Ethan and Jacob: Wish You Were Here
by SalientLane
Chapter 10
Autumn. The air had turned crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the promise of cooler days.
The musty scent of old vinyl and paper tickled my nose as we squeezed through crowded aisles. Rétro Bordello was a maze of treasures, each shelf an invitation to another era. Jacob nudged me with his elbow, a wry grin on his face, "Dude, check this out," he whispered, holding up an album with a bizarre cover—a man on fire shaking hands with another.
"Whoa." I leaned in, studying the image. "That's freaky cool."
"Right?" He flipped it over, scanning the tracklist. "Pink Floyd... 'Wish You Were Here.' Ever heard of them?"
"Only when my dad goes on about 'real music'." I chuckled, imitating my father's deep voice, "'Ethan, this is what you call music, not that electronic noise.'"
Jacob laughed, his eyes lighting up like they always did when we shared a joke. We pooled our cash—coins clinking onto the counter—and bought the LP without a second thought. It wasn't just the music; something about that cover spoke to us, like it was waiting for us all along.
"Merci, guys!" The shopkeeper called as we left, the bell above the door jingling a farewell.
"Let's explore," Jacob suggested, already heading towards an alley that seemed to appear from nowhere.
"Race you," I said, and we took off, darting past dumpsters and alcoves, the record safely tucked under my arm. The alley was lined with cracked, graffiti-covered walls that seemed to lean in closer with each turn. It seemed to stretch on endlessly with no sunlight filtering through. The passing shadows hinted at hidden nooks and crannies, beckoning us further into the darkness. The city sounds faded away, replaced by an eerie silence.
"Uh, Ethan... where are we?" Jacob's voice held a trace of uncertainty.
I stopped, looking around. The buildings loomed overhead, blocking the sky. "No clue. But check that out." Ahead, a dimly lit storefront beckoned, the words "Musée des Curiosités" painted in flaking gold letters.
"Should we?" Jacob asked, the thrill of adventure sparking in his gaze.
"Obviously." I pushed open the door, and a bell tinkled softly.
Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of musty books and dried herbs, like an ancient library and an apothecary had been combined. Underneath it all was a hint of something sweet, like honey or vanilla. It was a calming and comforting aroma that seemed to fill the room. The Musée des Curiosités, with its muted lighting and the smell of old leather and dust, was like stepping back in time. I glanced at Jacob, his eyes lit with that familiar spark of adventure as we moved past glass cases filled with bizarre artifacts.
"Check this out," he said, his voice hushed by wonder. He was cradling an old brass compass, intricate patterns etched along its edges. The needle swung lazily before settling north, as if confirming we were exactly where we needed to be.
"Nice." But my gaze had wandered to a pocket timepiece, its casing engraved with a map of stars. I imagined sailors navigating oceans by those stars, time measured in tides and constellations. My fingers traced the cool metal, feeling the history etched into it.
"Bonsoir, young sirs," came a voice, deep and gravelly. The museum's ancient curator stood at the end of the room, as much a part of the museum as the relics surrounding him. "Tea?" His offer hung in the air, almost as tangible as the objects we admired.
"Sure," we agreed in unison, the idea of drinking tea in this temple of oddities tickling our sense of adventure. Why not indeed?
"I am Monsieur Sébastien," he declared, his gaze lingering on us over the rising steam. His eyes, sharp and knowing, seemed to strip away the years between us, peering into the essence of who we were.
Monsieur Sébastien's hands, veined and spotted with age, moved with surprising grace as he poured the amber liquid. China cups clinked gently, their sound a delicate echo in the high-ceilinged room crowded with shadows and whispers of bygone eras.
We introduced ourselves. His sharp eyes met mine, then Jacob's. "And you two... ah, you are more than friends. More than brothers even." His words carried weight, pressing into my chest with a truth I couldn't quite grasp.
Jacob's lips quirked in amusement, but his respect was clear. "We're best friends," he said, his tone warm.
The scent of the tea mingled with the must of old books and leather. I felt warmth spreading from my fingers around the china to somewhere deep inside me, where the meaning of his words tried to take root.
Jacob shot me a glance, one corner of his mouth twitching in the barest hint of a smile. There was no need for jokes here; the gravity of the curator's statement hung between us, an invisible thread weaving our lives together in ways we couldn't yet understand.
We shuffled closer, the compass and timepiece forgotten for a moment in the face of Monsieur Sébastien's declaration. The ancient curator studied us with an intensity that seemed to pull at the very fabric of the room, knitting together the past and present.
"Best friends," Monsieur Sébastien echoed, his voice a whisper of wind through autumn leaves. The slow nod that followed was like the seal on an unspoken pact. "But also soul mates. Always winding up together, every time." His gaze pierced through me, like he saw everything—our past antics, our future trials, all the laughter and fights yet to come.
I felt exposed, seen in ways I couldn't fathom. His gaze cut through me, sharp as ice yet not unkind, revealing layers of our bond that lay dormant, waiting for time to coax them into bloom.
In that quiet museum, surrounded by relics whispering of ages gone by, I sensed the gravity of his words settling over us, a gentle weight promising that whatever lay ahead, we'd face it side by side.
Steam curled from the teacups, carrying a hint of bergamot and old paper as it mingled with the motes dancing in the shafts of light that sneaked through the dusty windows. Monsieur Sébastien's shop was an alcove of history, each item a frozen moment from a time neither Jacob nor I had ever known.
"Thank you for the tea," Jacob said, holding the delicate china with surprising care. His voice held none of its usual jest; instead, there was a note of reverence that echoed oddly in the cramped space stuffed with antiques.
"Of course, my boys," the ancient curator replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Drink up. Tea is warmth for the soul, much like friendship."
We sipped silently, the taste strangely comforting, like a secret we were both in on but didn't fully understand. I watched the way the light played off the brass of the compass Jacob had admired, how it seemed to glow with an inner fire when he glanced at it.
"Your connection," Monsieur Sébastien started again, "it weaves through time like the golden threads in the tapestry of this world." He gestured around the room, encompassing the myriad of objects. "Some things are meant to be together. Like the needle to the north. Like time and the stars."
Jacob shifted, his gaze flickering back to the old man. "Deep stuff, Monsieur," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. This wasn't our usual banter about comics or what stunt to pull at school next week. This was different, heavier, and it sat in my chest like a stone waiting to be cracked open.
"Indeed," Monsieur Sébastien answered with a small smile. "One day, you'll understand the depth of my words. For now, just remember them."
I nodded, not sure what to say. The air felt thick with unspoken truths and the mustiness of forgotten yesterdays. We finished our tea, the warmth lingering in our throats as we stood to leave.
"Remember, Ethan, Jacob," the curator called after us, his voice a thread tying us to the mysteries of his musée. "Together forever, in all the ways that truly matter."
"Will do, Monsieur Sébastien," I replied, casting a glance at Jacob. Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us—a promise, maybe, or the start of an adventure we hadn't yet named.
We left the Musée des Curiosités with more questions than answers, the echo of the old man's words a riddle wrapped in the enigma of our own unfolding story.
We hovered at the threshold, reluctant to break the spell of the old shop. Monsieur Sébastien's gaze followed us, a knowing twinkle in his ancient eyes.
"Before you go," he said, and we paused. He reached beneath the counter and brought out the brass compass and celestial timepiece we'd been eyeing earlier. They looked even more magical up close, like relics from a bygone explorer's trove.
"For you, Jacob," he handed over the compass, its needle dancing as if alive. "May it guide you on your journey."
Jacob took it, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. He didn't crack a joke or make a quip. Just nodded, the weight of the gift evident in his grip. "Thanks, Monsieur Sébastien. I'll keep it close."
"And for you, Ethan." The timepiece felt heavy in my palm, the intricate celestial engravings glimmering under the dim lights. "To mark the moments that matter."
"Wow," was all I could manage, the detail so fine it was like holding a slice of night sky. The hands of the clock ticked on, unhurried. "Merci," I murmured, suddenly self-conscious under the old man's knowing stare.
"Those are not just objects," the curator said, his voice soft as if sharing a secret with the universe itself. "They are reminders that time and direction are both companions on your path."
"Thank you," I whispered, tucking the timepiece safely in my pocket.
"Thanks, really," Jacob echoed, his voice steady, eyes fixed on the compass as if seeing beyond the glass.
"Go on now," Monsieur Sébastien urged gently, a finality in his tone suggesting this was more than a farewell.
The bell above the door jingled as we stepped back into the evening's embrace, the alley swallowing us in shadow. Our sneakers slapped against the cobblestones as we made our way home, the city's pulse a distant drumbeat.
"Let's listen to that record," Jacob said, breaking into a grin, the compass secure in his hand.
We left the museum, the record still in my grasp, feeling like the world outside had shifted just slightly, like a photograph misaligned. The sun was setting, casting long shadows on the cobblestones as we made our way home, neither of us mentioning Monsieur Sébastien or his cryptic words again. But they lingered, hanging between us unsaid, as if waiting for the right moment to make sense.
We trudged up the stairs to Jacob's room, the weight of Monsieur Sébastien's words still clinging to us like cobweb threads. The record under my arm felt like a talisman, safeguarding our usual easiness that had been shaken by the old man's insight.
"Let's give it a spin," Jacob suggested, his grin returning as he flopped onto his bed and reached for the turntable.
"Definitely," I agreed, sliding the vinyl out with reverence. We watched the needle drop, anticipation thick in the air.
The first notes of "Shine on You Crazy Diamond" unfurled into the room, ethereal and strange, like the beginning of a cosmic journey. It wrapped around us—a sonic embrace.
Jacob lay back, his eyes fluttering closed, and I followed suit, sinking into the pillows beside him. A trance settled over us, those four chiming notes of the guitar both grounding and lifting. Our laughter and chatter from earlier seemed distant, irrelevant even.
"Feels like floating," Jacob murmured, his voice a low mumble against the Floydian dreamscape.
"Yeah," was all I could say, because it did. And in that floaty space, I let my arm drape across his chest. It felt right, like something predestined. Jacob welcomed it with his own arm around me. We held each other. This had sometimes happened before, in the night, while half-asleep. But now it was deliberate.
His breathing deepened, slow and steady, and I matched mine to his. The room faded—Jacob's posters, the clutter of our shared childhoods blurring into insignificance.
We were adrift together in some other place, somewhere only we could go. The music swirled around us, an anchor in the intangible.
"Always together," Jacob breathed, voice so faint it might have been my own thoughts speaking aloud.
"Always," I whispered back, feeling the truth of it settle into my bones.
The record continued to spin, its grooves a map of the moment. I held Jacob tighter, and he sighed contentedly, slipping further into sleep, his arm firmly around me. I closed my eyes against the dimming light, letting the haunting melodies pull us into slumber, our connection a tangible, living thing cradled in the heart of the song.
I opened my eyes. The turntable had shut itself off after the last sounds of side one of "Wish You Were Here" ended. We had both fallen sound asleep by the time "Welcome to the Machine" played. Jacob's breathing was soft against my cheek, his arm a comfortable weight over my torso. We'd crashed hard after our little adventure at the old gent's museum. What had that been? Magic, maybe? The adventure had left us both zonked out on Jacob's bed, Pink Floyd our lullaby.
"Boys, supper's ready!" Jacob's mum Sophie's voice sailed up the stairs, a gentle reminder that life outside this room kept ticking along.
"Hey," I whispered, nudging Jacob awake. He blinked at me, his eyes still cloudy with sleep.
"Supper time," I said, and he nodded, yawning.
We untangled ourselves, movements awkward, but a shared smile wiped the embarrassment clean off our faces. This was new, this tangle of limbs we didn't rush to correct. It felt like something shifted between us, and I wasn't sure if it was the tea or just us.
"Did the old man slip us something in that tea?" Jacob asked, a playful suspicion in his tone.
"Magic, you think?" I joked back, but a part of me wondered.
"Love potion?" he teased, bumping his shoulder against mine. His grin was infectious.
"Must've been strong stuff to get through your stubbornness," I shot back, and he laughed, that easy sound that always made me feel like everything was right in the world.
"Come on, let's eat before my mom comes looking for us."
The stairs creaked under our feet as we descended, shoulders brushing, arms finding their way around each other. It was a casual gesture, one we'd done a hundred times before, but now it held something more. We were closer, not just side by side, but connected in a way that words couldn't quite capture.
"Race you to the last meatball," Jacob challenged as we reached the bottom step.
"You're on," I accepted, knowing full well he'd win. But that was okay. Winning wasn't the point anymore. Not when every moment felt like a shared victory.
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