I never really understood what to do when the drop tone rang in my ear and immediately the crickets and swish of the ceiling fan would come to replace it. It was like a tidal wave in reverse, noise slipping away until all you heard was the soft clutter reality continually connected to silence and, I know, I know, I'm feeling the irony; silence could only be so loud but...well, damn. I'm almost ready to say I'm surprised to see that I'm making all of zero sense but, if you looked at this situation closely, I was high on caffeine and insomnia; I was a boy with a reasonable excuse.

The effect was depressing. At three-thirty in the morning, nothing was the last thing I wanted to hear. To only make matters worse, the person who I had been speaking to -- the one that graced me with conversation until they could converse no more -- was the one voice I couldn't get enough of and, referring back to the time, the last one that I wanted to have fall away. It certainly wasn't my idea of a good start to the morning but I suppose one can't have a morning if he hasn't yet experienced his night.

That is, of course, if he isn't nocturnal and pretending to know what the hell he's talking about.

I wanted to pretend I was happy. It was a hard thing to do, especially with so many hours left alone, but it was something right towards the top of my to-do list:

- sleep
- sleep
- sleep
- happy

I even laughed. It was true, I had no reason to be upset. I had the guy of my dreams on the other side of the country and I was alone in a house bigger than my high school gymnasium -- no, I wasn't brooding at all.

I sighed as I stood up, grabbed my mug and made my way for the kitchen. It was pretty much a maze to get through here, one I've happened to perfect in the past two or three months of my residence but, well, for a newcomer I suppose it'd be a little confusing. For myself, the fact it was a labyrinth never puzzled me; the idea that Noah would want one, though, always did. He was a simple guy. If anything, turning nineteen did nothing but complicate him.

To find the coffee pot I had to move around the island, follow the length of counter top and open a cabinet door at the very end of the wall. Standing on my tippy toes, I lifted up and cradled the appliance in my hands, bringing it down with it's cord to sit perfect and pretty on top of the marble. The black of the pot, in my opinion, looked hideous against the grey. My opinion would count far more, though, if I was one for color schemes and interior design; apparently, I'd lucked out. That had been excluded when God was throwing out the gay genes.

Missing the guy I've kissed for five years tomorrow, who owned this entire castle...well, that hit dead on.

I stared at the coffee pot. I wasn't really sure if I wanted more, not sure if I wanted to stay up longer than I was already forcing myself to. Noah wouldn't be back for three days, three days and I... I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking when I told him to take the house. Nineteen, the both of us, and we were already owners of a home I was quickly coming to despise. Despite the fact his parents practically gave it to him and if we said no we'd be considered asylum worthy, I half-wanted to live like any other off-campus college student. My own apartment, dirt poor, eating top ramen out of a butter bowl kind of thing. It's not like we really weren't, though. The house was paid for but the rest... ha, well, I may end having to do more dishes than I thought.

Hm.

To see the emptiness was too dangerous for both my eyes and my mind. And leaving me to think was like leaving a dog in front of a plate of pork chops, instructing him to keep his nose out of it and sit there, stay, behave, good boy. It didn't mix well together and within seconds, the meat was gone, my brain was using the juice for fuel in order to click overload and a mental hand was slamming down onto that nice little red button that tempted anyone in every movie in all of history.

I pushed away the pot. More coffee would do me no good. Instead I moved to the table, opening the blinds to allow little strips of moonlight to paint the table in a zebra-like fashion, the latest in African design and more but only cheap. I then sat down in one of the abnormally comfy kitchen chairs, bringing my knees to my chest and wondering why the hell it seemed fifty degrees colder in here than in the office. Okay...it wasn't so much of an office as it was a completely cluttered pigsty but, well, we can't have it all. We were only in our sophomore year of college and neither one of us had the time (nor will) to keep things clean.

It's just occurring to me as I leaned my head back over the chair that I used the moon as an ad for African interior design. That would be pretty neat, I guess -- switch my major to fashion, go for the gold instead of a degree in psychology. It'd pay more, probably, if I ever became successful. Not likely but brutal honesty told me nothing seemed likely near four A.M. with coffee grounds replacing the blood in my veins.

Itching my leg, I vaguely remembered that I was allergic to mosquitoes.

Mosquitoes. Blood. That's it. If someone were to be in front of me, I'd lean up and ask them if they'd ever thought about suicide. Not in the traditional way, either -- a different way, a plotted route which echoed the style more befitting of a writer than a psycho. It's like this: you're driving down an old road in the middle of the night with two of your best friends. One is, say, a girl who you've known your entire life. The other? A boy you met three years ago with a terrible crush on female figure A... her name, well...that doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is the basic set up of your fake ride has began.

Next, elaborate. It's the middle of the night, one thirty-four to be exact, and there's a bend in the road right up ahead. The trees all line the highway, blocking the moon from view but for only a small sliver - it's darker than it's been in ages and the only thing running through your head is there's no way I can make it out alive. It'd make too much sense if the vehicle became unstable and, well, the next thing you know... you think it's too perfect a scenario. You pass the curve with your heart halfway through your throat.

The thing, of course, is that you live. The definition of suicide is the act of terminating one's own life, the definition of thinking it is simply...thinking it. You thought it. It didn't happen, but you thought it -- does this mean the next time your psychiatrist asks you if you've had thoughts of suicide, you answer correctly without similar intent?

I've had too much caffeine. I'd hardly believe it was spring break by the way my mind was rolling on about the essay that was due at the end of last week; I wasn't sure if my topic was something appropriate but it was there and now it was on paper, typed and neat and turned in. Noah beta'd it, claiming I had too much time on my hands for my own good and then kissed me senseless, letting me know in a yummy way that he thought my work to be brilliant. I thanked him by much more than a kiss.

I wished it would rain. When I had nothing to do and nowhere to go, the sound was soothing and, somehow, entertaining. If it was a thunderstorm and a particularly bad one at that, it was something to listen to, a slight mix of excitement in the middle of the same old dull black sky. Sunlight was boring. Puffy white clouds, a clear sky? Overrated by far. The only time I ever enjoyed going outside and staying there was when the white turned a heavy grey and the wind was a bitch.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. It was the middle of the night - morning? - and... well, I could always drive to a convenience store, find munchies and eat my way to obesity by the means of boredom. I could masturbate. I could watch a sappy movie and cry, all by myself for no one to see and...no. I wrinkled my nose at all three of the choices, pushing myself up from the chair with an oof.

I could call Chauren.

Heh...I grinned.

Okay, the thing about Chauren is that he's French. He hasn't lived in the actual country for quite some time now, only visiting an occasional summer, but that didn't matter -- the guy was of foreign nationality and spoke the language. I'd always heard rumors about the citizens of France (or any other country that spoke Francaise) being rude as fuck but no, no, not Chaur. He was only rude to the point that it was sexy. Everything about him screamed sexy, really... the choppy blond hair, the overly smooth skin, the god awful smirk. If he wasn't taken by a different boy every night and Noah was...nonexistent, well... how surprising would it be to say I'd attack him?

He was my dorm mate in New York when I had still lived on campus. Being his first year too, we'd clashed just enough to be useful to each other - he pushed me to certain limits I needed to reach and I pushed him right back with the occasional unnecessary shove. It was hot when he was pissed and, well, I took every chance I could to give myself another reason to miss Noah and particularly Noah's lower anatomy.

He didn't live in New York. Matter of fact, Noah and I still don't live in New York... I'd moved back to New Hampshire the moment he told me his parents had given us a place to stay. My school was available online, the internet about the only thing his ma and pa weren't paying for and that's exactly how I decided to continue my education. I still hated it as much as I did when everything was too up close and personal; now it was just up close and personal and the nations leading cause for a bad fucking back. Nevertheless, it was an extremely more convenient way to never see your professor again. And a really cowardly way to say fuck you but, well, we won't go into that.

I opened my eyes expecting to see that something had changed. Nothing did, of course. Just because I'd went on a geek trip in my head didn't mean that anything would be interesting once I was done. Sighing, I let my forehead drip down to the tabletop, turning my face so that my cheek collided with the smooth wooden surface; it was cold. Cold as hell, actually. Everything was so damned cold.

Or that could completely be the absence of one warm body but, come on, seriously. A little mercy could go a long way.

I tried to brace the idea that I wouldn't be getting any sleep until God only knew when. It's not that I was sleepy -- with insomnia, you were tired but you just couldn't rest, right? Well, no, that wasn't me; I was completely awake. Boredom, though... had boredom ever substituted as a sleepy pill?

I leaned up. Reaching my hand down into the pocket of my jeans, I pulled out my cell and slid it open, holding down the number two until Calling Noah appeared on the screen. It only took three rings before a seemingly drugged voice took over the line and I smiled.

"Hiya."

"Hum...Rye."

"See, I couldn't sleep. I tried to do anything I could to get there but, well, it's not working. I've been stuck to my own devices and coffee for the past half hour and I extremely encourage you not to let me g--"

"What time is it?"

"Four."

"Didn't I just hang up with you?"

"At three-thirty, yes."

I heard him sigh in my mind before he actually sighed out loud. "Rye, honey, go the hell to bed. I have to get up in three hours and I can't deal with an ADD you four hours before I have to deal with my mom. Now, please, drug yourself and...fall over or something."

"Has anyone ever told you what a lovely morning person you are?" I sighed then, too, leaning back in the chair. "Noah, come on. This isn't fair. I can't sleep when you're not here."

"Find a way."

"Noah!"

"Rye, find a way to close both that mouth of yours and your eyelids before I find a way to tape them shut all the way over here in California. I have to sleep. I'm flattered by the idea that you can't in a bed alone but, well, you did fine in the dorm and...it's four AM, Rye," as expected, my name came out as more of a whine than anything. "You need to sleep."

I knew the translation was: I need to sleep. You need to leave me the hell alone.

I sighed for the second time. "I had Chaur there. At least with him I knew someone was in the room. Here I know there isn't a soul for half a mile...do you know how disturbing that is, Noah? Do you have any idea how alone I feel?"

"You have like fifty goldfish. I doubt you're alone."

Eh. He had a point. Le Dramática? No sucediendo.

Damn.

"Noah..."

"Go to sleep, Rye. I love you." And with that, naturally, came the second drop tone I'd heard in the past hour. This time, no ceiling fan or crickets came to meet me, just the swoosh of the refrigerator and a few dogs barking somewhere outside. I wanted to scream, do anything really, even though I had to reluctantly admit his point was more than just one. A few, actually. If I wanted to get really technical, I can just say that every word to come out of his mouth was just one big black dot.

Or was a black dot a period instead of a point?

Closing the phone, I put it down and then stood up. I wasn't sure what I was going to do -- lay in bed, maybe, just to say I attempted to snooze; watch my Will & Grace DVD for the fifth time, read a book. I was smack dab in the middle of Libba Bray's The Sweet Far Thing but if I honestly wanted to get some sleep, picking up a novel I'd never put down wasn't exactly the brightest idea.

I sighed. It was all I knew to do. Standing there in the middle of the kitchen doorway, I just sighed and stood. Yup. This is the most exciting thing I've done since I was seven and broke my arm, or maybe since I realized sex really wasn't some kind of primal disease that only the really insane and infected dared to attempt. My dad told me that when I was eleven. I later found out it was because he thought God had blessed him with some kind of gullible kid and that if he was lucky, I'd believe him until I was thirty.

You know, since he thought I'd actually believe that until way after the chance of me getting a girl pregnant in high school had passed.

Too bad I was gay.

With the fifth or so final sigh, I plopped down onto the most comfortable couch in the history of furniture. It smelled like Noah already. That could be just because I'd stolen his shirt (we're practically the same size so no, it's not all big and baggy like I kind of wished it to be) but, either way, the smell was more comfortable than the cushions.

I leaned back, thinking about all of the stuff I could do to pass what felt like a massive amount of time. I didn't notice, of course, that only thinking over solutions was the key to my problem. No, I'd never guess that making a list of things to do would actually provide me with the one thing that made the time pass the quickest of all.

Yeah. I was asleep by five.

--

Thanks to xamtoftears for the beta. Any mistakes are my own. :)