First Time

Zachary's sighs had become more common.

I would often get the impression that I was finally learning some kind of brand new language whenever he's done it. I would sometimes interpret his sighs to be filled with unsettledness; I would sometimes interpret his sighs to be somehow fearful. And then, there's a very elongated sigh of just being all-around tired of everything. A few more and I would've recommended him to write it as a brand new kind of communication, something he would write in his notebook or in a book.

Something only we would understand, and when read, a language without existence of words.

"How many days was it again?"

"Four more days."

"Why do we have to be partners, anyway?" Zachary said. His soft, melodramatic voice filled the smoky air as we walked along towards the bookstore I had recommended him, a few minutes after we got off the train. His two feet dragged and the soles of his shoes burned from the friction against the asphalt road. And I don't know what was worse: the smell of the thickness of the air pollution or the smell of burning shoes.

"You might want to say that to the teacher. She was the one who paired us up." I side-eyed his constant concern to where we are going and got the feeling that he might have thought that I bluffed.

"Who paired us up, randomly." He said. The expressionless face of his were canvasses on an art shop: blank.

"Randomly and unfortunately. Cheer up a little and try to look at some bright sides." I tried putting my arm around him like how couples of best friends do, to which he quickly averted. "As what Madisson and Jamie said, you're lucky enough that you were paired up with me." I gave him this beam of a smile, one that radiates more than the sun. He doesn't seem pleased, and I quite get the knack that my "wonderful smiles" annoys.

"I don't think luck has anything to with it." He said. He frowned as he tightened his grips on the satchel he had been carrying. The heavy dragging of his feet was teeth-gritting enough to be noticeable by a mere passerby.

"You're still angry at me for borrowing your notebook without your permission?"

"Borrowing doesn't really define what you did."

"But I've already said sorry," that last bit came out as if I was singing an anthem. "Do you want me to bow down, kiss your shoes multiple times? How about I'd do anything you ask me for-"

"No need, Jacob," that was one of the first times he called me by my name. "I've already forgiven you, okay? So, no need for drastic measures."

"How about-"

"I said, no more-"

"Just hear me out, okay?" I stopped in my tracks, stepped in front of him at a distance, and held his forearms tightly. The dragging of his feet drilled down the asphalt road, glued and evidently immovable. He didn't struggle or tried to keep my grasp off of him, but he wasn't looking at me either; he quickly averted my look. The chilled wind blue as it swung his hair, climbed above mine.

"I really am sorry." I can't remember the first time I personally and genuinely asked for forgiveness. Some were half-baked lies while most were plain excuses, the usual things I did from the past, but I felt that I had to be as truthful as I can when it came to Zachary.

"I know," he slowly reached for my hands that held his forearms and gently laid them down beside me. "Now, can we get to that bookstore of yours?" And then, there was that smile again, the one filled with splendor. An arch across his face that I cannot yet put to words; a non-descriptive, vaguely existing curve. It didn't intersect with his eyes' expressions, the way he smiled at me. They were empty, the way he looked.

The rest of the journey was silent. We crossed other roads, took shortcuts, walked, yet a single mingle didn't come out from either both. It was as if the world spun continuously but ours stopped somewhere where we left off. Our usual bickering might have too usual that it exhausted something. The deafening sounds of our voices were trapped until we got in front of the store.

We were welcomed with a warm breeze as we opened the door, a suitable temperature for the rising cold. Some non-fiction and fiction books were in front of the store, resting against small perched standees while placed in a three-story, stair-like table. Several people inside were in lines waiting for their turn in the counter, while others were around the shelves reading free-to-use books. It was wide inside with tables placed in the middle of it all, and a beaming chandelier hanging atop lit the whole room.

"So, where was it?" Zachary asked. He looked around the place, zoning in and out whilst touching, reading the names of the placed books on the tall shelves.

"Around there," I pointed out to the far-left corner. "By the end of it. Most art supplies are placed there, but there could be more if we look around."

"Haven't you been here multiple times?" Zachary said, holding up a thick paperback book.

"I have," I said, opening a small pamphlet about the bookstore and learning the map. "I just didn't have the opportunity to look around since I already know where to look." I raised it above my chest with the map opened and showed it Zachary who was seemingly enthralled with all the books and works around.

"Don't tell me that this is the first time you've been in a bookstore?" I asked him. He shot a look at me, wide-eyed, cheeks blushed and almost rosy-red. He nodded in excitement as his fingers ran across the title hard-cover pages of the books his fingers would land on to, sniffing the "new book smell." It was by any means making him invigorated.

"You're really weird," I said. Then I asked him about who was his favorite authors: Margaret Atwood, J.R.R. Tolkien, Ted Chiang, Cassandra Claire, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, John Green, Haruki Murakami, Madeline Miller, and a bunch more people I have never heard of. He went on and on about how most of these people inspired him to get into writing, how he would sometimes spend most of his hour watching writing tutorials, and how he would often go into libraries just to find and read books about writing.

His constant blabber didn't become a blur. I listened to his constant remarks and soaked into them like a sponge. We walked along the corridors of the store and observed the different materials being sold. The light ambient of the store slowly consumed us until we didn't manage to take hold of the skipping time.

A few minutes later and I found Zachary reading, sitting below a tower of stacked books on a very corner. I sat beside him, unbeknownst to him, and followed every passage that he read. It was as if the world spun again, and we were the only ones that existed within it.

"Jacob," he said under his breath using a faint voice. He stopped at a page before closing the book and returning it to the shelf. "I do forgive, you know, and I hope you'll keep this in your head." He smiled an unknown smile that made something in my chest skip a beat. It was a thud, a thump that only I could hear, a sudden bump. The way he looked finally intersected with the way he expressed.

"And if you want to read the rest of my works, I'll be glad to write more." Zachary then closed the book, felt its pages, and ran his fingers across the surface of the covers. He raised his right arm and waited for my reply.

"What's up with the formality, you knucklehead?" My hand suddenly reached the top of his hair and gently ruffled it, displacing most of his thinned hair. "But, thanks," I continued. "And don't be pressured from writing a lot because I'll be waiting," I said while snapping my fingers, giving him a wink.

"What's up with that?" He said. The distaste of his face merged with his sarcastic, controlled laughter. "Come on," He stood up and patted his pants from the collected specks of dust. "Let's go find and buy those supplies and finish this project." He then offered his hand to help pick me up from where I sat. I slowly reached to grasp his arm. It was warm, his palm, and soft to the touch. I held it tight as I stood from my position.

"There you go, first time's a charm!" He smiled tenderly this time, while pulling his arm. His sunken eyes lit, as sharp and blindingly beautiful as the chandelier that hung atop. "Last one's there will be a sore loser!" He said as he let go and hastily walked away from me, all while looking back and happily laughing.