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Blood is slowly covering the pavement in a trail of crimson droplets. Dust and sand float in clouds from under his faltering steps. Cold bursts of wind smack at his face, making his eyes water reflexively.
It's not crying. It's just the wind.
Cicadas buzz all around, in every direction, sing tirelessly of their love and devotion. Just a couple more weeks and the sound will be gone with them for another year. Do they fear their approaching end? Crawling in the dirt for years just to die after a month or two of being finally free, if they're even lucky enough to not get eaten or crushed for that long.
Jimmy is an unlucky cicada. Forced into a life of digging through the darkness, searching for any nutrients to sustain his life, only to be doomed to get sliced inside someone's lawn mower right as he crawls out to see the sunlight for the first time in his life. Unlike those buzzing around he will never get to molt his ugly shell, will never get wings of his own, will never know flight or song, or other's love. The world will decapitate him before he ever hears the creak of his kin's voice, before he can develop a rhythm to his own tune.
He turns around and drops backward onto a slide with a loud thump. His back hurts but not as much as his face and arms do. The metal of the slide cools it pleasantly through the thin fabric of his shirt, the bruises surely developing there feeling temporarily relieved. Jimmy stares into the expanse above him. Darkness, devoid of any light and emotion, ever so far but still pressing onto the skin with a weight he can't seem to shake off.
An unlucky cicada. Burrowing through the mud, never catching a glimpse of sunlight or a breath of fresh air, a miserable product of his parents' instinct. Destined to fail despite all the effort to survive.
"Jimmy!"
He barely shifts at the distant sound, the static in his ears drowns it out pretty efficiently anyways.
"Jimmy, are you there?"
The words are heard closer this time, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.
Jimmy knows who this is from the voice alone. He doesn't want to see him, so he replaces the darkness stretching above him with the darkness of his own eyelids.
"Jimmy! Thank god you're here. Wait, are you bleeding?"
A sigh. "Spilled some ketchup."
"Not funny. Give me your hand."
Jimmy lays still in his place on the slide, then reluctantly turns his left arm over to a panicked gasp from right above his shoulder. He hears rustling of fabric on his side, something small falling to the ground, a trembling curse whispered under the breath. Something soft presses to his forearm, some cloth, probably a napkin. Carefully it wipes down his skin, the faintest of pressure especially light directly over the wounds.
He must be looking so pathetic right now. A dog scratching an itch to the point of bleeding, beaten by its owner into submission to stop, tugging its tail between its legs and crawling into the farthest corner of its cage.
Jimmy feels the napkin leave his skin, probably discarded to the ground, now tainted with the poison that used to run through his veins. He's glad it's over, at least he should be, so he assumes that's what the feeling pressing on his chest is.
Next second warm fingers tap lightly on his skin, which catches the boy by surprise, but his body feels too heavy to move away from the touch. He wants to look. He doesn't care enough to look. The tension in his jaw eases slightly.
"You're so stupid, so stupid..."
Anxious, not really bitter, mumbling in his ear, just blabber to fill the silence between them as the fingers meticulously put band-aids over his cuts. Probably not all of them, just the deepest ones. Jimmy is not sure what his friend is trying to achieve with this, it's not like band-aids can actually help. They do not ease the pain, do not stitch the skin back together, just cover the uglyness so it doesn't disturb.
"Now your other arm."
Huh, Jimmy almost forgot he even had a second one, too focused on the delicate care put into patching up this one. Still refusing to open his eyes, he repeats the motion he'd done with his left arm now with the right one, but to a quiet sound of footsteps around him instead of the gasp from before.
Disappointment. That's what this was, what he inherently was. A cicada failing long before it even approached the surface to break free. A dog on a chain desperately scratching at its neck. He'd heard it this evening, all spelled out loud and clear, just how much of a fucking disgrace he was. How he would never amount to anything because of his dumb impulses. How the world would keep spinning and everyone would keep living even if he was no more. Jimmy knew it himself, he didn't need reminders. And now on top of his family the one person he could call a friend was disappointed in him too. Saw the uglyness and covered it up to remain undisturbed. But what is life without disturbances? Is there even one like that? Jimmy probably is the only singular disturbance in his life, maybe that's precisely why his friend loops back around to him every time. A creature so flawless it voluntarily seeks violence to remind itself what living really is.
Jimmy cracks his eyes open, just a bit, just to look for a second, no more. Pale hands, careful in their touch, diligently put band-aids over the cuts on his right forearm, the streaks of blood already wiped off. His gaze trails up, unable to resist the growing need (want?) to catch the other's eyes. What for even? Jimmy doesn't know, he doesn't want to know. Wanting makes things complicated. His friend's lips are pressed in a tight line, concentrated on making his touch as gentle and precise as possible. Curls of blond fall over his forehead and eyes as he's leaning forward slightly. Fuck. Jimmy watches for a couple seconds, then reaches with his left hand to push some of the strands away from the boy's face, who jumps a bit at the sudden touch. His hair is not long enough to tuck it behind his ears, so Jimmy keeps his hand on the top of the other's head, holding the strands away from covering his eyes as their gazes finally meet.
"Thanks, Curls."
...
Thursday evening. Bleak as any other. The floorboards creak softly under his feet, somehow even such a quiet noise scrapes at his ears, a pulsing ache in his temples. His legs feel wobbly, body worn out to its limit. He shuts the door behind himself, fiddles with the keys, finally locks it. Drops his jacket to the floor, he's too tired to care to hang it properly. Stumbles to the living room and flops to the couch. Going straight to bed would probably be the better idea, but he can't bring himself to take the few extra steps.
Why does it have to happen today? He still has work tomorrow, has to show up no matter what to build credit to his name so one day he finally secures the position he aimed for in the first place. He'd bounce back during the weekend had this stricken him tomorrow evening.
His eyelids feel heavy. His limbs do too. It's so quiet in his apartment. The clothes he wore all day cling too tightly to his frame, it's too hot. And too tiresome to change. So he lays still, hot and uncomfortable, slowly drifting to the numbness of sleep.
Keys rattle in his front door.
He's too tired to care.
A figure steps inside. He hears the shuffle of a plastic bag being put on the floor, the lock clicking again, the rustle of fabric and finally footsteps.
"So how did our princess manage to get sick again?"
He smiles despite himself at the rough voice. Jimmy was like that, ragged and rough around the edges, but still coming to his rescue. Even at about midnight, even on a Thursday evening.
With a huffed chuckle, "Good evening to you too, Jim."
Through the haze in his vision he sees Jimmy come closer and lean down over him, seemingly searching his face. The other's hand touches his forehead in a gesture of simple human care, surprisingly gentle but not lingering. With a sigh Jimmy disappears into the kitchen, on his way grabbing the bag he'd brought from the floor.
It's strange, to be the damsel in distress for once, Curly thinks. Strange but not unpleasant. If it were anyone else in his apartment right now, he'd probably feel like a burden, an unexpected trouble for someone to deal with. With Jimmy though he somehow feels at peace. Not because it's the norm but precisely because it isn't. Curly has people who'd help him, who'd show up faster and smile at him more, but to them this would be an obligation. An inconvenience they have to cover up with politeness so it doesn't bother their ego. Jimmy though? He was the likeliest one to leave him on read. Heck, he did today, but showed up anyway with his spare keys and even some groceries. Sometimes Curly can't wrap his head around Jimmy's behavior and honest to god he can't see it as a bad thing. Why should he, if the contrast makes every emotion so much more vivid, every memory so precious? Jimmy isn't one to offer help and care freely, always building walls around himself so no one can get too close. That makes his care so much more special. He's here now not out of duty or pity, but because he chose to. Chose to put Curly above whatever plans he could've had on a Thursday night. That means something. Maybe more than he's willing to let on.
Curly's thoughts are getting more and more fuzzy, he feels like he's melting into the couch. There's an appetizing smell coming from the kitchen. Curly's not sure if he'll stay awake long enough to know what that is.
As his thoughts start to lack any coherent links between them, reduced to simple momentary feelings in his body put into words, he's suddenly brought back to the world by a push to his shoulder.
"...got you soup. Eat, then medicine."
Gathering all the power left in his weakened body, Curly sits up on the couch, shifting slightly to lean his side on the backrest. Not the most comfortable of positions but will do.
Jimmy is standing in front of him, a bowl of chicken soup in his hand. Curly takes it, but he's not sure if he actually wants to eat, it seems too big of a task right now. He stares blankly into the bowl, swirling the liquid with the spoon, golden bubbles of oil more mesmerizing than any TV show he'd ever seen.
"C'mon man, I didn't work my ass off in your kitchen for nothing."
That catches Curly off guard. "You cooked that yourself?"
"Well duh, it wouldn't have taken 40 minutes ready-made."
40 minutes? He must've lost track of time in his delirium.
And, wow, Jimmy cooked for him? How could Curly be so unlucky to miss the sight! Jimmy barely cooked for himself, that Curly knew for sure from all the times his friend would casually drop the line of their hangout meal being his breakfast, but willingly cooked soup for Curly? A small smile creeps across his face.
Nah, screw the unlucky, he was the luckiest man alive.
Curly wouldn't call the feeling hunger, but with the new knowledge of the soup's origin it suddenly became so much more appealing. He takes better hold of the spoon in his hand, though his arm feels heavy all the same.
Jimmy brough a chair from the kitchen, sitting himself beside Curly, now watching him with squinted eyes, his jaw tense. Curly didn't expect his friend to be so worried for his well being, but he sure wouldn't complain. The soup tastes good, if just a tiny bit not salty enough, but Curly doesn't care. It's the best soup in his life simply because of the fact whose hands made it.
"Is it any good?"
Curly forgets how to speak for a second, then in quick bursts tumbles out: "Yes, yes, it's good. Haven't had anything that good in a while. Thanks, Jim."
"Mhm" is all the response he gets. Jimmy stands up again, grabs medicine and a glass of water from the kitchen, hands both to Curly in exchange for his now empty bowl, takes it away and lingers in the kitchen for a beat too long. Curly's eyelids are growing heavy again. He leans heavier on the backrest, presses his cheek to the fabric, that seems far easier than laying back down.
When did he get so fortunate? Well, more like when did Jimmy get so... generous? Getting sick at work on Thursday and barely making it home on wobbly feet was still not the best of luck on his part, but the way Jimmy was acting overshadowed all of that, not letting the misery of his body's defeat creep in.
All things considered, Curly feels okay. Sick, aching, hot, weak and happy. "Happy" is what really matters. To think of it, he also feels something pressing on his lips, so he reluctantly opens his eyes again.
"Something" is a tangerine segment.
Curly stares at it in disbelief for a couple seconds, then traces the arm holding it with his eyes, up, up, until he reaches the face. Jimmy is standing over him, eyes glued to his, the glimmer of the kitchen light reflecting in bright orange splotches on his irises. Sparkles just as bright as that tangerine, Curly muses.
"Are we doing this again?"
Jimmy's voice drags Curly down from the cloud he was about to drift on to heavens. He shakes his head weakly and parts his lips, the segment landing on his tongue, more sour than sweet but that's exactly how he preferred them. As Curly chews, Jimmy sits back on his chair, his fingers working to peel the rest of the fruit.
"Are you actually Jimmy?"
Curly can't hold back the chuckle in his voice. This doesn't seem real. Maybe he after all couldn't make it back home and hit his head on the concrete, the entire evening happening all in his mind.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Don't get a big head now. I just need a fidget toy and I'm not really hungry."
A beat. Another offered piece. Another bite.
"I'm crashing here for tonight. Don't wanna end up like you with the cold outside."
The tangerine tastes perfect on his tongue. Sour just the right amount.
"Sure thing."
...
The sounds of dying machinery never end, stuck in its torturous work cycle even after it should have collapsed. The air flowing through the vents births screeches akin to hoarse coughts of victims of tuberculosis, carrying likely even more foul essence than those ever could. The metal of the ship creaks somewhere distant every odd minute or so, giving in under some indiscernible pressure.
A force that should have cracked it long ago with a single blow, but for some reason decided to prolong the torture, increasing ever so slightly, teasingly, as if reluctant to let things come to an inevitable end.
Blood is dripping down his hands. It covers his forearms entirely, gathering in thick droplets on his fingertips and at the edges of his sleeves. It is not his blood. Finally, for once in his life, the blood over his scars is not coming from them. It feels narcotic. It feels right. Like this blood is simply a set of gloves gifted by a friend to warm his hands as the heating systems fail.
A friend so dear he couldn't ever wish for a better one. There is no better one. A friend shining so brightly he feels grateful to have been given the chance to bask in his light. To share every sunbeam, every glimmer, every spark of spontaneous color and rainbows, even every occasional cloud and thunderstorm. Through it all they've stuck together. And there's nothing more meaningful than that. A friend, a companion, a flame burning a different shade than his own, but not conflicting, not oppressive, rather pliant, complimentary in their entangled dance. Always by each other's side. Even now standing together.
A friend he could no longer recognize. Whose once sparkling eyes have been devoid of light for longer than his memory allows him to look back. Whose hands turned their cruelty outward, when all he could ever remember before were the marks of self-hatred. Someone he wanted to protect, to shelter from all the harm he never deserved. Someone proving him wrong for this want. Sharing every moment with someone he never actually knew. Being physically close but in actuality existing in completely different worlds. Pulled together by a force beyond them, a force made to destroy.
Blood is dripping down his hands limbs. It covers his forearms body entirely, pooling at the table underneath. It is not his blood. For once in his life, he doesn't wish to stop the bleeding. It feels cathartic. It feels right. Like the blood he's losing is the only part of him finally allowed to escape the suffering.
Suffering that could've cracked them had they not faced the challenges together, always there to keep each other on their feet, breathe the air back into the other's failing lungs, reassuring that there is still future ahead.
Death is in silence. As long as you go out with a bang, you will never know silence. As long as there is the steady drone of machinery working its purpose, you will have the chance to survive. The systems exist for a reason. However torn and mangled, they are made to be used.