Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You didn't expect the cold. This biting, unescapable cold filling your veins and muscles when you came to terms with reality.

You were completely alone now.

No exit. No call for help. No sympathy, not even a remote hint of it. From now on, it'd be just you and your rotten guts, the ghost of a sound, a secret you'd never confess.

When in trouble, you used to laugh. A bitter “I’m feeling dead inside, thank you very much” kind of laugh, but still, a laugh nonetheless. When one’s on the road for so long - six months, or seven maybe?-, you have to find a way of coping, and yours was humor. You remembered what a crazy old man once told you in a caravan park, when everything started.

“You’re really nice, you know. They’re going to rip you apart.”

You didn’t believe him then, thinking your strength would save you. But as your life started to look like a series of bad news and and questionable decisions, you willed to reconsider. And the laughing habit? Oh, dead and buried for sure.

7PM

After walking for a whole day under the burning sun, you started getting nauseous, and noticed your bottle of water was empty. Everything ached at this point, from your scraped knees to the blisters on your lips. As for money, well... Delicate topic. Not many resources left, apart from your big backpack, full of dirty clothes and memories.

Your legs finally carried you to a civilized area - if such a thing existed in Petria. A brightly lit building, and a parking lot, where you immediately spotted, despite your blurry vision, a cardboard. Carboards were built by fellow travelers who needed a free sleeping spot, and if they were kind enough, they left it for their successors. The one on the parking lot barely stood up, but at this point, it looked like a goddamn place to you. You curled up inside like a wounded animal, planning to take a quick nap. It turned into a three hours coma.

10pm.

The sky was dark blue and wrapped in a veil of translucent stars when you woke up. You wondered how late it was. Pretty late, you decided. 

And turned out the brightly lit building was a bar, the kind you avoided religiously despite your precarious situation. Its name, Palavas, didn’t ring any bell, but you knew those cheap saloons were all the same in this remote part of Petria: tacky, cheap, shady, and full of raging alcoholics banned from all the other restaurants. On top of that, the owners of these places carried weapons - so stealing some cash was out of the question. So yeah, not a good place to spend the evening in, but you couldn't stay in the cardboard forever. Plus, you were to weak to keep walking, too vulnerable to wander in the desert at night AND you couldn't afford to take the bus, let alone a cab.  Beggers can't be choosers, you thought with a sigh.

As expected, the Palavas wasn't a friendly, heart-warming environment, despite its fairy lights hanging from the ceiling and the many jukeboxes. It was full, though, of gloomy and loud customers.Your could smell their eagerness to forget, hidden in this twilight barely hindered by the dim glow of a few light bulbs. Nobody paid attention to you as you made your way between the swaying bodies. A lot of empty glasses were stacked on the counter. Behind it, the barman, bundled up in a suit too tight for him, was engaged in a very lively conversation with a woman who kept shaking her head aggressively. Another guy joined them. 

“Any chance you’d give me my drink, Joe?” He shouted at the barman.

“Not if you keep pissing me off, that’s for sure!” He retorted with a higher pitch. You awkwardly waved at him. “Joe” looked you up and down behind his sunglasses. What kind of asshole wears sunglasses indoors?!

“Excuse me, can I have a glass of water, please? I’ve got a bit of a dehydration situation going on there.”

“Can you even pay for that?” He replied disdainfully.

“Wait, why should I even pay for that? Water’s fr-”

“You look like you could use some money.”

“I simply asked for a glass of water.”

“So you don’t need money?”

Annoying, but as much as it killed you to admit it, he was right. “Yes”, you sighed. He smiled with great satisfaction.

“My employees ditched me, you see. I could use an extra pair of hands. Can you handle the bar for me?”

“I never worked in a bar before.”

“Honestly kid, you could be underage, armless or both that I couldn’t care less. I just need someone there. Do what you’re told, fill the glasses and never lose your cool, okay?”

He turned his head and yelled at a bald woman busy punching a jukebox.

“Debbie, if I see you doing that once again, I swear to fucking god I-”

Cons: facing a hord of alcohol-fulled zombies. Pros: free beers, and enough money to reach the border? Perhaps?? 

“Ok, then", you said. "But if I’m doing YOUR job, I’m gonna need a little more than that.”

“Jesus, what else do you want?” Joe gasped. “Be reasonable."

“I want a place to sleep.”

“Fine. I have a spare room in the back. It’s in rough shape, but tolerable.”

“"Tolerable" works for me.”

“Alright then. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. My dishwasher didn’t show up either.”

He muttered something about people being “degenerates” these days and slammed the backdoor.

Well. My time to shine !

11PM

You took a sip of a lukewarm Nation Potion. If you were in charge, you’d turn this beverage illegal, or use it to unclog your sink but boy, did you need the poison right now. You barely had any time to think - these people were insatiable! They didn’t even finish their fucking drinks before asking new ones, and patience wasn't their strong suit, oh no. They had some NERVE.

The bald woman from before snapped her fingers in your direction as you were cleaning a mug.

“Can I have a Motherland Spirit or should I ask you a fourth time?”

“Can you give me some time to actually make the thing or should I ask you a fourth time?”

After a while, it was time to drop the niceties. 

You were about to serve a pint when a newcomer barged in. His hands were stuffed in his leather jacket, so you could have sworn the doors had opened by themselves. An irrational thought, for sure, but he had a mysterious, out of place aura. Pale and slender, he hid his face under a round, black hat. Suddenly, the voices of the customers lowered. They looked away. They recognized him, you could tell. 

And, as your heart skipped a beat, you realized you knew him as well.

*

Your encounter happened a month ago on a rainy day, when he took you in his cab. You didn't remember his features, just a couple of details : a lazy eye, an unshaved face, a Cologne you liked... Basically, you thought he looked damaged, but then again, who didn't in Petria except politicians and celebrities? His voice, though... That, you remembered precisely. It was deep, worn out, and on the constant verge of cracking. 

What happened that day, had set the tone for the rest of your journey. It was the first shitshow.

Unexpected though, because at first, it was pretty nice. You liked how the car was clean and neatly arranged, the feeling of being protected from the outside world, and the driver's attitude: polite and not too chatty. You had a bit of a not inspired small talk, but got bored quickly. Plus, car travels soothed you. You zoned out a couple of minutes.

Until you heard the muffled cries coming from the backseat, and the sound of nails scratching the trunk. The cab driver groaned, braked abruptly on the side of the road, in a middle of this wasteland where no one would hear you scream.

"Wait here", he told you, in a tone that still haunted you to this day. 

Luckily, he forgot to lock the car. Which explains why you jumped on the driver's seat as he was busy opening the trunk (the desperate screams getting louder and louder) and threw yourself at the door. You fell but got back up in a sec, driven by a burning will to survive, and started running. The cab driver said something, but you were too far to hear it. What you heard, though, was the sound of a gunshot and the final scream of the poor lad trapped in the trunk. And then... It was over. The cab driver didn't try to shoot you from afar, even though he could have. You didn't know why, but useless to say you NEVER called a taxi ever again after this.

*

And there he was, and then you were. Could he even recognize you after all this time? Your appearance had changed a lot. Your hair was cut short and bleached, your skin, tanned and sunburnt. But how could you be certain? And what if he tried something else? Jeez, the regulars were afraid of him, so this murder madness wasn't a one-time thing. You turned around and leant in, passing your head through the hatch. Reeking of grease, Joe was frying some steaks.

“How everything’s going here?” He asked.

“Fine, but… Can I leave? Now?”

“Leave?? Are you kidding me?”

“Please, I-…”

“Do you really think I have time for this right now? If you walk away, you’ll do it with empty pockets.”

“But I did SOME work!”

“Tss Tss, I can’t hear you.”

You tried to protest, but he ignored it. On the other hand, customers waited, and the cab driver was first in line. Was it a good idea to make them wait? And if you left... What would happen ?

If I leave this place without money, I’m dead anyway.

You faced the scary stranger, who whispered in a deep voice : 

“A Jarod, please.”

“I don’t know what that is."

“It’s on the wall.”

And he probably wouldn’t say it twice.

FUCK IT UP AND IT COULD BE YOUR LAST DRINK was written in capital letters under the recipe (a mix of alcohols strong enough to knock a horse off) taped on the wall. Great, you thought. I work in a bar for one evening and that’s when the local Ted Bundy decides to swing by.

He took a good stare at you when you came back with the shaker.

“We met before."

“No, I don’t think so", you lied.

You received another order, but as you mixed another Nation Potion, Jarod’s eyes pierced your back the whole time. He drank his cocktail all in one gulp and asked for another one.

“You ran fast. I thought someone that small couldn’t run fast.”

“I’m not that small”, you blurted out spontaneously.

There we go. Sentenced to death by my own pride. Nice job, dumbass.

And of course, Jarod didn’t miss the chance to pick upon that.

“You lied to me. That’s not very nice.”

“Well, you weren’t really nice to me that day either, huh?”

He absent-mindedly took off his gloves.

“Mmh." He paused. "I have anger issues.”

Joe emerged from the kitchen.

“Smoke break!” He trumpeted. “Oh, hi Jarod."

"Hi Joe.”

“Can I have a smoke too, Joe?” You asked.

“Hell no.”

You shrugged your shoulders and grabbed a beer. Without a word, Jarod handed you a cig. So quietly it took you a few seconds to notice.

“Oh! Huh, Thanks. You got light?”

“I do.”

He delicately took the cigarette back from your hand and slipped it between his teeth. He took another one from his pack and did the same. Then, he lighted the two of them with a single match and gave one back to you.

“Now, we’re even”, he said.

The both of you shared a different vision of reciprocity, you replied with a skeptical glare. Before adding:

“I didn’t call the cops, you know. I don’t plan to. I try to avoid them as much as I can these days."

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know.”

Not a lie. It just felt important.

MIDNIGHT.

"Hey gorgeous !" Purred a drunk guy.

He had a nasty look on his face, and so did his friend, staring like you were a piece of meat.

"Two Good Swallows. On ice.”

“Sure thing”, you replied coldly.

“You’re not from here, are you?” 

“Why? Should I get a lawyer or something?”

“Hey, what’s that thing on your wrist? A scar?”

As he changed topics, the asshole tried to grab your wrist, but you violently pushed his hand back.

“It’s a tattoo.”

Not a work of art, made with a sterilized needle by a friend on the road, but that wasn't the point. It hurt like hell and didn't heal properly, but it was worth it.

“Damn! What is it?”

“The number 15.”

“Is that your age?” He asked in a flirty way, which made you nauseous.

Time for a good old shot of brutal honesty.

You cut short this bad attempt at flirting with a good old shot of brutal honesty:

“It’s the age my little sister died, you fucking idiot.”

It worked, as always. They both apologized clumsily and left without their drinks. 

2AM

Shift almost over. This bartending thing wasn’t that difficult, after all. You mixed drinks and handed glasses mechanically, seeing through the people who demanded it. The Palavas was beginning to empty, anyways. 

Time to go back to your miserable lives, folks. And to spare your livers. 

A handful of brave customers kept on drinking, though. Or slept where they could. Jarod was part of the latter, laying his head on the counter, surrounded by the empty glasses you didn't clean yet. But judging by his irregular breathing, he was still awake. Just perfectly still.

For the whole night, you had felt drawn to the man, but barely talked. Too busy, and he wasn't much of a talker. Why so disappointing ? Why would you want to bond with a serial killer?

Joe got out of the kitchen, apron in hand.

“Finally done. Lord, the dishes were so messed up, you have no idea. I never saw people THAT creative with their food.”

“Your clients are animals, Joe”, you replied, dead inside.

Jarod let out of a snort that kinda sounded like a laugh?

Joe noticed it as well.

“Oh, Jarod, of course you’re still there!”

“Yes, I’m still here. What do you mean by of course ?”

“Oh nothing. Last round? It’s on the house.”

He nodded, but he seemed extinguished. Joe disappeared for another smoke break.

You made a Jarod cocktail for the man, and decided to make one for yourself as well. Seeing was the fuss was about. He offered you another cigarette, which you didn’t decline, and you opened a window to look at the sky, and get some fresh air. You enjoyed that time of the night. How several palettes of blue clashed between the clouds, like shards of a broken mirror. You enjoyed the silence as well. Like Jarod and you were the last inhabitants of the planet Earth.

That called for a little celebration. You toned down the jukebox, grabbed a stall and sat in front of your drinking partner, who raised an eyebrow, trying to figure you out.

“So", you said. "I can finally have a moment of peace. Everything’s alright?”

He took his time and answered, in a husky voice : 

“Two weeks.”

You tilted your head, already knowing you wouldn’t like the answer.

“The anniversary of the accident. At the border. It's in two weeks.”

“Oh… Did you know someone there?”

“Yes. My poor daughter, Lola.”

Now that he mentioned it, you remembered he had said something about it during your first, unforgettable, encounter. Yet, without emotion, almost like a broken record. Did the thought of her death ever left him? As far as you were concerned, it never did. You carried ghosts on your shoulders all time. You got used to it, but it didn't mean it was fine. Therefore, you knew you'd never find the right answer to make him feel better. So, you just whispered softly:

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Bad things happen to good people.”

You both sipped your drinks in silence. He was drinking frantically, probably to gather some chemical courage to stand this conversation.

“She would have been 23 last month. She… Wait, you know what. I’m sick of talking about this all the time. What’s the deal with your sister?”

It surprised you. You didn't know he had heard you mention her. Maybe he wasn't as self-absorbed as you thought he was.

You weren’t expecting the conversation to go this way; you didn’t even know he had heard that earlier, but maybe he wasn’t as self-absorbed as you thought he was. Your heart started pounding as you stirred the cold ashes of her memory.

“May. That was her name. She died a year ago, during a protest.”

“Was she a Brigade? Mine was.”

“She wanted to join them but she didn’t have the time. But man, she was aaangry. And bright. Exceptionally bright for her age. Way more than me. She was the smartass of the family.“

You laughed sardonically.

“Mmh.”

“We let her down, me and my family. She had all these ideas, great ideas, but we didn’t pay attention. I wasn’t into politics. Our parents were pro-Tyrak garbage. She must have felt really misunderstood. I realized that… too late. But we always do that too late, right? If we had listened to her… well, maybe she wouldn’t have felt the need to push it that far. She went to this protest after a big fight with our parents. A cop hit her head. Too hard. And…” (Your voice broke) “The worst fucking part is that nobody gives a shit. They all think she was a terrorist who deserved what happened to her. She was fifteen, can we acknowledge this fact? Even my parents think…" (you couldn’t bring yourself to finish that sentence) "Huh. The funerals were awful. They talked about someone that didn’t exist. It was… humiliating. Even I felt humiliated. That’s why I left. That’s why I wanted to cross in the first place. Because this State, they spit on her grave everyday. And I can’t stand that.”

Mh. Oversharing much.

Jarod listened to your whole speech in silence.

“Sorry, that doesn’t make much sense”, you mumbled.

You wondered if he even listened, after all. He seemed captivated by the graffiti carved on the counter, letting his fingers wander on the scarred pieces of wood. Finally, when you were starting to lose hope, he cleared his throat.

“And yet... You’re standing here in front of me. Looking… normal. How do you do that?”

“Oh, I'm not, trust me. I’m full of rage."

He stared at you again, a little skeptical but intrigued if you were to guess. Your own violence was not something you spontaneously brought up in conversations. It wasn't a part of you you were proud of, more endured than inflicted. But something told you this man in particular would get what you were talking about. Better than anyone else.

“Tell me…” Before he could finish, Joe came back with an envelope.

“For your trouble, kid.”

The sensation of all of this cash in your bruised palm gave you relief. Finally, you could think past tomorrow. 

A couple of minutes later, Joe had managed to throw everybody out. Everybout except Jarod, who had fallen into an…alternative state. Maybe he shouldn't have taken that last drink. He tried to get up, failed, but Joe caught his limp body in flight. Something told you it wasn't the first time Jarod had passed out here.

“I’m sorry but I’m taking him to your room", announced Joe anxiously. 

“MY room?” You repeated, outraged.

“What do you want me to do? Tell him to go home? If he gets near a car, Humanity is doomed. You can share.”

Fine, but he’ll sleep on the floor, you thought.

This whole situation was starting to feel even more surreal. Joe, carrying Jarod to the door with your (not so) useful help and abandoning you with a mere “Here you are, I’ll let you handle this from here !” You, wondering how the hell you were supposed to handle this as you entered into the bedroom, keeping an arm under his - he complained a little but he was way too weak to detach himself from you.

Joe was right; the place was in rough shape. It smelt stale, and… dusty. Bottles, unopened cans of food and other junks upholstered the floor. However, the small bed seemed intact. You wondered how many drunks lied here in agony before but first - time to tuck THIS drunk to bed. In one piece. Hopefully. You spotted a mattress where he'd fit well. Because, yeah, sharing the bed was out of the question. You DESERVED that bed.

As you were doing pretty well moving him through the room, he regained consciousness and became feverish, which led you to trip on a shirt lying on the ground. 

Fuck.

You both landed on the bed. Face against the mattress for him, on the back for you. His arm crossing your torso, blocking the way. And it didn’t move.

Okay.

His warm breath softly brushed your neck as he growled close to you ear:

“Stay. Please. I’ll pay. I have… I have a lot of cash. I work my shifts, you know. I do a lot of them. Don’t know why. Maybe it helps me to stop thinking. I don’t even need the money.”

The desperation in his voice... It gave you chills. You didn’t move, invaded by your own feelings. Mixed ones. Fear. Of him. Of breaking this moment. And maybe something else. Something you didn’t want to let out. A certain heat in your stomach, also. Gladly, you didn’t have to talk. He did, finally able to form full sentences again.

“I don’t remember who I was before the wound. I don’t recall a single thing before Lola’s death. Not the happy moments, not her mother, just… the end. I know I was a bad father. I was angry the last time I saw her. I was so angry I… I hit her. It was a terrible thing to do. She probably died hating my guts.”

Despite the awful thing he just admitted, you wanted to hug him. But you sensed it wasn’t the right time. He seemed so fragile right know, a tightrope walker above a void of pain. A sudden gesture would shatter him into pieces.

“But I’m going to make it right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to act. To get them.”

“Who?”

“I have a list.”

"A list?" You repeated. "Of people to... take care of?"

"Yeah."

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?!” He groaned.

He was clenching his fist so hard it started to shake. Carefully, you put your hand on his. Jarod quivered but didn’t reject you.

“I didn’t listen to her", he confessed. "I took her for granted. Just like you, with your sister. So I have to act. I owe it to her.”

“How do you know that’s what she would have wanted?”

He didn’t answer. It was obviously a really sensitive topic for him, and you knew you wouldn’t change his mind. Not tonight. You barely knew each other. His decision was probably something he came up with ages ago. Why would your opinion matter? But despite these considerations, you couldn’t stop thinking about it as a waste. So many lives were crushed under the unbearable weight of this country. Destroyed, repressed, corrupted. Could you even survive without turning into a monster?

A monster. That word pulsed through your chest. 

“I killed someone yesterday.”

You almost spat it out.

“What? I mean, why?”

How odd it must have been for Jarod to be the one taken by surprise.

“It’s a long story.”

And revealing your worst secret was enough. But you kept on talking:

“I thought it would be harder, but I went along with it. I don’t even feel remorseful. I think I’m… relieved. Like, relieved from the fact I had the advantage for once. For once, I could hurt someone who hurt me. I had the power to do it. Something is definitely wrong with me.”

“I felt the same thing when I killed for the first time”, Jarod replied.

“The first time? … How many-“

“I don’t think you want to have this conversation right know.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

Silence.

“You’re in for a lot of sleepless nights”, he whispered hoarsely.

“Nothing new, then.”

You locked eyes through darkness. You didn’t realized Jarod was so close. Dangerously so. Tension had left a trail, a path very tempting to cross between you two. And as your breathings grew louder, you wondered what would happen if you both indulged in it. Electrified by the magnetic glow of his iris, you let him look at you with vibrant intensity. He lowered his eyes to your lips. You shivered with anticipation.

Fuck. I’m going to regret this.

He gently brushed your cheek with his hand. It was a cold, clumsy kind of touch. How long since he last received a gesture of intimacy? His fingers lingered on your neck before reaching your collar bones. You then heard a faint sound against your ear:

“I think you should get some rest.”

You both fell asleep against each other shortly after that.

8AM

Sunlight filtered through the curtains.

You woke up with difficulty, a slight headache and a shameful recall of last night’s events. At least, the bed was empty.

Let’s not talk about that ever again.

You gathered your belongings, washed your face and checked your savings. The money was still there. You could say a lot of things about the man who shared your bed last night, but at least, he was not a thief. Good. Time to leave, now, the road didn’t wait. Getting out of the room, you ran into Joe, sipping his cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Hah, kid, good to see you. Everything’s okay?”

You nodded a little too fast.

“Did… did everything went well with Jarod? He looked weird when I saw him. Well. Weirder.”

"He was so drunk he passed out, so... Everything went well, I guess!"

Another day, another lie. You were about to leave when Joe called your name:

"Hey! What about the cleaning?"

You looked at him. He looked at you. Then broke into a smile.

"Just kiddin', kid. Have a safe trip!"

You didn't laugh.

Outside, you were greeted by the sun and a chilly breeze, sharp as a diamond, which desintoxicated your lungs after this night of debauchery. For a moment, your gaze wandered on the road, a grey, cracked ribbon endlessly unfolding on the horizon. You felt melancholy and disappointment at the same time. But why?

I don't have the time for this nonsensical cheesiness. 

Maybe you could steal a car, or steal stuff in it. People made silly mistakes, sometimes. Hands in your pockets, looking as innocent as possible, you crossed the parking lot. And among the cars left, noticed a yellow taxi. The mere sight of it startled you, and his owner, leaning against it, froze on the spot when he saw you. Cigarette butts pooled around his shoes. You approached him. And he spoke softly.

“[Your Name], I’m so sorry for last night.”

Chapter Text

“It’s not like I’m not enjoying my time here. It’s fun, I swear, I had a loooot of fun tonight... But that’s what bothers me. These people… They disgust me. They hold all the power in Petria in their fists, and look how disconnected they are from reality. It's like we don’t live in the same world. Common citizens are slaving in factories, teens have no choice but to run away and end up in the pits… And then you have those guys. Living a life of luxury. Ignoring our pain. Fuck them, honestly. “

Pale as a ghost, your conversation partner took his head in his hands. He had been holding his stomach during your whole speech, but you could tell he was starting to loose the battle. His face turned greenish and he shoved it into an empty flower pot you handed him. What was it doing here, in the middle of a rave? That, you couldn't tell. But at least, the dude didn't throw up on you. You pat his head, and left him to his fate to get a refill at the bar. And to think you never knew his name, nor if he'd remember you tomorrow... Bleh, you didn't care. You chose him on purpose, to rant about the current madness going on around you without getting arrested for political dissidence. A plausible risk when one's surrounded by politicians and local celebrities.

Yesterday, you were serving beers in a crappy bar. Tonight, gambling (and winning) at a VIP party. How exactly did your life go downhill in the span of forty-eight hours?! Well, Jarod was involved. After all, he was the one who drove you there. Before disappearing into thin air again.

*

You remembered how sorry he felt this morning. And how surprised you were.

“You’re still here. Joe told me…”

“Joe should learn to keep his mouth shut if he wants to keep it!” He groaned.

Gladly for you, he regained composure. 

“Yesterday, I… said things I shouldn’t have. I did things I shouldn’t have.”

"D-did you?! Honestly, I was drunk and I blacked out."

In a grand gesture of elegance, Jarod didn't point out how bad of a liar you were. Your denial seemed to reassure him, even. Still, he suggested to give you a ride North. Not to the border, he added, but he had "an important event to attend to" in the area. 

What, a convention for homicidal taxi drivers?

An hilarious yet dangerous joke. So you prefered to reply :

“Last time I got into your car, things got out of hand”.

Your remark bothered him. He pulled a gun out of his jacket (a stomach-churning sight) and gave it to you.

“You can keep it during the ride. If that makes you feel safer.”

"Fine, then."

And then you spent an entire afternoon awkwardly sitting in his car, a gun on your lap. He stayed mute the whole time, and you spent yours wondering why he had invited you in the first place. You got so bored you took a nap, and woke up as night was falling. Jarod was parking the car in an unsettling location, hidden in the mountains. You peeked through the window, only to be blinded by neon lights. There was music too. A repetitive, loud beat and no lyrics. 

A party.

***

As you both got out of the taxi, you noticed a large fluorescent tunnel guarded by two bouncers, the entrance probably, leading to a giant statue of a cowboy raising his arms. The odd music was getting closer, as well as cheers and laughs.

A massive party.

And judging by the expensive cars parked around you, the partygoers weren't like you plebeians. 

“What is this place?” You asked Jarod.

He shoved his gun against his jacket and placed himself behind the taxi, to remain unnoticed by the bodyguards. He invited you to do the same, and whispered :

“If you find a car, you’ll reach the border in two days.”

“Is this your thing? Being a party-animal?”

The only answer you got was an annoyed glance. You insisted.

“No but seriously, what is it? What are you going do??”

“I told you. I have something important going on.”

He started to walk away carefully, but for some reason, you didn’t want to let go. Not like that. Not without knowing what was gonna happen.

“Important business? Involving a gun?”

He let out a feral groan, turned back and grabbed your shirt.

“I don’t. want. to. talk. about. it.”

As he spoke, he moved forward, pressing his body against yours until your back met the door of the car. Your faces were so close you could smell his Cologne.    

“We are not friends. Stop being so nosy, and stop following me.”

“Or what? You’re going to murder me and bury me some place in the desert? Like all the others?” 

Jarod didn’t reply but he held your gaze, your shirt still clenched in his gloved hand. 

“IF SONYA WANTS TO PARTY, SHE PARTIES !”

Jarod jolted like he was electrocuted at the sound of this feminine, high-pitched voice. He let go of you as you heard a second voice, male and worn out.

“Jesus, the third person now?”

They were in the middle of a fight, and the very nasal, imperious tone of the woman reminded you of someone. Jarod glanced discreetly above his car to locate the two strangers.

“Go away”, he mumbled. “I won’t say it twice”.

He left. And that was the last time you saw him.

What a fucking jerk.

He didn't deserve your help anyway, offensive as he was. You smoothed your shirt out and approached the entrance of the event, where the quarrel seemed to keep going, next to a white limo blocking the road.

From there, you could see a man in a black suit, scratching his head as he kept on saying in a "let's be reasonable" tone:

“Look, all I’m saying is this weirdo could be here!” 

“Adam, you’re my bodyguard. Not a babysitter ”  

“… I’m trying to protect you. That’s exactly what a bodyguard does.”

“Oh, please. You know he’s not gonna come. Weirdos don’t get invited at my parties anyway.”

And that's when it struck you. Of course you knew her. Every petrian did. The fuchsia tube dress and heavy make-up were her signature for as long as you remembered. She was onscreen everyday; she even had her own talk-show your parents loved to death. The Sonya Show, t’was called. Sonya Sanchez, the queen of fake news and Tyrak propaganda. “She’s not a journalist”, May used to say. “She’s a traitor disguised as one.”

Sonya finished her sentence.

“… And that includes YOU, Adam."

“Sonya please, listen to me…”

“Hey, kid!”

Oh no. Here we go again.

She waved at you. 

“M-Me?” You babbled.

“Yes, you! You seem cool. Well, not really but that’ll do.”

She grabbed you by the shoulders and her perfume nearly intoxicated you.

“You and me are going to the party of the century, baby! Adam, you can relax, now. And piss off, because you just got uninvited.”

“WHAT?”

“Yeah, what?” You repeated.

Unphased by this whole scene, the bouncers opened the gates, and Sonya pushed you inside the pink tunnel, while Adam was restrained by the bodyguards.

“Hey kid! Watch out”, he yelled. “There’s a psycho after her!”

“Oh, come on!” whispered Sonya. “A couple of death threats never killed anybody.”

The information sunk in your chest with the strength of an anchor.

It all started to make sense now.

Shit, this he is after SONYA? But why?

She was insufferable, sure, but you doubted it deserved the capital sentence.

You climbed a fling of stairs leading to an elevated patio. The view was incredible. Below you stood what used to be a trailer park, converted into an completely outdoor amusement park. At the feet of the majestic cowboy statue, several booths sold sweet-smelling foods and beverages, others offered games of all sorts, and empty spaces were left for people to dance on. Everything was shiny, glittery, and beribboned with pro-Tyrak banners. As for the guests, some you recognized from the News. 

“What is this place?” You asked, mesmerized.

“Oh, just a normal Friday night!” Sonya peeped gleefully.

“You have an accent."

She didn't on TV. She also looked older in real life, wrinkles and dark spots peeking through her heavy concealer.

“ Oh, we’ve got a genius here ! ‘Yer right, hon. I was raised North of Petria.”

“Why do you hide it?”

“Come on, use your brain, doll. You have to sound professional on TV, not like a retarded farmer. Now, let’s play! I feel like doing charity tonight.”

As she led you through the crowd, you searched for Jarod, but he was nowhere in sight. Only overdressed politicians and actors your sister hated met your gaze. You wondered what May would have thought if she had seen you here.

Sorry, little sister.

***

And so, that's why you were stuck here tonight. You had tried everything at this point: gambling with Sonya (you made a LOT of money), played games, drank fine wines and ate great food you couldn't dream to afford usually. Then, you'd seen Sonya disappear in the VIP section, come back, drink and disappear in her limo with Adam. Whatever Jarod had tried to accomplish, he had failed, you hoped.

You wandered aimlessly to the dancefloor, where people swayed and jumped with great enthousiasm on a type of music you had never heard before. You didn’t even know which instruments could create sounds like these. In Petria, the allowed music went from old classics to grandiloquent chants celebrating Tyrak. Sometimes, brave wanderers traded tapes of illegal music. That’s what you had heard around anyway, because you never got thise. But contrarily to propaganda music, what you were listening right now was something exciting. It made you feel like standing up and joining the dancers. You never really danced before. But doing so was pretty easy and natural, you found out. You closed your eyes.

For a moment, let this madness engulf you. And disappear.

You didn’t see Jarod, leaning on a tent, having a smoke break. You didn’t see his piercing glaze as he was trying to figure out what he felt, and the reason he had stayed here despite Sonya’s departure. A man approached him, and he was checking you out too.

“They’re cute, aren’t they?” he told him.

Jarod didn’t answer nor look at him. Instead, he made the very discreet gesture of opening his jacket to show the gun sticking out of his inside pocket.

You didn’t see that either. But the man gasped, and left immediately.

***

Sweaty and weak from all the dancing, you left the party around three to find a place to crash. The cab was still here, but its headlights were on.

Look who’s still here.

Anyway, it was time to head North. If you walked a few miles, maybe you’d get closer to a gas station or a cardboard, to rest in ‘till morning. Then you’d find a car to steal and dash to the border. You didn’t know how to cross yet, but you’d figure something out there. Your brain worked efficiently in moments of distress. Which was probably why you had gotten away with murder.

You started walking alongside the road, and Jarod’s car followed. The cab driver lowered the window but you ignored him. For maybe two minutes.

“What do you want?”

“I want to understand why you’re still here”, he replied calmly.

“I took some rich people’s money.”

“Then it’s dirty money.”

“Oh, you’re such a principled man, aren’t you?” You snorted loudly. “What, murder is fine but you draw the line at stealing money ?! I don’t have the luxury to respect the rules. My priority is to find a place to sleep and something to eat every day without getting arrested. So don’t you dare. Don’t you dare lecture me about morals.”

Your angry words seemed to root Jarod to the spot. 

“Sorry” He ended up saying.

“…”

“You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes.”

“…”

“I know a place, it’s not far from here. You can sleep there. On a proper mattress.”

“…”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“I’ll manage. In the mountains, maybe”, you told him in a dry tone.

“You can’t do that. It’s bear season.”

You were certain there was no such a thing as bear season in Petria. Sensing your skepticism, he added:

“I heard it on the news.”

“You don’t listen to the news. News are propaganda. You told me that when we met.”

There. Got you.

A shiny Cadillac stopped besides the car. Its owners, an old couple, watched you closely. You had met them at the party. Maybe hanging with Sonya was the right move; rich people couldn’t live without you now.

I could probably buy a house with her earrings.

“Hello young [person]”, said the lady. “Is this man bothering you?”

Her husband bowed his head, approving his wife’s intervention, and you wondered what could happen if you said yes. Maybe the police would be involved and arrest Jarod on the spot. Or maybe the rich couple would give you shelter, you imagined with a hint of cynicism. They’d invite you in their mansion, adopt you… Your life of misery on the road would become a distant memory. Why endangering yourself by trying to cross if you had everything?

It probably took to Jarod a lot a self-control to remain quiet during your amusing reverie.

“Actually, yes”, you finally replied. “He’s a homicidal taxi driver who tried to murder me once.”

Clearly, your answer had what it took to stun your audience. You voluntarily let a minute of silence before laughing sardonically. The old couple laughed too, but with a discomfort that was hard to ignore.

“Oh, perfect then!” The old lady said. “Have a good night, both of you, and we’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

You climbed into Jarod’s car.

“That was a bold move”, he noted.

***

« Let’s play a game. »

You placed your rangers on the dashboard and sank more comfortably in your seat. As you picked up Jarod’s cigs without asking for permission, he let out a small sigh and replied:

“What kind of game?”

“A question game. I ask about you, and you ask about me. If we’re to be spend that much time together, I need to know you better.”

“Fine. You can start.”

“What do you have against Sonya? Beside the fact she’s a morally corrupted person who’s thriving under a fascist regime.”

“Next question.”

“Hey, that’s not how you play the question game!”

You were lighting a cigarette, but Jarod caught you by the wrist. His gesture was soft but firm.

“I said: next. Question.”

“Fine”, you replied disappointedly. “But will you tell me later?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you killed someone.”

Damn, that’s a rough bargain.

You didn’t feel like doing that, and judging by his knowing demeanour, he was aware of it.

“Okay, okay, I’m changing my question. Are you a fan of dinosaurs? They’re all over the place.”

You pointed to the plastic figurines disposed in front of his steering wheel. You had also noticed magazines on the back.

“Lola was. She wanted to become a palaeontologist. She knew everything about them.”

It was saddening. Distracting him was a complex activity, since everything around you seemed to be a testimony of what he had lost. But Jarod pulled himself together again and continued:

“My turn. How long have you been on the road?”

“Man, I don’t know. Maybe six months? It’s been a long way. I used to live very far away from the border.”

“It must have been eventful.”

“Definitely. And I gotta say, our first encounter was not the worst of them. But despite the horrible stuff… Good things happened too. I met nice people, and I’ve had my share of adventures. I could enjoy a life like that under other circumstances. Always moving, always on the run, sort of.” (you smirked) “My parents would have loved to see me become a politician, but I’d go crazy with an office job I think.”

“I see what you mean”, replied Jarod. “My parents wanted me to be a doctor. But I’ve always been a bit slow. I was bad at school. I started working early.”

You couldn’t picture him young. Nor could you picture the people that raised him. It only brought up more questions, but since you could only ask only one…

“What’s in your glove box?”

“Why?” He inquired. “I don’t have other weapons, if that’s what worries you.”

“It’s not. But what’s inside a glove box is really telling of a human being. I’m just curious.”

“I noticed that. Okay, then. You can take a look.”

Other than a scruffy notebook Jarod immediately took out of your hands, there were a lot of tapes. Horror movies mostly (“the screams help me to stay awake” he said, and you didn’t ask him to elaborate further), but also music.

“Depeche Mode” you read on one of the cassettes. “Never heard of it”.

“It’s a great band. I like to listen to them sometimes.”

“Are they from Petria?”

“No. Petria is a cultural desert. Petrian music shouldn’t even be called music.”

“I never listened to foreign music”, you confessed.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Then your whole education needs to be done.”

Was it a hint of playfulness you sensed in his voice? You weren’t sure.

“Foreign music is illegal”, you reminded him. “How did you find these?”

“It wasn’t when I was younger. Things have changed here.”

“Yes, they did. For the worst.”

And it was depressing.

“Would you like to listen to the tape?” asked Jarod.

“Why not?”

He put the cassette in the car’s player. A dark tune about love and loss resonated in the car, which dived deeper and deeper in the foggy night.

Chapter Text

The suffocating heat of the desert. Angry voices chanting. They’re asking for a revolution. She’s among them, holding a placard she made herself with cheap material. She’s yelling as well. She doesn’t understand. How dangerous it is. You try to warn her. But you can’t speak. Boots and sirens, getting closer. A deflagration. People are running in panic, blinded by tear gas. She doesn’t see the robocop gripping a baton. He kicks her and she falls in the sand. He raises his baton. Crackling sound of a skull. An unbearable sight of blood.

You open your eyes and gasp for air, but your mouth’s already wide open. You’re yelling. How come? You clear your throat and run your hand through your hair – they’re sweaty. Your whole body is.
A leather gloved hand is gently shaking your shoulder and suddenly, you remember where you are. In a car. Thank God he managed to wake you up.

“Are you alright?”

Right now, talking feels out of reach.

“I told you sleeping was a bad idea. You don’t know what awaits you there”, and he points to his head to make his point.

He rummages in the back of the cab and hands you a bottle of water. More than welcome. You tilt nod gratefully and swallow the cold liquid in one gulp. You confess:

“I don’t even remember what I dreamed of ”

“You said her name a couple of times.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

Your eyes are wet, and you nervously wipe the tears. You don’t want him to see you like this. But right now, Jarod’s dark eyes are focused on the road, barely lit by the car’s headlights. Seems you’re getting north, deeper and deeper on the near-border wasteland.

“Where are we going now? A motel?”

“Not a motel. Safer.”

Are we going to his place? You wonder. If he has one. Something about Jarod screams vagrancy, an appetence for a no-strings-attached, living in the moment kind of life. His only belongings appear to be what he carries with him, from his washed-out clothes to the jumble in his car. A nomad, embroiled in loneliness; a raw product, manufactured by the dirty roads of Petria. With these kinds of individuals, home hit a chord, a painful one. It reminded them of what they never had or lost. As for yourself, you’ve always pictured “home” as a concept. You used to live in your parents’ house but it wasn’t a home, just a place where people mastered the art of awkward silences and intolerance.
He slows down and halts near an abandoned caravan park, walled up in high fences of rotten wood. The thought of people camping here is inconceivable – junkyards are more welcoming. Piles of garbage and vertically hung cars blocked the entrance. But Jarod’s a regular of this place, given the confidence with which he stops the car and walks to the barrier. He lifts a wooden plank, uncovering a punctured wire mesh, and invites you to crawl in.

*
Jarod leads the way among dismantled and rusty caravans. Shards of broken glass screech underneath your boots and there’s a burning smell in the air. Following the narrow path, you end up in an urban glade, where nature took back its rights. An iron tower wrapped in cables is enthroned in the middle. It’s an old model, and it must have been out of service for years.
A lost civilization.

Jarod starts explaining belligerently: “The Brigades’ previous headquarters. With this tower, they launched their pirate radio and recruited new members. They planned the attacks here.”

“And the police ransacked it?”

“After the bombing, yes. But those parasites had already moved out.” He pauses. “Anyway. I want to destroy it.”

“But this place still needs to exist” you argue. “So we can remember. How can we remember if we erase the memories?”

“And why would I want to remember that?”

“I don’t know dude, so we can learn from our mistakes?”

A juvenile and cheeky voice had startled the both of you.
It came from a caravan. A redhead girl is walking through its broken door. She was hiding in there the whole time! And two men are coming out as well. Patched-up clothes, dirty faces and trekking bags… Crossers, just like you. But with a twist. One of the men is bald, and a black triangle is tattooed on his shaved head. He’s carrying a rifle.
Brigades.

You firmly grab Jarod’s hand and squeezes it as hard as you can, silently begging him to act normal. He’s boiling, you can feel his agitation. He tries to free his hand, but it only tightens your grip: you want to live.

The other, not armed brigade is younger, and his allure is warmer than his associate’s, despite the thick scar barring his cheek in an unflattering way. He says, as he noticed Jarod’s discomfort:

“Don’t worry, we’re not hostile! We crashed here before taking the road again.”

“Then we’re here for the same reason”, you reply. “I’m [your name]. And this is Jarod.”

Jarod’s not responding.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Gale. And here’s Frank and Zoe.”

Frank’s not responding either. A great match for your companion. Zoe, on the other hand, grins and makes a peace sign.

“’Sup gentlepeople.”

You let go of Jarod and thankfully, he doesn’t reach for his gun – maybe because he doesn’t want to hurt a teen, let alone someone who could have been his daughter. But he seems ready to explode at any moment, and this truce is temporary.

“Hey, let’s make a dope campfire” suggests Gale. “We have beers and snacks if you want.”

He’s staring at you. You shrug your shoulders. Why not?

“Sure”, Jarod replies coldly. “Let’s drink”.

His manner of speech gave you chills sometimes.

*

“I want to know EVERYTHING!”

Zoe’s not what you’ call a calm soul. Actually, her outburst almost made Frank spill his beer.

“Zoe, we’ve been through this” he sighs. “About the yelling thing.”

“Oh shit, sorry!” the teenager replies, still noisy as hell. “I’m just excited to meet new people!”

You had managed to make a decent fire with Gale. He absolutely wanted you to help, and you had accepted out of politeness. It wasn’t that bad. The small talk was agreeable. Gale was your age, and he had a great sense of humour and a positive spirit. Enthusiastic people often raised your concerns and lowered your level of tolerance – they could be incredibly naïve or even tiring when they tried to force their perspective on you. But he wasn’t obnoxious. Good for him.

After setting camp, he sat next to you and bring you a beer. Jarod was on your other side. He still is, mute and lost in his thoughts. Tired, you’d say. Meanwhile, Zoe has enough energy to overthrow the government by herself. She’s making eyes at Frank.

“Hey, can I have a beer too?”

“You’re too young to drink alcohol.”

“Oh, I’ve done WAY worse stuff on the road, bro!”

“And we don’t want to know about it!” Gale hums.

“Oh, so she’s too young to drink but old enough to get involved in radical activism?”

An awkward silence follows. Jarod is good at causing those. Zoe wants to answer, but first, she looks at the other brigades, waiting for their approval. Gale shakes his head and reply:

“Zoe’s not a Brigade. She’s on a … special mission.”

“Oh?” Jarod smirks. “Are you that desperate to recruit new members? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were.”

“Why are you so mean to us, dude?” Zoe frowns. “Did the brigades steal your lunch or something?”

This is not going to end up well. You try to deviate the topic:

“I’ve never met brigades before. I’m just a crosser.”

“Oh, how old are you? I mean in road age.”

You feel gratitude towards Gale for taking the bait.

“Six months, I’d say.”

Zoe can’t hide her surprise.

“Wow dude, that’s like old!”

“I know. If I’m still here in one month, I may just start searching for a good nursing home.”

Zoe laughs and adds quickly: “as long as you’re here for the anniversary of the attacks.”

Jarod was dozing off again, but Zoe’s words immediately bring him back. A bright shard of light glows in his eyes as he raises an eyebrow.

“What did you just say?”

Joe and Frank are embarrassed – and Zoe, unaware of her indiscretion, keeps going.

“There was an attack there a long time ago, remember? Tyrak’s doing.”

Her voice is getting more solemn and sadness taints her blue eyes. Gale is patting her on the back. They must have had a history with the bombing. Maybe the loss of a loved one. Or worse.
When the explosions had taken place, you were just a toddler. But even then, you remembered people had theories about it. Such a historical event couldn’t remain unnoticed, untouched by worried, traumatized crowds. The brigades triggered the explosions to get rid of Tyrak; Tyrak triggered the explosions to discredit the brigades; some bigger plot including international forces was unfolding… And those were only the most famous theories!

You remain quiet. What you usually did during those moments. You have your ideas, politically speaking, but May was the activist of the family. You feel too ignorant and numbed by the immense complexity of the world to share your thoughts. Never had May’s bravery, that’s for sure.

Jarod’s face is hidden underneath the shadow of his hat, but the rest of his body speaks for itself. Standing stiff, fists starting to clench, torso starting to shake. Anger, like a wave, making its way through him. You can only hope he’ll be able to tame it.

“But…” He mumbles. “The brigades were behind the attacks.”

Your new acquaintances are now seizing the tension. Gale and Frank look puzzled, and slowly, Zoe acknowledges it too. She whispers:
“Well… No, not really. And I can prove it. That’s why I’m here.”

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“I’m sorry, I said too much. I really need to stop talking now.”

Something’s not right. This girl has a bigger secret. The whole time, you had noticed how the other brigades were protecting her. She’s… valuable.

“Who are you, exactly?”

She doesn’t answer to your question. Instead, Gale intervenes: “We really can’t say more. But this thing we’re doing… it has potential. It could be big.”

“What potential?” Jarod roars.

He’s losing his patience.

“When your great leader Robert Winters used teens to do his dirty job, it was a death sentence, no matter who triggered the explosions. They could have been saved rather than brainwashed and exploited by a so-called radical guru. Now, what? They’re dead, they’re not coming back. What’s the point?”

“You’re right.”

Against all odds, Frank spoke. He adds:

“I lost my son that day. My fifteen years old son. I wasn’t in the brigades at the time, I joined afterwards. To keep fighting his fight.”

“You sound like my sister”, You tell him, with a bitter smile. “She used to say that as long as Tyrak would be in charge, Petria would be a nation of orphans and grieving parents. She’s dead too by the way. Killed during a protest.”

“My parents were sentenced to death for “political dissent””, declares Gale. “So I’m part of the club too. Anyway. I guess what Frank was trying to say is fuck Bob Winters. He’s not the reason we’re doing this.”

“And fuck Tyrak”, Zoe concludes. “This fascist piece of garbage needs to be stopped.”

Gale’s staring at you again. He smiles. And you smile too, without bitterness. Frank stands up, and he invites Jarod to walk with him. They disappear, but you hear them conversating in a low voice. Good old trauma bonding, you think.

*
Lying on her belly, Zoe’s snoring. She’s resting by the fire, holding her backpack like a stuffed animal. Frank’s asleep too, against the door of a demolished car. As for Jarod, he left behind a huge wall of cardboards to try and get some sleep. Gale is still awake, and you’re keeping him company.

“I think I officially transcended sleep”, you announce. “Like, I’m so tired I’m not even tired anymore.”

“And you’re not making sense anymore. I think your system crashed.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s computer stuff. I don’t know much about it, but I know a kid who does. He’s working with us too.”

“You work with a lot of kids, then.”

“You’re sounding like your friend. Is he wearing off on you?”

Gale laughs, but you don’t. Instead, you think about his question very seriously.

He clears his throat.

“Anyway, I wanted to tell you… I think you’re really pretty.”

“… Oh.”

He sees how uncomfortable you are, and it makes him giggle.

“Okay, I’ll take that as a no.”

“I’m sorry!” You blurt out.

But you’re relieved he doesn’t insist.

“Jeez, don’t apologize! It’s fine. I think I misread the situation. You’re not… available, are you?”

It would be too long to explain. You tell him you’re not in the mood to flirt these days. That you have a lot on your plate. Technically, it’s true. But the concept of someone asking if you’re single, at this day and age, is hilarious. It’s a reminder there’s a normal world, where people fall in love. And that you don’t fit in anymore.

Available, he said? You don't think you ever thought about that.

Yet you’re inclined to say no.
*

“Oh, it’s you.”

Jarod’s wide awake when you join him. He’s lying on his back, his hands pooled behind his head. He uses his jacket and suit vest as a pillow but doesn’t seem sleepy. He’s just watching the stars.

“You sound surprised”, You say.

There’s enough room on the cardboard for you two. You lie down next to him, making sure you don’t accidentally touch him.

“You seemed to have a great time with… what’s his name…”.

“Gale.”

“Gale.”

No need to ask him his opinion on the guy. The intonation’s enough. It annoys you.

“He’s a nice person. Is there something wrong with that?”

“I was just picking on a mere fact.”

He sounds like a disdainful robot, and you’re going to ignore it. Darkness is soon to be exiled in the junkyard. Dawn will spread its golden lights. You’ll get to sleep, not enough – it’ never enough -, and then what? It wasn’t a question to be answered before, just a purpose in the background of your tumultuous existence. You are too close to the border, now. The situation demands a line of action, and farewells are to come.

It's your second night together, and probably the last.

“Hey”, you say, getting slightly closer to Jarod. He raises an eyebrow.

“You never told me you planned to get rid of Bob Winters.”

“I never said that.”

“No, but you will, won’t you?”

Guilty silence.

“And why Sonya?” You inquire.

“She was there when Lola died. Right by her side, and she didn’t do anything to prevent it.”

He may get away with Bob Winters’ murder, but Sonya Sanchez’s… He’d be a dead man. And the worst part is… that he doesn’t even seem to care about that.

“Do you remember what Zoe said? About Tyrak? Don’t you think you’re… missing the point if you target Sonya and Robert?”

He laughs sardonically.

“So you think I should murder Tyrak, then? I thought you cared about my security.”

“You don’t have to kill anyone. You could just… give up. And live your life.”

“What life? What are you talking about?” He retorts angrily.

“I’m sure you have enough money to start over somewhere else. Somewhere you’d like.”

“Oh, and then what? Drink cocktails on the beach, wearing flowery shirts?”

“I could see you doing something like that, yes.”

“Why do you care about that, anyway? It’s not like we’ll stay in touch or something.”

It’s a fact, but it still hurts a little. You reply on the same tone:

“Oh yeah? So, once we’ll say goodbye, you won’t care for me anymore? You won’t hope I’ll be okay?”

He shakes his head and sigh.

“It’s not the same. You’re not… made for this kind of life. You’re young. You have a long-term goal, and plans once you get out of here.”

“You know what? I’m starting to think leaving this place is selfish. Maybe I should stay. And fight. Maybe that’s what May would have wanted.”

“Joining the brigades is crazier than crossing the border. You’re not seriously contemplating that, are you? You know what this government is capable of.”

“I’ve heard about it, yeah. But why do you care anyway? We won’t see each other, just like you said.”

Despite your best attempt to remain detached, you had got carried away. Your heart’s pounding in your ears, and a wave of heat passes through your face. You rub it, hoping it’ll erase signs of emotion.

“I’m sorry”, you mutter. “I don’t know what’s this tantrum for. We’ve known each other for two days. I’m dead tired and…”

“Don’t be silly.”

He’s not upset, or annoyed. Just… oddly formal, like a cab driver chitchatting with his passengers. You know it’s not politeness though; it’s his way of hiding his awkwardness. Like that morning when he had offered you a ride after the night you had shared together. Or this moment after the party, when he had tried to convince you to come with him.

He’s turned on his side, facing you, but he avoids your eyes when he says:

“This might be strange, but it’s been years since I’ve been that close with someone. Joe the bartender doesn’t count.”

“Glad to know I’m with Joe the bartender on this one. He’s a fun pal.”

Jarod rolls his eyes.

“Come on. This is not what I was trying to say. In other circumstances…” (He’s choosing his words very carefully) “Things could have been different when I met you at the Palavas.”

“How?”

“I… I would have offered you a drink.” He quickly corrects himself. “O-Of course, I would have asked first. I’m… not good with these things.”

“I would have said yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Yet again, without those specific circumstances, you’d have never met. You wouldn’t have been taking a silly bartending job, and he wouldn’t have been there to drink the pain away. It was those specific circumstances that made it all possible and impossible at the same time. It’s sad. So sad. You hold your blazer against your face and close your eyes. For a few minutes, you stay like that, not uttering a single word.

“Did you fall asleep?” Jarod whispers.

You remember a line from the song you had listened to in his cab.

Words like violence break the silence.

His cold hand reaches your hair, gently. He starts brushing them, to tuck you to sleep. Maybe it’s his way of getting back to you after you nursed him at the bar. Or a clumsy attempt to tell you that he’s… gonna miss you.

You get closer. He doesn’t step back. You hug him. And he’s unsettled, you know it, because how long since he had received a proper hug? He smells of cigarette, alcohol and aftershave. You also know that, because you just buried your face in his shirt. He keeps brushing your hair. And slowly, he allows himself to hug you back.

You fall asleep in each other’s arms, but when you wake up, you’re the only one lying on this cardboard.