Misc.

our flag means death 1

It had been a lazy day with a breeze that had been just cool enough to motivate the city to drag through the hot June afternoon and the sun had begun to set, slowly dipping below the brick buildings and trees that stood in a grid that made up the town. 

Frenchie was draped across the couch languid and sleepy, ready to go to bed. The window in the curved alcove a few feet away was cracked open and the breeze snuck in and kissed him on the nose, dancing through his hair and into the apartment. The heat was finally breaking for the day. Frenchie's fingers quietly and arbitrarily plucked the strings on his guitar, letting the notes resound off the walls and the oak hardwood floors. 

The clock struck six and as if they were in a storybook where everything was perfect and nice, the front door opened and Wee John came in from work. 

"Hey." Frenchie called, not moving from where he was on the couch. His knee poked out from his shorts and he swayed it back and forth, feeling the cool wind caress his legs and feet. 

"That was a bitch of a shift," John said, taking off his shoes followed eagerly by the disgustingly uncomfortable suit that his work insisted he wear for etiquette's sake. He disappeared inside his bedroom for a moment before coming back out in much more comfortable clothing that were also more appropriate for the weather that day had rained down upon them. Well...sunned? He came over to the couch and stood behind the backrest, placing a hand on Frenchie's knee. "How was your day?"

"Probably easier than yours," Frenchie mused, looking back up at his friend. "You alright?"

"Oh I'll be fine," said Wee John dismissively, rolling his eyes. "Just ruddy business." 

"Well, they're lucky to have you. So am I. You help pay rent."

"Yeah, and you help keep the place clean. We've been over this."

"What's with the shirt?" 

"What shirt?" Wee John frowned. 

"The one you're wearing, stupid, why so fancy?"

"It's just a button down. I'm not going to wear my pajamas to dinner."

Now Frenchie felt like the stupid one. He sat up, putting his guitar aside.

"Dinner?" he asked. 

"With Pete and Lucius." Wee John reminded him.

Both men stared at each other intensely for a minute, like they were trying to telepathically get on the same page. Frenchie came around first.

"Right. Dinner. I was...supposed to cook something. And then I didn't. What time are we supposed to be there?" he said, standing and stretching before heading over to the kitchen and pouring through the cupboards and cabinets for something he might be able to whip up quick enough.

"Like 6:30?"

"Fuck."

---

They arrived at 6:42 with a pot of canned soup. They'd rehearsed the lie on the bus, that it wasn't Campbell's Italian Wedding Soup, but a recipe of John's grandmother that had been passed out for generation. Wee John was Irish now and the old man sitting across from them stared at the men clinging onto their every word, hearing the most interesting story he'd heard in half a century.

"Hey what took you guys so long? You're twelve minutes late." Pete said, dead serious with a tone like a white suburban mother who was upset at her girlfriends for being late to wine night.

"More like Lucius every day, I see." Frenchie remarked, coming inside. 

"Shoes off at the door. I don't want dirt in the house." Lucius called, already at the table.