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Every time the venue door swung open, a wave of light and warmth pushed across the iced concrete and Conor’s back, carrying the stench of sweat and the bursts of drunk laughter. Inside, the wonderboy's favorite instruments were being played like shit—just like his own stuff, that's the art of Omaha's local scene—so badly the crowd loved it and kept cheering for more garbage. He was shivering on the curb outside, numb fingers flickering a lighter, then passing the flame dangerously close to his bare forearms. A quiet 'psst' as a few hairs were singed. He was watching a competition of how much heat it took to ruin his skin versus how much cold it took to numb it completely, think of a child playing with the shower faucet. At least he wasn't the only audience.
"Shit, Tim," he spat as he killed the flame before the wind did it for him. "I'm fucking freezing." The new wave of wind made his eyes water, fogged up the lenses of his glasses, and he had to use the side of his stiff wrist to shove them back up the bridge of his frozen red nose.
"Well. You're dressed like it's July," Tim pointed out at his short sleeves, looking sickeningly immune. Bastard observed his teeth chatter as he was buried deep inside the wool of his brown coat like a winter animal–Conor shot him a look of contempt as his thumb chased another spark from the flint. "How didn't your mom scold you before you left?"
Conor rolled his eyes. "I don't know," he forced sarcasm through his locked jaw. "Maybe she wasn't home?"
"And what about your dad?" Tim pressed, small talk while hypothermia ravaged the kid's body. "Not even Justin?"
Conor didn't answer, instead stared at the dried gravel stuck between his sneakers, his knees jittering to the rhythm of his chattering teeth. He could feel the ice melting into a pool of cold water beneath his ass— misery he'd probably try to turn into a song later, assuming his hands wouldn't freeze completely and fall off his wrist first. He wanted to go home, but the thought of an empty house felt just as cold as the street—at least here, the ice was literal. Maybe. "I should be studying," he finally muttered, a small attempt to tether himself to a normal life with rules. "I have a paper due."
Tim didn't comment, only let out a humming sound from his throat—lucky boy was free from all that high-school bullshit—he was far more preoccupied in using his index finger to mix the aberration inside the thermos he held (and hopefully he had washed his hands before).
"Here," he said, handing it over. "Take a burning sip. It'll drive some blood back in your face."
Science. Supposedly this was how the poor homeless survived winter nights. Conor took the thermos with both shaking hands to keep from spilling. He took a big swallow, then his eyes opened wide just to immediately squeeze shut, red nose scrunching, and pushing his glasses up; the face of a kid whose stomach only knew the weight of warm beer cans he'd steal from his older brother's room, or the half-empty wine bottles he'd occasionally find if he was lucky enough to raid his parents' kitchen drawer. This stuff was another level of- "Augh." choked out. "This is terrible!" He moaned a complaint as he stuck out his tongue like the cold air could morph into a glass of water, and wash it clean.
Tim laughed, taking the metal container back in his grip.
"What's even in this? Did- did somebody spit on this? flick their ashes?... Fucking- whipped their dick out and took a piss?" God, his throat would burn less if he had swallowed his lighter instead.
"Bathtub gin," Tim brushed off, almost sounding cheerful, "a splash of soda, and a bit of the cough syrup Rodd held in his bag."... A little bit of this, a little bit of that; alcohol and codeine, the perfect recipe to receive sudden blindness or feel how your internal organs dissolve as the burning liquid slid down your throat. A toxic gamble, think about the chocolate surprise-eggs they sell at the corner store, right alongside the cheap cigarettes they never bothered to check Conor's ID for.
Tim took a confident sip himself. "Delicacy," said, bottom eyelid twitched as he forced a wide smile. "Gets the job done."
If you didn't have taste buds, Conor thought, glaring at him. A wave of dread mixed in his stomach with the freshly consumed alcohol—was this what adulthood looked like everywhere?
"Miserable," he said aloud. It was the only word to describe the scene in front of his fogged glasses, or maybe just the fact that he was only a step away from becoming exactly that. "It's terrible," repeated, though his eyes were already fixed on the metal rim, fingers clawing for it again. "Let me have more."
He snatched it back, forcing another swallow down his raw throat. Fucking repulsive, but the fire was efficient; he could feel the heated liquid slowly prickling beneath his skin, blood dragging its way back into his cheeks as he was promised. Tim watched him, as he unbuttoned his coat and pulled the thick wool open like a shelter to welcome him in. It's hard to keep your dignity when even your veins are shaking, Conor leaned into it immediately, keeping his outer arm free so he could still clutch the thermos—chasing the heat with a beggar's desperation.
"Slow down," Tim warns, watching the kid play-act the role of a human drainpipe. "You're barely fifteen. Your stomach hasn't hardened like mine yet."
"Don't lecture me," Conor moved the thermos away from his lips. "I've been drinking since..." His voice shifted into that cadence of a child trying too hard to sound experienced, boasting about opening beer bottles against curbs when Tim could easily be the type of psychopath who opened them with his sensitive teeth.
"Alcohol is for enjoying," he murmured, pulling him closer into the warmth of his cigarette scented wool. "Use it as an antifreeze for your soul, not just your body."
"Well." Took another sip, feeling the codeine coating his teeth while the gin burned his throat beneath Tim's cheap-bar philosophy only an alcoholic could think was profound. "I'm fucking freezing right now. My soul can wait until it's spring."
Another burst of laughter erupted as the venue door opened, somebody yelled Tim's name from inside, but only Conor turned to look. Maybe it was Tim's coat, or maybe it was the now-empty thermos, but his body had finally stopped fighting the temperature. Only the cold inside his chest kept spreading. "Since you know so much about alcohol," he nudged his ribs weakly with a sharp elbow. "Get us something real. You have the ID."
Tim frowned, the exact expression older friends gave when you started treating their age like a resource for your own benefits.
"Okay," Conor gave up instantly. "It's not even necessary, anyway," muttered as pride abandoned his body. He loosened his grip on the thermos so he could crawl deeper into Tim's embrace. He buried his face into the heat of his shoulder, the frames of his glasses pressing uncomfortably against Tim's collarbone, but he didn't care if they bent or broke. He just wanted to hide from the next familiar face that walked through those fucking doors. "Man. Just get me out of here," whispered.
And lie to me and say It's gonna be alright.
It's gonna be alright.
It's gonna be alright.
It's gonna be alright.
It's gonna be alright.
"Alright," Tim finally said, already bracing himself to stand.