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The warmth of June pressed onto the nape of Adam’s neck, the slopes of the backdrop diluted with pollution, green with stucco walls and glaring windows slicing through blue skies. There’s these little posters that stick onto almost every surface with their stupid faces and single’s name. It’s nice, yeah. But this interview lady is opening her mouth and he’s fuckin’ bored with it.
There’s the glare from the camera lens that makes him squint every time he looks at the beady glass, the concrete ledge they’re sitting on is hot from the sun overhead and the wired microphone they got on him is bothering the shit out of him. Yauch’s sunglasses catch the corner of his eye every so often, but really— Mike, who’s on his left, shifting every few seconds like the bones in his ass are getting as tired as Adam is with this girl is what’s bothering him, on top of everything else.
Mike’s got this red newsboy cap on, sunglasses with a green vest and yellow t-shirt. There’s these light washed denim that fits him almost like skinny jeans and makes Adam cringe a little ‘cause of how tight they actually look. Mike’s knuckles bump into Adam’s thigh whenever Mike decides to play with the stupid, little distressed holes above his knee. (It’s from Mike absolutely busting his ass skating, falling down to have his knees kiss the concrete. For some reason, Mike had decided to keep the jeans.) He’s chewing at a gum Yauch had given him, loud enough for Adam to hear it.
Then he’s all giggly, Adam can hear his smile and laughs— something sweeter than the corn syrup in the Coke he drank, where he can still taste artificial sweetness in the roots of his teeth. Adam can see Mike turn his head over, a wide grin settled onto his face while he’s hunched over, giggling over something he, himself said— like he’s waiting for a smile or laugh to crack over Adam’s face. Even when most of the time, Adam’s eyes are blanked out somewhere else, tracing out a wall or some shit. Either way, it makes his narrowed expression split into where he can feel his lips curl into a smirk.
They’re whispering, the uttered words of Mike have a minty coolness that’s tampered with the sugar of the soda brush over Adam’s cheeks and nose. And Mike’s leaning all close to him like some type of girl, he can see the curve of his neck and how wide his smile got when Adam’s eyes met his. There’s the mint green of the gum sticking to Mike’s incisor, peaking through each smile and opened mouth laugh. Their knees bump and shift against each other. Adam closes in on Mike when he sees Sean doing some shit outside of frame even if Mike’s still talking about the album’s samples, and grins when Mike still does that giggly laugh instead of answering her, or even really hearing her question.
Then the ledge gets too fuckin’ hot, his ass is tired and Adam’s stirring up to stand up on his feet. There’s a small breeze, and he’s going on about fucking nonsense ‘cause there’s not much else to do. The skies are a nice dusty blue— the flags that are up wave like ocean currents and he can taste the salt in the air, too. The wire from the microphone tickles at the tendons in his neck, and really he just wants to be fuckin’ done with the interview. And sometimes when he goes back to lean on the ledge, he smooshes Mike’s hand against the curve of the concrete. Most of the time he doesn’t even really bother to move or scoot off ‘cause his mind’s off somewhere else. Either way, Mike’s hand slides out beneath him without much trouble.
It’s not as hot as before. There’s a cool breeze that has a chill to it, something that bites at Adam. His jeans are biting into his inner thighs ‘cause he’s kinda sitting at an awkward angle. But Mike’s warm, his skin is smooth beneath his and he smells like California; something like sun then coconut lotion. His skin’s tanner than Adam’s, but his thumb presses into Mike’s underarm, where the skin’s paler and warmer. Where he swipes the pad of his finger and goose flesh appears, bumps that read like braille. His other hand is at the cut of Mike’s jaw— which is no longer soft. The baby fat that used to pad the area has thinned out, but he can still feel the uneven trails of acne.
They’re on that same ledge, but there isn’t a camera or any mics that are hooked onto their shirts or jackets. The concrete’s coolness seeps through his jeans and into his skin. Cars pass by below them, the tables and food and people who made traffic up on the rooftop are long gone. Decorations and trash thrown away. Yauch left maybe 20 minutes ago, or whenever the sun wasn’t as low as now. He took some of the posters and little knick knacks, shades still covering his eyes even with the sun not burning anymore, before he tells them he’ll see them at the house. A hug and a heavy door shut later, it’s just the sky and them. Like they’re being plucked out of a story book with soft pastels painting their pictures.
It’s gravity doing the work. Poetry is in motion when their lips are together. Because it doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense, but it’s like there’s words written into Mike that sometimes Adam thinks there isn’t a rhyme or reason to them. Other times, it all just clicks. Because Mike isn’t a math equation, or an abstract piece of art. He’s just there, he can make out the pencils lines and strokes of color and fill in the blanks.
Mike’s hand grabs at the nape of his neck— where his fingers brush at the wisps of hairs. The other rests at his elbow, like a vine trying to root itself to a fence. His lips are soft on Adam’s, and he can feel the hot puffs of air skid across his cheeks. It leaves behind a trail of dusted pink and stinging muscles. And Mike’s pushing his tongue into his mouth. The gum Mike was chewing on earlier now sticks to the roof of Adam’s mouth, and he can taste the Coke that had soaked into it. It really should’ve made him go ew, and push Mike off and tell him how gross that actually is. But the edges of his mind are hazy and torn from smoking, and Mike’s so fuckin’ warm in the California evening.
“You taste like weed.”
“What?” Adam murmurs. He can still taste Mike. The artificial sugar from his drink then the mint that bites beneath it settles into the bottom of Adam’s tongue. Their lips still brush against each other. The sun’s low, the pollution pulls a filter over the vivid orange and purple colors that are like globs of acrylics on a canvas; a mere blurred backdrop, something his mind fills in the details for him ‘cause he can still feel the warmth of Mike’s breath on his cheeks.
“You taste like weed.” Mike repeats, a soft grin is carved onto his face. His eyes are like sea glass, these soft and velvet blues that are unfocused. “And soda.”
The words only make wrinkles form at the bridge of Adam’s nose, his brows and lips being pulled up like a drawstring, or the blinds when the sun is warming up the house too much.
“No shit. We were smokin’ some today. You got some type of problem with that?” Adam’s voice is a mere mumble, words drawn out and some type of inflection in it. Although his nose is bumping back into Mike’s, eyes tracing the lines of Mike’s lips like they’re constellations in the sky above them. Half hooded, foggy like an early morning or maybe car windows.
Something like a scoff leaves Mike, although it’s a lot softer. Adam can’t quite find a word that describes it. But it makes his lips twitch into this little smile. “No,” Mike has a lopsided grin, a bit of teeth showing. He can see the glint of the film of saliva that coats them in the disappearing light from the sun. “Jus’ saying.”
“Yeah, well,” Adam’s brows lift up, lashes heavy on his irises. “Jus’ shut up for a moment.” Adam doesn’t lean in yet, his eyes are still drawing lines in Mike’s face. He can see where the skin crinkles at the corners of Mike’s eyes, something that reminds him of Mike’s crumbled bedsheets in his too fuckin’ messy room. Then his smile lines, where his thumb idly traces. Mike’s pupils are blown wide, either from the weed or the fact there’s no sun that peaks from the horizon.
“Maybe I will.” The words are whispered, like some type of shared secret. And Mike’s still smiling, it’s soft like the sand on beaches, it leaves a hot imprint on his skin just the same too. (It sticks and never leaves, too.)
“Please.” Adam drawls, tolerance in his tone. Like he’s progressively getting tired of Mike’s bullshit. But there must be something in his eyes or face or hands because it only makes Mike’s face brighten. And he’s leaning forward like it was an invitation, their lips meet and Adam’s eyes slide shut.
Adam’s hand falls from Mike’s bicep to his forearm, fingers lazily leaving trails like he’s looking at a 1989 map to look for fuckin’ Yellowstone. But it drops from his inner wrist down to Mike’s knee, where the stupid little distressed holes are. His pinky slips through the threads and he can feel the flecks of soft hair overlap over each other.
He can feel Mike’s hand rise from the nape of his neck to the slope of the back of his head, fingers pushing through strands of hair, dipping beneath where the strap of his cap is. They shift enough for Adam to feel the nose of the hat dip down and smack against Mike’s forehead.
“Mike—” Adam pulls his head back, eyes open— because he was about to do an equivalent of a teacher smacking you with a ruler, but then fuckin’ vanish. His cap falls down the building and he hears the little clap of the visor hitting the pavement below.
“Oh.”
“Jesus, Mike.” Adam’s voice is low, dipped in something that isn’t quite frustration. Maybe he’s too high to actually feel mad, just a sorta watered down version of annoyance. Or maybe just inconvenience.
“I’m really sorry about that.” Mike’s words are slurred, mumbled and jumbled as he leans over the little ledge— his hands gripping the edge for support. The response only earns an eye roll from Adam.
“You’re getting me dinner or some shit after that.” Adam murmurs, shifting off the ledge because the mood is officially fuckin’ ruined. (Whatever. They’ll just look at each other and smile later.) “Then a new fuckin’ hat.”
The door is heavy as it shuts behind them, the sky’s dark— streetlights line the edges of the sidewalk with cars and Adam feels like he’s doing the walk of shame as he walks and plucks his hat right back up. There’s a dirt scuff on the brim, and Mike’s knobby finger points at it and giggles like a little girl. Adam sneers, like he’s also a little girl who’s a spoiled piece of shit and they’re in a sandbox on the playground.
“Shut up, man.” Adam utters, before he’s pushing the cap back onto his head, pulling it backwards like that’ll fix it.
“Whatever.”