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AUTUMN
Late November 2005
Somehow, against all odds, Henry had survived the crash.
He had sustained extremely severe, life-threatening injuries. They had been so severe, in fact, he spent more than a week in a coma. This was in part due to a traumatic brain injury that ended up leaving him with chronic headaches and migraines, poor balance, memory problems, and constant fatigue.
His left leg got crushed so badly in the wreck, he was told he was lucky they were able to save it at all. The fact that he also shattered the left side of his ilium only further complicated everything. His leg ended up partially paralysed so he now relies on a cane to walk, his bones held together by lots of screws and plates. Henry could probably benefit from using a wheelchair instead, it certainly would make moving around easier, but he refuses to. He wants to at least look like he's somewhat keeping it together. Back at the hospital they had given him a leg brace to wear for support, but he'd never tried it, thinking he deserved to struggle.
The rest of his body didn't fare much better. He had sustained a collapsed lung, several fractured ribs and internal bleeding. His spine snapped in multiple places when he was flung though the windshield and crashed down onto the street. Had he hit the asphalt at a slightly different angle he would've ended up a quadriplegic, if not died instantly. Just like his leg and pelvis, his back and neck had to be stabilised with lots of hardware, greatly restricting his movement. The surgeons couldn't promise he'd ever be able to walk again at all considering the extent of his injuries, but he ended up recuperating much better than they had anticipated. If it hadn't been for the tremendous efforts of bystanders and the fast arrival of a rescue helicopter, he would almost certainly have died. They had told him at the hospital that his guardian angel must have been watching over him that night, that he was beyond lucky to not only have survived all of that, but to have walked away with his body in such a functional state, all things considered. But Henry had't felt lucky. To him it all felt like a cruel joke. It still does.
Even two years later he's still in constant pain; on some days it gets so bad he can hardly stand it even when he's not moving at all. It's agonising and constantly eats away at his already fragile mental state. It might be less bad if he actually took the pills he was prescribed, but in his mind he deserves all this suffering.
As if all of that wasn't awful enough already, he had developed a pretty severe tremor in his right hand, the result of rather extensive nerve damage to that wrist. Of course it had to be his dominant hand. The doctors had told him he might never be able to use it normally again. The last thing he still had to keep him sane—art—was suddenly off the table as well.
Henry has never cared much about his appearance, but now—with all these scars littering his body—he just feels hideous. Like a monster, broken and only good for people to laugh at.
After the accident, after everything that happened that day, he couldn't stand to be anywhere even remotely close to NYC. So a few months ago, following a lengthy recovery process, Henry dropped out of college, packed up what little he had—along with the decent sum of money he inherited from his parents—and moved as far away as he could, all the way across the country to LA.
Henry didn't expect he'd make it this far and frankly wishes he hadn't, because now he's well and truly alone.
He's not sure why he even bothered to stick around when he could've just killed himself a long time ago. It would've saved him a lot of suffering and Lord knows he doesn't deserve to live. He should've died that night along with everyone else. It isn't fair that he was the only one to walk away with his life. Perhaps he's just too scared of dying. He's always so scared.
Here he is in a new city but still as lonely as he was back home.
Henry can't remember ever having been at such a low point in his life; he rarely ever leaves his house because he can see people staring at him and talking behind his back every time he does. He gets it, he's a freak, but it makes his skin crawl all the same. He never went to therapy again after the crash, though he knows he probably should have.
He still has vivid nightmares of the accident almost every night, he still can't get into a car without having a panic attack and still flinches sometimes when he hears a car horn or similar noise.
He doesn't think there's much anyone could do to try and fix him at this point. In his mind he's irreparably broken in both body and spirit. Trying to help him would be a waste of time and resources much better spent on anyone else that isn't him.
Living in this body really hurts and it's getting increasingly harder just to get through the day. Henry isn't sure how much longer he can put up with it.
After the doctor had delivered the news that he likely would never be able to regain regular function of his right hand, Henry had completely lost his interest in art.
He doesn't paint anymore, doesn't even stop to look at posters on the street. He lost his one true passion, the one thing he had even during his darkest times—something he never thought could happen.
He has nothing left to live for anymore; his family is gone, his love for art is gone, his mind and body actively work against him every day and he feels nothing but emptiness anymore.
The only thing holding him back from finally letting go is his own cowardice.
One evening Henry's tired of it all and so grabs his coat, leaves his apartment and just starts to walk, determined to find a place to die.
The late autumn air is chilly but he can hardly feel the cold. Or anything for that matter.
He's been out of it all week; he doesn't feel like he's himself anymore, it's like he's just watching his body from afar. Like he's not quite there. Nothing around him feels real anymore either, it's all so distant and blurry around the edges.
Henry doesn't know where he's going and he frankly doesn't care, just lets his feet carry him somewhere far, far away. He keeps walking and walking in a daze until he is in such excruciating pain, his legs nearly buckle out from under him.
He has no idea where he ended up or how long he's been walking for.
If a truck hit him right now, Henry doesn't think he'd care at all. He'd be thankful for it, really. Henry's just so tired and exhausted, he wants it all to stop. Perhaps tonight's the night he can finally muster up the courage to end his life.
That's when Henry hears it—a soft melody carried by the wind. It sounds like someone playing the piano somewhere close by.
Henry doesn't know why he even bothers, but he follows the sound further up the street and comes to a stop where the melody is clearest. He turns towards the source of the sound and sees what he presumes must be the entrance to a club or bar.
It's a really nice piece and Henry feels inexplicably drawn in by it, so he walks up to the establishment.
He pauses, considering his next step. It's not like he has anything left to lose at this point, so checking out this club can't really hurt him any more than life already does anyway. He no longer has people to care about or people that care about him. Maybe he should go inside, use the rest of his cash to get absolutely shit-faced and then find a quiet place to die. Perhaps all it takes to finally let go is him getting wasted enough to stop being so weak-willed.
It sounds like a solid enough plan.
So Henry slowly makes his way down the stairs, holding onto the walls for support so he doesn't lose his footing and falls to his death. His muscles burn from the exertion and he nearly trips several times thanks to his stupid leg, but he eventually makes it to the foot of the stairs.
He rounds a corner and comes face to face with neon lights in the shape of a logo mounted on the wall.
Seb's, it says, but the apostrophe is a little note. Before the accident Henry might have had some snarky comment to offer on the design, but now he can't find it in himself to care.
So instead he keeps walking, around another corner and into the actual club.
It must be really late, because there are very few people around. It's remarkably quiet for a club; most patrons are just sitting at the bar or in their chairs, silently sipping their drinks with their eyes trained on the stage at the other end of the room.
Henry doesn't pay it much attention at first, distracted by the rest of the club's interior. He takes a look around as the piano plays softly in the background.
The lights are dim and warm, lending the club a rather cosy atmosphere. The walls are covered in pictures of what he assumes must be musicians and for some reason there is a stool on a pedestal. Must be important.
The bar looks well stocked and Henry notes that this is probably the fanciest club he's ever set foot in. Might as well treat himself to some of the good stuff on his last night on earth.
He limps over to the bar, orders two shots of vodka and immediately downs them. He can't recall himself having a single drink since the accident so the burn is stronger than he remembers, but it greets him like an old friend.
He orders a whiskey neat, drops some bills onto the counter and sits down on the chair in front of the stage that's closest to him.
He carelessly drops his cane onto the ground and takes a sip of his whiskey. Not his favourite but it does the trick.
Then he finally looks up at the stage.
Henry's breath catches in his throat when his eyes land on the man sitting at the piano. A spotlight illuminates him, casting bold shadows on his face as he plays. The man is dressed in a nicely tailored maroon suit that gently hugs the curve of his body. A few strands of hair have come loose from his coiffure and hang down in front of his face, swaying along with his movements.
For the first time in a long, long time, Henry suddenly wishes he had a sketchbook and pencil on him.
Then it occurs to him that he does; he still carries a notepad and pen inside his coat pocket. It's an old habit he never thought to kick because the items are small enough not to bother him in there, even if he never uses them anymore.
Henry quickly downs the rest of his drink and retrieves the items from his coat. For some odd reason even his good hand is shaking.
The booze is really starting to kick in now, dulling his senses even further to a pleasant buzz. Even the pain seems a little less bad like this, or perhaps his nerves have finally had enough and just shut down.
Despite that he feels strangely nervous even just holding the pen. He hasn't so much as attempted to draw since his month-long stay in the hospital—figured it would be pointless anyway if the doctors thought his right hand would never work well enough for it again—and now he fears he has forgotten how to.
The tremor certainly won't make it easy and whatever he draws likely won't look good or even recognisable, but Henry is suddenly filled with determination. He takes a steadying breath, uncaps the pen and picks out a random page.
Just as he puts it to paper, the music picks up in speed. It's loud, it's chaotic, but somehow it still makes so much sense to him. It sounds almost pained, like someone having their heart broken, and it touches Henry in places he didn't know he still had.
The man is clearly very passionate in his playing—Henry can tell as much just from watching him up there—and somehow it's infectious. Henry begins to scribble furiously, trying to replicate the beauty he sees in front of him on paper. As expected, it's nearly impossible for him to draw as much as a straight line with how badly his hand trembles. His fingers are stiff and out of practice, but he perseveres. This is the first time in two years that he's felt any urge to make art at all and he feels he has to make use of that, even if it turns out horrible.
Henry tries to capture the man's (frankly rather nice) nose, the way the shadows seem to part his face into segments with their harsh lines, the softness of his hair, the sweat on his brow.
It's almost like someone suddenly turned on the lights in his room after he spent an eternity living in darkness. It's disorienting and frightening. Henry can suddenly see things again he couldn't for the longest time—if he believed in such things, he'd say it's almost like magic.
He knows this won't last—knows that tomorrow will be just as bad as every other day has been since he lost it all, and this is just like a flame burning a little brighter one last time, consuming all its remaining energy before finally being snuffed out for good—but just for tonight, maybe he can hold onto this tiny burning ember of....something. It almost feels like hope, as ridiculous as that sounds.
His eyes flit back and forth between the stage and the page and he draws and draws as the man plays and plays. It's horribly wonky and scratchy because his hand just doesn't do what he wants it to, but it's still better than anything he has drawn in a long time because at least it's something. At least he's making art, something he never thought he'd be able to do ever again.
That Tristán Rêveur quote he used to love so much suddenly comes to mind: "Bad art is more tragically beautiful than good art, because it documents human failure."
Everything that led him here was just a long string of failures and now he's making the worst art he probably ever has. But Tristán was right, because it really is tragically beautiful, somehow. He's creating one last piece before he leaves for good and it couldn't be a more fitting one.
Henry keeps drawing even after the final note has rung out, adding a few last details.
He looks down at his work; it's dark, messy and the ink smudged. It's hardly even recognisable as a face, looks more like some haunted visage and Henry feels a little bad for not doing the man's good looks justice. But despite it all he feels a little proud for having picked up that pen and at least tried.
He drops the notepad into his lap and joins the other patrons in applauding the mesmerising performance.
The man gets up off the bench and walks over to the microphone at the centre of the stage. Henry subconsciously holds his breath when he begins to speaks, his voice low and mellow.
"Thank you all for coming tonight. We'll be closing in an hour, but until then, enjoy yourselves."
The man looks through the crowd and Henry stiffens when their eyes meet. It makes pain shoot up his spine and Henry winces.
The man smiles at him, his eyes creasing in a way that makes him look very friendly.
Henry suddenly feels such a mess of emotions, he's unable to figure out exactly what all of them are. He's not used to feeling anything at all anymore, much less so much at once. It's extremely uncomfortable and he quickly looks away, unable to hold eye contact any longer.
This man seems so different from him—put-together, charming, not an obvious wreck—but somehow Henry feels strangely connected to him. He must be losing the remaining shreds of his sanity right about now to even think something this ridiculous.
Out of the corner of his eye Henry watches as the man slicks his hair back and strolls off the stage, quickly starting up a conversation with some of the patrons.
Henry is just about to look for his cane and leave, but to his surprise the man has stopped talking to whoever he was with before and walks right up to him, wordlessly plopping down on the chair right beside his.
Henry doesn't know what to do so he just stares at him, wide-eyed.
"I've never seen you here before," the man remarks, cocking his head to the side before he extends his hand in greeting with another kind smile. Some of his hair slips loose again, falling back into his face.
"Sebastian Wilder, you can call me Seb if you'd like. It's nice to meet you."
Henry needs a moment to process this. This guy is probably the owner of the club, judging by the name.
Henry tries to hide his notepad with his left arm, having missed the opportunity to stash it away in his coat, then takes Sebastian's hand into his own trembling one.
Sebastian's grip is strong and firm, his long, slender fingers making Henry's hand look a lot smaller than it is.
"Henry. Uhm, Letham. Nice to meet you too," he says. It's strange, hearing his own voice again after hardly speaking to anybody for the last two years. Sometimes he goes months without saying a single word. He sounds hoarse, so he clears his throat as Sebastian shakes his hand.
"So, what brings you here tonight, Henry?" Sebastian asks, and Henry finds he really likes the way his name sounds when Sebastian says it.
"Uh, I. I heard music out on the street and wanted to see where it came from," he explains.
Sebastian nods. "I hope you liked it, then?"
It's Henry's turn to nod. "Yes. You seemed really passionate while playing, it was...beautiful," he says. His voice is so quiet Henry thinks Sebastian must have missed it, but the look on his face tells him otherwise.
Henry isn't quite sure himself if he was only referring to the music there. Either way it's true; Sebastian is objectively very handsome.
"Well, thank you, that's great," Sebastian says and his smile looks so genuine, it makes Henry's lip twitch up into a tiny one, too. He can't even remember the last time he smiled.
Sebastian points at the barely hidden notepad in his lap.
"May I see?" he asks.
Henry shrugs. "It didn't turn out well, I haven't drawn in ages," he admits, a little embarrassed.
He picks up the notepad and hands it to Sebastian, who simply looks at it for a while with an unidentifiable expression on his face.
"I used to draw much better than that, but. Well..." Henry trails off, tapping his cane with the tip of his shoe.
"You drew me?" Sebastian says, obviously surprised. Henry's glad he recognised it despite the sketch being so bad. "This is really nice." Sebastian sounds like he really means it. Henry looks away, suddenly all too aware of how out of place he feels.
"Do you have any other work? I'd love to see more." Henry shakes his head.
"No. It's all back home in New York. Probably in a landfill by now. Sorry." He doesn't know why he's apologising, but he feels the need to anyway.
"That's okay. You can always make more," Sebastian encourages. And maybe he's right. Maybe Henry can make more, learn to love art again. Maybe things don't have to continue on like this. Maybe he doesn't have to die after all.
Henry doesn't know where this revelation suddenly came from. He feels like he's gone through the entire spectrum of emotions in a single evening and it's disorienting, the plans he had made for tonight suddenly gone out the window. He's not sure what he's supposed to do now. But maybe he can figure it out.
Henry looks up at Sebastian and smiles. Really smiles. It makes his face feel uncomfortable, but he can't stop it and Sebastian reciprocates in kind.
"You're right," Henry says, tugging on the sleeve of his coat just so he has something to keep his hands occupied.
They sit in silence for a short while before Sebastian speaks up again.
"Hey, may I keep this?" he asks, pointing at the sketch.
"Sure, if you want to," Henry says, a little surprised by the request.
"Great, thanks," Sebastian replies. He rips the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it up into a neat little square and puts it into his breast pocket.
"You said you're from New York originally. How long have you been living here in LA?" Sebastian asks, shifting in his chair so he faces Henry.
"Just a few months," Henry replies, though he can't remember the exact amount of time. The last two years are all a big blur in his mind.
"You settling in okay?" Seb inquires and Henry shrugs.
"I don't really get out much, with my leg and all," Henry admits.
Sebastian looks him up and down with concern. "If you don't mind me asking, what happened?"
"Car accident," Henry supplies, looking down at his hands.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Sebastian offers and it's evident in his voice that he feels bad for asking.
Henry shakes his head. "Don't be. Nothing to be done about it now."
Sebastian tries to change the topic to something a little happier, and Henry appreciates the effort.
Seb asks him about his art and Henry in turn questions him on how he came to open this club.
And then they just keep talking, about music, about paining, about random little things, and he doesn't know how it's possible, but Henry feels less like a walking corpse and more like a person again.
Soon enough closing time rolls around and Henry is the last to leave, together with Sebastian.
"Do you want me to drive you home? You must be tired," Seb offers.
Henry would love to take him up on it because he hurts all over and really just wants to go to bed with his suicide plans put on ice for the time being, but he knows he can't be in a car without freaking out.
"Thank you for the offer, but I don't do well with cars," he mutters.
Sebastian winces. "I should've guessed, sorry," he says but Henry waves him off.
"Want me to walk you home, then?" Seb proposes instead.
Henry considers it for a moment. Weirdly enough, he finds himself wanting to spend just a little more time with this guy that's somehow stumbled into his life. Sebastian is an interesting person and for once Henry doesn't feel like he's being judged or treated like less for his restrictions. Sebastian doesn't belittle or patronise him, just talks to him like he's a regular person. It's refreshing.
"I can't ask you to do that for me," Henry eventually says.
"It wouldn't be any trouble for me, the club's closed tomorrow anyway," Seb assures him.
"I don't even know how far from home I am, I kind of just started walking and ended up here," Henry elaborates, but that doesn't seem to deter Sebastian at all.
"Even more of a reason for me to accompany you, I know my way around the city well enough. I wouldn't want you to get lost or hurt."
Henry sighs. He's too tired to fight Sebastian on this so he acquiesces.
"Fine."
And so they start to walk in silence, down dimly lit roads and past the bright neon signs of still open bars and restaurants.
After a long while Sebastian begins to hum to himself, a different melody than the one he played at the club, and Henry listens intently.
He recognises more of their surroundings now so they must be getting closer to his apartment. The sky is already starting to get lighter, fiery orange bleeding into navy blue on the horizon. Henry stares at it, too distracted to notice the large rock in front of him.
He trips over it and nearly falls flat on his face, but Sebastian catches him right before he can make contact with the ground.
His cane clatters onto the concrete and Henry clutches at Sebastian's sleeve, trying to regain his balance.
"Careful there," Sebastian warns, slowly pulling him back up onto his feet.
"Thank you," Henry mumbles, his face heating up in shame.
His legs don't seem to want to hold up his weight anymore, worn out from all the walking and he might've fallen right back down if not for Sebastian holding him up.
"Sorry, I'm not used to walking this much anymore," Henry confesses. Just like this, the self-doubt comes right back to haunt him. This whole thing was a horrible idea after all; Sebastian will probably just turn right back around and leave him here and Henry wouldn't even blame him.
But Sebastian keeps holding onto him, one arm slung around Henry's waist as he reaches down to pick up his cane with the other.
"Hey, that's okay. Don't worry," he says, but it only makes Henry feel worse.
"I have an idea. Can you hold onto me and your cane?" Sebastian asks him and Henry nods, unsure of what it is Sebastian's planning.
He finds out right away when Sebastian hands him the cane, then walks in front of him, back turned towards Henry.
He bends down and reaches behind him, grabbing the backs of Henry's thighs before hoisting him up onto his back.
Henry yelps, arms flailing around helplessly for a moment before he wraps them tightly around Seb's neck.
"What the hell are you doing?" Henry hisses as Sebastian straightens up again.
"Giving you a piggyback ride," Sebastian states like it's the most obvious thing in the world and Henry is stupid for even asking. Perhaps he is.
Sebastian readjust his hold on Henry and starts to walk.
"Why?" Henry dares to ask after a while.
"Why what?" Sebastian hums, continuing on undeterred.
"Why are you doing this?" Henry clarifies.
"I like helping people. Also, it's faster this way and—more importantly—less exhausting for you."
"You hardly even know me at all," Henry says, a little desperate now.
Sebastian shrugs. "That may be so, but that doesn't mean I can't lend you some assistance. Besides, I'd like to."
"Like to what?" Henry huffs.
"Get to know you better," Sebastian explains.
Henry doesn't know what to say to that. Doesn't know why anyone would bother getting to know a wreck like him. He's sure Seb has many better things to do this early in the morning, like sleeping or practicing or literally anything else that is not carrying a stranger on his back.
It's scary to let someone this close again after everything, terrifying even. It feels foreign and dangerous; this is probably bound to end in just another tragedy. If he lets anyone past these walls he's built up, he's going to lose everything he holds dear again, just like he always does. But at the same time it's also kind of nice to have someone care enough to accompany him home.
It thankfully doesn't take much longer for them to arrive at Henry's apartment complex. Sebastian asks him for his keys and even carries him all the way up the stairs, right to his front door.
"Can you manage from here?" Sebastian asks as he carefully lets Henry off his back.
"Yeah, thank you. Really. You didn't have to do any of that," Henry says, unwilling to make eye contact.
"It's nothing," Seb says, handing him the keys.
"How are you gonna get back?" Henry asks.
"I'll just take the bus, they should start running soon," Seb replies.
They both go quiet and suddenly this all feels very awkward. Soon enough Sebastian's talking again.
"Hey," he says, clearly waiting for Henry to look at him before he continues. Henry takes a deep breath and gathers just enough courage to do so.
Sebastian's smiling. "I hope this isn't too forward, but I'd love to see you again. You're welcome at the club anytime, I could tell you more about Jazz if you're interested. Or we could go to an art gallery together. You could teach me more about the things you like."
For the first time that night Sebastian almost looks a little nervous. Huh.
Henry considers it and finds he wouldn't mind spending more time with him at all.
So he says "sure."
Sebastian's smile gets a little brighter and once again Henry can't help but smile too. He almost feels like a different person. Like someone replaced him at that club and this isn't really him anymore. It's strange but he doesn't exactly hate it. He'll cherish it while it lasts.
"Okay, fantastic," Seb says and claps his hands together. "Do you still have that notepad?"
Henry nods, retrieving it and the pen from his coat and hands it over.
Seb scribbles something down and puts the items back into Henry's coat pocket, patting it for good measure.
"It's my number. Call me any time," he says before taking a step back.
Henry stares at him, unsure of what to say or do now.
"I guess I should get going. It was really nice to meet you," Sebastian says, absentmindedly straightening his tie.
Henry hums in agreement.
Sebastian fidgets in place for a moment longer before he speaks up one final time.
"Well then. Goodnight, Henry."
"Yeah, goodnight," Henry says and then Seb's gone, disappearing down the stairs.
Henry fumbles with his keys, struggling to unlock his door.
He finally manages on the fourth attempt, enters his apartment and immediately slides down onto the floor.
He stares at the wall of the small hallway, trying to process everything that happened tonight.
Henry had left his apartment more or less set on dying, but now he'd come back not only alive, but having gained a new friend. His world has quite literally been flipped on its head in one single night. The last time this happened was the night of his 21st birthday, the night everyone he loved died and he somehow didn't.
Henry doesn't know how to feel about any of this, he's grateful and apprehensive at the same time. He's under no illusion that this will fix him, hell, it's probably only a matter of days until Sebastian realises how much of a nutjob Henry is and makes off into the sunset to find better, saner friends. That is if Henry's mood doesn't shift right back around before then, which—knowing himself—it likely will.
But maybe this is worth a try. Maybe it'll do him some good.
If everything ends up going to shit, he can still kill himself then. Though in a way living with all this guilt is much more of a punishment than simply choosing the easy way out.
Maybe he's had it backwards this entire time and instead of not deserving having survived that crash, it's really the sweet release of death that he doesn't deserve.
Henry still doesn't think he's earned any of this, having a person as kind as Seb just burst into his life. But if he's going to try and stick around, he knows he has to learn to be kinder to himself. He's heard that in therapy about a million times and always thought it was complete bullshit. He still does.
It won't be easy, he'll likely wake up later and be right back where he started last evening.
But maybe he can try, even if it's just for a little while. One last attempt at life before he gives up for good.
He probably owes at least that much to the people that loved him but are no longer here.
If he can't do it for himself, then maybe he can do it for them.
Maybe learning to live with the guilt but turning it into something positive—like making art again or urging people to take better care of their cars and drive more safely—can be a way for him to atone too.
Henry finds that—at least right now, in this moment, sitting on the floor of his apartment at ass o'clock in the morning—he's willing to try.