John B. Routledge, a tan, scruffy surfer from the Outer Banks, arrived in Manhattan like a bewildered deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming bus. He'd never seen so many people, all of them in a hurry. He felt naked without his boat, like he'd left a piece of his soul back in the water. But life had taken a wild turn, and when Christian Hughes, a guy he'd only met once at a house party after a vague and slightly traumatizing trip to Sweden, offered him a room in his apartment, John B. figured why not?
Dragging his duffel bag across the uneven sidewalk, John B. glanced up at the building in front of him: a red-bricked, five-story walk-up with more character than structural integrity. The only place less welcoming was the abandoned church where the Pogues used to hide out, but rent was rent, and beggars couldn't be choosers, especially when you've got a bounty on your head from the last treasure hunt.
John B. climbed the stairs two at a time, his bag thudding behind him. By the time he reached the top floor, he was sweaty and out of breath, but there was Christian, standing in the open doorway looking as forlorn as ever, wearing a sad turtleneck, even though it was mid-June.
"Hey, man," Christian greeted, his voice low and slightly haunted, like he'd just come back from a therapy session he didn't enjoy but would never admit he needed.
"Christian, my dude!" John B. threw out his arms for a hug. Christian awkwardly reciprocated, patting him on the back twice like he wasn't sure if John B. was fragile or just weirdly enthusiastic.
"Yeah, good to see you. Welcome to New York, I guess," Christian mumbled, stepping aside to let John B. into the apartment. "Sorry it's not bigger."
The apartment was the size of a shoebox. Actually, a shoebox might've had more closet space. But John B. didn't care—he was used to tight quarters. He threw his duffel on the couch, or what he assumed was a couch, though it looked more like a relic from the '70s that had somehow escaped a bonfire.
"I love it, man! Cozy." John B. grinned, walking around as if he were inspecting the Taj Mahal.
Christian watched him with that same slightly pained expression, like he'd just remembered something he'd been trying really hard to forget. Probably Sweden. Definitely Pelle. The awkward silence stretched as Christian cleared his throat.
"So, um... you like New York?" Christian asked, although he knew the answer. John B. didn't exactly scream 'city guy.'
John B. shrugged. "I mean, haven't seen much of it yet. But it's gotta be better than hiding out from the cops back home."
Christian blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Long story. Don't worry, it's fine." John B. brushed it off, looking out the window. The view was mostly a fire escape and someone's laundry, but he acted like it was the Grand Canyon. "But hey, thanks again for letting me crash here. After everything with the treasure hunt, a change of pace is probably good for me."
Christian raised an eyebrow. "Treasure hunt?"
"Yeah, like I said—long story." John B. waved a hand. "You got any weird stories?"
Christian's eyes flickered to the side like he was about to recall some traumatic experience he definitely didn't want to talk about. "Uh, yeah... you could say that." His voice lowered. "Sweden. Ever heard of a commune?"
John B. nodded slowly. "Yeah, kinda. Why?"
Christian shook his head, clearly not wanting to dive into the gory details. "Let's just say, don't go. Or, if you do, don't wear white."
John B. snorted. "I mean, I don't think anyone could pay me to go to Sweden. Sunlight all the time? Nah, man, I need my naps."
Christian stared at him, unblinking, for just a second too long. "Right," he muttered under his breath. "Naps."
The next few days were an odd adjustment for both of them. John B. was a hurricane of chaotic energy. He spent his mornings running across the city as if he were still on a treasure hunt, trying to figure out the subway system and nearly getting into a fight with a pretzel vendor who wouldn't accept 'I.O.U.'s as a valid form of payment.
Christian, on the other hand, was in a perpetual state of existential dread. He spent most of his time at the apartment, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall, and nursing a cold cup of coffee as if it held the answers to the universe. The guy could brood like nobody's business.
One evening, after an exhausting day of trying to make New York his playground, John B. flopped onto the couch next to Christian, who was watching some black-and-white art film with subtitles.
"Whatcha watching, man?" John B. asked, leaning over like a kid trying to copy answers off a test.
Christian didn't even blink. "A film. It's about grief and suffering. But, you know, in a symbolic way."
"Right, totally." John B. nodded, pretending to understand. "Like, 'Jaws,' but sadder?"
Christian looked at him. "Not really, no."
John B. gave up. "You wanna go out? There's this place I heard about called 'The Bearded Lady.' Sounded cool. I think it's a bar... or maybe a circus?"
Christian's face paled slightly. "No thanks. I don't really do bars."
"Come on, you gotta live a little! You can't just sit here all day thinking about... Sweden."
Christian sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that felt like it had been marinating for years. "Fine," he muttered. "But if we die, it's your fault."
They hit the streets, with John B. leading the charge, weaving through the throngs of tourists and yelling something about being 'free spirits.' Christian trailed behind like a man walking to his own execution. When they finally found the bar, it was as weird as the name suggested: part speakeasy, part circus, with a clown on stilts serving drinks.
John B. was in heaven. Christian was in... wherever the opposite of heaven is.
"Two shots of tequila!" John B. shouted to the bartender, slapping some crumpled bills on the counter.
Christian immediately frowned. "I don't drink tequila. It... makes me emotional."
John B. laughed, clinking his shot glass against Christian's. "Dude, tequila's the best! Just loosen up. What's the worst that could happen?"
As the night wore on, it became clear that everything was the worst that could happen. Christian did not loosen up. In fact, he got quieter, if that was even possible, and sat in the corner like a brooding shadow while John B. made friends with a guy named Todd who swore he had a map to 'the best underground art scene' in Manhattan.
"Christian, man! We gotta go with Todd here. He's got a map!" John B. said, eyes wide with excitement.
Christian just stared at him, then at Todd, who looked like he hadn't slept in three weeks and probably lived in a basement somewhere. "I think I'll pass," Christian said flatly, his eyes narrowing at Todd like he was a cult leader recruiting new members.
Todd grinned, showing a set of teeth that were surprisingly straight for someone who wore a garbage bag as a jacket. "You're missin' out, bro."
John B. was already halfway to the door. "Suit yourself, Christian. If I find a treasure, don't say I didn't offer!"
Christian watched him go with a mix of concern and resignation. He downed his beer in one gulp, shaking his head. "This is a terrible idea," he muttered to himself before trudging after John B., who was already lost in the crowd.
The two of them spent the next hour chasing after Todd's dubious directions, which led them not to some underground art scene but to the back alley of a deli that smelled like pickles and sadness.
"Told you it was a bad idea," Christian mumbled, staring at a questionable puddle on the ground.
John B. shrugged, still grinning. "Hey, it's New York. You never know what's around the corner."
Christian stared at him for a long moment. "Yeah," he said quietly, the weight of his own disastrous past catching up with him. "You really don't."
As they walked back to the apartment, side by side, both of them in their own weird way were glad to have each other—even if neither would admit it.
