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Any moment, any G-d-willing, G-d-forsaken moment now, Mike thinks, there’ll come a growl. The growl that he has been waiting for. It always starts the same: blinding light, creeping into a growing sense of dread, anticipation, sorrow. There. Now his whole body shudders. The low grumble evolves into a shaking he can feel deep in his bones. His branching scar – invisible when the lightning strikes, and oh so visible once it disappears again – leads the electricity of the storm from his torso to his twitching hands. He has long given up trying to be productive during thunderstorms.
He can’t go out, risk the rest of his uncooperative body to leave him as well, but what can he do indoors? Watch mindless telly, hoping the fuse won’t blow, or what is left, taking away anything that involves fine motor skills. His hands keep shaking, cramping up during the heavy rain and his left hand (already slowed down by the nerve loss, which his doctor had explained to him and his parents, back then, would “go away on its own, not to worry”. Michael had seen his wan smile, that couldn’t hide the fact that he didn’t even believe his own words) tugs the blanket around his legs tighter.
His living room was dim without any overhead light on. The old Fairchild had convinced him to buy a flat with high, arching windows, through only a smile and a wink. It was Simon’s money, after all, where most of his own funds come from now. This ill-gained money (that bordered on sugaring) prevented him becoming adrift on the streets after he finished his degree. It bought him the studio apartment that is his prison and refuge in one.
His degree is now, of course, pointless. It sits in a metaphorical drawer next to all his other lifetime achievements. First one in his family to be born on British ground, to be a studious child (because he could go to school), to go to university. His parents weren’t there when he went on the stage to collect his diploma, well, in a way, they were. Their life insurance had paved his way there, after all. The Crawling Rot and his other book endeavours had taken them from him. (They used to say: “You must always do the best, pútáo. Do the best.” And now, now you’re dead! Was that my best? Are you proud?)
Shit, the gloomy weather always made him sulky. His parents had tried their best with him. ‘But did they?’, the tiny voice in his head asks him – which, in those moments, always sounds a lot like Gerry. He constantly tried to give him second-hand therapy, using phrases like ‘intergenerational trauma’ or ‘unrealistic expectations’, and how it isn’t anyone’s fault (but it also kind of is).
There goes the siren of the fire brigade, another poor sop who will lose years of family history because of insufficient insulation. This is London, after all. The paved ground almost everywhere offers no loose earth for the rain to sink in, and instead, there’s knee-high water around the boxes containing your grandma’s knickers: houses get flooded like Apple stores when a new iPhone is released.
His phone rings. Not the landlines he’s been inexplicably keeping from the former tenant, but his cell phone. Which, a quick glance confirms, he left on the counter when he caught the first hint of ozone in the air. Next to it is an abandoned cup of tea, undoubtedly over-steeped to hell and back. He doesn’t trust his legs to carry him over, so he waits until his voicemail picks up.
“This is the phone of Michael Crew. State your name, business, and phone number after the tone,” the tinny speaker drones out in a poor facsimile.
“Hey Mike, it- it’s Gerry. Just wanted to check in. Usually, you call? Or send a text when the weather’s this shite. So, I got a bit… Lemme know you’re still alive. My phone number is 020-I’ll-kick-your-arse. That’s A-R-S-E.” Beep.
Right, fuck, how could Mike have forgotten? After many sneers and bouts of fisticuffs over some Leitner or another at an auction or estate sale, he and Gerry had met, like a weird twist of fate, at Reading Festival of all places (the Beastie Boys were playing).
That night concluded after too many beers and in the morning, Mike woke up in a bush, in Gerard’s clothes, with only hazy recollections of what happened. When he got back to his dingy tent, he found Gerry still sleeping like a baby. A baby with a face of smudged mascara and lipstick all over his mouth and chin. Also – inadvertently, dressed in all of Mike’s clothes that’d fit him. Mike had quickly checked his face in his travel mirror and, yessiree, black smears around his own lips. Great.
They’ve been friends – Colleagues? Business partners? Fuckbuddies? – ever since. One night at Mike’s old, substantially grimier flat, it had started to thunder and piss down like Noah himself would paddle by later, and Gerard – still slightly sloshed from the evening, woke up in the middle of the night and padded over to Michael’s bedroom, to find said man looking even smaller than usual, huddled under a mountain of blankets, snot dripping down his nose and a look of abject terror in his face. He fucking whimpered when Gerard closed the door! (That night, Gerry fell asleep again, but this time, not on the narrow, lumpy couch, but the bed, with his arms slung around Michael and his shaking head on Gerry's chest, hiding the runaway tears).
Since then, if the weather forecast predicted a thunderstorm, they’d either spend the time together, or if one of the was “unavailable” (Leitner hunt in another country, Mary acting up again, et hoc genus omne, ad undas, ad fucking nauseam), Mike would regularly check in, with a call, a text, or even simply a meme, if his hands couldn’t stop shaking. The system was set up because Gerry can’t vocally express his concern – if he isn’t in his cups, that is – and Mike was… amendable to it.
But. But he couldn’t get up now, even for Gerry. Couldn’t answer the phone, and not even dictate a message. Not until the storm abated. He scoots from sitting to lying on the (uncomfortably stiff, new) couch, wraps the blanket over himself entirely, and breathes in and out. In and out. In and-
Rapid knocking is what wakes him again. His brain feels like if you ran over an anti-stress ball with a monster truck, scrapped the innards out of the tire treads and then – for good measure, put them in a blender. Finished result gets poured into a tall glass, and voilà! Add a little cocktail umbrella (no, a migraine) and you have Mike’s brain right now. The mess inside there is in stark contrast to the quiet that is looming outside, storm gone. Only the great, mostly starless sky of an asphalt jungle capital.
He shrugs off the sweat-sodden blanket and walks over to the kitchen counter – whoever is out there can wait another minute – and picks his phone up, turning it on. Seven missed calls and twenty-seven unread messages from Gerry show up on his screen. Mike can take a bloody guess at who is outside his door, waking his neighbours at, he checks his phone again, 11:23 pm. He puts his phone down, grabs the mug, and tosses the tea bag into the sink. Then Michael saunters over to the door, checks the peep hole and opens it.
Gerard storms into the entry hall like he is the avatar of the Vast, turns around and points an accusing finger at Mike’s face. His hair is a mess, roots showing more than usual with patches of weaker colour in the remaining black strands. Over his black shirt and jeans is a colourful cardigan haphazardly (it’s inside out) thrown on. That piece had been a gift from Michael one time. He found it in a charity shop and after making sure it wasn’t an artifact from the Twisting Deceit, he had wrapped it in newspaper and hurled it through Gerard’s open window one night, with a note attached to it, that read:
“made me think of you <3
PS: my eye is still black, fuck you <3”
Back to Gerard’s little tantrum.
“How. How do you think I feel, not knowing whether my favourite punching bag is still alive, huh?!” Gerard snarls, face full of vitriol, but Mike has gotten quite good at reading his eyes (all of them, the ones on his hips are his favourite – so… honest).
“How do you think I feel, having such a lovely cup of tea, with no one to drink it?” Michael counters, voice trying for pitiful, but ending up a tad sad.
He hands Gerry the teacup, who – full of mistrust – grabs it and takes a sip, after which he immediately spits it out onto Mike’s shirt. And my sweat had just dried up, he thinks. Out loud he just says,
“Score.”
After Gerard had taken of his (also black) combat boots, so some good five minutes, they migrate over to the couch. Gerry places the mug on a side table, heedless of what papers he might stain there. The blanket he sat down on digs into his arse, so he scrunches it up and lets it fall to the floor. But not before Michael can see an almost imperceptible flicker of emotion on his face. Still damp, then, takes a bit longer to dry than his flimsy t-shirt.
“Sorry for your shirt”, Gerard says meekly, all fighting spirit lost in mere moments.
“It needed a wash anyway”, Michael shrugs.
Gerry opens his arms wordlessly and Mike crawls the foot over the same. He puts his head under Gerard’s chin and breathes him in – smoke, acrylic paint, and a hint of the tea. They tangle their legs together unconsciously, practised. They rest, and for once, Mike appreciates the tall windows, through which they now watch dark clouds flit over the sky until both of their in- and exhalations calm down in unison.