He had only lasted a total of five minutes, and one sip of a drink that look like the potions a witch in a cartoon would make (it tasted like poison too), before he had a pounding headache and had to slip outside. Gulping in the city air that, for once, didn't smell polluted to him, he rubbed his eyes and glanced around. The street was empty, with the nearby streetlight flickering eerily, as though it were from a horror movie. The only bodies around were either passed out from the drinks ( he shudders at the thought of the unsightly liquids) or murmuring to a pole while tripping in circles. Looking away from the embarrassingly drunk people, he saw a little bookstore just a few shops down the road. It was practically hidden from view, snugly squeezed between two huge glass jewelry stores that had more ads pasted on their windows than the number of people in the subways in New York. A faint yellow light came from it's plain windows, and inside, he could just barely make out some tall shelves. Deciding that it was better than going back inside the bar, he headed towards the store.
Moments later, he found himself in a completely different world. The smell of musky books overwhelmed him as a friendly old woman greeted him from behind the counter. It looked family run, with mismatched pillows and blankets piled up in the corners, and stacks of books strewn about. He slowly browsed the towering wooden shelves, eyes not looking for anything in particular. He was simply looking for the sake of having something to do. He had reached the back of the small shop when he tripped over a pair of dark blue, denim clad legs. Startled, he blinked at the legs moved, and a pair of ripped burgundy sneakers, laces frayed and dangling, filled his vision instead.
"Oh god! I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" a voice laced with worry asked.
He slowly nodded, confused and he was gently helped up and placed back down onto something soft. It was a mountain of pillows.
The pale face of a boy, just barely reaching adolescence, tilted ever so slightly to the right, was staring at him. He blinked again, and before he could process anything, his own voice filled the air with a loud question of, "Why is your hair grey?"
_____
And that was the start of a strange friendship, or companionship, as he preferred. The young boy, it turned out, was actually not so young. In fact, the silver haired man was only one year younger than him, at the tender age of 22, and well versed in the ways of society.
His name was Gavin, and he was an artist, who really, wasn't so much an actual artist rather than a lover of creating beauty. He was currently studying at the University just a few blocks down from that bar that started everything, and was playing around with, or, as the student preferred, "experimenting with" several forms of art, from painting to graphic designing. The number of whimsical ideas that the man could spout greatly contrasted the seriousness, strictness, and conventional-ism of himself. In only the first few weeks of their new friendship, he had heard that messy head of bleached hair tell him "Alex, dream more!" at least a thousand times.
Yes, that guy was an enigma, but, he mused, their contrasting personalities was probably what made them such close friends.
Gavin, he found, was painfully shy, at first. The night of their first introduction, Alex had done all the talking, and it wasn't until their fourth meeting that Gavin loosened up enough to start talking nonsense. He had bleached his hair at the age of fifteen, as a rebellion against his strict step-father, and he had kept the look. His hated tying his shoes because it meant he would have to bend down and stop walking (he was a very impatient person). His clothes consisted of skinny jeans, paint stained graphic tees, and faded cotton button ups.
He liked sweet drinks, and hated artichokes with a burning passion. He liked it when Alex wore casual clothes instead of his pristine suits and classy dress shirts and pants. He didn't like Alex's colleagues (he called them idiots, not to their faces of course). He liked kittens, but not puppies. He liked the color dark red.
Alex prided himself in how well he knew Gavin.
But one fact that he knew all too well bothered him.
In all five years he had known the man, Gavin had never let him anywhere close to his apartment, despite the number of times Gavin himself had slept over at Alex's own flat. And, the man never would, it seemed.
But that fact was bound to change eventually, he decided, and it did.
__
They had been out celebrating Alex's birthday, and, much to Alex's chagrin, Gavin insisted on buying him red wine (he hated alcohol, it made people do stupid things). The energetic young man had claimed he liked the color of the drink, and continued to force him to drink it. After an hour and thirty-two point four minutes (he counted how long it took him to cave in to Gavin's demands each time; this was a new record), he agreed to the wine, and to the picnic in the nearby park.
Unfortunately, Gavin was, apparently, a very light drinker, and after four glasses, Alex found himself dragging the guy down the street.
Fortunately, with the drunkenness came the loosened mouth, and opportunity to see the mysterious man's apartment finally arrived.
He found them both staggering down the old street, past the dreadful bar, and the old bookstore where they had met so long ago, into an elevator of a quint little complex full of friendly, inviting neighbors, and into Gavin's abode. He ceremoniously dumped the passed out man onto a dark red couch (the guy was heavy), and began exploring the unknown territory.
It seemed normal at first. Messy (as expected), but clean enough to sustain life (by Gavin's standards). Paint stained the tables and chairs in the kitchen, and pens and erasers and crumpled up sheets of paper were thrown about the living room. It wasn't until he reached the bedroom that he began to notice something strange.
There weren't any mirrors.
Frowning, he made his way into the bathroom, and found the entire mirror duct tapes over messily. A sharpie was left lying next to the sink, and it was a bright red color. Words of the same color was scratched all over the white walls. Words that scared him.
Ugly, stupid, idiot, useless. I hate you. You should hate me. I hate myself.
He traced each word with a trembling hand.
Was this the reason why he had been forbidden to step a foot into his home?
How long had this been going on? How long had his friend, his closest, dear friend, been suffering like this?
And why?
His throat began to clog up, and he promptly marched out of the bathroom and snapped the lights off.
__
The next morning, he interrogated his friend.
He may have had to tie Gavin to a chair to get the words out, but he was desperate.
He refused to let this go on.
I hate mirrors, because I hate having to look at myself.
The next day, they went to buy a gallon of dark red paint, and together, they covered the malicious words on the walls, stroke by stroke.
Those were things people have said to me. I've told them to myself too.
Alex now visited Gavin every night, as soon as he was out of work. The man had refused to go to therapy, saying he was fine, nothing was wrong.
He hadn't liked it, but he didn't want to force his friend into sitting in a cold metal chair for an hour each week either, so they found themselves sharing bowls of chocolate ice cream over old cartoons and Disney movies every Friday night, until Gavin had loosened up enough to talk to Alex.
Sometimes, they would fall asleep on the couch from staying up all night talking, confessing, and listening, and understanding. Other times, the night would end with Alex comforting his friend, as Gavin cried over decades worth of pain and self-loathing.
No one wants to be my friend. I don't want to make friends. I don't even know why you stay with me.
The next morning, they would do random things, enjoying the relaxation they both needed, one from his own biting, snarling, vicious thoughts, the other from the pure stress of work and supporting another person's mind.
I don't like the way I live, but I don't want to change either. I'm too, too...something.
That Christmas, the first thing Alex went to do was buy a large mirror for Gavin's bathroom, and the silver haired man watched, tears welled up in his eyes, as he sharpied a border, three inches thick, around the glass, made purely of words he could think of to describe, no, compliment, his friend.
Funny, creative, energetic, free.
Two days later, he found himself back in the old bookstore where they had first met, and found his friend had written down everything Alex had done for him, and the old woman from the store, along with Alex's colleagues (who were no longer idiots, apparently, and rather, "cool people who think you're a hero"), had helped Gavin contact several publishers.
The book was dedicated to him.
He might have face-planted onto the floor again, but this time from shock of seeing his name on the very first page of the book.
But it was fine, because he was happy, and Gavin was happy, and everything had worked out in the end.
(Until he was pulled into the crazy bar again to "celebrate".)
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