But hey, this is the future
And we don't grow up like that
Oh we grow teeth and we grow nails
And we scratch to the bottle when we need

"Future Pt 1" - Voxtrot

There was something about the smell of cinnamon that drove Pete up the wall and today was no exception. Still, Henrietta leaned over a stained glass with two sticks of incense inside that she'd been burning, the pungent smell was evident in the room, concealed only by the strong scent of their cigarettes. This was routine, chain smoking for a good hour until one of them had the audacity to tilt their head up and look around, squinting at the realization that the smoke had obscured the view of the entire room. Then it was up to Henrietta to crack the window open for a while.

Winter was unkind and Pete couldn't tell his breath against the cold from the exhale of smoke from his menthol cigarette. Still, he flicked some ash off onto the girl's floor, tipping his head back, but not before offering Michael a sideways glance. Noting he seemed deep in thought, Peter shifted his attention to the ceiling and sighed deeply.

"You know," Michael's monotone voice sounded, hoarse and quiet against the music playing in the background, some post-punk record Henrietta had dug out from her garage and said they had to listen to, "it's Firkle's birthday in like a week," the boy in question was absent from the meet-up, probably having fallen asleep watching Boy Meets World reruns, "what should we get him?" no matter how much they prided themselves on rejecting every social norm, the gesture of a thoughtful gift was too pleasant to resist.

Henrietta drummed her chubby fingers against her leg in contemplation, "what the fuck do you give a teenage boy for his 15th birthday? I mean," she looked up, brows furrowed, "pizza? Tickets to a Peter Murphy concert that we'd have to sell a kidney to afford?"

"Condoms?" Michael joked, though one wouldn't be able to tell had they not known him. Pete breathed an airy chuckle and Henrietta rolled her eyes.

"Let's just buy him books, I don't think he'd care," Pete deadpanned, moving his hand to his mouth to take a drag from his cigarette before exhaling with a huff, "or make him something," the offer hung in the air and the room was dead silent save for the steady bass and the gentle crackle of the record player. Pete shut his eyes in concentration and wondered why his brain failed him whenever it was time to make a decision.

By the time midnight rolled around they narrowed the choices down to books and clothes. Michael joked dryly that they were reminding him of parents buying their child a Christmas present. Pete laughed a bit too hard and Henrietta gave him a knowing glance before ushering them outside.

"Don't crash your car," she yelled at Michael from the door, shivering at the cold air and waving a hand dismissively at the two silhouettes drifting away, obscured by the fog.

Having reached the vehicle, the two boys heard the door behind them slam shut and Pete dug his hands into his pockets as the taller boy did the same, searching for his car keys. Having finally dug them out, he shuffled over to the other side and listened to the satisfying sound of the locks clicking open. Peter slid inside and fiddled with the seatbelt, shaky hands clumsily handling the closure. He shut the door and listened to the deep bellow of the motor coming to life.

Noticing Michael hadn't bothered to turn the music on, Pete contemplated doing it himself, but resolved the dilemma by deciding he didn't care enough and shifted his gaze out the window, the blur of road and trees and the occasional house. It had practically become a tradition for them to drive around all the way to the outskirts of town prompted by the dispersion of their group when it was time to go home. The car passed by the church and stopped near the field of grass next to Stark's Pond before the motor shut off and Michael turned to face him.

"So," he began, sifting through his pockets before pulling out a box of cigarettes and tapping on the back, a habit Pete never quite understood. Michael had explained him to it before, but he hadn't bothered to listen, "wanna smoke until we can't see each other? Or does the freshly polluted air beckon?" he flicked his lighter on and brought it close to his face, the only light in the entire vehicle and it brought his beak-like nose and pale skin to attention before a puff of smoke replaced it, "your call," he breathed.

No matter how fond he'd been of sitting in a confined, stuffy place with the taller boy, Pete opted for oxygen, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door on his side, prompting Michael to do the same as he balanced the cigarette between his teeth. He slammed the door shut and took another drag, blowing out a string of rings that slowly disappeared into the cold, foggy air of midnight in South Park. Pete quickly dug his own cigarettes out of his front pocket and fiddled with an old BIC lighter he'd stolen from his dad. He sighed in content as the sticky, full feeling encompassed his lungs, holding it for a couple of seconds before exhaling with a sigh and watching the smoke fade away.

The few subdued lights around them that appeared to be the only ones their small town could afford dimly lit the area surrounding them, Pete could see the lake all the way up to the horizon and the reflection of the crescent moon in the water. The damp grass under them gave with each step, weak and wet from the snow that had recently melted. Pete thought about silent moments like that, when he could feel his own breathing and finally hear himself think, away from the noise of everyday life.

He looked at his companion and then back at the distance, narrowing his eyes and leaning his head up, shifting his attention to the stars scattered across the dark sky, bundles and bundles of them. And the air around them smelled like freshly cut grass and cigarette smoke. He was sure that moment was significant somehow, the silence obstructed only by the soft sound of crickets in the background and the occasional sigh, he felt content standing in the damp grass and smelling the cold, winter air. It was a rare break from the pressure of existing and he dug his purple winklepickers into the ground beneath them before kicking away some stray grass that had gathered on the pointed tip.

Unsure of when or how, but sure it had happened, Pete noted Michael initiating conversation. It drifted between topics, hasty and unfinished on both their accounts, though several topics clung. Peter mentioned he wanted a 'Sic itur ad astra' tattoo, Michael mentioned it would look hardcore. The talking subsided and Pete mulled over his thoughts, though he took himself finishing the last cigarette in the small box as a prompt to get back into the car. The taller boy followed.

That night, Pete sat up in bed and sent Henrietta a hasty text, jabbing his fingers against the screen as he squinted at the brightness.

'Let's just hit some stores tomorrow, there's likely something Firkle would like buried somewhere in South Park. Or we could rob a mausoleum.'

The youngest boy's infatuation with the post mortem was no secret, having kept a hefty collection of animal bones he'd found god knows where. Perfectly preserved and cleaned. None of the quartet was allowed to touch him but himself, and he did it with such care that one would think they'd turn to dust. Pete played with the idea of just buying him a bottle of formaldehyde. He fell back onto the soft mattress that creaked at the movement. The string of sleep gleefully tugged at his conscious and he let his eyes close shut before drifting away.