'I thought I said to pick the music, not the noise.'

Cece's eyes cut to me, glaring from the depths of black makeup. His lip curls. 'All the music you listen to is about sex.'

I scoff. Not true. I also listen to music about love. 'All the music you listen to is about how much you hate school. How is that any better?'

'At least, I'm going to school,' they grumble, arms crossed over their chest.

'Let's not jinx it fore the term even starts, eh?' I pick up my phone despite the "don't text and drive" ad campaign at the back of my mind that reminds me not to model bad behaviour in front of my kids. 'I've got a song for ya.'

The intro to Insane in the Brain by Cypress Hill squeals from the speakers—"Who you trying to get crazy with ése? Don't you know I'm loco?"

Cece smacks me and, when I laugh, shoves again. I shield myself with one arm, elbowing them back. 'Oi! Quit throwing a strop. I'm driving a car here. You have to wait till we've parked to hit me.'

'I don't care. I'll kill both of us to get rid of you. Wait!' They turn to the window to watch the exit toward Moss Side retreat. I steer us into the city instead. 'Aren't we going home?'

I adjust my grip on the steering wheel, a strum of panic reverberating through my excitement. What's the right balance of surprise with him? Cause if I sneak into their room tomorrow morning, singing the happy birthday song, I don't reckon I'd ever come out. But I wanna do summat nice.

'Since we're already out, I reckoned we'd do more.'

'Do what?'

'It is your birthday tomorrow.' I lay the words down like stepping stones, testing each one for how much weight it can carry. 'I thought I'd let you pick out a gift you like.'

Cece's stare flees to the window to watch the storefronts of Deansgate pass.

Did I do it wrong? I reckoned if I let them choose their own gift, it would feel less like an ambush so maybe he wouldn't veer into fight or flight from it, but maybe it's a bit brusque to let someone choose their own present. I did try googling it but "how to give birthday gift to traumatised schizophrenic sibling?" didn't yield high results.

My worry is pacified when Cece's face lights up as we step into Sense of Craft, which Google did tell me is the best art supply shop in Manchester—the one with the highest reviews anyway. It's also the best one according to Caleb's reviews but considering how many jewels and sequins he needs for each drag extravaganza, he usually sticks to summat around The Works price range.

Rather than the spray paint section as I expected, Cece shuffles to the wall of markers. His hands are deep in his hoodie pocket and he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

I'd've reckoned he'd feel right at home but I suppose they've never had proper supplies before, and the ones they do have, they've mostly stolen. Makes sense that this would be a little intimidating. I look through the display of beads and rhinestones to give them their privacy.

Despite the chains on their cargo trousers, Cece can move so quietly when they want to that when he suddenly speaks beside me, my heart leaps into my throat. 'Can I have these?' 

He holds out a set of six Promarkers. 'If they're too expensive, these are okay.' In their other fist, they hold three single markers: mulberry, petrol blue, and black. 

They move the two prior into their other hand and hold only the black one out to me. 'Or just this one.'

I watch it with a furrowed brow before glancing at the selection behind him. 'Don't you want one with all the colours?' I step around him to find a Promarker box with ninety-six shades.

Cece has turned around but it still holding the black marker toward me. 'It's too expensive.'

'Cece, I do have two jobs. I won't go brassic over some markers.'

Decidedly, I don't look at the price.

I scan the wall for other options and grab a box of Posca markers too. 'You should have some of these too. They're water-based so they work a bit different—You can experiment a bit and see which one you prefer.'

I find a set of simple black pens of various sizes for detail and grab a new sketchbook. They've only got a few pages left of their current one.

When I turn around with everything piled in my arms, Cece's eyes are drilled into the floor. He chews the backs of his snakebites, the steel clashing against his grillz, and fidgets with the black Promarker.

I move closer, lower my voice. 'Cece, it's just a birthday gift. There's no ulterior motive, I promise. I just wanna get ya summat nice.'

I wedge both boxes of pens under one arm so I can grab the other pens from him to return to the shelves, goading Cece to look up.

'Besides, if I don't get this for you, you'll just shoplift it, won't ya?

A grin flashes their grillz. They tilt their head much the same way Esther does, squinting up at me. 'That's a well stigmatising word, you know. I believe the politically correct term is "urban foraging".'

My laugh flutters through the orchids between my lungs. 'Right... well, we're gonna do summat called "urban trading". Also known as paying for things.'

            I sip on my iced coffee as I watch Cece draw. Their own lemonade is forgotten on the table, a pair of wasps currently scavenging it for sugar. After a page where they tested out all the colours, excitedly worming in their seat for each one, they got busy sketching a variety of moths. 

For the past few years, Cece drew with a ballpoint pen into his school notebooks, then replicated his favourite sketches as illegal graffiti around Manchester, so it's no surprise their new range of colours is too irresistible for them to wait till we get home.

Cece's style is incredible. There's nowt else like it. I couldn't describe it as realistic—the colours alone bar that out of the question. But the moths do look like they could fly right off the page even in their jarring purples and radiation greens. He draws the bodies so intricately that I can feel the fuzz.

'You've been drawing loads of moths lately.'

Cece makes a gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug. 'Moths are cool,' they say without pausing their drawing. 'They're well important pollinators. People think they're ugly but there are species of moths that are dead beautiful. And even the ones that aren't are cool. There are moths with wings that look like owls to scare off predators or ones that look like a broken branch to disguise themselves. The garden tiger moth can make a sound that fucks up bats' echolocation. How sick is that?

'And they're fuzzy!'

The way he smiles makes orchid after orchid flower in my chest. I've missed seeing him draw with a wide smile rather than the panic scrawls of his hallucinations. And I've not heard him say a word like "fuzzy" in years.

Maybe it's just a trick of my emotions that sometimes convince me they're still four years old, still bright-eyed and full of life, but he looks younger like this.

'Wasps are cool too,' they continue. 'I mean... they scare me, but I've been tryna learn so maybe I wouldn't find them so scary. 

'And unlike people think, wasps actually pollinate a lot. We wouldn't have figs without wasps—not that I like figs cause they're hanging but you like em. If wasps weren't around eating other pests, we'd be overrun with those. And apparently, wasps can recognise faces so they can come after you, which is terrifying, but also cool.'

'Oh, I didn't know that. About the faces.'

'Yeah, it's like that Black Mirror episode with the murder robot bees that do facial recognition, except real wasps.'

'That's a bit horrifying.'

'Yep.'

'Some species of corn and tobacco release distress calls when they're fed on that attract parasitic wasps. And the wasps kill and eat the caterpillar, keeping the plant safe.'

Cece looks up at me as they cap the neon green marker. 'That's cool,' they say, and it's not sarcastic.

I mentally high-five myself and run up and down the street cheering. Plant fact certified as cool!

I watch them shade the moth with a darker green as I swirl the ice cubes around my glass with my straw. 'I'm proud of you for, um... tryna overcome things you're afraid of.'

'Bobbi's well good at that stuff. If I believed in that shit, I might actually think she's an angel.' Happy tears have already started to form in the corners of my eyes when Cece adds, 'You too. Though a very ugly one. God must've been blindfolded when They created you.'

Their focus returns so intensely to the calico pattern they're outlining onto a new moth's wings that I know they won't talk for a while. I'm more than content to drink my coffee and watch people stroll along Canal Street.

Music from the various café bars fuses with the chatter and is harmonised by the run of water on my other side. The sun ain't so overbearing today, the heat subdued by a breeze that carries the scent of summer sugar through the city. Esther lies in the shade under our table, people-watching with me.

My eyes snag on a face and shift back into focus. Joe is walking past, focus flicking between her phone and the street. I call her name and she looks up, eyes wide as she searches for the source. 

Fuck. Serial killer percentage definitely just went up. Hey Google: How do I tell someone I'm not stalking them without sounding like that's exactly what I'm doing?

She must recognise me though, because she smiles when I bound off my chair and down from the curb that separates the café tables from the street.

Still, there's enough uncertainty in her face that I re-introduce myself. 'It's Nicolás. Or Nikki. Anything you want.'

'Hi!' Joe readjusts the straps of her tote bag on her shoulder. 'Cute dog.'

I glance back. I think most people would describe Esther as scary, especially with the cropped ears and tail done by her past owner, and the fact that Joe don't seem intimidated calms me.

She's much fitter than I remember. I were too stressed over Cece last night to take owt of it in. I try my best not to notice the way her round cheeks push up to crinkle her eyes when she smiles. How she has to tilt her head back to look at me. Or owt below that. Do not look at anything below that.

Reminder: She's only here to have casual sex and then move back to London. This is not the mess I wanna be tangled up in.

I tuck my hands into my shorts pockets. 'Sorry to bother you. Just thought I'd say that I gave Sasha your number about the job.'

'Yeah, I'm actually headed to Spectrum–' she says the name like a question, double-checking it from the map on her phone '–for my interview right now.'

'Oh. That were quick.'

'Yeah, Sasha phoned this morning and, well, I am unemployed so I don't have anything else to do.'

Guilt don't have time to take root before Joe smiles, a wide smile that shows her teeth and the gems decorating them. A purple butterfly is pressed to the left side, one wing on her canine and the other on the incisor. I wonder what her dentist parents think of the gems. I think that they're incredibly attractive–

I lever my eyes back to hers, dragging a step back. 'Well, I don't wanna keep ya or you'll be late. Good luck with the interview.'

Joe inclines her head when she accepts the well-wishes. 'Thank you.' She resumes her walking and I decidedly do not watch her leave.

Cece is so focused that he don't notice when I return to the table, just as I doubt they noticed when I got up.

My coffee is disappointingly diluted now, the majority of the ice melted so it lacks the cooling effect too, but I continue to sip it idly as I watch the street. If Joe gets the job, would she stay in Manchester longer? And if she stays in Manchester longer–?

Mentally, Caleb slaps me.

Notes

Strop: Slang for a tantrum or bad mood.

Brassic: Broke, poor.