Sunsets on the East

Chapter 4

Soft rays of sunlight poured through the blinds of Peter and Derek's dorm room as dust particles floated around in the orange hues. A warm glow was cast over Peter's figure on the floor, hunched over papers with lyrics scribbled on their crumbled sheets. In his hands was an acoustic guitar, worn and a little rough around the edges, much like its owner. Two small dents in the body of the instrument matched the dimples that appeared on Peter's face as he smiled. His fingers lightly brushed over the strings, creating a soft medley of sound.

On the opposite side of the room, his roommate, Derek, lay on his back atop his bed, the sheets haphazardly spilling from the mattress to the floor. In his hands was a volleyball, which he threw upwards every now and then, the soft thump as it hit the ceiling and returned to his open palms accompanying Peter's guitar like percussion.

Somewhere else on the floor there was the rough beeping of the communal microwave, and soon the smell of burnt popcorn began wafting in through the vents. Shouts of surprise and disgust followed as the smell continued to emanate through the corridors. Evenings in Rothman Hall were never quiet.

"If the fire alarm goes off, I swear to God—" Derek muttered, throwing his ball back into the air.

Peter released a final strum on the strings of his guitar, before leaning his arms over the body of the instrument. The edges of the guitar dug lightly into his chest. "I bet it was Gabriel."

The volleyball landed neatly in Derek's hands. He held it against his chest, his dark brown eyes still locked on the ceiling. His dreadlocks scattered around his head, falling on his pillows like small snakes in a meadow. They emphasized the sharp edge of his cheekbones, and the glow of sunlight cast a golden hue on his dark skin. He threw the ball up in the air again, the muscles in his biceps rippling against the brightness of his bedsheets. "My money's on Jacob."

Peter made a noise of disapproval as he rose to place his guitar back on its stand. It was easy for anyone to guess which side of the room belonged to Peter and which belonged to Derek. The right side was always pristine and organized; papers and books were always stacked methodically on the mahogany desk beside the bed, and the area was devoid of clutter. The left was always in disarray— notes scattered on the floor, unwashed mugs and empty plastic bottles littering the second desk, and a rather hideous-looking stain on the carpet. With a frown, Peter kicked a dirty shirt over the stain as he passed by in an attempt to hide it.

Peter jumped onto the top of his bed, facing his roommate. His hands curled around the fabric of his bright blue comforter, balling the material into his fists. Peter's hair was now brushed back and smoother than in the morning thanks to Sam, and his green eyes were sparkling like freshly-polished jade. There was something important he needed to tell his friend, although he wasn't sure how the other boy would react. Pursing his dry lips, Peter hesitantly called out, "Derek?"

"Pete?" Derek threw the ball back up in the air.

"I'm going to propose to Sarah."

Making a noise akin to choking, Derek bolted upright in his bed to stare incredulously at his roommate. The volleyball landed with a loud thump on the top of his head. Derek rubbed the top of his head as he cocked an eyebrow. "Excuse me, you're going to what?"

Peter merely grinned back, heat rising to his cheeks. In the Republic of America, marrying at a young age had become a societal norm— there was always a particularly high chance that you could catch the leftover strains of the Plague, though with new vaccines available to prevent it, it can be avoided as easily as the flu. If one were to contract it, the virus's symptoms were still severe, and those with weakened immune systems rarely survived even after receiving treatment.