[October 2000]
"I see that you've been inspired by our lord and saviour, Buzz Lightyear!" Andy smirked at me, sitting crosslegged on Patrick's couch. His room was a complete mess, full of all sorts of posters, records and instruments. He even had a fucking trumpet, goddamnit!
"Yeah. I kinda prefer cartoons over normal movies lately. My brother, Sam, is obsessed with Toy Story," I said, laying on the couch and staring at the big David Bowie poster on Patrick's wall.
"Nice," Patrick sighed, getting up and walking to his record player. "Heard about Elvis?"
"Of course I heard about Elvis Presley, what kind of question is that?"
"Not Presley, idiot. Costello. Declan Patrick MacManus. Dad named me after him."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Let's hear it."
Patrick reached out to the upper shelf full of records and got one out, entitled 'Blood and Chocolate'. He carefully pulled the solid white disc, placed it on the player, pushed the start button and we watched the arm of the turntable slowly move and land on the edge of the vinyl.
The song started off with a crisp sound, diving right into a little riff and loud vocals. I didn't really want to say this to Patrick, but the first song was pretty boring. Andy was quiet, staring at how Patrick was humming the melody and following the beat with his hands on his thighs.
"So... How did you two meet?" I asked Andy, trying to kill the awkward silence that settled upon us.
"Well, me and Patrick play drums and we both tried to get a spot in the same band a while ago, but apparently we weren't good enough to please their needs."
"We basically became friends by complaining," Patrick stated, bumping Andy in the shoulder. He lost his smile right after Patrick said "friends".
"Dude... We're more than just friends."
I looked at both of them, the color in Patrick's cheeks quickly fading out.
"We're bros!" he continued, patting his friend on the back.
Patrick was uncomfortable; it could be seen from miles away. "Uh, yeah- bros, uh- Joe? Do you play any instruments?"
"Actually yeah! I play bass and guitar."
"I have a guitar in the attic, I'll get it now," Patrick said, already opening the door. I looked at Andy, who seemed to be as weirded out as I was.
Patrick immediately came back running with that jet black guitar, old and probably way out of tune. "Come on, I need someone to play this song with!"
He handed me the guitar and showed me the chords in a flash, which weren't as easy as I thought they would be. To be truly honest, I haven't played the guitar nor the bass in ages. Andy sat at the drums and Patrick took his guitar from the corner of the room.
"Why me?"
"I need a second guitarist. And I've been trying to get this tune out of my head for days. It's driving me crazy."
He began humming a rhythm, showing Andy the drum riffs. Andy showed him that he knew it already, and I was sure that Patrick bugged him about it since he came up with the song.
"I'm good to go..." Patrick said with a little voice before getting the guitar pick he held with his mouth in his hand.
He struck the chords, probably forgetting that his amp was at max volume and unintentionally almost getting us deaf.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Patrick, turn that thing down!" I swore at him, trying to cover my ears from horrible white noise.
"Sorry about that," he said turning the amp off and flicking the switch back on. "Okay, Joe, watch this: the first part is fret four on E, then frets 6 on A and D and-"
"Patrick, I haven't played this thing in fucking ages. I can't even understand what you're saying," I told him, playing with the neck of the guitar more like uninterested than not knowing what the fuck were those chords.
"I can't find someone who knows stuff about music anywhere!" he huffed, putting his fingers on the said frets and jamming out. I wasn't gonna lie, the song sounded nice. I rolled my eyes, hiding my interest and repeated what he did. Patrick nodded and started the rhythm on his guitar.
"Okay, three, two, one... I'm good to go, and I'm going nowhere fast-"
"Stop, stop. It's horrible."
"Oh, it doesn't sound that bad, Joe!" Andy excused Patrick for his mediocre singing.
"It's not the instrumentation, it's the way you're using your voice. Don't sing it here," I told him pointing at my nipples, then moving my hands right under my ribs. "Sing it here, in the stomach. Your voice won't crack if you do so."
Patrick raised his eyebrows and pouted before putting a hand on his stomach and breathing in.
"Like this?"
"Yeah. Try now."
It was way better now, sounding like he wasn't suffocating anymore. The guitar riffs were pretty awesome for someone who seemed to be so out of tune, but I wasn't complaining. Pete was a horrible singer, but he wrote some really good bass lines when he tried.
"What's this called?"
"Saturday," Andy answered dropping the sticks on the drum. "Now, how about some real music? Rammstein?"
"That's my boy!" I said patting Andy on the back. Patrick was just staring at us in disagreement.
"Bowie?" he asked with a hopeful tone.
"Nein."
***
I woke up on the floor, surrounded by popcorn and with a stain on my t-shirt that looked like beer. Someone tell me that I didn't get drunk. My back felt like breaking into pieces when I stood up.
Nobody was in the room and it was still dark outside. The clock on the upper shelf was shining three red numbers: 3.44 am.
Shit.
I grabbed my phone from the couch and looked through the never ending list of texts from my mom, dad and even Sam.
"Sweetie, where are you? Are you okay?"
"Dude, where are you? Mom's freaking out!"
"What do you want for breakfast?"
I sighed and pasted the message I saved from my old conversations to their texts: "Sausage. I'll be there in the morning."
'Bacon' and 'sausage' was our code for 'come to get me' and 'I'm fine'. Dad thought it would be useful, but it just sounds really weird. Last time someone read my text without my consent, they thought sausage was a code for dick and bacon was the vagina. I've never talked to them again since then, probably because they thought my dad was asking what I fucked again and I would still answer like "still gay, dad".
I put one hand on my mouth and breathed out, checking for any trace of alcohol. I didn't drink. But there were two empty bottles of Carling next to the turntable.
Did Patrick drink that much? Andy was straight-edge; at least that's what I thought when he took off his stained shirt and put on one with the words "kiss me I'm straight-edge".
I opened the room's door and stepped out. If Andy went home then where was Patrick? It was his house anyway.
I was preparing to call him when I saw a dim light at the end of the hall. Whispers and silent sobbing could be heard from there. Walking closer to the light, I noticed that it was coming from the bathroom and the voices were audible now.
"I saw him, I saw him again, Patrick, I saw him again!" I heard someone say quickly with short breaths in between. "He was sitting beside Joe, he was angry and- and- he was looking straight at me with full black eyes and- and-"
"It's okay, Andy, it's okay." Patrick soothed him. "You're with me."
"No, it's not okay! I'm losing my mind! I'm seeing the fucking ghosts! Of my dad!"
"Andy, it was just a nightmare."
"That's the thing, Patrick! It wasn't a dream! The walls, all the records, everything was the same! No fingers, legs, hands, anything missing! It was real."
Patrick sighed. "You gotta tell your mom. You know she has the same problem."
"I can't go back to The Falls! I moved to Chicago for a reason!"
I stepped even closer to the door, finally being able to see what was going on inside through the keyhole. Andy was sitting on the toilet with his elbows on his knees, face hidden between his palms.
"W-when are we going to tell him?" he stuttered. His eyes were red and dry, two dark rings surrounding them.
"Andy, we barely know him."
"It's not like he's homophobic, you know. He's gay."
"We don't know that."
"Why would you fake being gay just to get attention? More like hate, actually."
Patrick sat next to Andy on the edge of the bathtub and sighed again. "We'll see." And then he leaned to Andy and grabbed his shirt. I couldn't see what was happening exactly, but it was obvious.
I ran back to the room, lay down where I was sitting initially and waited for them. But they didn't come. They must've heard me, because the next morning they didn't even say hello.
Neither did they on Monday.
Or Tuesday.
They were acting like nothing happened, but we all knew that they weren't just best friends. We just couldn't work a way around it and act normally.