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

25. psychiatrists & photographs

"We're all gathered here today to discuss some affairs that seem rather troubling towards our community," Michael says, standing before us and pushing up the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. It's a cold day, and being in a room with my brother, my boyfriend, my ex, my best friend, and a gay couple does not tame my nerves one bit. Michael continues, "Before we begin, we have some ground rules to set."

Everyone groans audibly - including me. I mess with the cuffs of my much too large denim jacket and roll my eyes. Reconciliation is lovely, and all, but this couldn't have been a more pathetic excuse for a meet up. The heating is off, Cobain is using my leg as a scratch post, and it smells prominently of cocoa powder. I glare at Luke, and he shrinks back into the sofa, next to Calum. Nothing feels right, except for Cobain's sharp claws. I nudge him away politely.

"Michael, I cannot see anything. Although I prefer looking at your face without glasses," Mara says, "give them back."

Exasperated, he takes them off and chucks them onto her lap. He continues striding around the living room, while I drown underneath the jacket and sink into the couch.

"Rule number one," Michael begins pensively, "no PDA."

Mara and I lean over the space between the two couches and pretend to make out.

Dismissing us, he says, "rule number two, do not diss the concept of this gathering."

"Rule number three, respect anything and everything." He narrows his eyebrows at me when I kick Cobain away from me for the seventh time. I give him a lopsided shrug, picking at my nail polish. Of course, today is not the first time he's been unhappy with me deflecting Cobain's 'natural habits', as he likes to call them.

Ashton leans over, his arms resting on his knees and his hair falling in front of his displeased eyes. He gives Michael a measured look, his lips pouted and brows wrinkled together. We watch him apprehensively, until he shakes his head, falling back onto the couch. It shapes his back perfectly, like he's been sitting in it all his life. I let out a breath I don't realise I'm holding.

"This is utter bull crap," he remarks, pulling out his phone from his jeans pocket.

Michael makes an indignant sound, snatching up the device and poising it much higher than Ashton can reach.

He doesn't even stand up, but spreads his arms out in frustrated confusion. "Dude, give it back."

Michael shakes his head, pocketing the phone. "If you all are going to act like children, I'm going to treat you like children."

"We aren't acting like children," I interject, at the same time Ale says, "you're not the boss of things, virgin boy."

"Oh, please. He obviously got laid." Mara fiddles with her hair, her knees pulled up under her stretchy blue sweatshirt. "He's practically glowing from all the light up condoms." The light up condoms - Mara once went on a hunt for my notebook the morning one of my hookups left. She saw him shoving some light up condoms into his jacket pocket - which we did not use - and has never stopped making a joke about it since.

I ignore her. "Michael, I know you're trying to relax us, but it feels like you aren't taking this seriously. This is really serious. Alina is in intensive probation for something she didn't do."

Suddenly, nobody's in the mood to talk, anymore. My stomach whirls around, and a bad taste blossoms into my mouth. Perhaps I should've just allowed Michael to joke around with us, I think, clutching my legs together. No one is even looking at me, and I wonder if I said something wrong. I almost submerge into an embarrassed and shameful silence, when I remember this is not a problem that's going to die out within time. It's not something we can paint over and hope to forget.