All Things Considered [🗸]

8. sky high

"IS THERE A SYNONYM for synonym?"

Adair asks this, hand grazing over their septum piercing. Their shoulder shudder in a slight giggle, and their eyes flick toward me and Kieran who are seated on either side of them.

"Wait," Kieran says, head tilted slightly backwards and legs outstretched on the hardwood flooring of my house. "Wait," he repeats, like he's trying to gather his thoughts.

And then I'm laughing, shoulders moving up and down, back pressed against the wall. "What the fuck, Adair?"

They twirl a pencil between their fingers, lips pursing. "Damn. Why would there not be a synonym for synonym?" They exhale slowly. "English is a stupid-ass language."

"I second that sentiment," Kieran says, eyebrows rising. The sunlight filters in from the windows behind us. It's all too bright, yet there are still slight shadows that take up the room. My room. Some vintage posters here and there, pale walls, faint lighting. There's blue LED lighting for when I'm feeling bold.

I analyze my fingers as Kieran leans against my shoulder and Adair tosses a leg over his lap, both of them scrolling through their phones and trying to find a synonym for synonym. It's a losing battle.

"Folks," I say, my fingers tugging at the elastic on my wrist. Both Adair and Kieran's gazes flick over to me. "Let's go to the gas station."

"Walk?" Adair asks, rising to their feet, tucking their phone in the back pocket of their sweatpants and Kieran rises to his feet as well.

It's a rare occurrence, but once a month we do this. We sit down on the floors of my room, backs pressed against my wall. We talk about absolute random shit and fly somewhere else for a few moments. There's no pressure, not much focus, no drama. Just random thoughts and exhales and inhales. Hooded eyes, beating hearts, lazy smiles. 

We're downstairs in minutes, the three of us padding along the sidewalk. Adair does a spin to a Linkin Park song thrumming in the background, as they usually do. Kieran's laughing and someone calls out a get it as they pass by.

On some days, the city seems to be alive.

We slide into the gas station a few minutes later, pressed into our signature, cherry-red booth, stirring individual slushies. Adair keeps on stabbing their straw into the ice with a violence that can only come from a staunch, rock-music addict. And an Aries.

"Okay, guys," Adair says, almost out of breath as they slap their cup back onto the table. "Crazy idea."

"Shoot," Kieran says, sinking back into the seat, taking a sip out of his slushie.

"Let's go to Fraise," Adair says, eyes brightening.

I cough on some ice. The idea isn't at all terrible. After all, Fraise is the place of underground queers. The place has close ties to ballroom culture as a whole. Vibrant as fuck and packed with queer folks that don't all fit one phenotype— it is the place where underground culture rises to the surface. Where the queer people who never see themselves on TV are finally seen.