[I had really bad writers block and I was really sick and Prom is tomorrow so I've been trying to coordinate for that I might post a photo bc my dress is nice & it needs more appreciation but idk. Anyways This is like 5 days late]

I suddenly understood why my neighbor had given so much time into ensuring his home and everything on the property was in pristine condition.

For a while I'd stood behind the wall in the hallway, watching them interact, only because I was afraid of ruining their gripping conversation. Even though I'd slipped on my own two feet and accidentally kicked over a vase to the floor where it shattered, neither looked up or even bothered to address the ruckus. I had to sit down directly in front of them and direct their attention elsewhere.

I said, "it quit pouring," and pointed to the door, "you can really see the front of the house now, if you'd like." It was really nothing special, but I always found viewing things from a new angle could turn out to be something. I never found it in the murky bay water. It was like searching in a swirling black hole of absolute nothing, which in reality, turned out to be the mess of my home.

Brendon loved the sight, just as I had anticipated. For a moment, he tore his gaze away from Dallon, only for a second. "You can see my house from all the way over here. There's the back porch, and the little tree out by the fountain."

"You could see it better from mine," Dallon gestured to his property and the towers peeking out from behind the freshly trimmed trees, "it's just over there, if you'd like to go see. I have a perfect view of the dock your boat is tied to."

They turned to me, as if it were my decision. It might've been, but I hadn't picked up on the cues if it truly were. "I-I guess? If you'd like to, I won't stop either of you."

They shared a look. It was strangely similar to the look my mother would give my older siblings after I'd done something stupid in a public area, when they were trying to deduce the purpose behind my actions. It was also the glance my mother and father would shoot at each other when they had knowledge of something I hadn't. The look possessed bad connotations.

I followed them out to the dirt road and trailed behind for the short walk. They were leaning against each other every other step, and time truly seemed to stop when they both caught gazes. Hayley was right. I felt as if I'd painted the stars in the sky for the both of them.

"These gates," Dallon pointed as we walked up the driveway, "were delivered from Europe by a good friend living over there. France, I believe, possibly somewhere in that area. It was a few years ago, and my memory with these things isn't the best. We haven't spoken in quite some time."

"They're beautiful nevertheless." My cousin stared at them for a while. The gates were beginning to rust, discoloration was overpowering the sweet gold bars and hinges. It was beautiful once, no doubt, but it was only a sad reminiscence of what it used to be.

"They are."

However, beyond the sad entrance, was a property polished down to the finest detail. Mansions shown in the newspapers were levels below my neighbor's home. It might've been the absence of drunken strangers that gave the image of upscale and wealth, but it was gorgeous none the less. Maybe I had never caught the full effect of only the exterior, but the inside had to have been renovated as well.

I understood why.

My neighbor stayed back, a few paces away from myself, and we both watched Brendon run across the front of the home, pulling up the legs of his pants to wade in the water, bury his face in the near hundreds of pedestals decorated with exotic seasonal flowers; whatever he could think to do, he'd done it.

Dallon leaned over, and whispered into my ear. "Isn't it stunning? How the front of the house catches the light, and all."

"It is. How lovely."

Then Brendon paused, in the middle of the open field, with his arms outstretched. "I love it."

"If you love it out here, the inside is twice as nice." Dallon started to the front doors, positioned behind two white pillars and intricate detailing around the frame. He yanked on one handle while Brendon cautiously pulled on the other like it was glass.

I only held on to the vague memory of the front room from the few times I'd attended a party. I remembered the shimmering gowns and drinks tapping diamond rings. I had to push the kiss on the balcony out of my mind. It wasn't in sight, but I recognized the library where she'd spun the bet. The image in my mind was cluttered with intoxicated strangers, busy, drawing the attention away from everything else.

The ceiling stretched high, holding a chandelier at the top, intricate detailing reaching to the floor. The rails of the staircase were glittering gold in bright contrast to the white marble steps. The tiles on the floor were arranged in a circle, an emblem in the middle laced with silver that mirrored the one on the front gates. I hadn't noticed it before.

"The floors were done by a friend from California," Dallon scuffed the heels of his shoes across the floor, "it took months and cost a fortune, but it's nice."

"They're gorgeous. California, you said? I've been looking to replace our own flooring, but I can't find anyone suitable." Brendon's floors were kept in immaculate condition thanks to the aid of his extensive cleaning staff.

[Start the song if you wanna. It's called Treacherous by Taylor Swift]

The next room I hadn't the chance to see, but after entering it felt more like a privilege than anything. The windows all down the wall facing the bay gave a perfect view of the water and the homes across, and another set of staircases led to an organ. The bronze pipes gleamed in the light of the setting sun.

"Do you play?"

Damn stared at it for a while before answering my question. "Not anymore," Brendon gave a quick glance to the instrument, eyes full of unsaid reminisce, "but I used to, all the time. My parents taught me before I left."

From across the room, Brendon turned to me and waved to grab my attention. "John, did you know that Dallon and I have met before? It was some time ago."

"It'll be five years when it's just around two weeks through November." He muttered lowly. His eyes scanned the indoor balcony and the organ settled upon it. "The man who can still play it doesn't come around on these days. He's got a stomach bug either way, or at least that's what he told me."

"That's a shame. Are you sure you can't play? It'd be such a trip to the past," suddenly my cousin was beside Dallon, between the both of us, trailing his fingers down his arm, "it's alright, though."

The silence was suffocating, even though it only lasted for a few seconds. It was enough for my neighbor to consider his options.

"I'll have somebody call him immediately," he raised his hand to the two people standing guard by the nearest door, and they both nodded once before rushing off, "let's continue the tour while we wait? It only gets better."

The two rooms I had seen were larger than the house that I lived in growing up. I wasn't sure as to how the rest of his home would be better if it was already everything. Maybe I was simply too poor to realize why.

The next place we visited was his bedroom, even though it didn't appear so. It looked the part of a closet with small details that alluded to the use of something else.

"I keep my shirts folded in the cabinets," he let go of Brendon's hand and jogged up the spiral staircase to the small balcony feature, "and everything else in a separate room. I can't seem to fit everything in one spot."

When I was younger, I owned one dresser. It sat in the corner of my bedroom, taunting me with the sad four drawers and rusted handles to two of them. I had slightly more space to store the few clothes I did own, but it wasn't nearly enough to occupy as many spots as my neighbor needed.

My cousin fell back on the smooth sheets covering the bed like it was fresh snow on the ground, waving his arms like he was creating patterns. "These are so soft! I could fall asleep right now if I wanted to."

"They're all the way from Florida, and the pillows come from England!" Dallon yelled back, and Brendon reached for the pillows at the short headboard. They were expensive, I could tell just by sparing a glance. They were beautiful.

The creak of doors stole our attention to the second tier of the room. Dallon had flung open the cabinets like curtains in the wind to reveal the shirts stacked on shirts on the shelves. Even from down below, it was clear that even half of a single pile could purchase a new home for my mother in the upscale streets of Hollywood.

And he began tossing them over his shoulder like he was handling old costumes from a dumpster. Imported or strung by a skilled professional halfway across the world, none of them seemed to hold any significance for the moment.

Brendon took to catching them all, and Dallon noticed and started to aim for the bed. It was a never ending blizzard of material.

"Dallon, stop! You're going to mess them all up, and you'll have to fold them all over again!" They were piling up on his arms and settling over the ones he hadn't caught, but he was still grinning ear to ear.

"That's not important! I've barely thrown out half of them at this point!" He swing the third cabinet open and cleared each shelf in one swift motion. Each shirt slumped to the lower level. 

Quickly, he noticed the laughter had ceased suddenly, and my cousin sitting in a stack of clothes, holding them to his chest. Silent tears dripped to the fabric.

In seconds, Dallon was right on the bed beside him, reaching for his shoulder, and wiping his cheeks with a gentle touch. "What's wrong? They are just shirts, you know, it isn't that big of an issue if anything happens to them." His voice was low and soft, reassuring and kind. I'd truly met a once-in-a-lifetime person.

"I know."

"Well, why're you upset? There's no reason to — I don't want you to be sad."

"It's not that," he clutched it tighter and avoided any eye contact, "it's not that, it isn't."

Brendon had settled. Money was the only important thing in his life, he longed for the stability and cushion of riches to sit upon. He settled for someone else because it was the one thing Dallon didn't have, but only for a second. And then, he had everything, and my cousin had nothing but company in the world he'd built, crumbling to dust right before his eyes.

"Well, then what is it?"

"It's just..." he smiled crookedly, "I've never seen such beautiful shirts."

꧁꧂

I was asked to welcome in the guest that had been invited over so hastily. I'd gotten lost twice in the maze of hallways and rooms with the same high ceilings and similar detailing, and for the five minutes I'd been gone, my mind had to wander to why my neighbor hadn't insisted on opening the door himself.

In fact, I didn't care to know what he was doing with my cousin. The last time I'd seen them, a quick glimpse over my shoulder as I left, they were just beginning to get to their feet from being wrapped together on the bed in a pile of shirts and blankets. It only made my heart ache and my head spin. I hoped I would take another wrong turn.

The man Weekes had invited over was fairly short, to my surprise. He came alone, in pajama pants and an old shirt, as if he'd just woken from a deep sleep.

He rubbed his eyes from the sudden burst of light from inside. "Who the hell are you?"

"John, John O'Callaghan. I live next door, and I was instructed to bring you in. For, er, the organ, yes? You can play it?"

He stared at me for a moment, dark eyes scanning every inch of my attire. He nodded, and slipped past to the entrance room. "Pete. My last name isn't important," Pete turned on his heels sharply and shot a narrow glare my way, "unless you're involved?"

I was not involved, whatever it was. I assumed it was in connection to the job I was offered a while back and promptly turned down multiple times.

He didn't respond. He nodded and sped away with swift short steps that carried him away in a matter of seconds.

Pete was short, and he looked familiar, like somebody you could trust, but he also held the unfortunate quality of hostility. He was an angry little bootlegger, and I knew for certain my choice to remain uninvolved was the best one.

As I followed Pete through the rooms and halls, I couldn't help but let my mind wander to the possibility of his faux life, if he deemed it necessary to have one. Unless the lies were only important to Dallon because of the rumors.

Either way, I dug it into my mind that Pete remained at home for hours on end with too much to drink and enough cats to pile into a staircase to another planet. It made me feel better, in an odd and unsettling way.

The organ was beautiful. Maybe it was the instrument itself, or the inexplicable talent the player possessed in quick but powerful fingers. My cousin and neighbor both found short-lived happiness in the tunes depending on the keys before it to fall into place. At first, it was a party for just the two of them, loud exciting music and thundering notices that drowned out the rain tapping against the windows again, begging for entrance to dampen the parade.

But later, only half an hour later, the music turned sad and slow. There was obviously another weight dragging down Pete's mind; it was too easy to tell when a musician was distressed, same as if they were ecstatic or afraid. I didn't care enough about a near stranger to drill inside the mind of a troubled bootlegger.

It was a somber song that brought the day to an end. Crowded rain, two people less than centimeters apart, occupying only one tile on the floor, spinning in tight circles. Sad notes.

"I can't stand for today to be over," Brendon whispered, "I never want it to end. I don't want to go home."

There was a significance behind his words that only few could make sense of. It was a heart-wrenching meaning to know.

Dallon was clutching on to my cousin's hand for dear life. He was staring off into nothing, turning over thoughts in his mind, undoubtedly a plan to make the night happen more often. I almost expected him to verbalize it, quit living on a whim, take action for once in over five years. Five years he'd loved and lived alone, waiting for someone he wasn't sure he'd ever have. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had then vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Brendon it had seemed very near to him, almost touching. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a red light on a dock. His count of enchanted things had diminished by one.

He didn't say anything.

"Think how you love me," Brendon whispered, meant only for my neighbor, but it echoed, "I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember."

"You'll always be like this to me."

"Oh no; but promise me you'll remember," tears were falling, "I'll be different, but somewhere lost inside me there'll always be the person I am tonight."

The soft tone of the organs final key faded into the noise like it was rain itself. Pete was slumped over the table beside him, hugging the bottle of champagne to his chest while he snored lightly. We all knew everything would be different soon, nothing could return to normal. Nothing was normal anymore. It was a foreign word.

"I promise."