The Lighthouse

(i)

Tink. Tink. Tink. In this world of grays and browns, there aren't many sounds to hate. There isn't much of anything to hate, really, except for that tink, tink, tink. At a counter, in a shop, on a street, sits a boy who hates that sound. He dreads it from the moment he sits down to the moment he stands up again, even if all of the time in between feels like a smudge once he has left— as he sits within the smudge, he has too much time to think and to hate. The linoleum underfoot is cool, even through the worn soles of his sneakers, and it glimmers like fake, plastic snow beneath the bright white lights. He hates both those things, too. Shelves, maybe thirteen of them—he's never counted, for some odd reason—sit in neat little stacks, like books waiting to be plucked from their shelves. They're full of foods he hates, and drinks he hates, and there to be seen by people he hates too. He leans one arm on a sticky, tacky counter with a cash register and a big printed sticker for a pork-flavored snack food. Those he despises. The pig on the advert grins, like no pig ever should, and mocks him with its bountiful contentedness. He's asked his manager three times to remove it; they don't even sell that shit anymore. The sticker stays, though, and so he hates his manager. A little bell dings. His gaze snaps to the swinging glass door.

"Hey, Cass. Thought I'd stop by." The man who enters is smiling in a soft, sunny sort of way, a way Cassiel does not hate, for a change. Holding two bottles of cola and a warm, rich pizza, the sun man seems like solace.

"Davey. Couldn't—" Cassiel's voice dies, because he hasn't used it in so long. Since his shift started four hours ago, maybe, but he didn't use it much before that either. He clears it, a little pink and a lot gray. "Couldn't sleep again?" He sits upright in his backless chair, spine aching, and blinks sluggishly— his brown hair is slicked back with grease and grunge. He hasn't showered in a few days, but Davey doesn't ever care about how recently he's showered. Instead, the boy shrugs, sunny-day eyes meeting the deep darkness of his friends, unafraid of his soullessness— no, his storminess. That's a nicer way to put it.

"When can I, worrying about you? I hate this place. The guy across the street definitely kills people." Davey hops up onto the counter without passing the security camera a glance, cracking open that pizza box and snatching one of the four pieces left over. "Party was lame by the way. I love all those people, but I shoulda just stayed home or something." A piece of pizza finds its way into Cassiel's hand. Davey winks. What sort of monster would Cassiel be if he denied this, now, after that wink? He huffs and brings it close to his lips, though doesn't yet take a bite. Instead, humming in disinterest, he looks down at that grinning pig and tries to see if the roof is still leaking. Tink, tink, tink. It is. "So, hey. I've got class tomorrow 'til noon, but we should totally go get some more groceries. I think we're out of bagels."

"Oh. I didn't notice." He bites the very end of his pizza. It tastes like a party— sticky, like his counter, and... faintly of booze? Maybe weed? Mango vape? He can't quite put his finger on it, and frankly, he doesn't much want to. His appetite is poor enough as it is.

"Yeah, that's alright. I did, so we can go pick up some more." He smiles again in his sunny, warm way. It makes the grays look a little bit more like blue, or green, or red, just for the shortest of moments. Outside, catching his gaze, races by some fancy sports car, booming with music as is customary on a Saturday evening; while Davey looks forlorn, Cassiel looks perfectly adamant. "You should try to come to another party with me, Cass. I know you're not a fan of that sort of scene, but it could be a big step out of your comfort zone, right? It could be fun—"

"It wouldn't be. Thanks," He sets his pizza back in the box after taking a second bite, "But I'd rather just enjoy my days off. Y'know what I mean?" He's begun to live off of excuses, plucking them like weeds, giving them out like flowers; a daisy here, a rose there, deflecting every excuse to go outside as he possibly can. He'd rather do anything else, really, and that was the only true downside of having Davey as his friend. He had always been a social butterfly, while Cassiel himself was something of a moth to be tucked in the closet, chewing away at cheap, damp wool. He cracks open his cola.