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Almost like every day, Pete had reluctantly left his house for a new day of learning, or that's what everyone wanted to pretend was happening daily at that school. This time he didn't have breakfast, if a cup of coffee counted as such, because he had fallen asleep (he didn't give a shit about getting up, honestly) and his mother wasn't going to accept him being late. Once in the cold streets, he put on his headphones and began to walk towards the building without really being aware of it. He took out a cigarette and, after unleashing his annoyance against the small sphere of menthol, he lit it.
He felt a little bit more comfortable being awake thanks to the smoke with a slight minty essence that invaded his interior. He growled due to the cold and cursed aloud for having forgotten his fingerless gloves while he fixed the gray scarf around his neck. Closing his eyes while still walking filled his mind of fatalistic thoughts that were only part of the bad mood that accompanied him. He stopped and sighed loudly; it was way too early to feel so much hatred against nothing in particular and everything at the same time.
He looked at his hand holding the cigarette and noticed that a good portion of it had been consumed by itself because of the wind and his own negligence, accumulating ash in a cylindrical shape. He tapped the filter with his thumb harder than necessary to discard it and brought the object to his lips to take a strong drag as if his goal was to suck the hope of something, anything, that would distract him from his shitty mood. He knew he wasn't a morning person; it was obvious and the reason why he drank at least one large cup of coffee before leaving his house every day.
Now he felt decaying. Yes, that was the word that included everything he was feeling: irritated and rotten, decomposing, as if he doubted if he would arrive in one piece to the shitty building that awaited him with its hellish bell that'd indicate that he should lock himself up with a bunch of imbeciles like a herd of animals that unfortunately were not going to their death. Yet.
In the blink of an eye, which was questionable for him since space-time didn't make sense in his state, he was already in front of the school. He glanced at his phone and realized that he'd arrived even faster than usual and, therefore, he had arrived as early as he did every day. Because yes, Pete Thelman always arrived early to school to hang out in the parking lot with his friends and go to class considerably late if he didn't choose to skip it altogether.
He sat in the same place he had been used to for a few years now, because he preferred to die because of the cold than to go into the cafeteria and drink the shitty coffee they served there. So instead, he decided to smoke two more cigarettes to feel that there’s something inside him, even if this was just smoke that would not even stay in his body for a long time. In the middle of the third cigarette of the day, Michael appeared from the same spot as he did not so long ago.
"You look like shit." Michael said as a greeting as he slammed the base of his cane against the other's purple winklepicker, then he sat down next to him.
"Thank you," Pete replied halfheartedly, taking a drag from what was left of his cigarette, to throw the butt into the snow a few meters away, failing. He watched as it continued to burn on the cement, questioning his whole existence. "I feel like shit."
"Figures."
They remained silent until Henrietta and Firkle showed up, both commenting on how terrible Pete looked, to which he only nodded. The minutes went by in silence, and Pete appreciated and hated it at the same time. Then, the school bell rang. None of the four got up for a few minutes, as if weighing the real need to enter the building. Pete wanted to smoke one last cigarette before doing it, because yes, he was going to go in this time, but the little nausea that nested inside prevented him from doing so. He did not want to end up vomiting bile like a drunk in a rotten alley, he had a little dignity left.
While debating whether it was worth risking a deplorable scene, he heard a sigh and, finally, the first to succumb to the need to attend the torture with fluorescent lights was Henrietta, who said goodbye with a hand movement while throwing the butt of her cigarette onto the cold cement; then it was Firkle, who whispered something about a project.
Some minutes passed by, and Michael and Pete looked at each other almost at the same time and got up slowly, fixing their clothes and mentally preparing for what was coming. They walked parsimoniously towards the main entrance of the school that was invaded by the occasional student desperate not to be late. As he went up the almost non-existent stairs to reach the front door, Pete felt something on his foot and then on his knees and hands, followed by some giggles next to him and just then, in his drowsiness, he was finally able to process what had just happened to him: he'd tripped, but at least he'd put his hands to avoid hitting his head. Woah, the survival instinct. Who would've thought that it'd still be there, alert.
The idea of lying there for the rest of the day, or at least for the rest of the morning, sounded tempting but tedious, so he slowly tried to get up, just to run into a pair of worn-out dress shoes and the base of a cane in front of him. Michael didn't help him, and although he was no longer laughing at his misfortune (because he knew it had been him), the half-smile was still stuck on that pale face accentuated by eye shadow. Pete sat on the floor, complaining about his bad luck and could see a few meters away someone staring at him, Makowski. What the fuck was that poser doing there? He lifted his middle finger with a disgusted grimace and the other got scared enough to continue running to the front door without looking at him again.
"Get up or your ass will freeze," Michael said, hitting him on the knee with his cane. Pete swatted away the attacking object.
"Fuck off, that hurts," he said, getting up slowly and cleaning his pants, especially in the knee area.
"That's gonna bruise," Michael added, observing Pete's pants, as if his gaze could look through the fabric and check the condition of the skin.
"Cool, I guess." Pete whispered and then sighed. "I don't care anymore."
There was a small silence between them in which Pete finally got up from the floor and Michael watched him do it. Once standing, they both looked at the school entrance, still open, but they could see someone approaching to surely close it and start the boring day, so they finally walked inside. They reached a corridor that separated their paths and when Pete turned without even saying goodbye, Michael grabbed his arm. Pete was stopped completely and turned around, confused.
"I'll buy you a coffee after the first period," Michael said firmly, as if he had been thinking about it for a long time.
"The coffee from the cafeteria sucks," Pete replied with a disgusted grimace, pretending to vomit.
"I know, it's not like I want to poison you," Michael said, rolling his eyes.
“Yet.” Pete added.
"Yet? Do you think so badly of me?" Pete shrugged. "Whatever, asshole. I'll buy you coffee so you finally stop being a whinny baby."
"Okay, okay."
"See you at the usual spot."
"Okay, I'm leaving."
"Don't leave me waiting."
"Yeah, yeah, see you."
They finally split and went to their classrooms to be scolded for being late. That first period was a void in Pete's head. He dozed off and it was just like he never attended said class, since he didn't even remember having heard his name being called at all. The bell, indicating the end of the period, woke him up and putting away the things he had taken out to pretend to exist, he got up and left the room. He remembered Michael's promise and headed to where they used to meet between classes for a quick cigarette, the parking lot.
He didn't have to wait long for the other goth as the door opened within minutes and Michael came out with his visibly empty backpack, nodded at him and they set off.
Walking down the main street, Michael glanced at Pete, who only followed him with a tired face and barely open eyes and, feeling sorry for him, he began to walk a little slower than usual.
"You would be so easy to kidnap right now," Michael said, pulling out two cigarettes and passing one to his companion, to stop and light his own. Pete made a noise of confusion and stopped, waiting for the other to pass him the lighter, but Michael brought the flame closer to him, saving him the little effort. "You're just following me, barely seeing where we are going, I could even take you to a lonely alley and kill you like a rat."
Pete took a deep drag from his fourth cigarette of the day and begged for nausea to stay away from him, because Michael didn't smoke menthol cigarettes like he did.
"You would sell my organs on the deep web or some shit like that," he added tiredly, but with a hint of fun in his voice.
"Some shit like that, yeah." Michael repeated. They both found themselves smirking and resumed walking.
Michael stopped in front of a building that Pete recognized as the town's Harbucks.
"Did you just bring me to a conformist coffee shop?" Pete sneered.
"Yes, and you'll love it," Michael replied, opening the door and inviting him in with a nod, to which Pete rolled his eyes, but stepped inside anyway.
The coffee shop was relatively empty compared to its capacity, or at least that's what he saw from the entrance. Pete was annoyed by the fact of stepping into such a place, but the vague aroma of coffee and the view of the display case full of apparently fresh food reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything yet.
He followed Michael to the checkout line and momentarily closed his eyes enjoying the relative silence of the place but opened them again when Michael began to talk.
"So? What do you want?"
Suddenly, he was reminded of his foul mood and where he was. He frowned and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. Fuck makeup.
"Don't fuck with me, Michael. Here? Really?" he replied jadedly. Michael rolled his eyes.
"You're not going to pay for it, so choose something." He replied firmly, his patience getting thinner with the passage of time.
"Bah," Pete said contemptuously, waving a hand, "the only thing missing from the whole Conformist Experience is a Pumpkin Spice Latte." Before Michael could even answer, Pete added "I don't know, Michael, what do we always drink? Anyway, I'm going to find a table."
Pete wandered into the room looking for a pair of seats far enough from the long, busier tables. He judged those drinking their coffees with their computers open and headphones on; he judged those where focused on their notebooks, writing furiously, and he judged those who talked cheerfully while they ate their overpriced cinnamon rolls and, finally, he judged himself for being there witnessing everything.
Such bullshit.
He sat on a cream-colored faux-leather seat, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes waiting for Michael and the Espressos or Americanos he would bring for them. After this stop, perhaps they would go to the cemetery to spend the day looking at the cloudy sky (he wished it'd be cloudy) pretending to be one more corpse rotting there, while smoking, reading and writing, and then they'd wander through the forest, get lost at dusk, and die by the side of the road like a damn ran over animal.
His thoughts became increasingly pessimistic in an uninteresting way as the seconds passed, until he heard Michael clearing his throat and the sound of a plastic coffee cup being placed on the table in front of Pete. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Michael's face, neutral, sipping on his large plastic coffee cup, no... venti. He followed him with his gaze until he sat in front of him on another small faux-leather sofa without breaking eye contact until Michael beckoned him to drink his goddamn conformist coffee once and for all (or at least that's how he felt that tiny nod).
Pete sat up from his comfortable position and looked at his cup covered with a white plastic lid. He looked at Michael again and saw how he took out some paper bags (also from Harbucks) and put one in front of him.
"What is this?" he asked as he took the bag and looked inside; a cinnamon roll.
"One thing is that you stay awake, and the other is that your stomach doesn't growl every five minutes."
"My stomach hasn't growled..."
"Yet." Pete pressed his lips together. Michael being considerate with him was not a rare sight, but he still felt weird every time that happened.
"Okay, okay. Here, take half of it." Pete said without looking into the other's eyes, focusing his attention on getting the cinnamon roll out of its confinement.
"I have one for me, don't worry," Michael replied, and they made eye contact again as he showed him a paper bag similar to the one Pete had in front of him.
"Oh." he said in a low voice and was surprised to realize that he felt just a little disappointed that he could not share the other's kindness. It was completely justified; Michael cared about him and Pete wanted to do the same.
He left the cinnamon roll on the paper bag and took the coffee cup with both hands, warming them with the heat that emanated from it. He knew he would have to go for sugar, because Michael's special delivery didn't include the little packets, but first he wanted to, no, he needed to give it a sip. The idea of finally drinking coffee made his mouth water; he hoped to feel the bitterness of an Americano and the slap of caffeine, but he was greeted by a completely different taste.
"What the fuck is this?" he asked half confused and half frustrated, looking accusatorily at Michael, who covered his smile with his own cup.
"Your Pumpkin Spice Latte, princess," he whispered, amused, taking a long sip of his coffee. Pete grunted, rolling his eyes, thinking it was all too perfect to be true.
"You know I said it just to fuck with you." He explained, as if it made any difference at the time. Michael pulled out a piece of cinnamon roll with his pale fingers, smile still on his lips.
"I know."
"What are you drinking?" He asked, narrowing his eyes, as if he doubted the answer he would receive.
"Americano." He replied, putting the piece of cinnamon roll in his mouth.
"Hey!" He said, offended, carefully placing his cup on the table. "I wanted an Americano!"
"The instructions weren't clear," Michael replied, shrugging.
"Oh, come on." Pete complained, looking at him seriously. "Give me yours."
“Fuck off, Pete. Drink your coffee."
"Give me at least half of yours, this shit isn't going to wake me up in a million years."
"I see you quite awake."
"Michael!" Pete replied, hitting the table lightly with his fist.
"Okay, okay, you do have a point," he said, raising his hands in defeat.
"See?"
"All right, drink your half and we'll trade."
"Deal." Pete raised his hand for the other to shake it, sealing the deal, because it had to be official, he wouldn't let Michael trick him into drinking his Pumpkin Spice Latte without complaining. Michael stared at Pete's hand and rolled his eyes, but imitated the action, finally shaking his hand and squeezing it hard.
"Now eat, the cinnamon roll will get cold," he said once the handshake was over and returned to his now shared Americano.
They ate and drank in silence, and after a while, the Pumpkin Spice Latte began to taste good, way too good. Pete considered finishing it, but an Americano sounded like a better idea to finish that unexpected breakfast. It was noticeable that the sugar and caffeine began to affect his mood, his posture relaxed thanks to it and the background music. He took out his phone as a mischievous idea came to his mind; he opened the camera and looked at Michael, who had taken out a notebook and was entertaining himself by writing what looked like poetry while sipping from his cup with the Harbucks logo at a perfect angle for the shot.
Click.
Perfect. Michael hadn't noticed, or so it seemed.
"What the fuck did you just do?" Michael said, looking at him with a frown. Well, he tried.
"Nothing," Pete replied, closing the camera app and pretending to be doing something else on his phone.
"You took a picture of me, didn't you?" Pete considered lying to him and making a remark about how vain that sounded, but it was too much work.
"Yes, to extort you; Michael at a Harbucks, who would have thought." He said with a slight mocking laugh.
"If you have the photo, it means you were at one too," Michael replied, mocking back. Pete stopped laughing.
"Bah, you take away all the fun," Pete said, leaving his phone on the table and Michael quickly grabbed it. "Hey! Do not delete the evidence."
From his position, Pete could see how Michael unlocked his phone, and he shrugged. He'd surely delete the photograph, but he would forget to delete it from the trash and so Pete would still have the evidence. Michael stared at the phone for a while without doing anything else and Pete got nervous.
"Hey, give it back, don't be spying," he demanded quickly, and his words seemed to pull Michael out of a slight trance that he had entered and handed him the phone. The photograph he had taken was still on the screen and Pete, after looking confusedly at Michael, paid attention to the small screen. The photo had turned out quite well, the place's warm light was a weird sight in comparison to Michael's black and white self. The light together with the different brown tones looked like a kind of sepia filter and, along with the goth's relaxed pose and his focused expression, the composition seemed pretty impressive for a quick phone photograph.
"Woah, it looks nice," he thought aloud and Michael made an affirmative sound. Pete looked at him curiously. "Do you want me to send it to you?" Michael narrowed his eyes and looked to the side, thoughtful. "You can blur the background and the logo if you mind being at a Harbucks that much," Pete added, getting Michael to look back at him.
"Yes. Send it."
Pete complied and, once the photograph was sent, he put his phone aside and finished his share of the drink in his hands. With the cinnamon roll already eaten and his part of the deal fulfilled, he let himself look around the place in a casual and relaxed way. It was actually a comfortable place to be, he hated to think that. His hardcore nonconformist and moody self wanted to complain even more than before, but his anger had been appeased this time thanks to the offering of a stupid and tasty Pumpkin Spice Latte by his best friend. He looked at Michael and his cup of Americano set aside.
"Hey," he called his attention and waited for the other to stop scribbling in his notebook and look at him. "Have you finished your half?" He pointed out the abandoned drink on the table. Michael, as if just remembering that he had a coffee to drink, took the cup and then took a long gulp, then passed it to Pete.
"Yes."
Pete received the still hot drink and, before drinking it, he warmed his hands with the plastic cup. Frankly, that was one of the things he liked the most about drinking coffee, after the coffee itself, of course. He's used to having cold hands all year long. At first, he thought it was normal until Henrietta told him that they could be blood circulation issues and all that medical stuff, but maybe it was just that South Park was a weird place. Or all of it together.
It didn't matter.
When he finally drank the Americano in his hands, he felt like he was on top of the world. And now, with a new perspective on life, he closed his eyes with the cup still in his hands and he analyzed his situation: he had been taken to a different coffee shop, with a good atmosphere (it being a Harbucks didn't matter anymore), for a sweet drink (he's always liked sweet things more than what's considered healthy) and food (sweet, too!) by his best friend who was concerned (and annoyed) by his bad mood (real bad mood) and then, as the cherry on top, he was able to drink some of the still hot Americano.
He couldn't ask for more.
Within his rediscovered happiness he could distinguish a characteristic giggle, the same one he heard when it almost hit his face on the school floor. He half opened his eyes, curiously, and saw Michael staring at him with a smile on his lips and his phone in front of him.
"Ah," Pete complained halfheartedly, leaving the cup on the table and looking to the side. "You caught me."
"Extortion material," Michael commented, showing him from afar the photograph he'd taken.
"If one comes out to the public, the other will, too," Pete replied, shrugging. "Let me see it up close."
"I don't trust you."
"Oh, come on, don't be dumb."
Michael sighed and got up from his seat to get closer to Pete and show him the photograph without handing him his phone.
“Fuck off, Michael, I'm not going to delete it."
"I don't believe you."
"Whatever."
The photograph had the same characteristics as the one he took of Michael a while ago in terms of setting, but it felt even warmer from the expression of satisfaction on Pete's face, including the small smile that could be seen near the edge of the plastic cup. Instinctively, Pete appreciated not seeing the Harbucks logo on it but, to be honest, he already didn't give a fuck about that detail. Michael put back his phone, but before he could get back to his seat, Pete grabbed his coat by the arm, stopping him.
"Thank you." He whispered, looking at the sleeve in his hand, suddenly feeling ashamed for surely having behaved like an asshole due to the lack of caffeine.
"For the photo?" Michael asked, a little confused. Pete let go of him and brought the same hand to the bridge of his nose.
"No, asshole. For..." He stopped himself and shrugged. Michael widened his eyes a little when he understood the situation and gave him a small smile.
"It's fine, stupid."
"This is such a conformist setting, stop it." Pete covered his eyes with his hands in fake suffering.
"You started it," Michael commented, each word expressing how funny he thought the whole situation was.
They remained silent for a while longer until Michael remembered his cup of Pumpkin Spice Latte and took a sip.
"This shit is too sweet for me."
"You say it after eating a cinnamon roll."
"Yes, and I maintain my position."
"Whatever you say, Mr. bitter."
"That's lame. The problem is that you are too sweet."
"That I'm what?"
"That you like sweets way too much."
"No, no, you said I'm sweet." Pete laughed under his breath, more ashamed than anything. "Conformist."
"If I were a cannibal, I'm sure I'd notice it that way," Michael commented, casually.
"I don't know if it works like that," Pete questioned, trying to remember his knowledge of cannibalism.
"Neither do I, but it's too early to corroborate it."
"Cannibalizing me?"
"Looking for it on the internet, stupid."
"Yeah. It's too early, apparently." Pete agreed while Michael nodded and then they both laughed openly for the first time in the day.
"We're fucked," Michael commented, staring at him with a smile on his face.
"Way too fucked," Pete confirmed, holding his gaze, but covering his mouth. His cheeks were starting to hurt from how much he had gesticulated in such a short time. Apparently, he really wasn't that used to using those muscles.
There was a comfortable silence in which neither of them took their eyes off the other, until the laughter and smiles returned to their usual serious grimaces. Then it became a bit awkward to be looking at each other.
"We could..." Michael began, focusing his gaze on the Pumpkin Spice Latte. "We could go to my house to watch a movie."
"Yes," Pete confirmed, "it's better than what I had considered doing to get through the day."
"Hm? What did you think?" Michael asked curiously.
"Nothing relevant," Pete replied. "The product of a shitty mood," he added, shrugging.
"I bet. You get very grumpy."
"Whatever." Pete replied just a little offended, but he knew it was true. "Shall we go? We can drink this on the way, " he said, gesturing to the half-finished cups.
"Sure."
"What do you wanna watch?"
"We could start with Donnie Darko," Michael suggested, putting his notebook and pencil back in his backpack, carelessly. "I've been thinking about it lately."
"Let's not watch the sequel, please." Pete pleaded, standing up.
"That doesn't exist."
"Exactly."