Streetlights

The next day is completely uneventful. Except for the fact that John sees neither Tavros nor Dave all day. He can’t say he’s not pleased about the latter – relieved would probably be a better word to describe it – but the former worries him a little. Tavros always shows up to school, even if he doesn’t go to any lessons (which is more often than not). Rufioh doesn’t know where he is, either, saying he didn’t see him when he left the house that morning, thinking he’d just got up late, which worries John even more. He can’t, however, leave school early, so he speaks when he’s spoken to and does nothing but worry all day. He goes to all his lessons, for once not having Music, just to avoid talking to people. Working puts things out of his mind, too, thoughts that get progressively more manic and frantic and outlandish as the day wears on.

Eventually, however, it’s time for him to go home, racing out of Chemistry thankfully as soon as the bell rings, ignoring Mr Makara’s yells for him to return to the classroom immediately.

First stop – Tavros’s house.

He pulls out the scrap piece of paper that Rufioh had scribbled a terrible map to their house from school on – he’s going to Equius’s after school with Rose, so he can’t take John to Tavros’s – and stares at it intently. He’s either meant to be going left, or underground. He guesses the former, as the latter would be relatively difficult, and runs off down the street, knocking younger children over as he goes. He doesn’t even stop to apologise (or listen to their angry yells), skidding to a halt at the end of the road as he tries to figure out what the fuck Rufioh has drawn here. He’d said it wasn’t far, right, two roads or something like that, closer than John’s house, so John takes the left and speedwalks down the road, looking for number fifty three. If he’s wrong, he can just run down the other road or call Rufioh angrily, ask him why he can’t draw for shit. He takes Fine Art, for God’s sake, he should be able to draw something as simple as a map.

It takes him up until forty-six to realise that he’s actually on the wrong side of the road, and when he crosses he nearly gets hit by a car, jumping out of the way just in time as an angry fist shakes at him out of the window. John flips the car off defiantly, hopping onto the curb and running down to number fifty-three. All or nothing, right?

He rings the doorbell. Nobody answers. He tries again, and gets the same reaction.

John retreats down the path that leads back to the main road, digging his phone out of his pocket and dialling Rufioh’s number, praying he picks up. Thankfully, he does, on the second ring.

“Yo,” he says. “Did you find it okay?”

“I don’t know, I turned left at the end of the road, was that right?” John frets.

“Yeah,” Rufioh says. “Is he not answering?”

“No,” John says. “He will be in, right?”

“I don’t know,” Rufioh says, and even he has an edge of panic to his voice. “Go round the side, to the right of the house, there’s a fencey-door thing there you can get over into the garden.”

“Wait, I’ll put the phone in my pocket whilst I do that,” John says, and Rufioh makes a noise of agreement. He shoves his phone in his pocket and runs around to the right of the house. The fencey-door looks easy enough to climb, so he chucks his bag over and gets a decent foothold, vaulting himself over and landing painfully on his feet, almost breaking his ankles.

Fucking ow.

“Okay,” he says breathlessly, pulling his phone out of his pocket and nursing his painful ankle as he stands up properly. “Where now?”

“Try the back door, it’s not usually locked,” Rufioh says. John limps over to the patio doors, pulling on the handle and then shaking his head with a sigh.

“Locked,” he says.

“Okay,” Rufioh says, and that’s definitely panic in his voice. “We never lock those doors. Shit. There’s a key under a flowerpot, like, the second one to the right or something…” John doesn’t even say anything, just lifts the second flowerpot to the right, finding a rusted key underneath.

“Got it,” he says, slipping it into the lock and letting himself in. The pain in his ankle is beginning to subside, so he tentatively puts a little bit more weight on it. When the pain doesn’t increase, he steps on it properly, letting himself into the house and dropping the key on the floor without a second thought. He needs to find Tavros; what if he’s in trouble? His mind flits back to the scars on Tavros’s arms, and he breathes in sharply. Shit.

“Rufioh, where’s Tavros’s room?” he says.

“Upstairs, second from the left,” Rufioh says.

But John doesn’t even have to go to Tavros’s bedroom, because he spots a piece of paper on the table in Tavros’s terrible handwriting.

At the bridge.

That’s all it says, no more, no less. At the bridge. What bridge? What’s he doing at the bridge?

“He’s left a note that says ‘at the bridge’,” John says, bewildered. Rufioh curses lowly.

“Right,” he says. “Go over to the front window, look out of it.” John obeys, walking over to the large bay window at the front of the room.

“Yeah?” he says. There’s no bridge here.

“Can you see the end of the road, if you look to the right?” If he cranes his head and practically breaks his neck, then yes, he can. John voices this to Rufioh, who says this sounds about right.

“Alright. Go to the end of the road, and then go to the right. Follow the dirt track until you reach the bridge. Go quick; I don’t know what he’s planning. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

John doesn’t say anything, just shoves the phone in his pocket, not even bothering to hang up as he runs out of the front door and all the way up the street (which is, incidentally, stupidly long and seems to get longer the further he runs, although that might just be due to his high levels of unfitness), turning right at the end like Rufioh had said. Sure enough, there’s a dirt track leading off into a small, dense patch of trees. John can see some kind of light filtering through at the end, though, and he runs all the way through the trees too.

It opens out onto some kind of clearing, a half-dirt-track half-road thing that happens to be a stone bridge. Tavros’s standing there, standing- standing on top of the fucking barrier.

“Tavros!” John yells, but Tavros doesn’t even turn around. His hair is ruffling in the wind, although most of it is held in by his beanie, and he looks almost angelic.

“Tavros,” John says again, drawing nearer. “Tavros, get down.”

“It’s so peaceful,” Tavros says dreamily, as if John hadn’t even spoken. “It’s like…like all my troubles and worries are gone.”

“Get down,” John repeats, trying not to lose his mind. What if Tavros jumps? John can’t see how far down it is, which is worrying in itself because it means it’s far enough for Tavros to die. What if John can’t dissuade Tavros from jumping?

“I’m not here to jump,” Tavros says. “I’m here to think.”

“Why does that require you standing there?” John says. “Can’t you get down and think? You’re making me nervous.”

“Try it,” Tavros suggests. “Come on, get up.” He turns around, offering John his hand. John stands there, hesitantly. He doesn’t want to get up. What if he falls? He doesn’t want to die. And if he falls and he’s holding Tavros’s hand, he’ll be responsible for Tavros dying too.

“No,” he says. “Get down.”

“I’m not getting down,” Tavros says. “Get up.”

“Tavros,” John says.

“Come on, give it a shot,” Tavros says. “What have you got to lose?”

“My life?!” John says.

“I won’t let you fall,” Tavros says, eyes earnest. “I promise.” John hesitates a moment longer before answering – a moment too long, because that’s all it takes for his irrational thought to kick in.

Do it, it whispers. It’ll be fun.

Slowly, John makes his way towards Tavros, taking his outstretched hand and heaving himself onto the weathered stone of the barrier, staring out at the green trees beyond.

Tavros’s right. This is the most relaxed John’s ever been in his life. It really does feel like all his troubles are gone. He can hear the rushing water beneath him, the crickets in the grassy woodland surrounding them, Tavros’s breathing next to him. He can feel the wind teasing his hair, his body, the sun shining down on them, making him turn his face into it, closing his eyes, relishing in this sudden tranquillity. He’s still holding Tavros’s hand, but he doesn’t let go.

For the first time in a long time, he feels free.
-
Rufioh shows up approximately two minutes later, yelling at them both manically to get down. Tavros opens his eyes and turns to look at John, rolling his eyes fondly before stepping down from the bridge, taking John with him. Rufioh yells at them both for a while, mainly at Tavros about how worried sick he was and how he was going to matarte or something.

He walks Tavros home angrily, still muttering things about te voy a estrangular, leaving John to find his own way home.

He manages, it, somehow, weaving through street after street until he finds somewhere that looks vaguely familiar, realising it’s his street but the opposite end. His street is stupidly long, as well, so he has to trudge about about a light-year until he reaches his house. Great.

He ambles down the road, kicking anything in his path, with his hands in his pockets since he doesn’t have his schoolbag. Whatever; like he uses it anyway. Tavros or Rufioh will bring it in tomorrow.

John’s just meandering down the street, daydreaming aimlessly, when a door clicks open.

“John,” a voice says, and John squints into the dusk ahead to see who it is. It looks faintly like Rose, so he approaches with a spring in his step…until he realises it’s not Rose. It’s Dave.

“What do you want?” John says, and his voice sounds cold, even to himself. It takes him by surprise.

“To talk,” Dave says, clicking the door shut behind him again. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and a red hoodie that clings to his body in all the right places, and it takes all of John’s willpower to not let his eyes roam Dave's body hungrily.

He shakes that thought out of his head, choosing to replace it with a scowl in Dave’s direction.

“Alright, talk,” he says, crossing his arms defiantly. Dave sighs, shaking his head with a small, almost fond smile. John wants to kiss it right off his lips. And then punch him for being so infuriating and such a dick.

“Can we go somewhere a little more…private?” Dave asks.

“Where do you suggest?” John asks. Dave shrugs.

“Bridge?” John rolls his eyes – he’s just walked from there, and now he has to walk all the way back, and it’s getting dark – but nods. Dave walks down his driveway and up the path with John, side by side, neither of them saying a word or looking at the other, not even sideways glances, until they reach the bridge. It’s dark by now, dark enough for stars to be shining in the woods that are far enough away from any light pollution to show the stars without anything obscuring them.

“Okay,” John says, spinning around to face Dave. “Talk.”

“Sit,” Dave offers, gesturing at the bridge. John sighs, but, unafraid now that he’s stood on there, swings his legs over the side and lets them dangle into the darkness. He can’t even see the water beneath them, staring intently as Dave sits down next to him.

“You spoke to Sollux,” Dave says after a moment. John says nothing. “Did you speak to Tavros?” Still, John says nothing. Dave sighs.

“You know they’re better for each other, John,” he says softly. “You know you were his streetlight.”

“He was mine, too,” John says quietly. “You let it have a double meaning.” John can’t see Dave, but he can practically hear his wry smile.

“Yeah,” Dave admits. “I did.” They’re silent for a while again, and then Dave speaks.

“It’s pretty here,” he remarks.

“I can’t see much of it,” John says. “It’s pretty fucking dark.”

“Exactly,” Dave says. “Doesn’t the darkness strike you as…beautiful?”

“Not really,” John says. “It’s dark.”

“It’s beautiful because you don’t know what’s there,” Dave says.

“I’d count that as pretty damn terrifying. There could be a murderer behind us right now,” John says.

“And tell me honestly that you would mind if you died right now.” John opens his mouth – of course I’d fucking mind, I don’t want to die, are you out of your mind? – but nothing comes out. Because he wouldn’t mind.

And that is the most terrifying thought he’s ever had.

“I thought as much,” Dave says, smile audible in his voice. John scowls, leading them to lapse into silence for a few more moments.

“Look up.” John obeys. “What can you see?”

“The stars,” John says. “What can you see?”

“The beginning,” Dave says. “The end. Births and deaths, right above us, right in front of our eyes, beauty in both.”

“No streetlights here,” John mutters.

“Exactly,” Dave says. “Just the stars. Just the beginning, just the end. Just me, just you. Just us.”

Dave’s hand finds his in the darkness, their fingers tangling together as they sit there, gazing up at the night sky with the water rushing underneath them.
Just them.