TW. Erotica (mild); dissociation.

iv. Silver (reflection)

*

It’s Friday, and the last period is P.E.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bert tilts a can of coke in my direction and I take it. It’s cherry. I like the original better, and it’s gone flat cause he was zoning out at the kids running track, but it’s fine. Take a gulp, pass it back. The question is absurd.

“Penny for mine? I should be the one asking you that, man!” I say, but there’s a burning need to curse out the entire school staff, the coach in particular.

To them, our bones are metal which I can’t comprehend - missed me when mine crumble, dampen, tear and combust so often it’s ingrained in my muscle memory. So when it happens I don’t even scream anymore, my jaw shut, a nerve system response.

They say it’s unfair if he races, because his bones are metal. Because ‘other boys trained very hard and it’d be unfair for him to win just by chance of being different’, as they put it - it’s all very polite, very formal. Very smiles and hesitant taps on his back. They don’t give me an opportunity to say how it takes almost a month to build your bones back to what they were; all a wasted effort. It’s silly to argue, it doesn’t matter, he says... So we sit in the bleachers and share a coke.

“I mean, it’s fine. I’m kinda blasé to it, honestly. And it’s not like I wanna go pro,” he trails off, shrugs, knuckles covering the left side of his mouth. I think he wants a smoke, but even Bert’s not blatant enough to completely disregard the teachers when they’re staring him down and we’re pretty visible up here. I know he’s not blasé to shit, cause who would be; but since we’re not at a point I can get angry on his behalf, I let it go.

“So what do you wanna do, then?” Distract. And it’s only fair I’d know, he knows my ridiculous art school plan.

“What, other than detention? Well, Quinn and Jepha are trying to do this band stuff right now, so guess that.”

“So band?” Same as Frank then. There aren't not a lot of bands who accept wolves; if not superstition or fear, then because it’s inconvenient at best. Have your tour bus trashed, polyester bunk beds swallowed and scratches over doors and windows? No thanks. Though, maybe, it’s easier with an all-wolf band; and at least for Frank, the road is makeshift trampled in by his grandpa and dad. Bert will have to do it himself.

“Yeah, in case you worried you’re more clichè than me, cause, y’know, doesn’t everyone want to escape their hometown in a tour bus?”

And I mean, yeah.

It’s kinda inevitable for every kid to hear MJ or Morrissey and get all starryeyed, grab a guitar. But as you grow up, that willingness to be sawed open and seen becomes less and less appealing. As a child, being known doesn’t feel as terrifying. But then one morning you wake up with the dream dead; acquire too much damage worth hiding.

“Quinn’s an idealist romantic who thinks someone wants us. He’s looking for a manager. Doubt whoever he finds will be impressed with 10 people liking our stuff, but y’know...” he shrugs, stretches out his shoulders blades, raises his Doc Martens onto the seat in front.

“You post your music, but you don’t scream about it from the rooftops? You might be the first person in history to do that.” It’s not a lie, considering the first thing Frank told me other than his name is that he misses Pencey Prep. “But hey, it’s elusive and mysterious; now I wanna listen to your stuff, so your marketing works.” I conclude.

Bert chuckles and focuses his eyes back on me: “I mean, yeah, if you wanna. I can send you a link?” but he stays put and doesn’t reach for his phone. I blink. Like I haven’t used that excuse - I’ll send you my stuff, but later.

“Sure, but you could send me a link now,” I press, dig headphones out of my pocket and, of course, they’re knotted together. “We still have 15 minutes to kill, right? Surprisingly, it is effective, he fishes out his phone and starts trying. Huh, who knew peer pressure works?

“Okay, here, then it’s faster if you take my phone,” he murmurs and gives it to me, palms hot, clammy. It’s open to their page, The Used in tattered black letters, a heart hanging by a noose beside it, bleeding out. Dramatic.

There’s four and I shuffle them before I choose one.
They’re all filled with noise, all live recordings - not that I expected them to afford studio sessions, but maybe they could try a bathroom for clarity - all start with shuffling, and a beat of silence. Acoustic feedback loops and when it doesn’t, then the guitarist stands too close in the forefront and drowns out the rest of the band. But even with that, they’re good.

Bert starts singing, fried, with his voice crackling, but when it evens out it’s surprisingly soft, almost feminine, up to the point where he builds up to a scream.

‘And if you want me back, gonna have to ask--‘. This time both the feedback and the guitarist orbiting the recording combine forces and I almost recoil; the left earbud flies out and bumps a chair with a thunk as I scramble for it back.

When the song’s over, I eye Bert, suddenly aware he’s been watching.
Offer a shrug: “Could barely make out the lyrics, but you guys have great energy.”

Bert cringes. “Uh, yeah, we’re thinking of re-recording that sometime.”

“But it’s good.” And I’m not lying, he is, “I’d say you’ve got a new fan. You should let me know if you book any gigs out here.” I grin as I hand the phone back.

“Uh, yeah, man, no problem,” he stuffs it into his hoodie pockets. His face looks like someone deluding red in reverse. Okay. Not cruel enough to bring it up, but I’ll keep in mind complimenting his music does that.

The shriek of a whistle interrupts us; Mrs Tanner with her hands holstered on her hips, elbows jutted out: “C’mon, boys, clamber on outta ‘ere, the class’ over!”

-

...I bite the inside of my lip before a moan slips by; close my eyes and focus on how Bert curls his tongue and sucks in air, how his chuckle sends soft vibrations through my skin. He takes me in, grips my hips and his fingers stick there, press, bruise... When my eyes flutter open, I’m still asleep enough to shut them; bite the pillow and clamp the sheets between my legs so it doesn’t feel like nothing. He’s still here - blurrier, his touch not as present. Cling to it, trace skin and dissociate from my own body... But it’s not enough.

Then, wake up again. Lay there. I wasn’t expecting this; usually it’s Frank, if anyone at all. Can’t say it doesn’t feel nice to revel in the sheets without a need to justify it (or guilt on worse days).

Still. The guy tells me one gay joke and here I am; hard not to feel pathetic. Blame it on listening the rest of their tracks before sleep (but if that were the case, it would have more feedback). Okay, nevermind, just-- shower, that’ll help. If a shower helps through an art block, why not with this?

I untangle myself and turn on a fan before heading upstairs to the bathroom, looking like a mule with the sheets on my back, but at least I can see where I’m going. No one seems to be awake yet. It’s Saturday so people tend to sleep in - I’m still quiet till I reach the hamper, then the shower. My thoughts pour all at once with the water, heat cranked all the way up. I grit my teeth, bare it.

Why Bert?

Sure, he’s fit. I’ve seen him run track a few times; my mind wanders to the bleachers and stays there: leaning on a pole as sweat beads his skin, neck cranked to the sky with a curse and that breathless high-pitched laugh he does. He stretches and his tank top rides up, exposing a patch of skin and a line of his briefs.

My breath hitches as I take a second to compose myself, let the water run through my back, breathe through the dull heat. I have a crush on Bert, but that’s not the problem, right?

I’ve always been somewhat aware of my narcissistic streak - my throat running dry and palms cold whenever I’d talk to boys from the football team. My computer overflown with gay porn, from the early 70s because it’s artistic and I fancy myself an artist (a convenient excuse). Late night shopping sprees where I wasn’t sure if I’m buying it for the product or the model - most of the time it’s the model. Guess it comes with the territory - I want to be them or to fuck them; I want both if possible (it’s not, would also be fucking weird).

At least if I couldn’t be them and couldn’t fuck them, I could want to. That’s fine, so what? - a lot of my crushes are straight and Bert’s barely an exception. Except I know him.

Fuck.

I know him. That’s bout to make things awkward.

By the time I dry myself off, the house is stirring itself awake and I beeline to the kitchen, grab a coke. Mikey sits in the kitchen with a Galla apple typing something on his phone. My phone ping ping ping buzzes in my pocket in rapid succession.

“We’re in the same house, Michael. I’ve told you, please don’t text me when we’re 3 feet away; go get the charger yourself or something.” I deadpan not even checking the phone.

Mikey freezes and glances back at me: “What? First of all, it’s too early in the morning for it to run out. And also now I wanna know who texted you, it’s the bothering me tax.”

“Fuck you, I’m older than you. I should be collecting taxes.”

“Yeah, well, that’s revolution for ya: down with the system!”

I roll my eyes, “Shouldn’t have brought you to the protest,” dig out the phone out of my pocket and oh. Frank. What else did I expect?

‘Hey G, sorry I couldn’t get back to you yesterday. Wanna hang rn? My place🙃’

The message paints a clear enough picture - he tried making up with Jamia yesterday, failed and now we ‘hang out’, maybe truly hang out; his weird code for hooking up was inconsistent and all over the place.

‘Plus I really need your help on that one song I’ve been writing, can’t get the chorus quite right🥲’

‘...or y’know, watch a movie, whatever ‘

Clingy. Maybe they broke up, though the thought is laughable.

“Who issss it?” Mikey hisses behind my shoulder, and I press the phone to my chest.

“None of your business, dude, fuck off!” I laugh and shove my phone back into my pocket; maybe it’s a bad move to eat in the kitchen. Maybe I should retreat back to my room where there’s peace and quiet-- then again, it’s too reminiscent of back when Grandma died and I near-locked myself in there... So that’s a no.

Mikey sighs and slumps back down onto the chair with an eyeroll: “Ugh, fine. What is there worth hiding anyway: your secret marital affair?”

He has no fucking idea how right on the money he is.

“Yeah, me having a marital affair. Sure!” I scoff, too exaggerated to be an admission of guilt, but at least if someone figures, they can’t blame me for hiding the truth. “Anyway, think I’m gonna head to the store for breakfast since there’s only weeds in this house, and not the good kind. You want anything?”

He thinks about it, long enough for me to leave the kitchen and run a brush over my hair; it’s still damp.

“Dunno, a Macchiato? Not the Starbucks one, a normal one.”

“Cool cool, I probably won’t though!” I yell back and kick in my shoes.

“Then why? Did you offer? Now I want one!” Oh wow, that sucks for you, brother dear; maybe next time don’t try to snoop on my messages. I think, but don’t say.

'I'll be there in 20'

*

A.N.
Only ~2k, but perfectionism leads to freezing up so
Re-upload bc I clicked publish while editing, this is getting old. Wish Wattpad asked for confirmation before publication or something