Page 14 of Composed at Randy's
The sound gets a lot quieter after that.
This place is awesome, and I never want to leave.
“Where are we going?” I ask the waifish guy I’m face-to-face with because we are both under Bael’s arms in twin football holds.
“Somewhere we can’t get in the way of Mel sweet-talking Elvis out of destroying our kitchen for a second time,” Waif-boy says.
“Third time,” Bael corrects.
“Why don’t you believe in Elvis?” I ask Bael.
“Because he’s not real.”
“I think his millions of adoring fans beg to differ,” Waif-boy says and then flails wildly when Bael tosses him onto a huge, white, faux-fur couch. “Hey!”
I expect similar treatment, but instead of giving me the ole heave-ho, Bael sits on the opposite matching couch and arranges me neatly beside him.
“You didn’t stay put,” Bael says to me with betrayed puppy eyes.
They are fucking brutal, and I consider offering him a new car in compensation. I don’t, though, because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need anyone to get him a new car.
Did I mention how nice this place is? Either Bael is loaded, or he lives with someone who is.
“No. I’m not very good at that.” I would say sorry, but I’m not, and there’s no point starting our friendship on a foundation of lies.
Bael makes a littlehmmphsound and ruffles my hair.
“If you don’t believe in Elvis, why did you drag us out of there?” Waif boy doesn’t give Bael a chance to respond beforepulling out a bag of M&Ms and chucking it at me. “I’m Travis. Eat something before you die on my couch and make Bael sad.”
It was such a non-sequitur that my dumb ass would have let the package hit me in the face, but Bael reaches out a hand and plucks it out of the air. He gives Travis awtf man?gesture, and says, “I dragged you out of there because I didn’t want you to add to the chaos, and don’t throw things at Wren.”
“I wasn’t planning on dying on your couch,” I say as I accept the M&Ms from Bael.
“The floor then,” Travis is tearing into another pack of M&Ms with his teeth, so it comes out a little muffled. “You look like you’re moments from joining Elvis in the kitchen, and this place only has room for one ghost, so eat.”
The noise from the kitchen stops, but I can still hear quiet murmuring.
“Is… is that guy flirting with your kitchen?”
“No, she’s just flirting with Elvis.” Travis is actively eating now and it’s kind of gross to watch him talk with his mouth full.
“Oops! Thank you for correcting me.” Trans folk make mistakes about this stuff too, y’all. You just breathe and move on.
“Nah,” Travis waves his hand casually like he’s waving away a mystery fart in the room. “Mel accepts any and all pronouns. When she’s sweet-talking Elvis?—”
“Who isn’t real,” Bael cuts in.
“Who isdefinitelyreal,” Travis says through gritted teeth and starts over. “When she’s sweet-talking Elvis, she’s more femme to me, so that’s what I’m going with right now.”
Bael grins. “Personally, I just call Mel a slut. It’s a nice gender-neutral term.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Mel glides into the room with an aura of complete fabulocity.
In my experience, non-binary folk tend to fall into two categories: complete, feral cave goblins, or ethereal creatures touched by the divine. Mel is definitely in the second category. But, like, if everyone wanted to fuck them.
Mel lands next to me and gives me a look that says they’ve clocked me as trans, and I blink up at them. Most folks don’t anymore, but trans folk can usually tell. I wonder how Mel will play this.
“M&Ms aren’t food, Travis,” Mel announces and snatches my candy right out of my hand. “What do you want, honey? I’ll DoorDash it. Elvis wants to be alone with his feelings for a bit, or else I’d cook you something.”
