LAZARUS.

One of the best things about New York City was the overflowing amount of spots to check out. As well connected as she was both socially and professionally, it was just a matter of time till she heard something about this retro type of place called Fred’s Vinyl Resting Place and all the quirky perks it included. She had a free day, so, she decided to visit this very spot. A shop with a name like that would be right up her alley based off that alone, much less the themes of the place itself.

She came in, removing her large sunglasses that was her usual mask for anonymity once she entered. Her radiant smile blooming up as she took in the over all vibes of the place. Very cool. She already decided. Taking further steps in and catching the tale end of some exchange as she went to the counter to strike up conversation with the man in that countered ring once giving a little ‘Hi.’ to the friendly woman that welcomed her. “What’s all this about a hive dive and five on the jive being live type of deal?” She questioned through her natural Australian accent over to him. Genuinely curious. 

Gannon didn’t notice that 90% of the record store had turned to look at the blonde as she made her way to the help-desk. He set aside the new Electric Wizard album he was getting ready to play, and spun toward her on his squeaky, leather-top stool. It made awful noises and the leather was frayed, but no matter how well the store had done over the last two years, he refused to replace it. “That,” he began, lifting his chin ever-so-slightly. “— is confidential. I can’t tell you.” Gannon crossed his arms over his chest with slightly playful seriousness. “I swore an oath.”

Joey, who had been peering out from behind a rack of best-sellers, sighed and disappeared once again. If the pretty blonde couldn’t get it out of him, Gannon was obviously ironclad. 

Most of the patrons steered clear of him, but he never gave too much thought as to why. He had been coming out of his shell slowly over the last six months, after all; running the shop had done wonders for his splintered psyche. Even so, it was rare for a new customer to approach him thanks to his staff expertly diverting attention away from him; it occurred to him, Susie had tried that very tactic on this woman. Did they think he needed to be protected? 

Mary had been in town for a over a year now, and even though she had regular costumers there was always one or two she didn’t know and this one seemed to be in a trance of his own, knowing that coffee was needed when it was, she took upon herself to hand him another fresh batch of it, “ You seem to be in dire need of more coffee or a new pencil at the rate you’re going.” she said with a smile on her face, looking down at sheets of sheets of paper.

x

There had been a time when Gannon couldn’t even enter a coffee shop — back when he’d first been discharged from the Navy. The sound of the grinder manipulated his frazzled mind until it was transformed into the repetitive purr of an automatic rifle emptying a 30-round mag. The drone of chatter punctuated with a random high pitch of laughter or the call of a patron’s name — it became the sound of his brothers in the thick of his darkest memories. Those scars were just scars now; they hadn’t faded (and likely never would), but they were no longer weeping an angry red. 

When the barista set his coffee down, he didn’t flinch. It took him hardly a second to come out of his narrowed focus and turn a set of dark blue eyes on her. “Or a lobotomy,” he joked with droll humor, pushing his hair back from his face. 

“I did not know that,” Flora nodded, adding a smile as she did so. Truthfully, her musical knowledge wasn’t that great, but she didn’t feel like saying that now. She didn’t want to embarrass herself, and it was kind of fun pretending to be somewhat cool. When he looked away, Flora examined him slightly; not in a proving way, just in the way any lone woman would with a man she’d just met. He looked a little uncomfortable, but Flora couldn’t figure out why.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said, not knowing what a Fat Hatter was. “You could still try and make it? I could carry some of these records for you?” she suggested, trying to be helpful. She had things she could be doing, but Flora was always the type of woman to drop everything to help someone else. It just felt better that way; and her things could wait, anyway.

x

He nodded as if he expected to hear that. “Yeah. Well, there are a lot more useful things to fill your brain with than Hendrix trivia.” A genuine chuckle sounded, low and deep from his chest — it was obvious from the unpracticed sound that he wasn’t one to laugh very often. “So, good on ya.” Looking past her once more and checking his watch, he tried to gauge just how late he’d be if he gave it one more attempt. Six blocks, a bum leg, and an extra 45 pounds ..it made Gannon angry to think that such an innocuous combination of obstacles would defeat him. Determination furrowed his brow.

He’d made up his mind by the time she’d offered to help. “No,” came his response (and it came way quicker than he’d intended. “I mean, thank you, but I can manage.” The extra 45 pounds wouldn’t have phased him even remotely in the past, and coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t quite the man he once was ..well, that wasn’t going to happen today.

Whenever the clock struck half-past the hour, it was Beer:Thirty at Fred’s. If you were in on it, you moseyed over to the help desk and recited the password (”We're no longer called Sonic Death Monkey. We're on the verge of becoming Kathleen Turner Overdrive, but just for tonight, we are Barry Jive and his Uptown Five.”) — then you got to drink an ice cold can of IPA while you sifted through the stacks. Few people were in on it, and an even smaller number of those in on it actually got the password right. Everyone else was left confused, wondering where the hell the free drinks came from.

The help desk was raised a foot off the main floor and located right at the center of the store. It afforded Gannon a good spot to survey his analog kingdom while sorting through the new arrivals. As he read some of Electric Wizard’s liner notes, the bell over the door chimed to signal a new arrival. He looked up, but was instantly blinded by the glare of the high noon sun. He heard Susie call “Welcome to Fred’s!” and went back to reading. 

“We’re not Sonic Death Monkey, we’re Barry Hive and his Uptown Jive.”

Late to sleep and early to rise for no good reason at all –  such was the schedule Arlith usually went by. She seldom laid in bed past the break of dawn, but she also found it stupidly hard to get some shut eye before midnight ( 2 – 3 a.m. in all honesty ). Some said it was simply because she was an early bird, and others claimed that she pretty much had a love affair with good rest.

And, well, both would be right.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she also found herself possessed with the unshakable need to do something once fully roused. Thus began the routine to wash up, review the to-do list for the day at least twice, eat breakfast and.. skip out to grab a cup of much needed caffeine.

Bright eyes immediately took in the rustic space upon entrance. Both familiar and unfamiliar face chatted around her; something she had grown to appreciate despite the atmospheric differences between rural and urban. One figure in particular caught her attention just after she ordered. “Gannon, morning” she called out in greeting.

x

Inventory had become a hell of a lot easier since Jake had digitized the entire catalog. The masters student took months to do it — and Gannon had been a hard-sell, preferring the pencil-to-paper method to the mystical ways of the PC — but it had made his life easier in the long-run. There were some things he couldn’t leave to a computer’s processing power, though, and that was re-stocking the rarities and the box-sets. It wasn’t as easy as clicking a button and re-ordering from the label directly. These were the ones he had to hand-pick. This log was still hand-written. Research.

As he sat back to review his work, he heard the chirp of a familiar voice — Arlith. He imagined plenty of people recognized him (if they lived in a Brooklyn and gave a shit about analog music, he was bound to cross their path), but he remained the quiet (perhaps pretentious) man that ran Fred’s Vinyl Resting Place and barely lifted his eyes from the stacks. So, when he was called out in public, it sent a cold prickle of panic down his spine. He played it off with ease.

“Wouldn’t let myself come empty-handed,” Karl chuckles as he sets the food and drinks on the counter, the only available surface in sight. His face mirrors Gannon’s expression, a smile warming up his features as he looks around. It hits him then how much he’s missed this place and the city in general. All the stores, restaurants, and other places he visits regularly, all of which he’d stayed away from for almost a whole year, just to trade them for other spots all across the country. Magical and exciting, all of these, but there’s no place like home. 

“The basement? Sounds ominous. This isn’t like The Cask of Amontillado type of a scenario, right?” Karl jokes as he hands the other a bottle of beer. “What happened to the basement that I should see, huh?”

x

He takes the long-neck offered him, snapping the cap off on the edge of the counter. The weathered oak wore its new scar proudly. “You were missed,” he assured honestly, raising his beer in salute. Gannon could count on one hand the number of people in his life that had maintained any kind of consistency — so, when Karl left, he’d left quite a gaping hole in the ex-soldier’s reality. “You might not’ve been here, but your record plays in the store every single day. It’s damn good.” Not that Gannon’s opinion had any gravitas, but he wanted his friend to know how much he admired him and his work.

“Four years,” Mack echoed, blowing smoke through his lips as he spoke. Four years wasn’t long at all. He looked over at Gannon, not out of pity or admiration, but out of curiosity – and perhaps even empathy. Of course, he wasn’t going to pretend that he knew the first thing about what a Navy SEAL experienced while on active duty, but he could imagine that PTSD was a hell of a thing to deal with.

“Ah, right. This week…” he murmured, quickly averting his eyes to look at the ground once more, studying a crack in the pavement. His cigarette, just an ashen stub now, fell from his fingers to join the multitude of the cigarette butts that already lay at their feet. Desperate for the relaxing effects of nicotine, Mack immediately lit another and held it to his lips.

This week. What had happened this week? Mack frowned as he mulled it over, grasping for any conclusion that wasn’t ‘actually everything is fine, I was just born with a broken brain.’

Though, truthfully, the week had been more stressful than most. It had been a week of chasing deadlines, scrambling to finish research papers, too much whiskey, and not enough sleep. Classic Mack, some of his superficial colleagues would say if he came to a meeting with a hangover, as if his poor work ethic and bad habits were something to be desired, and not a dangerous cocktail of unhealthy coping mechanisms that would inevitably run him into the ground.

But did he not have the schedule and responsibilities of a typical masters student? Surely he should be able to get through a busy week without hyperventilating mid-way through an indie band’s set on a booming and bustling Friday night… right?

He grimaced, not meeting Gannon’s gaze. “Just a little more hectic than usual,” he sighed, attempting to appear nonchalant. He forced a smile. “The life of a typical masters student,” he added with an unconvincing laugh.

He shifted uncomfortably, taking another long drag of his cigarette. “Yunno, I only ever see you on nights like these,” he said, glancing at Gannon. “We should hang out.”

When Mack looked over at him, he could feel the notches in his spine aligning, his posture straightening itself out. Most of the time, he passed under the radar. He wore his ballcap down over his eyes and kept his appearance unremarkable to avert lingering stares. A man in his thirties propped up on a cane, well — he felt like a freak show most of the time anyway.  Before he could navigate out of the miasma of his thoughts (what did Mack see? did he appear weak? a bedraggled veteran in need of counseling? could Mack see the trauma in his eyes? did he pity him?), before he could even consider articulating them, he heard himself say, “What do you see when you look at me?” 

There was a lack of softness in his voice; the reflexive question had been a bullet, ripping through his defenses and barriers and demanding answer — it was a question he’d carried inside him since the injury, and it burned like wildfire. He held up his hand to silence any response and closed his eyes. “I apologize. Don’t answer that.” Shaking his head, he deflated. “I don’t want to know, and it’s unfair of me to ask.” Where the fuck did that come from?

The younger man was attempting his own explanation — green eyes so unlike his own scanned the busted cobblestone, perhaps praying that the fallen ashes and crooked filters might offer him some guidance or comfort. A pang of guilt touched him then: had he derailed the conversation like this? It had been him that interrupted Mack’s solitude, dragged them through this minefield of a conversation. It wasn’t like him; Gannon kept this shit under lock and key,

But he saw something of himself reflected in Mack. Brokenness.

The ex-soldier kept his eyes on the dying embers in his pipe’s bowl. They’d flickered and fought until finally giving into the city breeze. Weak strains of smoke finally stopped. 

“Jake’s working on his Masters,” he offered — a feeble olive branch of understanding. “Between having me as a boss and the fifty page research papers he’s always writing, I don’t know how the kid survives.”

“I wouldn’t say I feel guilty as much as I do negligent, but who cares?” Nancy shrugged with a laugh. Obviously, she knew day drinking wouldn’t effect her at all. Her body was used to a substantial amount of alcohol, that a little mimosa wouldn’t hurt anybody. She finished off her waffle and put the rubbish to one side, then continued on with her drink. As always, the food was amazing, and Nancy was thankful she had a friend like Gannon to surprise her with stuff like that. She didn’t deserve it.

“Purson?” Nancy exclaimed, almost spitting out her drink. “No way dude, that’s so dope!” She held her hand up to give him a high five. “I better have some kind of VIP area reserved. Give me the date and I’ll put it in the diary.” Her excitement was obvious. This was a big deal, and she was proud of her friend for organising it. And she knew he was happy about it, which then made her happy too. “We should do more to celebrate than eat take out breakfast though. Especially because you’re the one who deserves treating, yet here I am reaping the rewards. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

Nancy finished the rest of her drink and put it down on the side, along with the other trash. Her legs swung against the counter. “How about we go out for drinks tonight? It’s a Wednesday, so it won’t be too busy.”

x

“I’ve never known a mimosa to hurt anyone,” he added. “Their sole purpose is to make shit better.” Gannon had to be careful with alcohol. Right when he’d come back from his final tour, he’d refused pain medications, choosing whiskey instead. It had blurred the two most painful years of his life into one bleak chapter he preferred never to revisit. Mostly, he remembered black-out curtains, fist-sized holes in the drywall, and Rachel crying. Either way, those years were buried deep, and he did his level best to keep his drinking in check.

“Right?” He returned the high five, flashing a grin reserved for few. “October 31st at 11PM,” he confirmed. “And yeah, of course — you can kick it at the soundboard with me, or you can pick a booth and I’ll rope it off. You know the drill, Nance.” 

He lifted an eyebrow at her idea. “Tonight?” he echoed, eyes dropping to his feet as he considered.

Gannon had a routine. Maintaining it kept him sane, so spontaneous plans were always immediately turned down. Since he was a kid, he had managed his fair share of OCD habits, but his time in the military had exacerbated those ticks of his greatly; it tended to take a long damn time for the ex-soldier to integrate people, places, and plans into his life. Nancy had been one of the few to change his routine without much effort, because Gannon just liked being around her. She was worth the discomfort.

“excuse me?” the question parted her lips for the third time, trying to get the attention of the man so deeply into his work. she felt a pang of guilt for interrumpting him, but she pushed through. “hi, sorry, could i maybe sit with you?” she motioned to the empty seat opposite him, the only available spot in the whole place it seemed. “i promise i won’t distract you much, your work looks really important”

The man was definitely struggling, with his arms full of vinyl. Flora bent down to pick up what he’d dropped, thankful it wasn’t raining or the cover would have been ruined. Hopefully the record inside wasn’t scratched or shattered. Carefully, she gripped it between her fingers and stood up, smiling at the stranger. As he told he what it was, she looked down at the cover, flipping it over in her hand to read the back as well.

“With Voodoo Chile on?” she mused. Flora wouldn’t call herself a music expert, but there had been a brief phase of rebellion in her youth, where she’d picked Hendrix as her artist of choice. She’d play it loudly in her room and lay flat on the bed, pretending she was having some kind of breakdown. Maybe she had been. “This is a great album,” she continued, nodding with appreciation. “Where are you in such a rush to be that you can drop a vinyl like this?”

x

He gave her a look of surprised regard, impressed by her knowledge. “That’d be the one.” Working at the record shop, it was easy for him to forget that people didn’t have a limitless regard for analog music and its history. A few train rides outside of his neighborhood, he was mercilessly reminded. So, Gannon offered her a genuine smile and reveled with her in Hendrix’s mastery. “Legendary.” 

Unable to help himself when opportunities for musical trivia arose, he added: “Bob Dylan actually wrote All Along the Watchtower, but he liked Hendrix’s version better.” 

Renegotiating the slipping records under his arm, he looked toward the skyline. The hotel bar he was scheduled to be at 15 minutes ago was a good 6 blocks away, and his hip ached at the mere idea of the hike. Admitting his limitations to himself was something he’d yet to do, truthfully; Gannon was always barely outrunning his own crippling depression. Each escape from its grasp was more narrow than the last.

Mack turned to looked at Gannon properly. “Shit,” he breathed, then fell silent for a moment, attempting to parse the new information through the haze of alcohol and nicotine that clouded his mind. He then nodded, pursing his lips. “Yeah, that’d do it,” he added wryly.

Though he hadn’t known his friend long, he wondered how such an integral aspect of his past had slipped under the radar until that moment. What did they usually talk about when they found themselves sitting together on the bench, bathing in the breezy air of the city and polluting it further with cigarette smoke?

Mack realized he couldn’t remember. The specific details of their past conversations were lost to him, which he knew could be partially attributed to the fact that he was often a little more intoxicated by that time of night — but he quickly pushed the thought out of his mind, cheeks reddening with shame. In any case, he had grown fond of Gannon over the little while they had known each other.

Yet while he felt comfortable in Gannon’s presence, he was still unsure of how to best answer his question. He felt compelled to return Gannon’s honesty with some honesty of his own.

“Ah, just needed some air,” he murmured, looking away from Gannon. So much for honesty. He swallowed nervously, mustering up the courage to keep going. “I, uh, was feeling a little claustrophobic. Panicky,” he finished lamely. He glanced at Gannon then quickly looked to the ground. “It happens sometimes. This week was stressful,” he said quickly.

Not willing to bear sitting in silence, he cleared his throat and looked back up at Gannon. “How long ago was that?“ he blurted out, referring to Gannon’s Navy SEAL days.

Gannon stared at the cracked cobblestone beneath his feet, even though he longed to look skyward; revealing that part about himself was something he rarely did, mainly because he hated the reactions people had to it. There was pity, the stiff: “thank you for your service,” the barrage of personal stories about people they’d known with the same problem and how they’d overcome it — all of which made his stomach turn. No one ever said the right thing, mainly because they said too fucking much.

It occurred to him in a brief flash that it’d been stupid to tell Mack; he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out what the hell possessed him to do so — that was, until Mack weathered the admission without so much as a look of pity. All he did was acknowledge the confession, the gravitas of it, then let it settle. Gannon’s dark blue eyes, like a faulted, frozen lake, flickered over to his smoking companion. He found himself wondering how Mack’s opinion of him might have changed with that knowledge. Instead of thinking too long about that, he took another pull from his pipe. Ashen embers brightened.

When the veteran asked people about themselves, it was usually to divert the attention off of himself — a defense mechanism. In this instance, he found himself generally curious what brought the blond out here. What reason would someone like him need to avoid the intensity of the party roaring within? Was he avoiding it at all?

“Yeah,” he answered quickly. Air. There was a sense of relief in that; perhaps Mack was just as he appeared. Gannon ignored the drop in his stomach that felt like disappointment. Fucked up of him to hope anyone (let alone someone of which he was growing fond) could relate to the psychosis he dealt with. No one deserved to live in a nightmare.

And then Mack lit another lantern down the dark corridor. Anxiety. Stress. Panic. Gannon could understand that, though it was difficult to make room for those facets in his perception of the man; he seemed so at home at the center of the churning chaos. Before he could respond, his own defense mechanism was used against him — and despite himself and the serious nature of their conversation — he felt the corner of his lip twitch upward ironically. 

“Four years,” he said, smothering the embers in his pipe’s bowl with his thumb to put it out. “Feels like yesterday.” He felt the phantom pain in his leg and deftly hid a flinch. 

The catch-up he’s planned with Gannon couldn’t come fast enough. It’s been a while since Karl’s seen him last and coming by the store, whether to actually buy anything or just chat the other up for way too long, has always been one of Karl’s favorite things to do. He’s not coming empty-handed, either; there’s a six-pack of beer in his backpack and he’s got a bag full of Taco Bell in his hand. He knocks and then steps inside, already feeling at home surrounded by everything that the store’s got to offer.

“What’s up, man,” he smiles at Gannon when the other finally comes into view. “I got gifts,” he says and lifts up the bag of food. He looks around and smiles even wider. “Place looks great. How’s business?”

x

Gannon smiled genuinely when he heard the familiar timbre of Karl’s voice — odd, how different the resonance in person vs. over the speakers. For the past couple of years, his music had been played regularly in the shop; Gannon had made it his personal mission to promote home-grown artists, but it was inevitable that Karl’s record was spun more often than others. Gannon quickly stuck the last couple of vinyl he’d been sorting into protective sleeves, then abandoned the lop-sided rolling stool where he’d spent the last few years in favor of long-awaited company.

“Beer and tacos; you’re a good man,” he said with a grin. Despite what most people assumed about Gannon (that he was unapproachable and lacking warmth), he was capable of a lot more than a few awkward words and a stiff hand-shake in certain company. He’d known Karl long enough that, even after a year of radio silence, he felt at ease.

“Nah, no problem,” Mack said, nodding. He sighed, looking up at the night sky, the New York City air too polluted with light to make out a single star. It left him with a spark of homesickness, as he recalled the twinkling skies of rural Ireland.

“Chaos is the right word,” he snorted, then looked down at his hands. He took another drag of his cigarette.

It was a tricky thing, anxiety — it often came unannounced, unprompted, and most definitely unwanted, like a nosy neighbor trying to make sure you weren’t having too much fun. Sometimes it could be washed away with a beer, or three, and sometimes it came back worse.

That was where Mack had been just fifteen minutes ago, shortly before Gannon arrived.

“It is definitely quieter out here,” he breathed, then glanced at Gannon. He studied the other man for a moment. They had only known each other for a short time, and Mack enjoyed his company. In this particular moment, he felt there might be something a bit off with his recent friend, but he wasn’t sure if he was just projecting his own uneasiness from earlier.

“But I figured you were big on the whole live music scene,” he said, arching an eyebrow. He smiled softly as the smell of the cherry-scented tobacco reached his nostrils.

Gannon began to return the lighter offered him, but saw Mack’s eyes shift up to the night sky. His own gaze followed. But a patch of the expanse was viewable from where they sat, saturated with the city’s glow so that it took on a pale, lavender tinge. Growing up, he’d longed to see stars, to map constellations, track satellites — perhaps if he’d been born somewhere other than Bayonne, that longing would have changed him unequivocally. Perhaps he’d been a different person, someone that looked skyward and thought beyond the trappings of this city.

Maybe that was what people were missing here: the bigger picture.

Mack spoke up, interrupting his labyrinthine thoughts, but Gannon didn’t tear his eyes away from the sluice of night just yet. He took in a deep, steadying breath and smiled gently back at the abyss. “For a minute there, I was somewhere else,” he admitted, finally looking back at his bench-mate. “Look up long enough, all of this sort of ..dissolves.” The thrum of the bass started to sink back into his limbs, and he leaned further back into his spot. 

A bad habit of his, he tapped the ivory stem of his pipe against his teeth pensively. The aromatic leaf had begun to soothe him, but he couldn’t discount Mack’s hand in that. Unlike most of even his closer acquaintances, he’d felt an immediate kinship. Though they carried themselves so differently, they both somehow ended up on the same bench, looking up at the same patch of sky. 

“It’s not the music or the present that chased me out here,” he said with a sigh. The words were like stones in his throat. Difficult to unearth, but surfacing all the same. “It’s the past catching up to me.” A man of few words, he found it nigh impossible to describe how at one moment he was manning the PA for The Naked Giants, and the next, he was dodging gunfire and hearing a chorus of his comrades screaming.

“PTSD. I was a Navy Seal.” Gannon chanced a glance at Mack after the admission. He couldn’t remember the last person he’d outright told.

Nancy was sitting behind the reception counter at the studio, flipping through a copy of a magazine, her legs up on the desk. It wasn’t her normal station, but the receptionist was out sick, and Nancy had a break between clients. Plus, it was much more comfortable than out back. Turning the page, she looked up as a familiar figure came through the door, hands full of food. Immediately, her face warmed, lips parting in a wide grin.

“Oh my God, I was just thinking how starving I was!” Nancy said, swinging her legs down and tossing the magazine to one side. She excitedly peeked in the bag, inhaling the smell of fresh food, before grabbing a cup. Gannon was always a welcome surprise in the studio, even when he didn’t bring treats. He was just good company. To show her appreciation, Nancy sidled out from behind the counter and came around to greet Gannon properly, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek (she was always touchy-feely), her cup still in hand. “You’re the best.”

Popping the lid off the cup, she took a sip, perching on the desk to face Gannon. “I feel like I shouldn’t be drinking on the job, but hey, c’est la vie. My next appointment isn’t for a couple hours anyway. Oh, I know!” she said, suddenly remembering the existence of food right beside her. “I can soak it up with carbs. You really thought of everything, huh?” With that, she pulled out one of the containers and the wooden cutlery that came with them, and opened up a still warm waffle. “Anyway, to what do I owe this pleasure?” she said, tucking in to the food.

x

No one could wreck his bulwark of defenses with abandon as well as Nancy Love. The record store clerk had managed, within the last 4 years of his life, to keep everyone at a very calculated distance. It was reactionary at first — flinching when people came in for a hug, jerking his shoulder away from a friendly clap on the back, even striking out at those who approached him unannounced at the odd angle. Thankfully, much of that vengeful fight persisting in him had calmed like a storm blowing over. Even so, he couldn’t help but tense as she slipped around the counter toward him. 

Always to his surprise, no harm came to him at her hand. Her kiss didn’t scald his skin, nor did it hit like a hollow-point. The gesture was warm and kind and it didn’t splinter his bones. When she drew away, he was still standing — intact, just as she’d found him.

“Actually, I just feel way less guilty drinking at noon if I have an accomplice,” he said with a grin, peeking over the brim of his cup as he took another swig. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He gave a shrug; truthfully, breakfast was just his favorite meal of the day, and the novelty of eating it at strange hours never got old for him. As a kid, having to cook meals for himself in the morning and most evenings, breakfast food had been his go-to — being the least complicated task to tackle with a finicky gas stove and a broken oven. Gannon was the master of the mini-pancake.

Mack nodded his head in greeting, flashing Gannon a smile. “Good to see ya’,” he said, then took a long drag of his cigarette. The smoke billowed around the both of them as he exhaled.

When prompted, Mack retrieved his lighter from the front pocket of his jeans and tossed it over to Gannon.

Normally an easygoing people-person, Mack had been to his fair share of live shows in the six months he’d been living in New York City. He loved nothing more than some cool tunes and more than a few alcoholic beverages to help him unwind at the end of each week. This time, however, he was finding the crowded venue stress-inducing instead of stress-relieving — hence why he was recuperating outside, in what was probably his third smoke break in the last hour.

He sat on the bench next to Gannon. “Enjoying the show?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the other man.

x

"Likewise,” he answered with a mirrored smile, if a degree softer. It was odd, the shift in dynamic — emerging from an underground world of swelling light and shrinking shadow, out into the strange stillness cast in Brooklyn’s streetlamps. Gannon had known quiet, on tours across the sea with the Navy, but nothing compared to the muted cacophony of the city. One only had the illusion of being alone here, but he preferred it to unsettling stretches of silence.

He caught the lighter with ease, tested its weight in his palm. “Thank you. Think I lost my matches downstairs. It’s chaos down there.” 

The loud music never triggered his PTSD, but every once in a while a forsaken beer bottle met the stained concrete just right and he was back in fatigues, suffering heat and gunfire unrelenting. Thankfully, Gannon had gotten rather deft at hiding it when he was shaken; he hoped it went unnoticed by his current companion.

Jackson snorted, his face contorting into a smile despite him trying hard to fight it. “I gotta be honest, that was a good one. It got me; I love the jokes that make you think, corny or not.”

x

“That’s your nice way of saying my joke's corny, huh?” he asked with a playful tone, cutting his blue eyes at Jackson. “I see.”