Double-Sided

0.1

Perhaps Luke had put a little too much blame on the wind and the rain. Upon pushing the door of his flat open, finally safe from the ruthless winter weather, he discovered that the world hadn’t exactly stopped spinning yet. It had taken him precisely 7 tries to unlock his door, something the stranger had eagerly taken advantage of, using the waste of time to catch up.

Now Luke was kind of frozen in his doorway. He was leaning a little too heavily on the knob and the fact that the coffee table had six legs all of sudden was messing with his head. He was about to enter, his foot already hovering above the dark laminate, when it hit him.

“I can’t let you in. You’re a stranger.”

He didn’t bother turning around, could already feel the boy’s heavy breathing from several metres away. Could smell him, too.

“I-I, you, what?”

The boy could barely get the words past his chapped lips, dragging out his response in an agonising way. The whole ordeal was a struggle Luke would rather avoid, so he opted for the easy way out and asked him the classic: “What’s your name?”

They were both tired, after all. Luke’s mind clouded with the remnants of the shots he had downed, the other slumped against the dirty wall, bones heavy with exhaustion and malnourishment.

“Ashton,” he heaved. “The name’s Ashton.”

“Luke. There you go, we’re no longer strangers.”

Luke’s living room wasn’t exactly the neatest. There were half-open books scattered around, the occasional tipped-over chair making it rather hard to find your way around. The broken mugs were probably that tiny bit more dangerous though. His living room would have been peaceful and bright, had it not been for the dark whirlwind that stopped by at least once a week.

But it smelled like old books and spilled coffee, the air thick because he never opened any windows. There were several blankets here and there and over all, it just looked nice. It was clean and his and besides several stains here and there, it was spotless.

And here Luke stood, too drunk to notice his favourite mug lying broken on the laminate, a stranger by his side. All of a sudden, Ashton’s stench was smothering, even more so than the stuffy air in his flat.

“Go stand in the light.”

Without questioning it, Ashton shuffled closer to the entrance of Luke’s flat. The light almost seemed to burn him, the beams weighing down heavy on his shoulders. His head hung low, his eyes squinting a little behind his greasy curls. There was something black on his lips, but Luke was too busy thanking god that his mouth was closed to care. His sweater was ripped and cut out too low, revealing his neck, which was tinted with a strange pink. Actually, it was all rather strange to Luke. With his fear of everything that wasn’t Michael (including Michael), he’d never been close enough to a homeless person to see their weird skin texture, or to notice that they smell like rotten eggs.

“You’re gross.”

Ashton shrugged, even though the movement seemed to pain him a little.

“I’ve been worse.”

Luke felt the need to fire back a sassy comment, like Michael always did, but he was afraid that if he’d open his mouth again, he’d throw up. Instead, he tore his eyes away from the yellowness of Ashton’s teeth and stepped inside his flat.

An ounce of regret was weighing him down though, pulling at his hair and all the places where it hurt. He felt comfortable in his flat, enough to lick the furniture if dared to, because everything was either him or Michael.