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The sky was soft and wide, not quite black but a dark violet-blue, the color of intoxicated solitude. The air was warm and mild, with a hint of a cool breeze that raised goosebumps on his arms. Below, cars roared past, engines singing and wheels smoothly humming, impermanent and ephemeral; the sounds of roadwork in the background were guttural and steady.
William Murderface had climbed out of the window of the tenth-story hotel room and was seated on the air conditioning unit. Inside the room, yellow light poured from brilliant bulbs, the voices of the band were loud, and the voices of the groupies were louder. The sounds of revelry were frightening and anxious, pouring from mouths onto dammed ears, unheard and shallow like the sounds of the city that housed them.
On the air conditioner, the wind was very nearly cold, but not quite so. It was a slow chill rather than the quick bite of winter. It was April and they were entering a respite from the snow that had plagued them since November. Out here, there was an incomprehensible drop to the pavement below. It was comforting, how close he was to death, and yet he was alive.
He was drunk, and the sounds of the city echoed in his mind and through his empty brain, boggling him. He smelled smoke; who could be having a campfire? He wondered what would happen if he died, and the thought sent another chill through him, deeper than any one the wind could cause. What if he fell? Would the fall kill him, or would his inevitably broken back? The leaves of the trees whispered in that same breeze that carried the smoke and the car-song, trying to console him, but falling on chatter-deafened ears.
Here he was, sitting on the fence between life and death. He never felt so good as when he was alone like this, a small star in a nebula of existentialism. The bottle in his hand was calling him. He didn't ignore this murmur; he raised the bottle to his chapped lips and tasted the bitter spirits, relishing the warm buzz that stayed in his sinuses long after the burn had departed.
Nathan had made some remarks to him earlier. Sure, he didn't mean it. That was just Nathan. He said things sometimes, things about how bassists were the least necessary members of any band. About how he had no respect for people who couldn't write their own bloody riffs. He'd side-eyed William, or so the bassist thought, his green eyes glimmering like evil jewels set in the shadows beneath the rocky precipice of his forehead.
He didn't care, he told himself. His feet in their boots dangled, several stories above the abandoned stained pavement, above bus stops and benches and struggling trees. What did he care? He knew he was useless, anyway. He knew they didn't technically need them, that this whole thing was a charade, a front for charity, that they felt pity for him but that pity wouldn't stop them from leaving him in the dust.
He closed his eyes and took another long drink. The distance between him and the ground was exhilarating; he was standing on air. He was standing on nothing and he could fall and end himself at any moment.
The city air called him, smelling like grease and cigarettes and ozone. The air was lonely and it cared for his opinion. Jump off, it urged him. Stay with me. You'll never have to suffer again. They'll feel sorry for you just a lot at once and then you'll pass from their minds, like the sting of ripping off a bandaid. The dark city air, recoiling slightly with the sounds of buses and rebelling teenagers out on joyrides, was haunted with the echoes of every person who lived here and died here, every footstep you took, every cigarette you extinguished against its splotched grey brick walls. It called him. Maybe this was his final home, his resting place.
The metal of the air conditioner was cool below him, sharply digging into his thighs, but the air was so soft, like a pillow. A soft warm pillow. He wanted to fall asleep on it and never wake up. Was the water on his cheeks rain or tears? He didn't know; he couldn't remember. He was on top of the world, on air, and he felt nothing, motionless, emotionless. This was how he liked it to be.
Suddenly, the window opened with a sucking airlock sound behind him, releasing the sound of the party (music, clinking glasses, empty voices that never stopped) along with its light and alcohol-soaked smell. He turned around. It was Toki Wartooth, eyes curious, also holding a sloshing bottle. Toki silently moved to sit beside Murderface.
The rhythm guitarist spoke softly, his voice like the yearning night-city-voice. "Why ams you sittings out heres?"
"I like it," Murderface said after a while. His voice was more thick and gritty than usual with tears. He felt so very tired, muscles relaxed and eyes falling shut, yet his heart raced inside his chest, anguished. Maybe it was the height.
"Really?" Toki said.
"Yeah. It helpsh me think." The bassist's lisp was ugly and sharp, more like the voice of the happy cacophony in the hotel room. He wished he never had to talk. It was a waste of noise.
Toki took a long drink, moonlight shining off his Adam's apple as he tilted his head back. He made a small satisfied grunt and wiped his mouth on the back of his dry-skinned hand.
"Nathan ams sorries," Toki announced.
Murderface looked up from the city below, puzzled. "Really?"
"Yeah."
"Did he shay that?"
"No, but..." The Norwegian looked for the right words to set his thoughts to. "But I can tells. He wants you to know he ams sorries."
"Yeah, right," Murderface scoffed. "Shuccesshful Nathan Exshploshion, shorry for shomething he shaid to me. I know you're jusht trying to make me feel better. It won't work."
"He ams," Toki said. He was frustrated. "He gets jealous somestimes. He can't plays any instruments."
Murderface thought this over. Perhaps he was drunk, but this was beginning to sound nice to him. Not believable, but appealing. "Toki, go back inshide."
"I wants to stays with you."
Murderface snorted, laughing, although there was no joke. Maybe life was the joke. "Jusht leave, I know you wanna. Go have fun with your friendsh." His voice was quieter now, or it might have been a truck barreling past, steady ahead.
"You ams my friends."
"I'm no friend of anyone'sh."
"You know I would misses you if you was gone." Toki was looking up at Murderface now. His eyes were reflecting yellow from the light of the party.
"You think you would," said the American.
"I really woulds. I likes hanging arounds with you. You tells funny jokes and you always knows what to say, and you ams very humbles."
Murderface was listening, despite himself.
"But I think it would be neats if maybes you could be a little less humbles. Maybes you could say good things about yourself."
"There aren't any good thingsh about me," Murderface grunted. "Idiot."
"There ams. I'll tells you. You plays the bass very goods, and you haves a good sense of humor, and you haves nice eyes."
"I don't."
"You do," Toki said. "They ams pretty colors."
Murderface was silent. Light rain fell, leaving cool pinpricks on their arms and faces and making their hair frizz. The rain-smell against the building was hot and metallic and rocky.
"Can you comes inside with me?" Toki said. "They ams getting scallops from the rooms service. I know you likes them."
"Yeah, I do," Murderface said.
"Why don't you comes inside with me and we can talks?" Toki said.
"About what?"
"I don't knows. Just talks maybe. About the band, about ladies, about what you're thinkings maybes. I know you ams always thinking lots."
The city air called, but maybe he didn't have to listen. He could leave the city waiting at the altar; when it saw him again perhaps it would watch him like a jealous ex-lover, but this was okay. "You're a good guy, Toki."
"I tries."
"Okay, let's go in."
And Murderface followed Toki back into the throbbing, lapping sea of bright mellow yellow noise to mingle with the people together, and he wouldn't be alone this night after all. The empty air would call his name in vain, jilted and unheard. Maybe this wasn't so bad.