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Smoke rises and rises and disappears into the black night sky. The few stars visible over the city's meaningless neon lights and colours wink down at the people of the world, including a small group of partying university kids, unaware of two of their peers out on the balcony while they are busy living the last of their teens.
Cigarettes meet in the middle to share a fire that conjures an orange glow, reflecting off both their eyes as their gazes meet. The boys know not of the other's history nor name, yet hidden in the black night of October, their fingers brush.
Cold breeze engulfs them both, a cruel reminder of the approaching winter. The shorter one of the pair shivers with a soft gasp. Unbeknownst to his companion, he is prone to underdressing.
A few moments later, he has on a black leather coat.
Whispers that will forever be lost to the night are exchanged on that balcony. All history may know is that two names were uttered and two lives were altered.
"Gerry."
"Jon."
*****
Revenge fits better into a description filled with a blazing fire, rather than 'a cold dish'. It is a raging lava that pulls and devours and destroys, and it is beautiful.
The lighter produces the most striking sight Jon has ever witnessed. Flames dance around those wretched pages as the melody of crackling fills the air. Paper shrinks and shrivels and withers, and as the damned book meets its doom, a genuine smile pulls at Jon's sharp features He adores it, the triumph, the vengeance, the sheer power of it all. He desires more, as much as he can have and then some.
Gerry reflects him, throwing an arm around his first and only friend and pulling him close as they both let out a burst of soft laughter, in their own little world where no one else will hear, at their own little project of which no one else will know.
"What do you say? Will you join me?"
If there were any other choices, Jon wouldn't take them anyway. A handshake, friendly and oddly intimate in nature, solidifies their agreement, as do the grins on both faces. As the fire unleashes its fury upon the asset of evil on the ground, the pair happily curses Jurgen Leitner's name.
*****
The screaming match concludes with one dismissive comment, which still rings in Gerry’s ears. Another one he knows will haunt him for a long time. He’s somewhat learned to withstand such cruelty since it became ordinary, thus he remains silent and immobile. Ready to toss this one into the pile and try his best to abandon it. He says and does none of the things he would like to, and is ready to turn his back and make his exit.
Before he can take two steps towards the door, a black shawl and a head of dark hair pass by him with a rush. Turning around, he manages to catch a glimpse of a fist flying through the air, and the next moment his mother is on the floor. His friend's petite form stands over her, waving his hand to shake off the impact of the punch. When he speaks, his volume is low, yet it seems to carry an armageddon underneath.
“Say something like that again,” Shivers run through Gerry, “and you may consider yourself dead.”
There is little possibility that Mrs Keay will take the words seriously, yet threaten he does, with a menacing edge that sets off sparks within Gerry’s chest. Having only been able to half-compose himself, he feels a pull at his hand, and Jon leads him out of the house before the ageing woman can get back at her feet, a sinister scowl painted across his face.
Amazingly enough, Jon apologises just a bit later. “I couldn’t stand hearing her talk to you like that. I had to do something,” he explains ruefully, regretfully as though the best show Gerry’s ever been a spectator to did not occur five minutes ago. He can’t help the laugh he barks out, he can’t help the sparkle in his eyes, and he certainly can't help the way he practically throws himself at Jon.
Gerry declares his gratitude, uttering thanks after thanks, for helping him, for being a true friend, for punching his mum. Jon wraps his arms around him, yet does not squeeze, ever so tender with his best friend.
*****
The Leitner bolts through the air as Gerry lets out a string of curses and Jon exhales with disappointment. There are occasions such as this, where their mere lighter is not enough to destroy such a powerful agent of the wicked. It is not the first occurrence of this, yet it is always as annoying as the last.
“I still think we need something better than a lighter, We can’t keep going like this.” He has a delicate tone to him, to better calm his friend down.
“I don’t have anything better. What am I supposed to do, ask my mum?”
Jon makes a disgruntled face. “I’ll do some research on it.”
“We are not keeping this thing for that long.”
“Well, what other choice do we-"
"Would you like some help?"
The two perk up at the unfamiliar third voice. Out there, right by the treeline, stands a young woman, staring at them attentively with big bright eyes, brown with an oddish red tint to them. Two streaks amongst her messy ginger hair stick out, dyed a deep navy blue. She dons a long grey coat, way too big for her figure, and has on no sort of footwear.
"Sorry?" blurts Jon, breaking the silence that engulfed them.
"You're trying to burn the book." Her tone is quite apathetic to the situation. "I can help you."
Gerry is the first to act on the protective knack they both have over the other, taking a place in front of Jon with furrowed brows. "Who are you?"
"My name is Agnes," she says, "Agnes Montague."
*****
,
Suspicions of her motives aside, Jon cannot bring himself to mind Agnes’ presence. They have it in common that they are both the quiet and reserved type, having an appreciation for a bit of serenity. Thus, while their conversations cannot be considered the most riveting ones, their time together is generally enjoyable. Besides, he cannot argue that she isn’t helpful. Whatever horrid power those books may possess, they are no match against the daughter of the Desolation, those assets of the wicked turning into ash between her palms in mere seconds.
Thus, Jon has taken to defending Agnes at the increasingly frequent times Gerry acts too hostile towards her. He hasn’t had a particularly good streak so far, as his attempts generally culminate in Gerry storming off in fury. Agnes’ everlasting indifferent expression never falters, but Jon can make out the flame in her eyes dying just a little. He has repeatedly tried to console her, assuring her that Gerry does not mean it and he simply needs time. He does not know whether or not Agnes believes him..
“You like her better than me,” reveals Jerry one day which saw him once again snapping at Agnes. Jon can do nothing but blink at the notion.
“I’m scared I’m not good enough for you. I’m scared you’ll forget about me. I’m scared to lose you.”
Jon immediately calls him a moron.
He is aware that his core is twisting. He acknowledges that their mission has awoken a thirst for power within him, and there are times he does not hesitate to act upon it. He relishes in victory against Leitner and craves more, more, more. So hungry to hold it all in his hand that he loses sight of his humanity, sometimes.
Yet, each time, he glances at Gerry and recalls. Recalls everything they’ve been through together, recalls them uncontrollably cackling after being chased out of an old library, recalls falling asleep together after a long night of research, recalls the first fire they shared on that balcony. If there is ever a grounding presence, an anchor, a true friend of his that he could never let go, it’s Gerry.
It’s the first time he voices such thoughts, the first time he spills tears in front of his best friend, the first time they share an embrace so special.
A cough is heard from the doorway where Agnes stands. “Pizza’s here,” she informs, to their three-second-long silence, and subsequent laughter. Gerry truly smiles at their new friend for the first time.
*****
Most of what Jon knows about common courtesy is discarded around Agnes, who sees it appropriate to voice each and every thought that crosses her mind. It is a relatively quiet moment they are sharing, both buried in their respective books of choice, when she brings a certain matter up with little tact.
"You're beating around the bush with him."
"I have, frankly, no clue what you are referring to." Jon buries his face further in his novel, grasping at any chance to deter Agnes from continuing this conversation. The redhead, however, is determined.
"You should tell him," It's quite matter-of-fact, as though she were explaining a clear-cut mathematical equation. "or perhaps he should tell you."
"He has nothing to tell me."
"That you can admit to yourself."
The hardback cover comes down with a thud, preceding a heavy sigh. A flash of excitement flares in Jon's chest at the notion before he forces it down. It is no truth that Agnes speaks of, he reminds himself, it is simply a concept her idealistic mind constructed. Her own imagination of craving he is rightfully hesitant to chase.
"You do not know what you are talking about, Agnes."
Neither does Jon, yet when the sun sets and the world silences itself under the moonshine, Jon remains as awake as ever, pondering her calm, yet oddly fiery words.
*****
“Thanks,” mutters Agnes, clutching a pink plush bunny almost half her size. Gerry chuckles.
“Don’t mention it,” he yells over the cheery noise of the carnival. “I’ve been to these places before- you’d be surprised how many entities like these kinds of places- so I’ve been around these machines, learnt how they’re rigged-”
“No,” interrupts Agnes, “I wanted to thank you for being my friend. I’ve never really had friends before- don’t think my family sees me as really a person. It’s nice to be around people who like you for you and not your God. So, thanks.”
No words leave Gerry for a while. There is a pang in his chest, one that echoes within his whole body, reaching a part of his brain which reminds him that he has friends. He has people with him, who appreciate him for solely his presence.
“Thank you too,” he eventually settles on, and trusts Agnes not to mention the way he gets choked up a bit, “For being my friend tooç”
“You’re welcome,” she smiles, warm and inviting as a fireplace, “now, go win Jon one of these too.”
*****
“I’m in love with you.”
There are considerably more stars winking at them up above. No noise except for the distant television is audible. It hardly resembles that first night on the balcony, yet it reminds Gerry of it anyways. It reminds him of the first time he had a chance to behold a man like Jon, the first night he did not feel entirely lonely, the first night they ignited their fire. So who could blame his mind for not catching up with his heart and mouth and stopping those words?
Jon is speechless, as expected, yet it surprisingly lasts only a few seconds. Gerry wonders what passes his mind in those moments, what he thinks of Gerry now. If the red tinge on his cheeks is a mere illusion of the light. Whatever it may be, he certainly doesn’t anticipate Jon exclaiming “Fuck!”
The shorter one of the pair buries his face in his hands, letting out a burst of almost maniacal laughter while whispering a set of curses, leaving Jerry frozen and quite concerned.
He finally looks up, and Gerry witnesses the most gorgeous smile this world has ever seen. Just for him.
“I was going to say that.”
Their night ends in an unmanageable fit of giggling, entwined fingers, and the kindling of a new flame under the stars, this time, between two pairs of lips.
*****
It’s quiet, almost disturbingly so. It’s easy to be wary of tranquillity with lives so hectic, so lost within a world of what most would consider fiction. Yet in this corner of the woods, neither too close to nor too far away from the city itself, three people find peace.
Perhaps The Stranger watches from the trees, delighting in its own unknown nature. Perhaps they are under the Eye’s horrible scrutiny. Perhaps they are all taking their place in an intricate fate the Web has weaved for them. Yet at this moment, where they all lie on the grass, away from a disapproving mother or a cult of destruction or a call to the darkness, none of it matters.
They are going to be fine, together.