"The most beautiful people we have known,
are those who have known defeat,
known suffering, known struggle, known loss,
and have found their way out of the depths.
Beautiful people do not just happen."
- Elizabeth Kübler-Ross
Pete stared the kid down, almost a little bit in fear. He reminded him of his younger self, and if he was truly like him, there was much to be scared of. The teenager stood there with classic angst, a fist on his jutting hip now with impatience. Finally, Mikey held out a hand, smiling brightly. Pete groaned inwardly. The charm was almost too much to handle. As the two shook hands, he watched the other boy's face, stunned as it remained stoic and disinterested. How anyone could look like that whilst shaking Mikey's hand was beyond Pete, and bugs of obligation crawled on his skin, itching him to call the teen out. But with a quick slap of reality, Pete realized how hopeless it was to call out a teenager on their relatively teenlike tendencies. He kept his dumb mouth shut.
"Thank you," Mikey said, taking his hand away. He pushed it into his pocket, fidgeting uncomfortably. He cast a desperate glance to Pete, and it soon became clear that all three of them had reached the height of their social abilities, and were now flailing like fish out of water. Mikey had resorted to looking down at his shoes, mumbling quietly to himself about the dirt on them. The scrawny teen had begun adjusting his scarf and fixing his hair, looking around for saving. Pete would've sunk back as well in most situations, however, they truly needed a place to stay and it didn't seem like either of the other two were going to get it for them. He stepped forward cautiously.
"Uh, yeah, we need a room for a night or two. I'm not sure how long we'll be staying." Pete was fumbling his words. He didn't remember being quite so awkward with Frank, but that had been a completely different situation, and he reckoned he was still buzzed or hungover and emotionally exhausted. Now, being rejuvenated and aware of his failure to notice social cues, his discomfort was at an all time high.
"You won't wanna stay long, I promise you that," the teen grumbled in response. "But a night may do you some good. You guys look beat." He didn't seem to bother that he had offended them, with the snarky grin that just barely hid behind his scarf. Pete glanced at Mikey, who laughed a bit and made a motion to the dark circles beneath his eyes. Pete crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes playfully.
"Look, kid, can you just get us a room? Let us talk to your parents." Pete said, already getting real tired of this right-on-time emo-episode. The kid was a spitting image of everything Pete hated about himself when he was a fed up teen.
But the kid remained surprisingly tranquil, smilingly softly at the two of them and walking towards the Volkswagen behind them. Popping the trunk, he threw his torn guitar case into it, whatever was inside rattling violently. He slammed the trunk shut and then turned to face them. "Follow me, lucky customers," his words were warmer than he probably intended. He was dressed for edge, poised to be unique, but his small town eyes and vibe told a different story. He headed towards to entrance to the motel, walking on his bare tiptoes. Mikey unexpectedly grabbed Pete's hand, sending a rush of fear and love to his brain and then through the body. He became stiff with stimulation. Mikey squeezed and dragged him along.
When they entered the motel, Pete let himself close up again. The entire place was entirely homey, and the check-in desk even featured family photos. Pete let his eyes wander to one that was clearly the teen, and what looked like his father behind him. A guitar was held tight in the boy's hand, and a beer bottle in his father's. A red x had been drawn and yet faded over the beer bottle. Both their smiles and eyes looked empty. Pete decided he needed to look into a mirror as soon as possible, for he was beginning to feel a sense of belonging in such an empty photo. Perhaps he looked it, too.
"Daaaaaaad!" A sudden groan exploded without warning from the teen, his voice louder than his body. It seemed to echo. An empty plea for a father bounced back to him, as if to taunt him. Silence ensued. "Dad!" he screamed again, shorter and sharper. Mikey took a small step behind Pete, pressing his shoulder against him to stifle his shakes. With still no answer, the boy shimmied behind a makeshift front desk and looked at the others nervously. "I-I'm sure he'll be here soon, or something... so I guess I'll help you." He was turning red and blinking rapidly, his words wavering as if they were soon to break. Pete's heart ached with familiarity.
"How much will tonight be, just for one room?" Pete asked quietly. Everything around him seemed much to fragile to talk too loudly just yet. The boy nodded and shuffled through papers and keys, grabbing one and then looking up with confusion.
"Uh, maybe 40, 45? 45 sounds about right. I think 45 dollars," he finally said, anxious. Pete ignored the uncertainty and obliged, handing over a debit card. He got it back with a key, that had no number or colors or anything on it. He stared at it for a while before raising an eyebrow. "Just try every door. There's not too many, you'll find the right one. If you need anything," he took a deep breath and wiped himself down, perking up with a wonderfully mastered facade. "I'm Ryan. Shout and I'll be there as quick as I can."
"Thank you, Ryan," Mikey finally spoke, breaking his uncharacteristic silence. They began to make their way down the only other hall around, the two of them taking turns with the key. Finally, a door popped open and they glanced down the hall at Ryan, whose hands were tight in his hair. His shoulders were shooting up and down violently, and his tears were silent. He caught their eyes with embarrassment, blinking away tears rather than wiping. Mikey flashed him a thumbs up. Ryan grimaced.
Pete led the way into the room, immediately collapsing on to the large bed. He pushed his face into a less than comfortable pillow, but it proved more than enough for his fatigued body. He rolled over, eyes closed but mind open. It was reeling. Ever since he'd rolled into this town, he had felt strange. He sat up. "Mikey? Do you feel that?"
Mikey was fiddling with a broken cassette player beside the bed. He hummed quietly. "Feel what?"
"This place. It's so strange-"
"Oh, thank God I'm not the only one," Mikey cut him off urgently. He jumped from his spot beside the stereo and on to the bed, sitting comfortably at Pete's side. "It feels like my hometown."
"Mine too," Pete added. That's what it was. It was eerily familiar, all of it. The dead look in people's eyes as they mowed their lawns and baked brownies. People rode bikes to see how far they could get away. He knew it all too well, which is why he had felt so out of place when they arrived. He had only ever felt like that at home, too. It was the reason for his whole road trip to begin with. He wasn't entirely thrilled that it had seemed to land him right back where he started, even being miles away; so many miles it was almost inconceivable for the people back home. But little did they know, they were here, too. They had traveled so far and Pete, so little.
Pete glanced up, eyes locking with Mikey's. It was like stargazing. Counting the beauty marks, the flecks in his eyes, the stray hairs that framed his face, like the worthy picture he was. Pete reached forward tentatively and cupped the stars in his palm, stroking Mikey's cheek with careful precision. His love was a still river, and too harsh a touch would send a ripple through him.
"Where have we gotten ourselves?" Mikey whispered, so much hanging on the question. But it was fair. They had practically driven themselves home, landing on the border between familiar and frightening, both accustomed and afraid. And at the same time they had driven each other into discomfort, turned themselves into strangers once again. Or perhaps that was just Pete's fault. He began to feel his hand burn on Mikey's cheek. He took it away, apologizing under his breath. "It's okay," he replied, grabbing Pete's hand. He redirected to his own heart and left it there, thinking. "I feel bad for Ryan. I wonder where his father is."
"Who cares?" Pete sat up and took his hand away, letting it settle in his own lap. "Anyone with their right mind could tell that kid is doomed. Absent mom, absent dad... both my parents loved me a least a little, and I'm still fucked. As far as I'm concerned, he's already dead." Pete spat with brutality, but truth. He had seen it happen in his own hometown. He had been dumb enough to screw with a good relationship he had with his parents, but whether it was the neighbors or the kids from across town, there were plenty who never even were given a chance to screw up. Motherless, fatherless, basically lifeless. Black holes, nothing more. The only difference between them and Pete was that he had crumpled in on himself, and everyone else had crumpled in on them.
"I wish my father had been absent," Mikey grumbled. "I don't know how you can say anything, Pete. How can you look at the people you've met and still think you've got it that bad, huh?" A nerve had clearly been pinched, and Pete was starting to taste the regret that had been churning in his stomach for a while now. He decided to stay silent. His relationship with Mikey was already incredibly sore, and just barely stitched together will dollar store tape. Any wrong move, and the two of them would fall away, and fall apart. Mikey was dangling him over a cliff, all either of them had to do was slip up.
"You're right," Pete bitterly replied. While he had arguments practically pouring from his sleeves, he tucked them back in for the night. "I left my journal in the car. I'll be back." He stood from the bed, feeling a pair of eyes burn his back. He walked deliberately slow to show his discomfort, and then quickly slid out of the room and into the hall. As he made his way to the entrance, he tried his hardest to tip-toe past Ryan, who had fallen asleep standing by the front desk. As he opened the door to leave, Ryan stretched awake gently, rubbing his eyes as Pete slinked out.
By the time he managed to fish his journal out of the new mess in his car, he returned to dim lights and an empty front desk. Voices sounded from down the hall, light peeking from their room. An unfamiliar laugh rang out, followed by one he felt too unworthy to hear. He walked slowly down the hall, cringing as every creaking floorboard.
"If you think you're father is a piece of work, you should see what I've been dealing with," Mikey's voice wafted through the barely open door, smacking Pete and sending chills through him. He was about to push open the door, but stopped, taking a defeated step back. He was what Mikey had been dealing with. He felt his muscles force themselves into an even deeper frown than he was already wearing. "Pete is something else. He's the guy I came here with."
"Oh," Ryan's naive reply followed soon after. "He seemed alright. You both do. What's wrong with him?" Pete had to hold back a scoff, swallowing it bitterly. There was plenty wrong with him. In fact, even after all the terrible things he had done to Mikey, he could probably name even more than him. Where would someone even begin? Where would Mikey begin? Pete braced himself. The silence that was lingering was too much to handle. He wished Mikey would rip off the bandaid already, and let Pete bleed out.
Mikey shrugged. "He's... been through alot, and he's got a lot going on. Sometimes he's so far in his head that he makes mistakes. I don't think he's got a great grasp on reality," he was trailing off, every word becoming quieter and quieter, until, "... but I like him more than I care to admit. For every mistake he makes, there's a million smiles he gives. Every time he makes me angry, I just think of all the good he's given me as well. I'm learning to deal with both until he can clean himself up. I think that's what we're doing here, or at least, why he's travelling everywhere. But I can't be sure." He sighed and Pete heard the bed rattle as he plopped on to it, exasperated. "I don't think I ever will be."
Pete was bubbling. His insides were twisting. The needle in his brain lowered slowly onto his favorite track, and Mikey's brains repeated and spun in his head. I like him more than I care to admit. Pete felt his heart burning and he ached to be able to rip it out, and hand it Mikey with shaking but gentle hands. He felt himself being lifted a bit further up onto the safety of a cliff, and all by Mikey's grasp. He wondered if this is what love felt like. He wondered if it was supposed to make you dizzy, yet oh, so aware. Mikey seemed to go on, his words sounding again, but Pete couldn't comprehend them over the fizzing in his ears. It was as if a thousand cans of soda had been popped in his ears, and they all whistled Mikey's name over and over. Pete heard the words once again. I like him more than I care to admit. Pete wished to rush into the room and tackle Mikey lovingly, and then plant kisses on his neck like seeds in a garden, and he hoped that vines would grow all over Mikey and squeeze him the way he deserved to be his whole life; so that then, Mikey knew Pete liked him as well, though he wished to admit it from the rooftops.
But even then Pete remained, smilingly wide and clutching his journal to his chest, like a meek schoolboy. When he had finally controlled himself, and the fireworks and bubbles and goodness, he pushed open the door, smiling at the scene before him. Mikey was leaning on the pillows, hand deep into a bag of potato chips and eyes fixed on Ryan, who was sitting across from him on the bed, folding some laundry into a basket beside him. When Pete entered, they both looked at him and smiled, and Pete couldn't help but smile back. "What's going on in here?"
"Well, when you left it woke me up, so I decided to get some chores done... Mikey offered to help." Ryan motioned to Mikey, who held up a clean pair of socks and then tossed them into a pile. "We were just talking about you."
Pete did his best to act surprised. "Yeah? Not shit, I hope," he joked, and they all shared a quiet laugh. He placed himself gently onto the bed and grabbed some laundry, helping them continue the folding.
"Well, what else would we talk about?" Mikey snickered. "Not like we have anything good to say!" Ryan laughed and high fived Mikey, the two relishing in their victory. With a smirk, Pete scrunched up a pair of boxers and threw it hard at Mikey's face, knocking him over into a pile of t-shirts. Pete laughed so hard that he snorted, and then froze when Mikey rose from his clean ashes. "Oh, so that's how we're playing?" He grabbed as much laundry as he could, launching it at Pete with an energetic battle cry. Ryan leaped up on to his feet in joy, howling along with him. He jumped up and down as the war between the others began. Ryan grabbed the basket and turned it over, pouring out what was in and sticking it over his head, his laugh stifled but still heartwarming. He continued to jump on the bed, sending ammo in the air.
"C'mon, Mikey!" he cheered, his voice barely coming through the basket over his head. Mikey found Ryan's fumbling hand and high fived it, before flying over the bed to tackle Pete. Pete yelped in surprise, and then joy when he saw who was above him. "Did'chya get him!?" Ryan exclaimed, throwing the basket off his head. He jumped off the bed and laughed at the two of them, entangled. Long, pale limbs with short, tan ones, sitting in a pile of strewn laundry. They all were laughing, so hard that their stomachs hurt. Or perhaps it was so good that their stomachs hurt. Pete reckoned there were few things that felt better than the gentle pain of pure, undiluted joy. He let his stomach cramps ripple through his body, because it was a reminder that he was laughing, and loving and living. A throat cleared in the distance, and their laughs fizzled away. The moment had fleeted.
At the door stood a man, disheveled and lonely looking. His shirt had been tucked out and his hair yanked from its gel from either the sticky hands of an overwhelmingly good or bad night. His jaw was locked into a permanent scowl it seemed, and it was directed at Ryan, who had eyeliner filled tears of joy stuck to his cheeks. He didn't bother wiping them, however, they seemed to evaporate into their air with the other remnants of a short lived but well deserved good time. His jaw locked similarly when the two made eye contact, and Pete decided that it must be his father. The man took a tipsy step forward. "Customers, eh? Beenawhile..." His words were so slurred that they became one. Mikey grasped Pete's hand tightly and looked nervously at Ryan, who was slowly standing up, fidgeting with the scarf around his neck uncomfortably. "Welcome. Enjoy your ssstay." He never glanced at Mikey nor Pete, not even once.
"Dad, how was your ni--"
"Clean this shittup... and then ge'me some water." With that, the man was gone as soon as he had showed up. Ryan turned to Mikey and Pete, shrugging with a large smile on his face. But there were tears welling in his eyes. He began to clean up the laundry that had been flung around the room, and Mikey quickly helped him until it was all done. Pete just remained staring at the now empty doorway. All he felt was discomfort, bad vibes radiating from a few slurs and stumbles. However it was enough to make Pete nervous, and put him on guard.
"Thanks you guys. Sleep well tonight," Ryan said, picking up the now full basket. Mikey wrapped one arm around his shoulders and squeezed reassuringly, then tucked a long piece of hair behind his ear. Pete titled his head. Ryan's ear was stained with paint. He nodded to Mikey and then waved back at Pete, before slowly leaving the room. The door clicked shut behind him. Glass smashed far down the hall.
"Poor thing," Mikey whispered, wrapping his arms around himself. Pete approached him gently, sliding a careful hand down his back. Mikey looked down at him and grimaced, walking away and crawling beneath the covers. "We should get to bed, though."
Pete nodded and grabbed his journal and pulled the pen from the middle of it, settling beside Mikey, but leaving more than enough room between them for comfort. Pete reached over and turned off one of the lamps, leaving one on to write a little bit. He tried to keep his scratches along the page as quiet as possible. "Mikey?" he whispered into their dimness. "Mikey?" He tried again, still receiving no answer. He glanced down beside him, noticing Mikey's head had lightly pressed itself into his side. He smiled inwardly and then continued to write, trying to ignore the tiny breaths beside him and the buddings of an argument down the hall. He wrote.
I have only been travelling for a few days, but it almost feels like I never left. Mikey and I have found a small town, wedged in the back roads as if the main roads were embarrassed to own it. It reminds me of home. It's sleepy and sad, and the people here are, too. I believe I may fit right in, but I don't believe I want to. I know this is reality, but someone once said that I don't have a grasp of such a thing. And if reality looks and feels like this, I don't wanna ever touch it. I will keep my head in the clouds, even if they are gray.
And boy, are they gray. I have done terrible things, things I never imagined myself doing and now I can't forget. I'm going to write as long as possible, until I pass out, because I know that as soon as I shut my eyes, I will only see darkness and what I've done with it. But Mikey it still just a beam of light, and he shines when I don't see any reason to. He has been dirtied and wronged, but he knows how to clean himself up to sparkle again. Can a diamond spend its whole life being dragged through the rough? Will it ever lose what makes it so valuable; its shine and beauty? I do not want nor intend to find out. From now on I will take the diamond I have and treat it as such, because lately, I haven't been the best to it.
I think I may be starting to know what love is.
And with that, Pete fell asleep, his head burying itself into the crook of Mikey's neck. It fit perfectly.