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Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea
- Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill
I was sitting on the roof of 10 Marshall Wall, considering whether or not to jump, and coming up increasingly short on points against the idea. By now I was mainly just putting off the inevitable, because I was enjoying the rare moment of peace I had as the night air tugged at my hair and jacket, and would be disappointed to cut it short. The ashes of the book were still hot on the ledge beside me, but they were quickly being cooled and scattered by the wind. Soon there would be no evidence left of what I did, and I would have to decide whether to drag myself back to Pinhole, or to just… not.
I wasn’t paying much attention to the rest of the roof behind me, and maybe that’s why I didn’t notice someone else had come up there until there was a figure standing on the ledge right next to me.
“Hello,” said the figure. I looked up to see a man standing there in a loose blue-grey suit. His hair was dark red and long-ish, wavy. Even in the low light, his eyes were striking– pale and filmy, like he had cataracts, the color matching the pale lightning scar that covered part of his face. “Mind if I sit?”
“Feel free,” I said, and he sat down next to me. I went back to staring out at the city, sort of hoping that if I didn’t pay attention to him he’d leave and let me kill myself in peace. No such luck.
“Nice night for it,” he said conversationally.
“For what?” I asked, glancing over at him.
“Well, you know,” he said, turning to me and smiling a little. When I met his eyes I felt my stomach drop, the wind picking up slightly.
Before you ask, I’m not an idiot. I knew what he was from the start. Once you’ve met enough of them it’s not hard to tell. The reality of what they are hangs around them like a bad smell. But given that I’d been considering jumping off the roof myself a second ago, I wasn’t really concerned about the prospect of him doing it for me. And of all the horrible eldritch fates I could possibly hope to meet, the falling titan seemed downright gentle. I always did like rollercoasters, anyway.
With effort, I tore my eyes away from his, and the wind died down again.
“Nice as any,” I said. The man laughed politely.
“Nice as any. Hey, do you happen to have a cigarette?” He asked.
“Sure,” I said, and dug one out of my pocket, being careful not to make eye contact this time as I handed it to him. He took it, pulled out his lighter, and lit it in a series of gestures that was so elegant as to be almost dickish. Then he slipped his lighter back into his pocket and leaned back to stare up at the starless sky with his dull eyes, taking a drag from his cigarette. After a long moment he spoke.
“You eye types never know how to leave well enough alone, do you,” he said. I was happy to end the small talk and get whatever he wanted over with.
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
“Are you serious?” He asked indignantly. Shit.
“I’m the height of seriousness,” I said, without much enthusiasm. Admittedly weak, but I didn't really have the energy to think of something better.
“Coming to my apartment complex, taking one of my books from one of my neighbors, and then, if that wasn’t enough, burning it on my roof.” At this I winced. If I'd have known one of his lot was living here, I would’ve at least found a different roof to mope on after burning the book. It was sloppy, and if my mum found out, she’d probably kill me herself. I would’ve said as much, but he wasn’t finished.
“Flagrant. Insulting. Taking food off my table. I’m not in the habit of just letting that happen,” he said coldly.
“Then why don’t you do something about it? Push me off this roof right now and get it over with.”
“Maybe I should,” he sneered, and for a second I felt that swooping dread that you get as you slip while walking and start to fall. The wind rushed in my ears, and I welcomed it. The man gave me an almost disappointed look.
“The fear of the fall is a large part of why what I do works, you know,” he gave me a disdainful look. “It’s not very effective with someone like you, who already wants it so badly. And besides, I know enough to know you’re too interesting to get rid of outright, Gerard Keay.” The man said this last bit with quite a bit of self-satisfaction. But that whole ‘I know who you are, so start shaking in your boots’ routine hasn’t really worked on me since before I was a teenager. And it certainly wasn’t going to be effective coming from Beatles Hair here.
“If you’re saying that cos you’ve met my mum, I’m sorry to say you’re going to be disappointed. We aren’t much alike,” I said.
“That’s not why I find you interesting. This isn’t the only book of mine you’ve burnt. Although with the other one, you were probably doing me a favor.”
“Great,” I said flatly. “So if you aren’t going to kill me, what do you want?”
“Actually, I was hoping I could invite you down for a cup of tea,” he said in that annoyingly polite voice. “Uninvited guests are still guests, after all.” I laughed.
“All right. I’d be a pretty poor guest if I turned you down, wouldn’t I?”
I figured there was no harm in it. He could’ve already killed me and been done with it if he wanted. He put out his cigarette on the concrete next to him and flicked the butt over the edge of the roof. It disappeared before it hit the ground.
“Yeah, you would be,” he said, smiling sharply, and he stood up and offered his hand. I took it and got a shock of static electricity, and he pulled me to my feet. He started walking back across the roof, and I followed.
✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵
It wasn’t a far trip down to his place. He lived on the top floor. Of course. The flat was admittedly beautiful, in a sort of austere way. It was one of those open concepts, very modern, with floor to ceiling windows and lots of blues and greys and polished light wood furniture. Outside the windows, the city glittered dimly. He didn’t bother to switch on any lights except the ones in the kitchen, where he headed and started putting water on for tea. I sat down at one of the precarious-looking barstools to watch him work.
“Nice place,” I said.
“Hmm. One of the many benefits of patronage,” he answered, opening a drawer on the other side of the counter and pulling out an expensive-looking tin. “D’you like Darjeeling?”
I shrugged. “I've never tried it.”
“Here,” he said, opening the tin and holding it out to me, “smell.”
I leaned forward and inhaled. It smelled good, really good. Fruity and kind of flowery. “Wow, yeah, that's nice. Another benefit, I assume?” I said. He smiled and scooped a few tablespoons of it into a ridiculous futuristic-looking teapot.
“Is that why you decided to become part of… this, then?” I asked before I could stop myself, “The accommodations?”
His amiable expression hardened and he looked up at me. “No,” he said coolly. I knew that was my warning to back off, but I was curious, now. He was strange.
“Why, then?” I glanced at the branching shape reaching across his face, raising my eyebrows a little. “Did it have something to do with your scar?”
He set the tin down sharply on the counter.
“You're quite rude.”
“I am.”
I'm not really sure what he would've done if the kettle hadn't started whistling then. He poured the water over the leaves and checked his watch.
“You know,” I said, “you have me at a disadvantage.” He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Obviously.”
“Ha. Yeah. But what I meant was just that you know who I am, but I don’t know your name.”
“Ah, you're right. My apologies. My name is Michael Crew. But please, call me Mike.”
“Good to meet you, Mike,” I said.
“And you, Gerard,” he said. I winced.
“Ah… Gerry is better,” I corrected. He nodded and checked his watch again, then poured out two mugs of tea. I took a sip of mine. It was amazing.
“Good?” Mike asked, looking a little smug.
“Yeah,” I said, and then we were silent for a few minutes as we drank the tea. I took the time to look around the flat in more detail. My eyes caught on the wine rack to the side of the kitchen and a laugh startled out of me.
“Oh, come on. Isn't that excessive?” I said, gesturing towards it. There must have been at least 30 bottles.
“Hardly,” Mike said, sounding a bit insulted.
“What the hell do you need that much wine for? I can't imagine you entertain many guests. At least, not for long.”
“It's for my own use. I like wine, is that illegal?”
“In terms of legality, it's probably one of the least objectionable things here,” I said.
“Ha, ha,” he said flatly. “Would you like a glass, then?”
“Sure,” I agreed, and he took one of the bottles from the top of the rack and poured a glass for us both.
✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵
An hour or so later, and I was in that perfect state of drunkness where the whole world seemed warm and red and easy, and all the lights glittered and melted into each other. We’d long since moved from the kitchen to his living room, with Mike sitting cross-legged on the couch, listing into the armrest, and me slowly being consumed by an armchair. I’d had a good amount of wine. A fantastic amount.
I grinned at him and Mike, equally or possibly more sloshed than me, grinned back. It was surprisingly intense, his grin wild and open, his pale eyes shining with reflected light from the kitchen. And all of a sudden I was struck with a feeling of intense jealousy. Of Mike, of his freedom, of his power and the protection it gave him. How long had I wanted to be like that– wild and free and dangerous? It must have been my whole life. But for just as long, I’d known the cost was too high. I wouldn’t give myself to the things that destroyed so many people’s lives just for my own satisfaction. And so nothing changes. And every day I can feel this life wearing on me a little more.
“I don’t want to go back,” I said.
He gave me that hawk look again and tilted his head a little to the side.
“You don’t have to, you know. I can set you free.”
My stomach gave a swoop that I can’t rightly determine was from him or me. I laughed a little and shook my head. The freedom he can offer isn’t really freedom at all, just a different thing to answer to.
“No. You can’t,” I said, and was surprised to feel my eyes starting to burn. I closed them and tilted my head back. I would obviously prefer not to cry in front of an avatar that I only just met a few hours ago, but it’s at least safer to do in front of him than in front of mum, and I was too tired to try to stop it. My eyes started open again when I felt his hand on my face, cool electricity coursing underneath his skin. He was closer now, his other hand resting next to my thigh on the armchair, supporting him as he leaned towards me. I couldn’t stop looking at his eyes, the way the white film over his iris and pupil shifted and swirled like seafoam or like rolling thunderclouds. I was aware I was entering dangerous territory, but I didn’t want to gather the will to look away this time. He slid his hand from my cheek into my hair, and I was distantly grateful for having washed it recently.
We were there for a few long seconds, almost unmoving, with him leaning into my space, playing his fingers along my scalp, staring at me with his dull agate eyes. His breath reeked of ozone. Then slowly, very slowly, he leaned forward, and pulled me in, and kissed me. His lips were cold and chapped. He didn’t do anything to deepen it, he just pressed his cold mouth against mine, that point of contact a steady buzz of static. It was me who brought my hand up to the back of his head, pulled him in closer, opened my mouth on his with a sigh. He was on top of me now, leaning over where I was sitting. His hand moved from my hair to my upper arm, idly tracing branching patterns over my skin. His fingers left behind a tingling electricity everywhere he touched, making my breath catch. My hand tightened in his hair and now he was breathing quicker too. His hand that was on the armchair was now on my face, and it was intensely cold, burning, cutting through the flush that the wine and everything after had brought to my skin.
He didn’t try to take it any further than that. I didn’t want him to. And after a few more seconds he broke away and looked at me again. If I had wanted to pull him back in I think he would have let me. I didn’t. I sighed and ran my fingers through his hair, just for the sake of it.
“Thanks,” I said genuinely. He patted my shoulder amiably, then got up. I sighed again and then rose as well. It would've been nice to stay longer, but I knew mum was expecting me back soon with the Lietner, and I'd have enough to deal with when she found out I'd burned it. I don't like to think about how much shit I'd be in if she found out about the other… stuff.
“I need to leave,” I murmured, “but this was nice. Really, thank you.”
“Of course. Let it never be said I'm a bad host,” he said, giving a little mock bow. I laughed.
He showed me to the door and shook my hand.
“Don't be a stranger,” he said easily.
“Bye, Mike.”
And then I left, and the door shut behind me, and I made my stumbling way home.