*updated*

Earlier that day, in a worn-down empty warehouse across the city, a boy sat with a cigarette loosely hanging between his lips as he mindlessly plucked at the strings of an old guitar. The sound was quiet, as he was careful not to disturb anyone or draw attention to himself.

His mind wandered as he played the all-too-familiar chords that came as easily to him as breathing. He thought about everything.

In the distance, a loud burst of drunk —or high — laughter erupted. The soft music stopped and the laughter eventually faded, and the only sound remaining was that of the crackling flame beside him. It cast an eerie warm light onto his skin. The deep indents on his cheeks — beginning to be hollowed out from hunger — flickered from almost-black to a slightly lighter orange. His vision was spotty and inconsistent, but he could still make out the slightly illuminated faces of the group guilty of the guffaws.

Brendon. Of course.

The drunk boy's breath reeked of liquor and smoke. His jacket and shirt were carelessly discarded on the ground next to them. Embers from the flame sputtered and flicked out of the metal bin and landed close-by. He, however, didn't seem to care. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten all about it, entirely comfortable in his bare skin in the cold air.

"Yo, Frank!" One boy from the group — Ryan — who had been clutching onto Brendon's body as if he would topple down to the ground if not supported by him, spotted the small musician and called out with a hiccup. Trying to hide behind a pillar, Frank sighed. It was no use.

His head smacked against the concrete pole behind him and he let out a quiet groan.

"Fraaaankkk," Ryan urged again, another hiccup escaping his wet lips. Carefully, Frank set down the worn-down guitar on the ground and covered it with a large grey cloth. For a moment, he considered just ignoring the drunken boys, but gave in after a third call of his name echoed through the room.

The cigarette hit the ground and flattened under the sole of Frank's shoe.

"Ryan," Frank mumbled as he approached the group of beyond-intoxicated stoners, uninterested and tired. Sure, Frank smoked and drank, but all under control and in reasonable amounts.

Mostly.

Brendon slung a heavy arm on Frank's low shoulders. The height difference made him slant and almost fall onto the smaller boy, taking Ryan with him.

"We're goin' down!" Ryan yelled, laughing between words and swinging a nearly-empty beer bottle in the air, his vision blurring and mind clouded. A few drops splashed onto his face, but he didn't seem to mind or even realize.

The rest of the group began to sway together and — quite loudly — sing. None of the words were distinguishable, and they all sang out of time and tune with each other. They raised their cans and bottles in the air and drank the rest of the dark liquid, some falling into unconsciousness.

Frank lifted his hand up and rubbed soothingly at his aching temples. Brendon and Ryan joined in, drunkenly singing or humming the odd melody. One moment, they were much too preoccupied with Frank, and the next, Brendon was belting out a perfect high note and Ryan was simply admiring him, all of his focus on the talented singer. Even as drunk as he was, that boy could sing any note like a rock star.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Frank slipped out of Brendon's grasp without his notice and jogged away, not looking back.

~~~

Another stick of prepackaged death found its way between Frank's lips as he strolled aimlessly through abandoned sidewalks. He studied the cracks beneath his shoes as to not have to look anywhere else. This, however, resulted in directionless wandering and the occasional wall or pole to the face.

Above him, screams were heard: an arguing couple. He looked away, as if he could drown out the all-too-familiar sounds coming from the cheap second-floor apartment by simply averting his eyes. His pace quickened.

The sun had just begun to rise and the world had an almost magical aura for those first few moments. He -- and everything -- was just a silhouette before the rise; the strong golden rays kissed his skin, giving it beautiful copper hues and casting him in crimson. The sun bloomed on the horizon, golden petals stretching out onto the mellow blue, and finally streaking the sky with orange and pink, peach and magenta, amber and rose.

He had to stop in his tracks to admire the blooming light against the dark buildings; he had always loved sunrise -- how it illuminated everything and marked the start of something new. Another chance.

That early in the day, nobody was there. It was quiet and peaceful. Like the late hours of the night -- three to five am -- only with that magical aspect.

Turning a corner, the strumming sound of a small ukulele filled the air. The young boy holding it hummed a slow tune that Frank recognized, but couldn't name. He sent a smile to the fellow musician and dug into his pockets, searching for any loose change. When he pulled his hand out he had but a dollar and seventy-five cents. He frowned. Looking down the road, he spotted a small shop which seemed to be open, and his stomach rumbled, begging for food. He tossed the few coins into the empty case and smiled regretfully.

The boy's face lit up and he snuggled deeper into his jacket, pleased. It was something, at least. And to him, that was everything.

Frank sped to the shop, thinking of the boy and remembering a time when he was like that. Quickly, he shook the memory away and focused on the smell emanating from the nearby shop. He looked down to the old watch bound on his wrist by even older leather and read the time. Six forty. What store was open at that time?

The metal handle was surprisingly warm when he gripped it. He was instantly greeted with a rush of sweet smells and warmth as he opened it and walked in.

"Good morning," an elderly woman greeted, her long skirt flowing by her ankles and she walked by each table and wiped them down. Frank smiled at her in return and found a seat facing the large windows. He kindly ordered a coffee and picked up a newspaper that had been left on a nearby seat.

Skipping the front page article, Frank skimmed through the rest of the paper. A few minutes later, he was drinking his coffee and softly humming the song from the boy on the corner. Looking out the window, he noticed that the boy was gone. Where he had been, a new person walked. In all black, his only noticeable feature were the red strands of hair sitting messily atop his head. Frank wondered if he would join him in the shop.

At first, it didn't seem like he would go in. He just walked right past the door.

But something made him turn around at look in.

The first thing Frank noticed were his eyes. Not the mark below one of them nor the cut above the other. His black eyelashes outlined his eyes perfectly, and for a moment Frank wondered what he would look like with makeup. At least from that distance — he couldn't exactly say what colour his eyes were, but they were beautiful. Rich yet soft, at the same time. He seemed lost in thought before walking in, his eyes glossed over and unfocused.

Looking back, Frank noticed a young waitress looking at him, and wondered if they knew each other. The redhead came in after a few moments and sat at the table in front of him, blocking his view of the street; an adequate replacement, though.

He just seemed so... intriguing.

So, naturally, Frank felt a pull to talk to him and know him. He hid behind the large paper, trying to figure out what to say.

'Hey.' 'I like your hair.' 'G'morning.' He tried to form words beneath his coffee-stained teeth. Nothing was good enough. Nothing was perfect.

They just sat there at their respective tables as she sun shone as bright as possible through the large windows in silence. And it was like this until Frank broke the silence with a groan, unsatisfied and unhappy with his own mind. It was probably not a great first impression — him turbulently throwing his tattooed hands onto the table in a fit of exasperation; but it had been done and that was that.

A quick flick of bright red crossed Frank's vision as the man in front of him darted his face away. He couldn't help but smile as he rested his jaw on his propped-up hand.

He was looking at him.

He had decided that Frank was worth his time. And that almost made him blush.

As someone approached to speak to the boy, Frank hid behind the paper once again.

Suddenly, the boy with the red hair seemed to grow upset. Gulping down his coffee in one big swoop, he stood and walked out of the dimly lit room. Frank watched as he took a long, drawn-out breath and leaned against the window, spotting his back with drops of water of thick condensation.

He pulled something out of his pocket; a phone. Shoulders heavy and fingers shaking, he clicked a few things brought it up to his ear. Frank finished his coffee but stayed back to give him some space, despite the urge to meet him.

Trying not to focus on the incessant ticking of his watch, Frank stood and began pacing around the room. Every few seconds he would steal a glance at the window where a dark shadow stood, eyes fixed on the concrete beneath.

Soon, curiosity and want became too great and Frank marched right out. He eyed the boy from the door, which stood slightly ajar, held open an inch by Frank's hand. The redhead pulled the phone down instantly and stuffed it in his pocket, bringing his other hand up to his face and turning away, all with ease and speed. Frank's cheeks flared red as he realized he must have interrupted something serious and started to retreat back inside, even though he had no more business there.

"Sorry," he muttered and spun on his heel.

"No, it's fine. I'm sorry."

He ducked under Frank's arm and hurried inside, grabbed his things, left some money on the table, and went back outside. His bright hair whipped through the cold wind as he jogged away.

September 20, 2019

1,784 words