Words That Sting

I threw my guitar down so hard that if it hadn’t landed on the couch, it probably would have broken in one way or another. I immediately regretted it, because I did not want to break my beloved guitar over a stupid argument with my band’s lead singer. He’d call me an idiot – well, more than he already did.

A soft noise of surprise called my attention up to where Pyre had materialised in the doorway. Ever since he’d entrusted me with a spare key, he’d become used to me hauling myself over to his house at random times, but usually not with this much tangible anger radiating off of me. The brief glance I stole at his face showed me a worried and slightly shocked expression, one crimson eye veiled by ginger hair.

‘...Sorry…’ I muttered, grabbing my guitar and standing it up against the back of the couch.

‘Problems with Stal again?’ he asked sympathetically. Trust Pyre to instantly figure out what was going on. He could be oblivious sometimes, but he also had an unnerving sixth sense for interpreting his friends’ worse moods. Too bad he was pretty useless at communicating his own.

I rubbed my face and dropped myself down onto the now-empty couch. ‘Yeah, kind of.’

He sat beside me, hands folded on his knees. ‘Want to talk about it?’

‘It’s nothing new, really. He just got frustrated because I kept forgetting part of Sinister Mind. Doesn’t he get that it’s a six-minute song with a complicated solo?’

‘Yeah,’ said Pyre patiently.

‘I’m trying my best, but he keeps complaining about the fact that I can’t read music. And yeah, I know – if I could read music then I could learn this stuff more quickly, but I just don’t have time. How does he expect me to learn all these songs and a whole new skill before our next gig?’

‘Yeah,’ said Pyre again. He brushed some hair out of his face and gazed down at me keenly through both eyes. ‘I don’t think he means to be so critical. He just gets really stressed and...’

‘Doesn’t think,’ I finished.

‘I bet when you next see him, he’ll be really awkward and try to apologise. He knows that he shouldn’t talk to people that way. It just kind of... slips out.’

‘I know. He’s not a bad person. He needs to work on his temper, though. Maybe I should buy him a coupon for a spa day.’ We laughed quietly together at the mental images that conjured up. Laughter was like a soothing balm applied to my frayed nerves, and I felt the stress leaving me with each wheezing breath.

‘Are you gonna be OK?’ Pyre asked once our mirth had subsided.

‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. I feel better already.’

It should have been hard to take anything he did seriously. He was wearing a neon yellow sweater, his fangs stuck out, and he was gangly and awkward like a teenager who never grew up. Which, I supposed, wasn’t completely inaccurate – Pyre had been Turned at just nineteen years old. He was never going to look ‘mature’.

And yes, sometimes I laughed at his silliness like everyone else, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t mind. He bore it all with a patient smile, actually seeming to get a kick out of making people laugh with his absurd outfits and goofy face. I got the feeling that even if he dressed nicely and cut his hair, he’d always be a bit of a clown. I think he was aware of this and had decided long ago to embrace it.

However, the fact remained that I was able to take some of the things he did seriously. Like when he sat next to me and talked me through the hard times, when he wrapped his arms around me like a limpet and murmured encouragement, and when he told me I wasn’t a screw-up despite everything Stal said. Always with a face full of sympathy and affection, not mockery or boredom.

He understood, keenly, when it wasn’t the right time to joke around.

And he was the best friend I’d ever had.