East of Michigan

            The Clint-shaped hole in Ethan’s heart has been filled with a highly developed interest in a grey monoculture: an autocratic worldview where the pluralities of good versus evil have been stripped away to protagonist versus antagonist, where the structure of something is the ultimate truth and the very implication of an objective morality is devil-speak, whereupon such devil-speak causes him to recoil, shuffle through his notes to refute scripture that no one cited, and smile self-assuredly. But at this very moment, he makes an exodus from Traverse City, forsaken and malignant of heart, intent on doing harm unto Ian as a well-measured act of retribution that he sees now is far overdue.  To fund the trip, he had to pawn off the collectibles that were once to furnish the shag shack, which had become painful to look at in recent months.  The Gears of War Lancer was the most hurtsome.

. . .

“Dude, is that what I think it is?” Clint said, his eyes wide and with lover’s hands caressing what he saw, deeply exhaling as his hands locked around the pistol grip and handguard of the rifle.

“Heh, I guess,” Ethan started and trailed off, looking towards the floor in abashment when he noticed the way Clint touched the collectible. “I guess it depends on, uh, what you think it is!” he rallied in confidence, finishing the playful statement, holding a finger up.

“This is sick, I bet you get so much play when you bust this thing out for the sluts.”

“Yes.”

Clint started aiming at things around the room and dry-firing at the anime girl pillows and Sonic the Hedgehog figurines before taking aim at Ethan, but instead of firing, he pulled his face away from the ironsights, and a foul smile twisted across his face. “Ethan,” he said.

Ethan makes reply, “Clint.”

Without warning, Clint squatted low and bounded across the room, roadie running towards Ethan, his predatory eyes fixed on him like a hawk tracking its dinner. Clint’s smile turned into a great toothy expression as Ethan paled; his entire being felt a great faintness enveloping him. “I got you!” Clint yelled, pretending to cut the plastic blade of the Lancer’s chainsaw into Ethan’s trunk, diagonally dragging it across his shirt and stopping at his hip. He meant to lift the rifle up and pull another diagonal cut, but as he pressed it into Ethan again, they both fell backwards onto the bed, side by side.

“Ha, dude, are you alright?” Clint asked, propping his chin onto his palm and placing the Lancer between them.

Ethan could only laugh, but it started as a quiet snicker, rocking with a nervous, trembling smile that erupted into uncontrollable mirth, belly laughing until he was red all over and pounding the mattress with his fists.

“You’re alright,” Clint decided. “I just fragged you, is all, you haven’t been fragged like that, I bet!”

Ethan couldn’t stop, and soon Clint joined him in laughter on the bed, where they lay, the Lancer between them, rolling in stitches. 

Isn’t such a moment sufficient for the whole of a man’s life? 

. . .

Clint had deactivated his Discord account and made his departure from Traverse City and headed to Chicago shortly after, and for days, Ethan was left in great travail, unable to wrench himself from slumbering in bed or feel anything but heartache and sorrow; love and humility could no longer be found in him, only an insaturable longing for Clint remained.  Therein, a terrible and unending contemplation plagued Ethan: he would never henceforth rejoice in the beauty of Clint or the sound of his gay voice, never again would they cruise the streets in the FedEx truck or be inebriated together.  Most tragic was the news was discovered to him by chance; of all people, Ian had made a passing joke about Caleb and Clint renting an apartment together during movie night.

        “Say what,” Ethan had said, but was ignored, so he spoke again, “Clint moved to Chicago?”

        “Yeah,” Ian replied.

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

        “When.”  

        “A few days ago.”

…

Ethan had purchased the Lancer for $400. Ace Buyers gave him thirty bucks for it. Everything together – the anime body pillows, the Sonic figurines, and other miscellaneous knick-knacks, now open-box after Clint had insisted on playing with them – brought in enough cash to afford the creature comforts he sought to soothe himself and a plane ticket to Massachusetts, east of Michigan.