deeper shades of night

In the quiet of night, Charlie found that the world felt a lot more magical. The dim darkness seemed to shroud Wildedale, softening its edges and giving it a dreamlike nature. With the small Walkman headphones over his ears, the strange sounds of the small town were drowned out by Cobain crooning the lyrics of some song off of In Utero, the only Nirvana album he owned on tape. 

What else should I be? What else could I say?

Summer nights in Wildedale are hot and cloying, a stifling atmosphere made bearable only by the lack of sunlight. The days are worse, sticky heat clinging to bodies and clothes. Charlie’s warm pajama pants are only wearable tonight because of the faint wind, a soft breeze against his cheeks. 

Pushing as hard as possible with one of his feet, Charlie’s skateboard rushed down the road with a rattling noise, reminding him that one of his wheels was loose. He would have to fix it sometime this week so that it wouldn’t end up damaging his board. He would have to pick up more hours at his part-time job to fix anything seriously wrong with it, and he felt like he worked too much anyways. Better to fix problems early. 

The ride to Marcus and Roderick’s house from Charlie’s was usually around 10 minutes, give or take. He doesn’t often go this late at night, but he couldn’t stay in that house any longer. He thought, vaguely, that he wasn’t quite sure what he would do if the Rossis hadn’t opened their house to him, pulled him into their fold. Nights like this would be much worse, at the very least. 

He hits the stop button on the tape player, ripping the headphones off and shoving them into his pocket. He jumps off the skateboard as he comes up to the Rossis’ house, hiking it up over his head so he can shove it in the space between his backpack and his back. The only sign of life is the flickering porch light, so old and dim that it barely illuminates the front door. Instead of using the key that he knows is hidden under the corner of the doormat, he runs over to the left side of the house, where an old, run-down trellis is haphazardly propped up against the siding. With a practiced ease, Charlie begins climbing, ignoring the way that the white paint chips off into his hands and the joints creak with each step he takes upwards. 

The trellis remains sturdy, as it has every other time Charlie tested it. It’s not quite tall enough to take him up all the way to the window, so he stands at the very top of it. At this height he can see into Marcus’ room,  the windowsill coming just up to his collarbones. It’s hard to see into the dark room, but he can make out Marcus’ faint form in bed, covered by a deep blue comforter. His glow-in-the-dark stars litter the ceiling, offering the faintest hint of light that fades each time Charlie sees them. 

In the wooden frame of the window, there is a nail on both the left and right sides that Marcus and Charlie hammered in together one day when Marcus’ mom was gone. 

“There’s no other time we can do this,” Marcus had called down from the top of the neighbor’s ladder, brandishing the hammer like a caveman. “She’d kill me if she knew I was doing this!” 

The nails stuck out about two inches from the frame, just barely long enough to act as handles for Charlie as he pushes the window high as he can. 

“Marc?” he whispers, peering into the quiet room. “Marcus?” 

Marcus doesn’t wake up, but Charlie hears him murmur something in his sleep. Marcus rolls over and faces the window, the faint moonlight now hitting his face. Charlie looks at him for a moment, peaceful in his sleep, and watches the slight rise and fall of his chest. As quietly as he can, he grips the windowsill and hoists himself up, falling into the room with a faint imitation of a somersault. He leaves the window open and prays that any bugs outside will find Marcus’ room stinky and uninteresting. 

He runs his fingers absentmindedly over the rosary bead in his pocket and is suddenly grateful for the umpteenth time that Roderick and Marcus no longer share a room. Marcus slept like the dead but Roderick was always alert, attuned to the smallest movements and sounds in his environment. There’s no way Roderick could’ve slept through Charlie’s grand entrance, but Marcus remains undisturbed, laying on his side with his arms crossed over each other. As Charlie gets closer to the bed, he notices a faint flush over Marcus’ face, a lock of his hair damp on his forehead. Marcus has one fan in his room, a stupid and shitty old thing that can barely rotate anymore and blows hot air everywhere. He insists, however, that it does make a difference, somehow, but it seems like nothing could disperse the thick, hot air. 

His mouth is open, just slightly, and Charlie can hear his soft breathing, can see the space where his tooth used to be. Gently, quietly, he leans down and rests a hand on Marcus’ bare shoulder, the warmth of his skin startling him for a moment. 

“Marcus!” he hisses, jostling him just slightly. Marcus stirs for a quick moment before burying his face into his pillow, burrowing into it like Charlie imagines a cat might do. He rolls his eyes, a small smile on his lips, as he tries one more time. “Marc!”

With a groan, Marcus rolls flat onto his back, blinking slowly. As if in a trance, he reaches up and pats Charlie on the head, flashing him a sleepy grin. Charlie is warm, suddenly, and he wonders if maybe there really is something wrong with Marcus’ fan. 

“Hey, you,” he yawns. “What the fuck is up?” He starts to sit up against the wall, rubbing at his eyes. Charlie watches him with mild fascination. 

“Dude, I swear you’re gonna pop your eyeballs doing that, one day,” Charlie says, poking at Marcus’ hand as he continues to rub at his eyes in the fashion of an angry toddler. 

Lowering his hand, Marcus rolls his eyes. “You’re an asshole,” he says primly. “And not a pretty one, either. One of those gross ones with hair all over it.” 

Charlie wrinkles his face in disgust and resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Dude, what the fuck. Like, actually. You’ve literally never even seen a real asshole before, stop pretending like you know what it even means for an asshole to be pretty.” 

Marcus flashes him a grin, and Charlie feels warm again. Marcus has a special smile, bright and shining, cheeks scrunched up under his eyes. Being the recipient of such a smile feels like laying in a patch of sunlight, basking in its calming warmth. Charlie wonders offhandedly, not for the first time, whether Marcus entered his life for a reason. Charlie’s house is cold, has been cold for a long time. Charlie’s life is cold, often. Seeing Marcus is like blowing warm air into his frigid hands. Seeing Marcus is like coming home. With Marcus, Charlie is always sitting in front of the proverbial fireplace, and there is snow on the lawn. 

Marcus yawns, pulling Charlie from his thoughts before he really knows what he was thinking about or where he was going with it. More awake now, he fixes Charlie with a soft look. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, not really looking for an answer. Sometimes Charlie wonders if Marcus always asks like this because he knows, because he’s always been one step ahead of Charlie even in Charlie’s own thoughts. 

Charlie shrugs. I’m lonely. The house feels empty. I can hear Dad laughing.

“Okay, cuddlemonster. Get over here,” Marcus singsongs, reaching out at Charlie like a child does when they want to be picked up. 

“Ew,” Charlie says without any venom. “You’re embarrassing.” 

“Fuck you,” Marcus yawns again, not bothering to cover his mouth. “You love me and you know it.” His eyes widen as he finishes speaking but Charlie doesn’t notice, sliding his backpack off onto the floor and laying the skateboard on top of it. 

Charlie shucks off his jeans, leaving him in an oversized band t-shirt and long boxers. “Perhaps,” he says haughtily. Marcus knows what that means, knows what he means to Charlie. Knows that he’s his best friend. 

Wordlessly, Marcus lifts the edge of the blanket up and scoots towards the left side of the bed. Charlie climbs in, yawning, and lays down facing the window, the way Marcus was when Charlie came in. With a practiced ease, Marcus turns the same direction and throws an arm over Charlie’s waist, hand curling into a loose fist just shy of Charlie’s stomach. He tucks his nose into the nape of Charlie’s neck. Charlie can feel his soft puffs of breath against his skin, and as he closes his eyes he feels Marcus dig his toes into the back of Charlie’s knees. 

“Ouch, you asshole,” he whispers, softly. 

Marcus snickers lightly but doesn’t say anything else. Within a few minutes, his breathing is steady again and he’s fast asleep, plastered to Charlie’s back and wrapped around him like an octopus. 

Charlie can feel himself getting sleepy, can feel Marcus’ warmth seeping into his skin. The pillow they share is a little too flat for Charlie’s neck to be comfortable, but he finds that he never really minds. He sleeps better here than he does at home no matter what. 

In the quiet of night, the soft magic of Wildedale continues outside the window. Cobain sings the same lyrics for eternity in the small tape, alive on the Walkman, cold in the ground. 

In the sun, in the sun.

In a space separate, on the boundary between day and night, Marcus and Charlie sleep. It is warm.