Chapter Text
You must admit, when you moved to Washington some odd years back, you were looking to avoid scenes such as this. You do not mean the overly crowded bus stop, that is to be expected when the skies open and attempt to drown this dreary day. You are, of course, referring to the man slumped on the curb, one foot forgotten in the gutter; undoubtedly, the red and yellow sneaker is ruined. His blue-black hair is plastered over square glasses and sticks to the unhealthy pallor of the natives. His blue jeans, worn through at the knees, are soaked through from sitting outside the protection granted by bus stops. The green jacket and t-shirt, featuring what seems to be some sort of snot monster, appear to suffer the same state of abuse and general sogginess. He does not move, the epitome of dejection, save for his lips, speaking in hushed tones to himself.
A boisterous lad of perhaps six braves the rain to creep close and eavesdrop on his mutterings, a sharp scolding from his mother and he’s back. Giggling, he reports that the man is talking about rainbows. The entirety of people crowded under the bus stop shoot worried glances at the man who careful regards the debris circling lazily around his foot. The side furthest from him becomes compacted with skittish commuters, leaving you with a blessed amount of space as you do not shy away from the troubled man. Without the human barrier muffling his whispers, you can hear him, even seated as you are.
“Red is- was nothing, no one, a ghost of a whisper, but now smiles bright as the sun. Orange is skittish, timid, and warm, no bark and no bite. Yellow is… is… Yellow is two, black and white, red and blue, black and white, red and blue. Green is the jungle, complete with tangles and burs, wild with childlike glee. Blue is… blue is blueis-“ He cuts off abruptly, drawing a deep breath that sputters as he inhales stray rain.
“Blue is…proper. Blue is curt. Blue is uptight. Blue is nothing. Blue is… Missing colors. Greens and blues, and, and eight and grey, and eight and grey, and eight and grey, and more and eight and grey, and and and and andandand-“ Akin to a broken record he skips back to the same damaged vinyl. This time, he screws up his eyes, then proceeds to grind the heel of his palm into them, shoving his glasses askew, as though this could guide the skipping needle to smoother waters.
“Stuck. Go back. Blue is… Then indigo is… Indigo is sleepy and scary, soft and sharp, warm and cold and D A N G E R O U S. Violet is bubbles and giggles, and…? There’s more. And… and… and dead, no, killed. Killer is haughty and arrogant and rude and and… lonely, so very alone. And they left me alone. It wasn’t their fault, it wasn’t my fault. But I’m so alone and…” He buries his face in a sodden jacket sleeve. He might have choked out a sob, but between the pinging of rain on the tin of the bus stop and a distant boom of thunder finally reaching, you might be reading into the mood. You wonder what grievances he’s had, since apparently colors have abandoned him. In addition, violet seems to be murdered. Hmm.
A short while passes, silent save for an increase in the violence of the rain, and you too should have passed by now. It is obvious to you that your companions have either forgotten the date or are ridiculously late. Before you can act on this thought; he slowly raises his head, tucking his chin into his elbow. A wistful smile ghosts across his face before fading, leaving a boy looking lost and a light gone dim. Lost in a memory if you had to guess. A saturated sneaker raises its moat, dislodging his perch, and amassed floatsome swirls for waters uncharted. Haltingly, he starts again.
“Jade left first before… before anyone knew. And Jade’s is angry and little and tiny and short and mad and funny and andandandand- Figured it out when Dave left. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, razors and daggers and- Dave’s is razors and and cackles and edges and blind and seeing and red on teal and- oh, haha, red on teal, and teal on red and Dave’s.” He pauses, his internal teleprompter failing. “Sister. Rose. She said she was sorry, so very sorry. She wanted to stay, but it wouldn’t let her. She would cut you, and hurt you, and break you, because she couldn’t remember. It hurt. She didn’t mean to, she didn’t mean to (but she did it anyways). And Rose’s is…Rose’s is beautiful and elegant and stunning and lovely, dew drops on roses, in love, completely in love. And I’m hurting and tired and scarred and lonely. It was supposed to be over and done and everything great, but I hurt and forget and forget and I can’t. I can’t. I have to remember otherwise I’ll never get them back and I can’t forget even one and… Red, yellow, orange, green, blue, indigo, violet, killer, Jade’s, Dave’s, Rose’s, and and and-“ Babbling continuously, his fingers tick off colors and common enough names, frustration evident even in the quarter profile you are privy to. He attempts to rattle some forgotten tidbit as one would shake loose a stubborn vending machine trinket. You must admit, the young man worries you as he pounds his head.
“Me. What was mine? Mine was- NO, is, ALWAYS is. Mine IS… Mine is a secret, ‘cause Rose’s is pretty and lovely, and in love. Love that’s a secret. I’ve got it. Mine is, is secretly unsure. She postures and bullies, a tiger of paper… and I’m getting it all wrong! A spider. Is deadly and crafty and… I can’t remember more. I have to remember more!” At this the bus arrives, gracing the man with a deluge of muddy water. He hunches in on himself, but otherwise does not react. As the doors open with an overly enthusiastic welcome the commuters cram like frenzied cattle through automatic doors. Handbags become bludgeoning devises and those that failed to have fares ready receive a symphony of snarls and shoves. Savagery escalates and a poor soul is cast back, jostling the slumped vagrant. Now the man takes note of the procession, watching with amusement, even as his body starts shaking from the cold.
The bus takes off as it arrived, though this time the spattering of mud water a fine mist. He reacts now, wrinkling his nose and sticking out his tongue at the retreating bus. He turns slightly, granting a clearer view of his expression, and appears to sink back into the depths of himself. A particularly violent shiver shakes his frame and guilt grips you as you shift your unused umbrella. The tin roof leaks in several instances whence a screw missed its post by at least a handsbreadth if not more, leaving jagged stalactites that drip precisely down your raincoats collar, regardless of where you sit. At least it keeps the worst the icy rains off you. He, however, seems oblivious to the bluish hue creeping down fingertips, intent on counting inanities. This will not do. “Perhaps if you are done courting hypothermia and pneumonia, you would consider company slightly less malicious and join me beneath this marvel of human ingenuity?”
He starts at your voice, swivels comically, and starts again at the sight of you. Soaked to the bone and spattered in mud, a hint of stubble no longer subtle and a suspicion that were it not raining he might have a bit of an odor, but good Lord, those eyes! Clearest of blues, sapphires in the dark, but clouded with emotion, despair and loss. What would they look like full of life and laughter? He stares at you through beaded glass, not as a stranger might, though not as a friend might either. He speaks softly, with hesitance, but the timber of it cuts through the drumming of the rain. “You, uh, just missed the bus.”
“I might say the same of you, but then I don’t believe either of us had any intent on traversing public transit.” An amiable smile graces your lips. “I, myself, am waiting for someone. While you seem quite complacent occupying the gutter.” Only now does he seem to truly recognize his current arrangement and spares you a sheepish grin before extracting himself from said gutter. A mental debate plays out across his features, oversized teeth worrying his lower lip and a crease in his brow, as to remain standing or occupy the bench seat. He compromises, choosing to sit uncomfortably on the edge of the bench. A drowned poodle could not be more waterlogged. As a puddle rapidly forms beneath him, you are infinitely grateful for the grated seats. Otherwise, you are certain it would look as though you suffered a most unfortunate accident.
“He must be a hell of a guy to make a lady like you wait in the rain.” Up close, he hardly looks crazed. Troubled, most assuredly, but only so much as a man with too much responsibility. A soul worthy of sympathy.
“What makes you so sure I wait for a man?” Alas, your tongue is cursed with a contrary nature.
He quite clearly rolls his eyes at you. You suspect it is more playful than exasperate. “The sentiment’s the same. Plus, I was pretty sure you’d correct me if I was wrong. That or wait for my goldfish-guppy mouth gaping when your lady friend shows up. Really either or, makes no difference to me.”
Odd man. Companionable, to be sure, and possibly a bit mad, but an interesting conversationalist none the less. But then, you yourself are what they call a bit of an odd duck. “Then to clarify, and rectify any confusion I might have imbued, I am waiting for both a man and a woman. Old companions, I might add.”
Mirth lights his eyes, a sly smile his lips. “Two companions, miss? Scandalous!”
“Oh, hush you! They are friends. Untimely friends in retrospect, as they were to be here an hour past, but then, neither is particularly keen on punctuality.” An understatement and major irritant.
He makes a noise of affirmation, as though it was a fact he was well aware of. “Well, since we both have some time to kill, would you like to hear a story?”
And as in any storybook intro, you nod and lightning strikes, casting his face in sharp relief, haunts and hallows and shadowed eyes. For a moment, all you see is black and white and blue.