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It was one of Ricky’s favorite days of the week. Friday, which was already an objectively great day of the week—he affectionately referred to it as Freaky Friday—but this one in particular was a special day.
He and Mischa had been looking forward to this weekend-long sleepover for forever. Technically, only all week, but it felt like forever. The second semester had just begun, and its effects were already wearing down on the students. Ricky used it to persuade his parents into letting Mischa stay the whole weekend, saying ‘he needed major help on his schoolwork.’ While that was true, Ricky was almost certain no schoolwork was actually going to get done during this long-awaited sleepover.
After the hell on earth that was choir practice, they walked home together as always. Mischa was at Ricky’s house maybe 90% of the time. He just preferred to be there, and the Potts didn’t mind one bit. The two boys just found themselves happier when the other was around. Besides that, there were other reasons he preferred the Potts residence to his own. Only one time did Mischa open up to the other about his own home life, a time Ricky would never forget. He guarded everything Mischa told him with his whole heart.
And yes, that included his ramblings about his many homemade hip-hop tracks.
“I was working on my brand new Bad Egg track in class, and dude. It’s gonna be legit fire.” Mischa’s school-issued laptop was only ever used for GarageBand, YouTube videos, and ASL lessons and dictionaries—anything but school-related purposes.
Ricky stopped, putting his weight on his left crutch, Lady Marizpan, and signed, “You’re cooking.”
“That is what I’m saying!” Mischa beamed, inhaling the less-than-clean Uranium air.
Mischa kicked a pebble on the sidewalk like it was a soccer ball, adjusting his signature backwards hat.
“So. I was thinking about formal. If you don’t go, I don’t go. It’s not even worth it if you don’t. And I cannot even go with my love, Talia.”
They had talked about it at lunch—how Ricky decided against going to St. Cassian’s winter formal. It was a fun possibility to dance with in his brain, as he sketched a design of the ideal suit he’d wear in his composition notebook: a holographic blazer, trousers, and vest, along with a dark purple collared shirt to go underneath it. To top it all off, a bow tie, uncolored because he couldn’t figure out if he wanted it to be one that lights up or one that’s embellished with sequins. So far, the fit was tacky in the best way possible. He even included his crutches, which would be adorned with sparkly purple tape to match. Incredible, he thought with a smirk, tapping his pencil on the page.
From across the table, Mischa was ranting about Ocean being on his ass about one of their songs’ harmonies when he glanced up and slid the notebook over to him.
At the sight of it, he trailed off, sputtering, mouth full of the ham sandwich Ricky’s parents made for him.
“She is the one always singing flat, so— Damn! This is dope, Space Jesus!” He took the notebook in his hands and hovered it over his closed laptop, taking a closer look at its details and shading.
“This is mad wicked fire! This is for prom, yes?”
Ricky nodded, signing. “The most fire outfit I could create.”
“Damn, now I want us to match. Your art is so good; I can see your passion in all the squiggles and colors.”
Mischa always made Ricky feel so proud of his drawings. He wished his praise of Mischa’s beats and song lyrics were at least half as meaningful as Mischa’s. It was a downer to let him know shortly later that he wouldn’t be going to the formal after all. The only person he’d even think to invite as a date would be his Discord kitten… so that was out of the question.
Ricky hummed, watching the pebble fly into the center of the timeworn, cracking road.
“Shit.” He tugged on his backpack’s straps in defeat.
“Let’s hope that is not too sharp. Imagine...” Mischa started cracking up. Ricky read his mind and followed suit, trying to suppress his giggles. With his lips, he made a loud cartoonish popping noise, then blew out—a whistling, deflating fwooosh.
“Whoops!” He clutched his stomach, belly laughing, and softly clapped a hand onto Ricky’s shoulder.
On Ricky’s computer propped at the edge of his bed, Saw III played, Lynn Denlon getting kidnapped in the hospital’s locker room. Mischa sat with his legs to his chest, rocking back and forth and fiddling with his lip, evidently fully immersed in the film. On Mischa’s left side, Ricky sat up with his legs crossed, caressing the striped tabby cat curled up next to him.
“Was she ever…?” Mischa asked, slightly turning to look at him.
Ricky shook his head and signed, fingerspelling her name quickly, “Lynn is new.” Mischa nodded after a moment, finally recognizing the sign.
“Will she be in other ones?”
Ricky glared at his side profile, giving him a teasing tap on the forearm.
“Spoiler alert,” he tsked. Mischa rolled his eyes. “Come on, brah.”
“I’m still surprised you haven’t seen them all,” Ricky grinned, signing slowly with shock on his face.
“Saw V was only one I could find on the pirating websites!”
“6,” he waved in Mischa’s face, eyes incredulous.
“Saw VI, my bad, my bad!” He chuckled, pulling Ricky’s hand away till it rested on the space between them on the bed, giving it a pat.
His touch was like a ghost on Ricky’s skin, leaving just as fast as it showed. But its presence still lingered. Mischa went on watching the movie like nothing happened as Ricky tried to ignore his face heating up.
After Mischa’s countless attempts to keep his eyes open during the traps and appear unaffected by the gore and tragedy of Saw III, the movie came to an end.
“Well, I am emotionally devastated for life.”
Ricky applauded as the credits played, signing a quick, “Same!”
“Mandy will come back, no?”
Ricky folded his hands, awkwardly twiddling his thumbs with pursed lips. He feigned ignorance.
“Stop, don’t do that. Tell me!”
Out of nowhere, he reached and flicked Mischa’s hat’s brim up, causing it to fall off and plop onto his chest. “Hey! What the shit?!” At his cussing, the cat pounced off the bed, stretching her legs upon the carpet.
“Noooo, Miku! Come back, my sweet.” He wailed as Miku sauntered out room, maneuvering onto his stomach to fake-sob into the bed’s blue comforter. Ricky chuckled, shifting his legs to dangle from the side of the bed.
“I’m hungry. Do you want food?” Ricky signed with a curious expression before adjusting his crutches onto his arms and standing up.
“How can you eat with these traps in your face, brah?” He asked, now propped up with his face smushed between his hands.
“But yes, please, d’akuju!”
Ricky hummed, okay, smiling fondly as Mischa clasped his hands in gratitude.
The kitchen’s light glowed from behind the beige wall, and Ricky could hear his parents shuffling and quietly chatting. It wasn’t unusual for them to stay up late, as sometimes his mother had to work night shifts or his father had to run some extensive errands after his nine to five. He was about to peek out from the wall when he overheard what his parents were talking about.
“Patrick, this might not be the best idea…”
“How can you say that?” His dad spoke in a hushed voice. “He’d be near his cousins, the schools are nicer, the town is—”
“Hon, just ‘cause your work is moving there doesn’t mean we have to.”
What? Ricky sucked in a breath. All his cousins lived in or near Vancouver. Two whole provinces away…
“Please, darling, just think about it. We’re a dual-income household at best; how am I gonna find a job as good as—”
“Fine, fine. I’ll look into it. I’ll think about it.” His mom yielded.
No. No… Ricky went back to his room, doing his very best to not make a sound on his crutches. The floor creaked slightly under him, and his parents continued whispering, but he couldn’t focus on those sounds with his heart hammering in his ears.
Nearing back, he soon heard one of Mischa’s tracks blaring at full-blast—the boy never wasted a mere second to work on them—trap beats and heavy bass seeping out the door left ajar. He moved past it, pushing it open with his crutch.
“Ricky, is this the shit or what? You’re right, I will title it Drip. That is for sure the better title—” He glimpsed up, stopping when he saw the look on Ricky’s face.
“You good, dude?” He paused his song and closed his laptop, his eyebrows lifting with worry.
Ricky didn’t even acknowledge him as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He rested his crutches on the bedside table, brows knitted together. Mischa crawled over and sat closely next to him.
“I might,” with his mind whirling, he couldn’t come up with the right sign, so he spelled it, “move.”
“Shcho…? Move?”
“Vancouver.” Ricky shook his head, his stare unfocused on the floor.
“De? Where? I don’t even know where that is!”
“It’s in…” he drew in a shaking breath before spelling, “British Columbia.” Mischa watched closely with concern.
“British Columbia? Isn’t that…?”
A whine slipped out of Ricky’s mouth, the possibility of leaving Uranium hitting him all at once. He clutched his face as his eyes started to well up with tears.
“No, no, Ricky.” Mischa rubbed his back, turning his body to face Ricky.
“It’s okay, you know— Well, no, it’s not, if you do move, but…”
Ricky flailed his hands, struggling with what to say, before landing on a simple, “Why?”
Then the tears started to stream down, fast and hot. He absolutely despised the aspect of change, but even so, he wasn’t sure why he was crying so much. Inside his mind, everything was alarmingly quiet, stalled and thoughtless, like a glitch in his system. A loading screen was playing, maybe, or a wheel of death, turning and turning and turning without end.
“My Ricky, it’s going to be okay. You said you might move, so it’s not, ehm, not decided yet?”
He shook his head, sniffling and wiping at his cheeks. Mischa let out a gruff sigh before taking Ricky’s wet hands and gripping them in his own. He enveloped Ricky’s knuckles with his rough fingers, stroking back and forth, and albeit rough, they had the warmth and softness of a blanket freshly out of the dryer. Ricky let the contact ground him, easing into a moment of solace.
Mischa tipped his chin down to finally find the other boy’s eyes, red-rimmed and heartbroken. When they locked into each other, Ricky found the world stop for a minute as he fell into Mischa’s gaze—the gentlest, most compassionate gaze he’d ever been a subject of.
His heart halted in his chest. Ricky shouldn’t have been so flustered, since it was probably something casual and natural that friends did in his home country, but he can’t remember the last time someone comforted him like this, with hands tenderly tangled together and the atmosphere blooming with affection.
“I realize that,” he paused, choosing his words with care, “the day I moved here, I hated everything about it.” Ricky let out a breath, shoulders sagging as the tension in them started to disintegrate.
“Uranium is utterly wack; there’s nothing cool here— except maybe the freaking Mega Mall.” The other boy exhaled through his nose. Mischa’s mouth upturned at that, straightening his posture.
“The teachers at school are ass, the choir is alright. Actually, kinda mid. Even so, choir is the only reason I go to school. But after that? School is damn useless. And my adoptive parents,” he furled his brows, his jaw clenching, “useless.”
“I realize… if I was the one to move,” he frowned, “the only thing I would miss here is you, Ricky Potts.” Mischa lifted a hand, lightly poking his chest. Ricky was… feeling something he had never felt before.
Mischa moved to Uranium City about a year ago. Up until then, Ricky didn’t have a friend he could share his sketches with, his stories with. He didn’t have a friend to share anything with. He never had someone in his life who bothered to learn and practice ASL for him, or someone to have a Saw marathon with. Someone to confide in him and actively ask for and desire his input.
And finally, he did. He had a best friend. The best damn friend he could ever ask for.
“So maybe if you move, I could go with y—”
Ricky threw himself onto Mischa, curling his arms around him.
It became apparent to Ricky that it was the same case for himself: that if he were to move, the only thing he would miss in this town would be Mischa Bachinski. He could deal with losing anything else: the choir, his good grades. But the thought of leaving Mischa was enough to break him.
“Oh, Space Jesus. You’re just… mad wicked awesome.” Mischa muttered, embracing him back. He squeezed him tightly as their intertwined bodies swayed together in harmony.
Ricky didn’t exactly know what to say when they pulled away, so he sniffled and hoped his thankful, wet smile conveyed everything. Then, without thinking much, he fingerspelled out the word…
“Prom.”
Mischa hummed, tilting his head.
“What if we went together?” He hesitantly motioned.
“Ooh…!”
“We both have dates we can’t bring. And, if I move,” he shrugged, “we need to spend time together.”
“As much as we can!” Mischa added, nodding enthusiastically. Ricky felt his chest fill with overwhelming joy.
“Yes. Yes! We can be our prom dates!” He fist pumped. It was probably natural for two friends to go as dates to formal-type events too, Ricky assumed.
“I need to search Amazon for that fit you drew right now.” Mischa launched himself to where his laptop rested, forced it open, and started typing with excitement.
“I’ll get some food now. Finally!” Ricky signed, peering at him with starry eyes, pure admiration adorning his features. “Want to start Saw IV?”
“Oh, absolutely, my bro.”