Sleepless

Four times a fist hits against the bathroom door, but the boy with the Sharpie marker and candle hardly notices. His mind is ingrained in the wall, his essence tangled in the pages and pages of books he’s read so many times and has nearly memorized. His necklaces jangle as he leans forward, then silence as he leans back again when his scarves muffle the chains. Upon his head rests a worn hat adorned with hanging rings and a few rain-shredded feathers, hardly hiding the unwashed and tangled hair beneath. The clothes he wears to an outsider may seem outlandish, but to him they’re the embodiment of his spirit and artistic dwellings. He wears them not to draw attention to his slim frame, but to show the common man that he is anything but common.

His marker slips against the white plaster wall as he documents the poetry he speaks. “Destruction of the disgusting, ugly hate,” He spits, narrowing his already half-lidded eyes. “I hate New York,” He looks away from the wall and lets the Sharpie fall to the ground without writing the last statement.

And hate New York he does. He used to love it here, but that was before he matured and became one with the moon. He watches the flame of his candle as he considers how long it would take to walk out of this unkind city and go back home. Home to where the rich at least sometimes help the poor, and where the poor at least sometimes don’t entirely ignore the rich. And the middle class... well, the middle class in New York pretty much hates everybody. At least back home everyone had some degree of respect for others. And New York itself, disregarding the people, is relatable to doilies on a pile of shit. You can put up as many pretty lights and flashy signs as you want, but the streets are still littered with garbage and the air still reeks of illness and piss.

But he does admit that walking across the entire country would probably not be the best idea, and he’d be out faster if he just waits for his band to catch a flight.

Again, four knocks sound. “Emerson?” A voice calls, and the boy—Emerson—recognizes it immediately. “Can I come in?”

With a sigh, Emerson licks his finger and strangles the flame with a quick pinch. Almost complete darkness floods the space now—except for the beam of yellow peeking under the door. “Yes.” His voice is meek and raspy with disuse.

After a moment the door slowly opens, nearly blinding Emerson as he tries to see his friend through the new light. He’s leaning against the door frame, tall and lanky with his dark eyes shrouded by dark hair as his loose, dark sweater falls off of one shoulder. “You’re writing again, aren’t you? You know you can’t do that in hotels.”

Emerson nods. “I know. Sorry, Remington.”

His friend nods once, pushing the door open further and holding it open for Emerson. With a sigh, Emerson exits the space. As he passes through the door, Remington says, “We’ll just have to kick extra ass so we have enough money to pay the fees you just racked up.”

Emerson hums and lowers his head, trying his hardest to hide behind his hair and hat. The light still blinds him and in this more-exposed room he can smell the odor of the city. He tries his hardest not to inhale as he sits on the bed beside the end table, candle still held tight against his chest.

“Who’s sharing tonight?” Another friend, Sebastian, asks from the other side of the room. Emerson flinches because he hadn’t realized he was there.

“I’ll share with Emerson since you shared twice in a row,” Remington says.

“Sounds perfect,” Sebastian flops onto the other bed and stretches to cover its surface. “You gonna shower tonight, Emerson? Or put it off for a little longer?”

“I’ll wait,” He mumbles, finally setting the candle down. He continues to stare at the burnt wick while Remington and Sebastian have a conversation about what can be expected for breakfast. Emerson swears that Remington is always hungry. It’d be fine if he didn’t force other people to acquire the food for him—making Sebastian cook for him, or making Emerson go and pick something up. Emerson is a firm believer in fending for oneself, the return to natural states, and most of all, the honored selection of the caretakers to their gifted masters, but Remington wasn’t his master by any means. Sure, he’s the frontman of their band, but not his master. Still, often with spite, he’ll go to the store for food if Remington pressures him long enough. Stupid eloquent bastard. With his almost-black irises intensified for persuasion and eyebrows cocked for influence. A combination to imitate perfection. Who needs to be gifted when you’re beautiful? Maybe that’s not the right question to ask, Emerson thinks. Maybe the right question is: why are the gifted always so beautiful?

Emerson doesn’t think of himself as either of those things. Not at all. Socially awkward, check. Artistic and musical, check. But not beautiful or gifted by any means. Just... there. As long as he doesn’t become a caretaker, he can be happy. Though happiness, he admits, is objective.

“Go to sleep, Emerson,” Remington groans. Upon glancing around, Emerson sees that the lights in the room have been turned off and his friends have lain down. Sebastian may already be asleep. His heavy breaths fill the small space.

As Emerson removes his hat and shoes, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Doesn’t Remington understand that Emerson doesn’t sleep? Sure, he may drift for short periods of time into a dream-like state, but deep sleep rarely overtakes him. For this reason he makes coffee his brother of hands and other caffeinated edibles the sister.

He lies down on his back, tightly gripping the fabric and tugging the ratty blanket up to his chin. It smells like disinfectant and lavender. He thinks for a long while about various things, believing both his friends have fallen into slumber, sometimes taking that idea for granted and repeating short phrases from his mind aloud to hear how they play on the tongue.

After about an hour, the sheets pull and shift beside him and there’s a loud sigh. “Emerson. Shut up and go to sleep.”

Emerson frowns to himself at the stern humor in Remington’s voice. “I can’t,” He says after a moment, shame swelling in his throat.

With another sigh, Remington rolls over to stare at his best friend. “I’ll help you.” His tired but ever-beautiful eyes glitter with some kind of idea.

“How will you—“ He stops speaking as Remington moves closer. “What are you doing?” He chokes.

“Just Relax, Em.” Remington then sits up for a second, rearranges his pillow, and falls back down a little higher up on the bed. Emerson watches with disdain as Remington puts his arm over Emerson’s torso and drags him against his tan, bare chest. “I said relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Emerson stares at Remington’s smooth skin, eyes gigantic and frightened. What is his friend doing? Is he fully awake? Does he even realize that it’s Emerson that he’s subjecting to snuggles?

“Oh, please,” Remington giggles, squeezing his friend and opting to nuzzle into Emerson’s ratty hair. Emerson suddenly wishes he’d taken that shower before. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” He laughs again. He doesn’t even try to speak quietly—Sebastian’s asleep, and Sebastian sleeps hard.

“But—”

Exasperated with the situation, Remington claps his hand over Emerson’s mouth, trying to hold in a smirk as he does so. Emerson catches it, though, and lowers his eyes back to Remington’s chest embarrassedly. As soon as Remington’s certain he won’t try to speak again, he removes his hand and puts it on the nape of the younger boy’s neck.

Emerson takes a deep breath, ignoring Remington’s long, cold fingers, and focuses on each individual part of his own body (left arm, right, left leg, right, toes, hips, shoulders...), clenching and releasing until he is almost melted in Remington’s arms.

“There ya’ go,” Remington whispers, also completely relaxed, though it doesn’t take much to relax Remington. “Just go to sleep.”

Emerson inhales through his nose, taking in Remington’s scent. Even after his shower, the aroma of his cologne is present. Nutmeg, with a sharp, cinnamon twist. Emerson loves that smell. The more he breathes it in, the more he feels himself slipping. It’s not very often that he’s able to sleep this easily, and he suspects it won’t ever be this easy again—is this a one-time thing? Will Remington try to help him sleep tomorrow night, too? Maybe their stay in New York won’t end up being so terrible.

As a last moment’s thought, Emerson’s tired mind can’t help but hope that Remington does do this again tomorrow. That beautiful, gifted bastard.