. We walk slowly, heading in the direction of the Plaza.
"Why were you sitting outside this morning, then?" I ask.
Roger laughs. "Dekka chucked me out. She went out after her semi-breakdown about anime - which was entertaining - then came in later on with Brianna and was all like, hey, you should go outside, the weather's really nice, so I said I burn easily, which I do, and she knows that, but then she told me to fuck off. I kind of took the hint."
"What were they going to do, then?" I frown.
"Edilio, they were going to fuck each other."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Ew."
"I know."
"I just don't understand it." I sigh.
"What? Boobs, vaginas, the desire to have sex with girls?" He suggests.
"All of them."
"Me neither."
My cell phone starts ringing in my pocket. I take it out to see who is bothering to call me. The name that flashes on the screen is Caine Soren.
"Caine," I explain. "That's unexpected."
"Is a phonecall ever expected?" Roger asks philosophically.
"Yeah, if you arrange it in advance."
"Whatever," He sighs. "Are you going to answer?"
In response, I hit the green button to accept the call and put Caine on speaker, because that's the only way Nokia's brilliant piece of shit will function.
"Hey, Caine," I say. "What's up?"
"Edilio." Caine says bluntly, the phone making his voice tinny.
"Hi," Roger says.
"Who the fuck is that?" Caine asks.
"Roger." I explain.
"Oh, is that the guy you're fucking?" I can almost hear the smug grin on Caine's face.
"No," I groan.
"Not yet, anyway," Roger says breezily. "Hey!" He yells as I pull my hand away from his and push him away.
"Okay, Caine, so why are you calling me?" I ask him. The last time Caine called me was about five months ago when he was drunk, to ask me if I spoke English. I told him I didn't, and he sounded completely baffled and on the verge of asking another idiotic question, so I promptly hung up.
"Astrid told me about what happened this morning," Caine replies.
"With Mary?" I say quietly.
"Yeah." He confirms, his voice just as low. Then his voice returns to its normal brash, confident loudness as he continues. "Edilio, it's summer, you know? There shouldn't be so much goddamn bullshit for us to worry about."
"If you're calling me to question the meaning of life I think you've got the wrong person," I sigh.
"Let me finish," He snaps. "I spoke to Lana and Sanjit. And Orc, obviously, but he's kind of really dumb. We're playing at the Power Plant, a week today."
"Awesome," I grin.
"Minus Drake," He says reassuringly.
"Thank the fucking Lord," Roger says.
"Was that your fuck buddy again?" Caine teases.
"Both of you can go fuck yourselves," I say tiredly.
"That'll have to wait," Roger says as his own cell phone starts to ring.
"How disappointing," Caine says dryly. "So, Edilio, my favourite Mexican -"
"Honduran," I correct him.
"Huh?"
"Caine, I'm Honduran."
"Seriously?"
"Uh huh."
"Since when?"
"Since, oh, I don't know, maybe since I was born."
"Damn, that's shocking." He says, feigning disbelief.
"Unbelievable, right?"
"Extraordinary."
"Revolutionary."
"If you're Honduran, how do you know so many long words?" Caine asks.
"Douchebag," I mutter. From the corner of my eye I notice Roger arguing on the phone. Then, he abruptly stops. I assume the person on the other end must have hung up on him.
He looks devastated.
"Is there any other reason you're calling me?" I ask Caine quickly. "Or are you just going to continue to be amazed by my ethnicity?"
"Nah, there's nothing else." He replies. So anyway," He says loudly, "ask everyone to this gig, yeah? We're all going to get fucking pissed and enjoy life."
"Cool." I say. "See you soon -" I'm cut off by a beeping noise from my cell phone, telling me that Caine has already hung up.
"Typical," I murmur as I put my phone back in my pocket. "Are you okay?" I ask Roger, who is still facing away from me.
"Yep," He says unconvincingly.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"You don't sound okay," I say softly, placing my hand on his shoulder gently to get him to turn around.
"Well, I just got fired," He replies quietly.
"What?" I demand, then realise how surprised I must sound. "Why?" I ask, lowering my voice.
"That was my boss," He explains reluctantly, "or ex-boss, I suppose. Albert Hillsborough."
The name rings a bell. "I was in high school with him," I say. Albert was always a high flier. He was ambitious, smart, focused. It's not really surprising, then, that at the age of twenty one, he owns one of only two clubs in Perdido Beach.
"Apparently he heard about what happened two weeks ago in the Power Plant." Roger continues dully. "He thinks I'm developing a reputation that'll scare customers away."
"But he's got nothing to do with what you do outside of work." I frown.
"He's got no life of his own outside of work," He sighs.
I'm not entirely sure what to say, because I've never had a job, and therefore been fired from one. I don't say anything, to give him a chance to continue.
He doesn't.
"Caine's band are playing in the Power Plant a week today," I say suddenly. "D'you want to come?"
"Will Drake be there?"
"No."
"Are you asking me on a date?" He smiles gently.
"I don't know, am I?" I tease.
"You know, technically, if we're going on a date, you could say that we're dating."
"Don't get too far ahead of yourself," I warm him.
"Relax," He laughs, "I was joking. Yes, I will see Caine's band with you. And I'll even try not to punch any freaky screamers."

-

"So, would you say you're a Satanist?"
My sigh upon hearing the words that Quinn asks Caine could possibly be measured on the Richter scale.
"No, Quinn, I just think Satanism is interesting," Caine answers as he rolls his eyes.
"So you don't actually believe in it?" Quinn asks skeptically.
"No." Caine replies. "Wait. Actually, yes. And I'm going to sacrifice you to the dark lord Satan," he grins, and Quinn looks utterly horrified.
Quinn and I were the last to arrive at the Power Plant, so when we saw Caine outside, we decided to wait for him. I am bored, Quinn is pissing Caine off and Caine is smoking. The rest of Caine's band, the Human Crew, are inside. Nothing extraordinary or unusual.
"See this?" Caine says, holding his cigarette out for Quinn to see clearly. "I'm going to use it to burn your dead corpse and send you to Hell."
"Really lovely, Sunshine Soren," I say in the best monotonal voice I can manage. "You sound so...sane."
"Never said I was sane, Edilio," He chuckles, returning the cigarette to his lips.
"Shouldn't you be, like, setting up or something?" Quinn says.
"Setting up for what?" Caine groans irritably.
"Oh, you know, nothing. Other than the gig you're going to play in about twenty minutes," Quinn says, his eyebrows raised dramatically.
"Ah." Caine considers this. "No, Lana and Sanjit can cope."
"What about Orc?" I say, leaning against the wall of the building.
"He's an idiot," Caine waves his free hand dismissively. "He'd probably blow an amp up if we let him near one. Just like I'll do to you with this," He turns to Quinn and waves his cigarette in the terrified surfer's face.
"Jesus, Caine, give the guy a break," I say gently. Quinn stares at me, alarmed, then his face softens and he looks almost thankful.
"Sorry, forgot you were best buddies," Caine mutters, dropping his cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his foot. "Whatever, you're both losers. I'm going inside." He quickly leaves.
"You do know he's not actually going to offer you to Satan, right?" I glance over at Quinn, who has looked slightly annoyed since Lana and Sanjit's names were used together, and extremely awkward since Caine left.
"You can never be sure with Caine," He shrugs. We both fall silent.
This may be the most awkward moment of my life.
"So," Quinn begins.
"So...?"
"So."
"I totally agree."
"Your humour is so weird, brah," He sighs.
"Did you just call me brah?" I turn my head quickly to stare at him. "I thought that was a thing between you and Sam."
"I guess I use it when I talk to my friends," Quinn says casually.
"Friends." I repeat.
"Yeah, it was a good sitcom," He replies.
I turn around, my shoulder against the wall. "Man, I thought you hated me," I say, ignoring his attempt at humour.
"What the hell? Why'd you think that?"
"Well, you know, all the racism, homophobia, that time in eleventh grade when you told our head of grade I wanted to switch from mechanics to sewing -"
"Alright, I get it," He interrupts. "I was a dick."
"I know."
"And I'm sorry," He says quietly, not in the voice someone would use to earn forgiveness. He says the words as if he really means them.
"I know." Then I reluctantly add, "and I forgive you."
That was the most genuine apology Quinn has given me to this day. It still doesn't make this moment any less painfully awkward.
He sticks his hand out. "Friends, then?"
I nod and shake it. "Friends."
Then, just as I decide that this is the most peculiar and unexpected moment of my life, Quinn pulls me into a laughably quick hug, which involves him clapping me on the back hard enough to make me want to cough a lung up. Then he steps about two feet away from me and acts as if the whole ordeal never happened.
"Well, see you," He says, clearing his throat as he goes inside the Power Plant.
I stare at the door he disappears through and attempt to understand what the absolute fuck just happened.
Quinn Gaither actually wants to be my friend.
Quinn Gaither actually just hugged me.
I'm not sure whether to feel blessed or disgusted.
Suddenly it's made aware that I'm not alone. Two people, male and female, burst into uncontrollable laughter from an alley across the street. By now I'd recognise their laughs anywhere.
"You look distressed," Dekka yells across the street between fits of laughter. I cross the street to meet her and Roger, who is doubled up in laughter.
"Don't," I warn her quietly.
"Do you need an ambulance?" She asks, feigning worry, her voice gentle. "Would you like me to bathe your clothes in bleach?"
"Leave him alone, he's traumatised," Roger says, but he continues to laugh behind his hand.
"Did you enjoy your sewing class, Edilio?" Dekka raises her hand to smooth my hair sympathetically, as if I'm a dog, then thinks again and drops it.
"I didn't actually switch to sewing, you know. Quinn didn't take it that far."
"Quinn! Your best friend!" Dekka closes her eyes and places a hand over her heart. "I am emotionally moved."
"Fuck off, Dekka," I groan.
"Fine," She grins. "I'll leave you two gaylords alone."
"I am not a gaylord," Roger calls after her as she crosses the street.
"You are such a gaylord," She replies over her shoulder before going into the Power Plant.
Roger looks at me expectantly.
"What?" I ask, exasperated.
"Are you absolutely sure Quinn's not gay?"
"Yes."
"Completely sure?"
"Yes," I nod and roll my eyes for the umpteenth time tonight. "And besides," I say slowly, "the only dick I actually want to suck is yours."
He starts to laugh once again.
"What?" I throw my hands up as I lean against the wall of the alley that I'm closest to.
"Nothing," He replies, "but those are rich words coming from you."
"From me?"
"Oh, come on, you are such a bottom."
The gleam in his eyes is like a challenge.
"I am not a bottom," I say determinedly.
He steps forward, a slight smirk on his face. Then he places one hand on my hip and the other against the wall.
Okay, so maybe right now I totally seem like a bottom.
He kisses my lips gently, then moves his mouth along my jaw, to my neck. And then I'm suddenly aware that the hand that was once on my hip is now against my crotch.
Forcing myself not to moan does not prove successful.
"Yeah, definitely not a bottom," He says, his voice dripping in sarcasm.
"I'll prove it to you," I murmur, "I am a top."
"Maybe one day," He smiles. He laughs when I breathe out as he takes his hands away from me.
"So, are we going inside," I ask, "or are we just going to stand here and ponder over whether or not I'm ever going to suck your dick?"
"Is this a date?"
I stare at him, baffled. "Sorry, what?"
"I don't know," He says quickly, "nothing. But people who go on dates are usually dating." He sighs. I blink. "That was a bit sudden, wasn't it?" He murmurs, looking at the ground.
"Yeah, just a little bit," I reply. I realise that my chest is tight.
"Forget it," He says.
"What if I don't want to forget it?" I murmur.
He looks at me with wide green eyes, some expression between shock and excitement on his face.
"What if I want you to be my boyfriend?" I say, shoving my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking ever so slightly.
This is the first time I've ever witness Roger being so quiet.
I decide to rephrase the question.
"Will you be my boyfriend?" I ask slowly, almost choking on the words.
He nods. Then he smiles.
"Yeah, okay," He answers.
"Are you blushing?"
"No, of course not," He says quickly, looking away. I let out a short, affectionate laugh. Then I step forward and kiss him.
"We should go inside," I say reluctantly.
"Yeah," He replies begrudgingly. We start to walk slowly over to the Power Plant. "You know," He says, "I think this is going to be a good night."
"I think it already is," I smile.
The Power Plant is dark inside, not like the FAYZ. The FAYZ is always full of colourful flashing lights and people who will dance to just about any music and stick their tongue down anyone's throat, whilst sweating enough to drown a small army. The Power Plant, however, is more relaxed. The lighting is dull and leaves corners unlit. I can imagine how many cobwebs are hiding away in the dark.
The place attracts a certain type of person, too: basically anyone who doesn't like the FAYZ. Surprisingly, this includes a lot of people tonight. Either that, or Caine's band is growing more and more popular.
Another major difference between the competing clubs is that this one has a barlady. And she looks kind of insane.
I spot Dekka talking to Sam and Mary. Quinn is standing with them, but he looks terrified of Dekka, as do many people. Diana has managed to perform a miracle on Mary's hair in the past week, and half of it is now neatly shaven off, whilst the remainder is dyed purple at the ends.
Diana herself is standing by the bar, glaring at the girl behind it, who looks about our age. Caine, as usual, is standing next to Diana, whispering things I probably really don't want to know about in her ear.
Roger and I walk over to the bar.
"Hey," I say to Caine and Diana.
"Hey," Caine returns. "Wait, shit. Our set starts in about three minutes. Bye."
"Nice talking to you, man," I mutter as he walks off.
The girl behind the bar leans forward and smiles at me. Her hair is long and dark, falling over one shoulder, and her eyes are alarmingly green. She reminds me somewhat of a witch, without the green skin and the ability to turn people into frogs. Then again, you never know. Perdido Beach is infamous for the meteor that supposedly hit it so many years ago. Weird shit happens here.
"Can I get you anything?" She says in a low voice, batting her eyelashes.
"Er, two beers?" I reply, leaning away slightly.
"Oh, you're a shy one, aren't you?" She grins, flashing white teeth. "Don't be nervous. I'm Nerezza. And you're cute."
"And I'm gay," I say, quickly throwing money across the bar.
"And he's in a relationship," Roger chips in, grabbing the beers and smiling.
Nerezza sighs. "Why is it so hard to get laid around here?"
"Maybe because you only flirt with homosexuals?" Roger suggests.
The glare Nerezza gives him is terrifying. "I hope you rot in Hell," She spits.
"Well, that's lovely," I say loudly. Roger starts to walk in Dekka's direction and I follow him.
"So, my best friend has a fucking gigantic crush on your best friend," Dekka is saying to Mary.
"My best friend totally wants to fuck your best friend," Mary replies, grinning.
"Your best friend is standing right behind you," I say in Mary's ear. She jumps a mile and turns around.
"Oh, hey!" She smiles innocently. "Dekka and I were just talking about you two."
"Correction," Sam says, "they were talking two fucking each other."
"No, actually," Dekka grins mischievously, "we were talking about how wonderful it is that Edilio and Quinn are friends."
Sam snorts in laughter. Quinn turns a shade of red that is alarmingly similar to the colour of beetroot.
"So, anyway," Sam struggles to speak as he forces himself not to laugh at Quinn, who suddenly finds the floor very interesting. "How long do you think it'll take before you're absolutely drunk?"
"I'm not that much of a lightweight," I argue.
"But you are," Sam says. "Remember your seventeenth birthday when you -"
Orc very conveniently chooses this exact moment to hit the crash cymbal as hard as he can.
"What happened on your seventeenth birthday?" Roger asks quietly.
"Nothing," I say hurriedly.
"Would you rather I asked Sam?"
"I kind of got really really drunk and convinced everyone to go to a gay bar, out of town," I explain, thankful that Sam and Mary's attention is now on the stage.
"What exactly happened in this gay bar?" He raises an eyebrow.
"Well," I begin reluctantly.
"Well," He prompts.
"Well, I may have stood up on one of the tables."
"And...?"
"And I may have started stripping," I finish, keeping my eyes on the stack of amps at the side of the stage.
"Wow, bottom, I'm impressed," He says, stifling a laugh. "Oh, sorry, I meant Edilio."
"Asshole," I mutter as I elbow him in the ribs.
Caine, Lana, and Sanjit are now also on the stage. Caine and Lana look as moody as each other. Sanjit is a ray of sunshine in comparison. Orc is frowning at the bass drum as he hits the pedal with his foot, presumably amazed at how tapping his foot makes such a large sound. He almost reminds me of a baby. A really massive baby.
Caine starts playing something loudly that sounds uncharacteristically happy for Caine, and the rest of the band joins in after a moment. I don't recognise the song, and neither does anyone else. I realise that this is a new song.
"Caine's been writing his own music," Diana shouts in my ear. Until now I wasn't aware that she was standing next to me, and I jump in surprise. "Plus the rest of the band have a shitload of original music already. Did you know how popular the Human Crew already were before Caine joined? Very. This girl the other day told me I was lucky to have Caine," She laughs in her usual flirtatious way. "I told her she was lucky I didn't tell her about some of our...experiences."
"If they involve vaginas, I'm not interested."
"You're so gay. At least you have good taste," She smirks approvingly. "Nice retelling of the gay bar story, by the way. I was eavesdropping. Brings back good memories."
"Shut up, Diana," I groan.
"No, honestly," She grins wickedly. Her lipstick tonight is black, however once the Human Crew have finished their set I have no doubt that she'll be wiping it off before disappearing outside with Caine, as usual. "I think my favourite part of that night was the bit you left out, though. You know, with the male model and the squirty cream -"
"I will punch you in the face," I warn, even though Diana knows I wouldn't.
The Human Crew's set lasts for about an hour and a half, a compilation of original music which actually doesn't sound too bad, and covers of songs I've heard Caine playing through the speakers of his '98 Ford Fiesta. More and more people appear throughout it, most in skinny jeans, with dyed hair. These are people you'd never see in the FAYZ. By the time the set finishes, even E.Z., Duck and Hunter, or the straight skaters as Dekka calls them, have appeared.
Caine plays his last chord on guitar and Orc bangs on some various drums, which actually results in a pretty cool ending. Everyone is cheering and clapping, and Brianna is here, or rather, she's in a corner with her hands all over Dekka.
I'm also slightly drunk.
"Edilio, how much have you had to drink?" Astrid asks me, a disapproving look on her face.
"Like, some beer."
"Anything else?"
"Maybe," I shrug.
"He's had three or four shots of vodka," Roger says.
"Three or four?" Astrid repeats. "You can't have three or four shots of vodka. He's either had three shots, or four shots. So which is it?"
"I don't know," He replies.
Astrid turns to me expectantly.
I hold three fingers up. "Four," I say.
"You're both unbelievably helpful," Astrid says, sarcasm rolling from her tongue as usual in the form of adverbs. "Honestly. Roger, I hope you realise Edilio gets about seven times more sexual than usual when he's intoxicated."
"Really?" He says, surprised, looking at me with half a smile.
"No," I shake my head adamantly, dragging the word out as long as possible.
Sam and Quinn wander over, each carrying two shots. "Hey, babe," Sam greets Astrid.
Astrid opens her mouth but Quinn speaks first. "Don't call me babe, Sam, or I shan't perform fellatio on you tonight," He says in a voice that sounds brilliantly similar to Astrid's. Astrid gives Quinn the hardest glare ever given, then storms away.
The remaining four of us find our way to a table through the dispersing crowd. I nearly fall off my chair before actually sitting on it, then I grab a shot from Sam. "Is this my fourth shot?" I ask Roger. "Or is it my fifth?"
"I don't know," He replies, "I'm your boyfriend, not a calculator."
"Boyfriend?" Sam echoes, eyes wide in shock.
"Boyfriend?" Quinn repeats, leaning forward.
"Well done, jerkass," I hiss to the blushing blond. Suddenly, Mary and Dekka are grabbing chairs and sitting on either end of the table. Astrid is standing behind Sam's chair and has her arms loosely around his neck. I'm not sure if she was there before. Maybe I'm too pissed to notice.
"Did somebody say boyfriend?"
"Are you, like, official?"
"Who asked who?"
"Have you had sex yet?"
"Do you need condoms?"
"Has he painted you like one of his Honduran boys?"
"Wait, what the fuck?" I hear Caine say, and turn around to see him behind me.
"Um," I say, and all eyes are on me.
"Good for you, 'Dilio," Diana says, leaning between Roger and I.
"Er, thanks?"
"If you need any sex tips, just give me a call," She offers.
"But aren't you, like, straight?"
"Oh, yeah," She shrugs.
"How do vaginas work?" Roger asks suddenly.
Diana launches into an extremely lengthy explanation. I zone out and start thinking about why grass isn't orange, so I only catch small parts of her verbal essay, words like clitoris. None of it sounds appealing.
"Periods are another dilemma," Diana says, "it's what happens when -"
"Sorry to interrupt, but I know plenty about vaginas," Dekka cuts across loudly, staring through the nearest window. "And I've had a tiny bit too much to drink and Albert is walking outside, that motherfucker."
"What?" Roger says, eyes wide.
Dekka doesn't respond. Instead, she drags her chair over to the window and stands on it, opening the window as wide as possible.
"Hey!" She yells.
"Shit," Roger murmurs.
"Hey, you fucking dweeb!" Dekka shouts.
"Who's Albert?" I hiss, even though the name rings a bell in the back of my mind.
"He was my boss," Roger explains quietly.
"Oh, yeah!" I suddenly remember. "I went to school with him."
"I know," He groans.
"Asshole!" Dekka screams. "Pussy!"
Heads are turning now. Brianna is laughing from the next table, where she's sitting with a girl who is apparently called Taylor. I think I saw her in Caine's last gig. I'd be even more sure of that fact if I hadn't just poured two shots down my throat, one of which actually belonged to Quinn, but he hasn't noticed, and what the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't grieve.
Finally, the guy who is walking slowly on the other side of the road turns his head, his white shirt freshly washed and bright against his dark skin. Roger has given up on trying to get Dekka to stop, and has resorted to sliding as far as possible down in his seat.
In the loudest voice I have ever heard, Dekka roars, "suck my dick, Albert Hillsborough!"
We all burst into uncontrollable laughter, except Roger, who looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up. Dekka has her arm out of the window, her middle finger up. Albert looks alarmed. He smooths his shirt with his hands and hurries away.
"And that is why I am the best friend ever," Dekka announces as she turns around and jumps down from her chair.
"I could shoot you," Roger says with his hands over his face.
"Oh, come on, lighten up," She says, spreading her arms.
"No."
"Go fuck yourself, then," She shrugs and wanders off.
"Hey, where'd my vodka go?" Quinn cries, looking around the table.
"Oops, sorry," I shrug, the words flowing into each other. Quinn huffs and leaves, mumbling something about Lana and alcohol. "Where's Diana and, um, you know, that other one?"
"Oh, they've gone home to fuck each other," Sam replies.
"Awesome," I nod.
"You're drunk." He says, laughing slightly.
"Am not."
"What's my surname?"
I close my eyes in concentration, then open one. "Church?"
"Edilio," Mary says, patting my shoulder, "you're drunk."
"No way," I shake my head adamantly. Mary sighs and tells me she's going home. She gives me a quick hug and leaves.
"Is your name actually Sam Church?" Roger asks Sam.
"No," Sam replies, "this is just what happens when you get a Honduran drunk."
"I am not drunk!" I say, almost shouting.
"You're drunk." Sam says bluntly.
"Okay," I shrug as I hold my thumb and forefinger up about an inch from each other, "I'm this much drunk."
"An inch?" Roger says.
"Uh huh."
"Only an inch?"
"Is that not satis- satisfac- good enough?" I slur.
"What about, like, six inches?"
"But what about seven inches?"
Sam coughs very loudly. "Right, I'm going," He says, pursing his lips.
"Bye," I say, attempting to give him a friendly smile.
"Bye, Sam Church," Roger says, not as a joke, but I think because he actually believes it.
So now Roger and I are sitting alone at a table, both drunk, staring at each other for no particular reason.
"What?" I ask, because he's staring at me.
"What?" He asks, because I'm staring at him.
"You're hot," I reply, grinning. I jab him in the chest with one finger for emphasis.
"Thanks," He smiles. My hand lingers on his chest, and my gaze drops to his lips, and even though the bar isn't actually that empty, I don't give a shit about anyone else at this moment in time. When I lean over and kiss him quite insistently, and move my hand to his thigh, he doesn't seem to notice anyone else, either.
"We should go home," He suggests, and when he says home he is referring to his apartment, firstly because I'm now homeless, not that a shitty trailer on the outskirts of Perdido Beach is much of a home anyway, and secondly because all the stuff I have, which isn't much, is there, since I spend a majority of my time over there now.
"Qué maldita lástima," I reply, amusing myself by confusing him.
"Is that a sexual demand or something?" He frowns.
"No." I shake my head more than is needed. "It's Spanish."
"No shit."
"Shut up," I retort, as nothing wittier comes to mind. "What a damn shame. That's what it means. If you want a sexual demand," I grin, "you could say fóllame."
"What does that mean?"
Trailing my hand further up his thigh, I move closer to him, my mouth against his ear, and whisper, "Fuck me."
I lean back, watching him for any reaction. "So, um, I really think we should go back to my place," He says, his words rushed, his face flushing.
"I think that's a good idea," I murmur, unsuccessfully trying my best not to slur my words. Roger simply nods, almost timid. The nerves I usually have around him have completely disappeared and have been replaced with something a lot more bold.
I stand up, grab his hand and pull him out of his chair. We leave quickly, and usually I'd take the time to say goodbye to everyone but everything is kind of blurred in my vision and the only thing that's clear is the man I'm dragging out of the door and down the street by the hand.
Roger's apartment, luckily, isn't too far away from the Power Plant. Then again, no two places in Perdido Beach are that far from each other. After only about five minutes of walking - or stumbling - and a few moments of attempting to get one key into the lock of the door to the building, and then the other into the lock of the apartment door, we're inside the familiar short hallway, each wall still obscured by posters and comic strips and whatever the hell else. I don't pay any attention to any of it, though. Instead, once Roger has managed to lock the door behind us and put the key back in his pocket, then turns to face me, I place both hands on his chest, push him back into the door and kiss him as hard as possible, moving my hands to the back of his neck and sliding my tongue between his lips.
I expect him to push me away and take the lead, tell me I'm being way too insistent for someone who's usually so submissive. But he doesn't.
My arms start to ache because he's taller than me and, after all, I've had five or six or some other amount of vodka shots, and a whole lot of whatever the fuck I could afford and of what other people kept insisting on buying me. So, I drop my hands and pull away from him, then take his hand gently and lead him into his room, which has sort of become our room over the last week.
The room is dark anyway, and it must be really late by now, so it's quite difficult to even see Roger when everything else seems to be in black and white. A tiny fact like that doesn't matter, though, at least not when I'm pressed against him and kissing his neck and pushing him down onto the bed.
We both quickly kick our shoes off, and then he scrambles further back and I kneel down on the bed in front of him.
"Edilio," Roger says softly, and then he looks lost for words.
"Of all times, you choose now to be speechless," I murmur, speaking slowly to sound as sober as possible, but we've gone way past that point anyway.
I lean forward and bite his bottom lip gently, and he closes his eyes and smiles. I trace his lips with my tongue and he doesn't even try to take advantage of the situation and take charge.
To hell with being slow, then.
I pull his shirt - black, with the words Bass Drum of Death on it, whatever the fuck that means - over his head roughly, and then take my own off when he hesitates. I push him down, my lips centimetres from his as his head presses against the pillow. His skin is much paler than mine, of course, his light hair is messy and his breath is becoming heavy. Perhaps it's a trick of the mind but I'm sure he looks a hell of a lot better than usual - which is pretty fucking hot anyway - simply because he is underneath me.
"You're not- you're not going to regret this in the morning, are you?" He asks quickly, his breath warm on my face and smelling much less of alcohol than mine probably does. "Because -"
"No," I say reassuringly, shaking my head to make it clear. He nods and my hands find their way to the button of his jeans. I keep my hands as steady as possible as I undo it, determined to remain in control. I pull his jeans down as quickly as I can, then I take my own off.
His breathing is desperate. He places one hand on the back of my head and pulls me close to him again, pressing his lips against mine as if he wants me. The thought is satisfying.
He pushes me away to end the kiss and moans, almost like he needs to, probably because I have my right hand pressed against the crotch of his boxers. I pull them down, too, and his breath catches in his throat and I glance down and fuck, his dick isn't exactly small.
He tilts his head back. I take advantage of the movement and kiss his neck, gently at first, his skin soft against my lips. He moans my name quietly like a swear word.
I want him louder.
I bite down on the bottom of his neck, and judging by the sound that escapes his lips, and how hard he is against me, I'm guessing that my teeth are against a sensitive spot. I should remember that.
I move my lips along his collarbone, down his chest and torso, his breathing growing more ragged with each kiss. I pause, teasing him, and his hand finds my head, his fingers tangled in my hair, and he pushes me further down with a groan.
So I willingly comply. The reaction I receive as I kiss the tip and then the length of his cock is a mixture of loud swear words and moans. When I start using my tongue, he grows even louder. Just as I want him.
"Fuck," He nearly gasps as I put my lips around his dick and start sucking. He raises his hips in an attempt to put more in my mouth but I place both hands on them and and press his body down. I am in control.
I move my mouth and tongue around his dick slowly at first. He swears softly, breathing quickly but not as much as before.
Then he begs: "Fuck, Edilio, faster."
So I work my tongue down to the base of his cock, moving quickly, desperately. His pleas become louder and longer. He reaches for the pillow underneath his head, twisting his hand into it, his grip tight.
"Holy shit," He says roughly, his voice hoarse, "I think I - I'm going to -"
He doesn't manage to finish the sentence, but I know exactly what he wants to say. After he gives up on sentences and resorts to screaming whichever swear words he can find, he comes in my mouth, a pool of liquid behind my lips. I lift my mouth away from his dick slowly.
Don't choke. Don't choke. Don't choke.
I swallow.
I lift myself up to lie beside Roger, propped up on both elbows, licking my lips quickly.
"You're a hot mess," I tease him softly as I look at him with tired eyes and half a grin. He looks exhausted, his chest rising and falling as he breathes in and out, almost panting. His hair is matted with sweat and his face is flushed red. He opens his eyes, grey in this darkness, to look at me. He looks away quickly, embarrassed.
He looks back at me, gazing at my lips. "Did you...?"
"Yeah," I reply, knowing what he's trying to ask. It's amazing how someone so confident can be reduced to someone so awkward and shy when they've lost control.
He opens his mouth to speak again but I don't let him. "Don't try to talk," I say quietly, chuckling when he simply nods and gives me a small smile. "You need to rest."
I rest my head next to his and place my hand on his chest, watching it move up and down. We're both breathing heavily, sweating, still a little bit drunk.
"Hey," He says as soon as he's breathing steadily enough to speak properly, "stay with me until the morning this time, yeah?"
I look back up at him, smile gently and say, "of course."

Sent from my iPod"Do you think pink is my colour?"
I sigh deeply and squint at the piece of clothing my best friend Mary Terrafino is holding. It's a shirt, and before she said the word pink. I'd have said it was just light red.
"If you're looking for fashion advice, ask Astrid," I say, shrugging.
"Jesus, calm down," Mary laughs. "I'm just teasing you. You're worse with fashion advice than Quinn, and he wears fedoras."
I haven't properly spent time with Mary all summer, and part of me knows that's because I'm slightly afraid of her. But the other part of me feels guilty about this fear.
Fear fucks with your head. It twists you in ways that you'd normally never be twisted.
Mary is staying with Sam and Astrid. Her new bedroom here is pretty nice and girly but barely decorated; it screams "Astrid".
"Besides," Mary adds, "I'm not a shallow pathetic girl who befriends gay guys hoping they're the next Gok Wan. And if I was, I'd ask Howard."
"Howard?"
"Howard Bassem. The DJ."
"What DJ?"
"You know, the DJ in the FAYZ."
"What the hell is the FAYZ?" I ask hopelessly.
"The club in the middle of Perdido Beach." She replies. "It stands for Fallout Alley Youth Zone. Howard named it himself, he said some radioactive crap happened here, like, a shitload of years ago."
"Okay. Okay," I begin. "Not only is that a really stupid name for a club where hormonal teenagers go, but why would you ask Howard for fashion advice?"
"No, Edilio, you're not getting it," Mary huffs. "I wouldn't ask him for fashion advice, because I'm not an asshole who thinks all gay men have brilliant fashion sense."
"Howard is gay?"