Brennan shuffled toward Cole and crouched down to peer into the box of records. “What’s your favorite?” Brennan asked.
“Let’s see…” Cole flipped through records, humming. “Mari likes old-school punk, Tony likes Billy Joel and the Beatles and that kind of thing. I have lots of indie, and folk, and lots of old-school stuff and—”
Brennan laughed. “But what’syourfavorite?”
Cole’s hands stilled on the records but his eyes stayed trained on them. “People don’t usually ask that,” Cole said. “Do you have a genre you like?”
“Oh, come on, is it embarrassing?” Brennan asked. “Or can you not decide?”
“Both. Give me a genre. To narrow it down.”
Some of his most pleasant memories with his mom were them listening to music, working on homework together when Brennan was in elementary school and his mom was getting her PhD. And before that, when Brennan was in preschool and his mom was getting her master’s, he would ask her to make up worksheets for him to do alongside her. Even then he was a nerd—desperate to do homework like his mom always was.
“My mom used to play a lot of seventies music growing up, so I like that,” he said. “And, like, punk? I had an emo phase in middle school.”
“I’d bet money you’re still in your emo phase,” Cole said.
“I would not take that bet.”
“Were you an MCR stan?”
“Not astan—”
“No, no. Question. Have you listened to My Chemical Romance in the last year?”
“No comment.”
“In the last six months?”
“You’re so judgy.”
“That’s a yes! You were a stan! Did you ever have the haircut, like—” He held one hand over one side of his face, covering his eye and forehead, mimicking dramatic bangs.
Brennan didn’t answer.
“Yousodid! I love it. Can vampires grow their hair out? I think you could rock it.”
“Are you roasting me to avoid choosing an album?”
“Nah,” Cole said. “I know what to choose.” He nodded at the open space of carpeting between the couch and TV. “Go sit down. On the floor. It’s part of the experience.”
Brennan bit back a grin and sat with his back against the foot of the couch, while Cole selected an album and slotted it into a record player with experienced ease. Then he approached Brennan, dropping to the floor next to him with loose limbs.
The first notes played and Brennan’s face split in a grin. He’d expected something more hipster, but this was upbeat and familiar.
“ABBA?”
Cole nodded and scooted out to sprawl on the floor, legs kicked out, tucking his arms under his head. “Arrival.1976.”
Brennan slid over, following suit to lie down on his back. “Part of the proper experience?”
“If you really want to do it right, you also have to close your eyes.”
Brennan did, and listened. There was the music, sure, but there was also Cole’s breathing, Cole’s heartbeat. The song picked up and Brennan felt Cole tapping his fingers against the floor to the beat.
After a minute, Brennan asked, “So, why this one?”
“My mom loved it, too,” Cole said. “She used to complain about my brother playing his records too loud all the time, but this was the one album she let him play through the whole house. And the three of us would dance and jump around.” Cole shifted next to him until their shoulders were touching. “Plus, it’s, like, iconic.”
