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The sky is a milky, hazy kind of blue, tinged with a soft blurred pink, and it's airless and cold and perfect. A good day to die. John thinks it would look good in watercolour, the city of clay and steel rising out of its thick layer smog into the wide, bright sky. New York City is art, and John wants to touch it, because he loves getting paint on his fingers, in his hair, in his eyes, until he can't see anything but the bright, bright colours, until he chokes on them. He knows they'll find his body, and there will be paint crusting over his lips, his eyelashes, his fingers, and the colours will be all they can see. John wants to be art, but he's not. John wants to be a lot of things, but he's not.
He steps a little closer to the edge of the roof, because it's only one step after all, and why not? The wind cuts through him like a knife, like he's not even real, just whistles right through- and sometimes he thinks he isn't real at all. He wishes he wasn't though, because then the knife wouldn't hurt as much as it does now, because it does hurt, hurts so fucking much John can hardly stand. He sways, because he wants to be the wind. The air is all around him, but it's been knocked out of his lungs, and it's so many different colours- blue pink yellow gold red red blue pink so many different colours. He wants the colours to be in him, not just around him, so he exhales further, and hopes they'll fill his aching lungs instead of air.
He stretches out his arms, because he wants to fly, and he hopes he'll grows wings. He can touch the colours if he tries, he can reach out and swirl his fingers in the paint and trail it across the skyline, he can walk through the blue, bright air, he can breathe it in and exhale the colours back if he wants- and he does want, he always wants- want want want want want.
His lips are bruised and pale and cracked, and when he tries to smile, they split. But he keeps smiling anyway, even though he knows it comes out as a cold and broken hallelujah that drips from his mouth and tumbles into the air, before melting into the colours, because smiles never last. He laughs at this, because of course it's gone, of course it doesn't stay. The laugh fades too.
Shivering now, he tastes copper on his tongue, a bitter, sharp, metallic flavour. Say copper. Say iron. Say switchblade. Blood. It's rusty and broken in his mouth, and he wants to spit it out, wants to watch it melt into the colours as well- but he doesn't, because he knows this won't melt, knows all it'll do is muddy the colours and he doesn't think he can bear to be the one to ruin them, because after all, they really are lovely.
The sun is line of lacy fire edging the golden horizon, and it turns the sky to fire. Say matchbox. Say lighter. Say kindling. Burn.
"Hey."
Theres' a voice behind him, but he's sure it doesn't belong to anyone, sure it's lost.
Burn.
"Hey."
Must be lost, must be fire. Say autumn. Say bonfire. He doesn't turn, because the colours are so close, and they dance across his vision in inky strokes of paint and he can't see anything else, doesn't want to see anything else, and if he turns the sky will be gone.
"Hey."
Three times the voice has spoken, repeating the word over and over like a broken record, and it sounds so achingly familiar, but John can't quite remember why. The memory flits across his mind briefly (flashing lights, flashing flashing flashing), and he tries to catch it, reaches into the sky, but comes away with only air, his empty fist clenched around a horrible kind of nothingness. Say clouds. Say blue. Say air. Nothing.
A hand closes around his wrist, and he thinks it's fire, thinks it's searing into his flesh, thinks it's real. He twists away, swaying over the edge of oblivion, over the edge of the colours. Burn.
"Whoa, hey, careful." The voice chuckles, a nervous tremor, the fault lines beneath it's glass laugh beginning to shake. The hand tightens its grip on his wrist, but he still doesn't turn, because the sky is so close.
"I know you." It's softer now, a small avalanche rumbling over John's ears. John thinks he might know the voice too. There's something pulling him away from the edge, something soft and dark and hot, but he can't see it's face, so he tilts his head just so- so he keeps the colours in one corner, and what matters in the other.
There's a boy in front of him, his sharp nose tinged a blushing, rosy pink, and John knows he's seen him before, seen that golden, olive skin (not just golden, not just olive- blue and red and yellow and pink and purple flashing flashing flashing), seen those dark, searing eyes, seen the flames and let himself burn. Say life. Say pain. Say midnight. Lights.
Lights are all he can remember though, so he draws his arms into himself, digging nails into his numb flesh until he feel something, anything, as though that'll draw his memories back. It draws blood instead, but the memory remains lost amongst the colours. (Say copper. Say iron. Say rust. Switchblade.)
He shakes his head, dislodging the foggy haze drifting over his eyes, and tries to meet the boy's eyes- but he can't, because the fire is too hot, too bright. John thinks it might be the sun.
"I can't- I don't-" His voice shatters, the shards piercing his flesh, and he thinks he can see the blood beading over his skin (rust and iron and glass and copper and switchblade). At least he can feel something at all.
"At Over the Rainbow? Y'know, the gay club, not the song. We hooked up, but I'm sure you remember that."
The boy (Alex, his name is Alex) laughs, but it's all wrong and sharp and awful, because John has a feeling that he knows all too well John can't really remember.
Well, he remembers the morning after. He remembers waking up with a splitting headache and someone else's sweat drying on his skin. He remembers stumbling to the bathroom and throwing up, bitter and sharp, he remembers choking on hot, thick tears behind a strangers door, and he remembers gathering his clothes and leaving, thinking Godwhat'veIdone. (He certainly doesn't remember the way Alex's hair had been spread over the pillow in a dark halo, and he doesn't remember the small speck of left-over glitter glistening in the soft hollow of his neck, and he definitely doesn't remember arching below Alex the night before, doesn't remember the way he had begged, the way he had given and given and given until he had nothing left, and he doesn't remember still giving more anyway, because he was already so full it didn't matter if he was empty inside).
He forces himself to look into the sun (or maybe it's Alex's eyes- but is there really a difference?), and chokes past the lump in his throat, past the block in his mind).
"Why are you in my apartment building?" It's a clumsy change, but it's the most he can manage right now.
Alex's eyes (the sun) widen, large and dark and gleaming.
"I'm not stalking you, I swear, it's just my friend is here and he kicked me out because he said it was 'too early' or something and to 'come back later' but I didn't really feel like walking back to my place so I went to the roof because why not, and- yeah," He finishes lamely, shrugging beneath his large winter coat.
John blinks at this sudden onslaught of words. Alex's lips are red and chapped from the dry, cold winter, and the words trip and stumble from them, each starting before the other has finished, as though he can't get them out fast enough. Alex is a living wire, raw and electric, and John's not whether to touch him would mean pain or pleasure. It doesn't really matter; he craves both.
John doesn't reply, because his lips are lead-lined and heavy, so he squeezes them even tighter and hopes Alex keeps talking.
Alex frowns, but continues anyway. "I'm going to get some coffee. You wanna come?"
John nods, short and sharp, because his neck feels like it's going to snap, but that's ok. He turns away from the colours, because he's found his own in Alex, and he smiles, bright and vivid and sweet, because he thinks the colours of Alex's lips have bled into his own. He thinks they've stained him, and he thinks he might not mind all that much.