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Mitch listens to a lot of the Beatles on the drive from Ohio to LA, because Sergeant Pepper is still a comfort album and because he likes imagining he’s some kind of late-60s hippie. What he actually is is a 24-year-old college dropout with a limited skill set who’s really, seriously sick of cold weather, so he drives and hums along and tries not to lean too hard on the gas.
Ryan’s waiting for him on the other side of the country, at an apartment in Hollywood where he’s been living for about a year. He’s sent Mitch pictures, and it’s tiny — dusty white walls and six square feet of garden and Mitch is in love with it, though he’d never admit it out loud. He and Ryan have known each other since freshman year of college, Ryan restless and ambitious where Mitch is laconic and still. All the same, the last time he called Mitch from California he needed a roommate, he’d found a good job as an assistant engineer, he’d cover rent until Mitch found work, and his voice sounded so deliciously far away. So now Mitch is on I-70 with two boxes of clothes and three guitars in the backseat, feeling like he’s made a decision for the first time in his life.
—
Ryan’s not pushy, but he’s clever and he’s been paying the electric bill for months because Mitch only makes so much at the pizza shop, so when he texts Mitch come to studio NOW bring your tele Mitch comes.
When he walks in there’s a guy holding court on a sofa — hair longer than Mitch’s own, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that’s loud even for this city. Mitch registers his accent and his weird-colored eyes and his firm politician’s handshake and hears a faint alarm bell go off in his head.
He plays a solo for the guy — Harry — because he has been practicing, thank you, he doesn’t just sling pizzas, and maybe he wants to prove himself a little. The blond Telecaster feels loose and right in his hands, warm from every gig he’s ever played on it, like it knows it’s doing something more significant than a set in a dive bar. The notes flow from his brain to his fingers to the amp with no resistance, like this improv is a song he’s known for years, easy as breathing, easy as a kiss. Mitch doesn’t normally feel self-conscious about his playing, and yet seeing Harry, all dimples, on the other side of the studio glass makes his blood rush to his face once it’s over.
Harry really likes the solo, tells him he sounds like Robben Ford. Mitch looks at his own hands on the frets and says thanks because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, suddenly. Ryan’s eyes are wide, watching them.
—
The guitar case is in the corner of Mitch’s apartment. It’s propped between the dresser and the wall, black leather obtrusive against the off-white walls. It’s marked with dents and scratches from a few moves and more than a few gigs, and he’s never given it more than a second thought before — but now, Harry’s in his house, standing at the threshold of Mitch’s bedroom and looking around like he’s trying to memorize it.
Mitch tries not to think about what the place must look like to Harry — small and drab, with drumsticks and capos scattered over every surface and a futon taking up half the room. He steps over to the corner and he’s about to hand Harry the case when Harry pulls him into a hug, sudden and warm with his arms wrapped tight and solid around Mitch’s frame. The case hangs awkwardly at Mitch’s side and he hugs him back with one arm and Harry smells like sweat and Old Spice deodorant and it’s indescribably good.
Muffled in Mitch’s neck, Harry says “I can’t believe you gave me your guitar.”
“Can’t believe you gave me the White Falcon, man.” Mitch thinks if he keeps calling him “man” he can regain some semblance of normalcy in this… whatever this is. It hasn’t worked yet. He pulls back from the hug. “That shit’s beautiful.”
Harry dimples at him, which is unfair. “I asked three guitar collectors ‘cause I wanted to get it right. I’m glad you like it.”
He’s revoltingly sincere. Mitch hates him a little. “Here’s your case,” he says, stepping back and pushing it between them like a shield.
—
Over the next year Mitch watches Harry make the Tele his own. He tunes it with care before every rehearsal and places it back in its case just as reverently, strums it unplugged in his bedroom in Jamaica where only Mitch can hear, covers it with stickers like a little kid. With every change Mitch feels it becoming more and more a part of Harry. He thinks maybe he’s starting to do the same.
—
The first thing Mitch notices when he wakes up is Harry, his body weight heavy on Mitch’s chest. The second thing is the mid-morning sun shining directly into his face.
“Ow, fuck.” He reaches up as if to swat it away, because it’s 10 am and his brain isn’t online yet, and Harry shifts above him and opens his eyes. They regard each other blearily for a moment.
“Time ‘s it,” Harry slurs. His breath is awful and his hair is a disaster and his eyes are indescribably green, like emeralds and fresh grass and every other shitty metaphor. Mitch can’t look away from him.
“Too early,” he says, but he’s thinking Too late.