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"Deja, you don't need to worry—"
"And that makes me worry more."
"We're grown men!"
"You're two boys going into the wilderness in the middle of the night…"
"It's a marked trail that loops right back around to Fairfield."
"…and you might end up coming back wrong, like all the others!"
"I don't know; if we came back with werewolf powers I think that'd be pretty cool."
This kind of back and forth had become commonplace in these three walls of their living room, in no part because of Elio himself. (Alright, a tiny part, the size of Andromeda XXXV.) What could he say, he was a do-first-risk-assess-later type of guy trying to have good, mostly harmless, not at all reckless fun. Of course, however, he didn't just want to have his slice of the universe; he wanted to share it with his friends, too (in this particular case, singular friend)! Jamie had his face mask on already and Perce was already conquering three galaxies at once (Cam had a family thing they had to attend). So it was left to them, standing bravely against the singular obstacle to his spontaneous plans once he saw the clouds parting ever so slightly.
"Oh, great Deja, she who Tames Reality, Master of Spreadsheets and Devout Follower of Not Risking it for the Biscuit, the All-Knowing and Never Wrong…"
With half-lidded eyes she tapped along with the playful rhythm coming from the television, "Keep going…" They looked back to Elio and he knocked his head between his shrugging shoulders; he hadn't learned the intricacies of the ritual well enough yet to even offer help (which they seemed to most desperately need).
Bowed at the edge of the sofa, palms pressed together, a silence fell over their still and begging form. Then, with a sudden lurch forward, he latched to her leg. "Bestest Bestie of Wryn Mayer, pleeeeasssseeee," his pitch reached into the upper octaves, nearly harmonizing with the music, "We won't come back wrong, I swearrrr!" His eyes wildly caught Elio's who, while trying to hold back from laughing, was mentally jotting this down as a necessary component to appeasing the group's de facto leader. "We'll be back by," they mouthed Three? and Elio shook his head and hesitantly raised two fingers by his side, "two!"
"One," the proclamation punched through their request instantly.
"One-thirty…?" Both of them watched in suspense as Deja mulled it over, her taps slowed and dragging each second grueling into eternity. Perhaps they had overindulged on the thought they could haggle more from her. To have made it this far only to foolishly bite the hand that fed them…
But with a sudden change in melody she raised her hand and patted him on his head, "Alright." Elio clenched his fists together in triumph while they sung her praise. He resisted, however, from pumping them into the air as Deja tossed a glance that without a doubt read If you're even one second late… and swore he could see a third hand slowly, jaggedly, draw a thumb across her neck. That visage dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared, pierced by a cutesy smile before she returned her gaze to the television. (It would haunt Elio all the same, even if it had come from his friend adorned in a vibrant pajama set.)
His attention returned to his friend—still holding onto Deja's leg with an aura of reverence reserved only for her (one he feared he could never truly achieve)—who pointed Elio to their room. Get my stuff, I'll try for two! they said silently, however earning a solid THWAP of her controller atop their head. She had definitely heard that and it would prove a herculean task to move the immovable object that was Deja's (benevolent) allowance…
Elio entered with as many positive thoughts as he could going back out into the living room which had arose into another round of great debate—although it sounded a lot like pleading. If his memory served correct, given all the times he had found himself in here, their grab bag for his impromptu outings was at the edge of the bed. But even as his eyes locked on the gilded sack he couldn't help but let his gaze wander just a moment along the confines of their room. Not that there was seemingly much room to add anything else, it always appeared that they had found some way to finesse another trinket, another book, another photo into what little space was left.
And that last one—the photos—seemed to have covered the wall above their bed, even claiming space by the shelf close by. The first time Elio had been given the chance to peek into their inner sanctum, there had been a mostly empty but budding fixture above their pillow. By the next time it had grown wild with memories, and with each subsequent visit it only bloomed more, almost aggressively, to the point it spilled off the edges. Most of the summer and into the fall this had been a common resting point for their day-long escapades. (The others often complained the two of them together raised the room's temp several degrees, so they made it a habit to spare them; come winter and their tunes would surely change!) The times they did come in only transiently they'd still spare a moment to tame the nay insurmountable beast, getting tangled in the newest ones he had developed, and sometimes forgetting the reason they had come in at all. From the looks of it, he had developed multiple batches recently, likely in need of another trimming the next time they were together.
And, even just peering at all the snapshots of times gone by, Elio did forget why he had come in.
The bed was familiar under him, firmly pressing back as Newton's third law dictated (or mostly because he had to have made an impression deep enough into the flimsy mattress by now). It was comfortingly warm at the edge of past and present, his eyes taking in as much as he could before he'd inevitably get sucked back to the very beginning. In a way, the web of memories reminded him of the night sky—which, the irony wasn't lost on him. Moments clustered together to form sets of constellations, then those bound together to form galaxies, then, beyond that, they reached into an ever-expanding universe. These were all from the Spring Festival, surrounded by the short few weeks they had together last spring, then onto summer, and now fall was forming, soon winter and another spring…
It filled him with a sense of awe; not but half a year ago their motley crew had formed by happenstance, their own little big bang (of which Percy could be described as the originator, both figuratively and literally). One degree of difference, one singular scooter out of place, and none of these pictures would have existed. They'd have been two comets traveling right by each other, unknowing to the possibility of their potential for forming a contact binary.
So, as much as it filled him with awe, it had to exist together with its dark matter counterpart, glum, too. I could have never met them was as constant a thought as Avogadro, especially when he got hunkered down in the past. The universe was neither fair nor unfair, merely uncaring; his love for her would never be reciprocated. So, he thought childishly (as a child and now), I have to put that love out there. As he grew up, he never let that thought leave him; the world, so much smaller than the universe, showed it too needed that. Going even smaller, his friends needed that.
He needed that.
It was natural to him to be kind, open, and ready to please. He'd always been everyone's friend. He'd always done good by them and they did good by him. Those things combined, in a way, led him right here, sitting in his friend's room while they begged to be allowed out late on a school night (like they were still kids…). A close friend, practically the next letter in PJE—although Rory was never going to allow them to cram another guy into their place, so the acronym would stay (for now).
Elio's eyes kept wandering, his mind tugged between the present and the past on the wall. He's not in any of them dawned on him, noting their group's photographer had none hung up with himself in the shot.
Which, was impossible, actually. Not just theoretically, given the near hundred plus photos plastered on the wall, but literally. It was literally impossible.
Where are they?
His attention snapped to the stacks of photos on the shelf, the only other place he could think they'd be—or, at least, the only other one he could stomach considering. He'd always been everyone's friend. He'd always done good by them and they did good by him.
So where was the good he had done?
The last day of the spring semester was the first time Elio had picked up their camera. It was clunky, kind of old, but worn in the same way a trusty hat would be after years of use. That camera on his person was a constant, even if there were more, newer ones scattered around his room. He always took their photos, always a CLICK expected when he was around, and they always let him, sometimes not even knowing until he developed the shots. In nine square inches of polymer he captured their vibrant souls again and again and again.
But who was taking his picture? His life was just as picture-worthy as theirs; he was literally a part of theirs!
There, of course, were photos of him; they'd taken plenty on their phones. Cam's lock screen was a photo of them and Deja loved curating their adventures (never letting one that clashed with her image through, however) and dominating their group's social media game. Jamie's were abstract, sometimes just an appendage, while Percy's and his were often of them all hanging out.
Never any where he's the focus. It was always me and him, us and him, them and him, but never the reverse. Him and them, him and us, him and me…
So, as he weighed the piece of old-fashioned technology in his hands, he couldn't help but want to see what they saw. Raised to his face for the first time he felt he was viewing another world through the lens. Time stood still. He was right there in a way Elio had never seen him before. He had to capture this moment, else no one would ever be able to see them like this.
His eyes caught the camera, Elio's name hanging on his lips.
Click.
If anything, that first moment should have been—if not on the wall—somewhere in the stack. But, as Elio milled through the photos with a recklessness usually saved for doing good, he didn't find it. Picture after picture after picture. Blurry, out of frame, flash on. Deja was talking, exclaiming, but he didn't—couldn't, make out the words.
His fingers stuck to the final glossy texture. He could hear the crinkling of the polymer. The bed ached beneath him and the floor was littered with pictures—his pictures.
Where was his good?
He had always done good by them, at least he thought. But these? This is what his good had done them? A bunch of wasted film?
Elio was a great many things, great at many things, too. (Humble brag…) He didn't pride himself a photographer, but if his motto of try everything once hadn't failed him so far, maybe it was here it did.
"Hey," the door closed. A few tentative steps into the room, a shuffling of sorts, "You made a mess in here." Elio managed a weak laugh, gaze frozen on an image he could only guess the subject of if he squinted with his eyes closed. In the dark. From a galaxy far, far away.
The crown of their head came into view, "I really liked this one…" Elio's ears ignited. He had to be hearing things, hearing things he wanted to hear. But, as he lifted his head and watched as they gently smoothed out the creases, he noticed the way they treated it, like a wounded animal, slow and careful. Of what he could see their lips were lifted in a smirk, one he had received many times—especially when he went and indulged in good, mostly harmless, sort of reckless fun.
What did you go doing that for? You trying to hurt yourself?
Sorry, would be what Elio normally said, abashedly running his hand through the back of his hair, but it came out timidly today as "…You like it?" A soft gaze met his before he looked away, not entirely trusting of his eyes at the moment either.
"Yeah," he raised it up into the air, face to face with it. On the back, in their handwriting, Elio suddenly believed.
Percy and I, playing for the last slice.
"He still doesn't think 'universal manipulation' is a valid move." He went to put it atop the now being rebuilt tower of photos it had belonged to but Elio reached out to grab it. "I think he's just a poor loser—" This time, as he scrutinized the photo, the streaks of color and noise melted together into that day. Elio could feel the humid heat on his skin, hear the buzz of people and insects alike, see their faces as they counted down to dishing out the (hopefully) winning move. He had scrambled to get the camera up in time, barely able to capture the moment Universal Manipulation! was born. How had he…
"Earth to Elio, skkrrtt, this is mission control," they were smiling, holding an invisible walkie-talkie to their mouth, "We're unsure of your location up there in the clouds and are requesting a status report, over skkrrtt."
Sorry, would be what Elio normally said, his hands cupping around both his ears as if to listen in, but this time his hands held tight to the photo, blurry as it was, undecipherable as it was, and felt his heart sting a bit. "How'd you know," he kept trying to find the obvious, even though it was clear(er) now, "that this was from…?"
"Punchy's Graft-Made Pizzas and Plants?" Elio could hear the reason they had gone in his head, Buy three plants, get a 'za free! Who could have passed up a deal like that! (It turned out that it wasn't that much of a discount, but they came home with nine plants between all of them and full stomachs). He nodded and they knocked their head between their shrugging shoulders, "A lot more context than I have now, that's for sure. At least before tonight they were in order of when they were taken."
"Sorry," Elio said, leaning down to pick up a few nearer to his feet that they hadn't scooped up yet. Each one was still amateurish, but he found himself flipping them over and discovering he did actually know what they were depicting.
My ass got caught marveling the wonders of the universe
Winner winner, another fish for dinner
(Torturously) Sampling the rejects (mostly mine…)
They hummed in response, pulling out a bound book from the cubby, "Those were all the ones I was still trying to decipher. You take a lot of photos, somehow, like, I don't feel as if I put it down that often…" Elio looked up to see him flip through the pages, eyes somewhat wide but beaming, as if what he was about to say was a revelation. "Nearly as many as me, actually."
He offered Elio the book. It was warm, like he had held it for far longer than a few seconds, and thick. There were indents on the spine and edges with traces of oil crossing over some of the pages' protected contents. Each one was filled with photos—his photos right next to theirs. Every photo of theirs was deliberate, the subject(s) the same as his, sometimes the setting, too. His first thought was that they were showing off like any hobbyist would do when they wanted to exert themselves over their contemporaries. Show off, show out; he wasn't a stranger to that.
But, it didn't feel that way, instead striking Elio to the core (a place deep down in his heart, hot and sticky and molten, and unknowingly bubbling to the surface of his cheeks). Even with the magnitude of experience between them, regardless, the very feeling of each pairing was the same. Suddenly Elio was reminded of something Jamie had told him—albeit at the time it made little sense, in that way Jamie liked to do—when he had wanted to get better at photography. He'd always done good by them, but even he knew this wasn't his best, and they were doing their best. He wanted to give his best for this, too, and back then he didn't really know why. Maybe it was just their almost-thoughtless ability to capture their best moments with a simple lift and CLICK he wanted to replicate. Maybe it was another skill he wanted to master; another tool in his belt for doing good. Competition for competition's sake, perhaps. But, well, Be the camera wasn't a very good tip in anything but hindsight.
There were a bunch of empty pages towards the middle and Elio supposed those were for the stack still under scrutiny. Sorry, he said more to himself than to them, for it must have been an monumental undertaking to put this together. But, as he started to sound out the word, he found the last few pages were already filled in. The apology hung from his mouth, then he swallowed it and their name instead made its way up his throat, across his tongue, and lingered against the back of his teeth.
This… this is where his good was.
Portraits of him paired with portraits of them. Theirs were practically professional, candid shots of him that could only be taken by a photographer who knew how little time they had to take the perfect shot. One who had become the camera. Elio's, on the other hand, lagged behind by a second or two. He looked up. Click. Their emotions came down from the apex. Click. His smile but plandid. Click. He could see the moment just before the picture was taken, though, so how had he missed every time…
His eyes caught the camera, their name hanging on his lips.
CLICK.