how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

4. debt & heineken

THIS IS NOT EDITED BC I WHIPPED THIS UP LAST MINUTE SORRYSORRYSORRYSORRY -D (also important a/n at the end)

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"Why don't you speak English?"

"Because my accent sounds like a horse giving birth in a slaughterhouse."

"No it... doesn't?" His voice braces with a smile, though I can tell he's trying to spare me of his amusement. He lugs himself onto the counter and spits his chewing gum straight into the small bin. "It sounds more like the gears of a slaughterhouse."

I rub my hands together in annoyance, picking at the cellophane of the crisp, store-bought CD case I hold. I resist shoving him from my way myself.

"Michael, be a doll and get off the damn counter. You're eighteen, not eight."

"Do you really care about what I think about your accent?" He speaks right through me, but his head is cocked to the side as he stares at me intently.

I exhale quietly, set the album down and pace from one end of the corridor to the other. It's all I can do from losing my temper, however I'm pretty sure the thin line of my patience is going to be cut short, soon. "Michael," I begin again. "If I give you a blowjob will you leave me alone?"

He blinks at me, red blooming across his faint cheekbones. He turns away, embarrassed, and rubs the back of his hand over his chin. I watch the back of his head apprehensively. If he says yes... "No."

I sigh, racking the shelf of mainstream artists carefully. Breslin, Breslin, Breslin... Everyone hates Abigail Breslin, right? I do. She's so blonde and cute and aesthetic-y and bleurgh. Plucking one of her singles from the tightly-compacted place at the back of the shelf, I throw it next to Michael. He flinches away from it dramatically.

"Get down," I say levelly, "or you will be hearing You Suck on repeat for a very. Long. Time."

His feet drop down and he brushes off his jeans. Small pencil sharpenings he left on the counter fall off and onto the carpet. I wrinkle my nose. I'm going to have to clear those up later.

"What do I doooo?" He comes behind me, takes the album I'm reaching for and looms it above my head. Way above my head. I jump up and wave my hand around in a futile effort, then lean against the shelves. Michael smiles. "Awe, this is cute."

My cheeks flame. If I was eight inches taller, I would've tackled him. Instead, I cross my arms and turn away from him, like an upset child. "I'm not cute."

"Then what are you, punk rock?"

"I quite possibly might be."

"I'm much more punk rock than you."

I snatch the album from him while his grip loosens, shoving it under the counter with a few clatters. "Says the boy who's scared of the word 'blowjob'."

He hesitates, but my brother beats him to me. "Maricruz! Come here for a second."

Michael's smiles. I point down the corridor. "Go wait in the storage room."

"Yes, Miss." He bows his head, salutes, and shuffles down the hallway.

I sidle into the dining room, drawing out a chair and planting myself in it. Alejandro's standing up, looming over the centre-piece and drumming his long fingers at the lip of the table. He smooths his hand over the music notes braceleting his wrist, before squatting down to rest his head in my lap. I don't protest. He hasn't done that in years.

"Ale, que pasó? " I ask quietly, stroking his messy hair. I take note to trim it for him later. "What happened?"

He's bides his time, inhaling and exhaling steadily. I feel his back rise and fall with every breath, every movement, every muscle and scar making him Alejandro Felix Colorado -- making him my brother. He doesn't move for quite the while, until his jaw shifts to speak. "We have an issue."