"Oceanic" - Part I: Tired

[tacotheshark]

Oceanic - Part I: Tired



Let us imagine for a moment that it is winter, that snow lines the trenches of streets, that flakes stream down almost like parmesan cheese from a shaker.

Let us imagine that you are out on those streets with a group of friends-a lovely bunch, you’d say, humorous and exciting, attractive and never less than energetic.

As you trudge along the sidewalk, gloves hands seeking even more shelter in the pockets of your thick, heavy coat, a friend of yours-let’s say, the girl on whom you’ve been crushing for years, long hair brushed back into a ponytail to make way for violet, fluffy earmuffs-says to you, a shining glint in her daring eyes, I dare you to go and lick that pole!

There are laughs all around-one friend tells you, Yeah, come on, it’ll be hilarious! And another,

Yeah, you’re not a chicken, are you

Fine, you say, fine, and you bet all those myths aren’t true, anyway.

It’s horrid on your taste buds.

It’s also the absolute worst idea you have ever had.

This is because, in your case and so many others across the continents’ teenagers, upon the wet slap of such a slippery thing to metal frozen far below freezing temperature, all the tongue’s water will freeze on contact, crystal like inside the squishy-and never before so seemingly able to peel right off-appendage, bonded so very intimately with the street corner’s friendly chunk of metal.

There is a similar effect when (on the event that this does happen which will undoubtedly earn a call from a manager’s office and a lazy, half bothered scolding) a clumsy employee of a mid-21st century factory lets one of the supply’s hundreds of severed pieces of flesh that is kept so deliciously preserved drop onto one of the inside shelves of a certain humongous walk-in freezer. The damage of course is far from irreparable, though, with what said laboratory works to establish.

Eyeballs, tongues, lips, hands-all are experimented on by hundreds in this factory which plans in the far from distant future to grow its very own human being, its very own superhero, America’s very own muscled, fleshy, dashing weapon.

When an announcement is made, signaling lunch break-dull, yet amplified by the speakers, voice of a manager sparking great contrast against the scratchy almost-silence of knives and scalpels being handled by the most precise hands these utensils will ever meet-each utensil is set down and each slab of muscle packed away. As they spill, flowingly, out of the building like milk splashing out from a jug, already having hung up their lab coats and safety goggles, some workers go back to their homes in their car or the city train, some to a local restaurant, only one to a particular restaurant: one that is just across the street from the building that is a laboratory and a library and an office building all in one.

In the window of this restaurant, which many would consider more of a café because of its small size, is a neon sign-OPEN, it reads, in flashing red letters that have become so wonderfully warm and familiar to the man who sees them as he steps through the door which he’s done every day for years and plans to every day for the years to come.

“Balthazar, hey,” says the cashier with a small grin on her thin, pink lips, running a hand through her short blonde hair which then falls effortlessly back into place. Balthazar grins in return.

“Hello, Meg,” he says, and he orders a chicken sandwich.

They flirt, of course-often, Balthazar would say-but he is in no way interested in the girl, as he’s sure Meg is in no way interested in him. She is but a distraction, something to keep Balthazar’s mind generally at easy and away from his work which he tries not to think about at all when it is not absolutely necessary, and she is nothing more. Though, she is nothing less. Never have the two met outside of the café, and never when Balthazar is not on his lunch break.

It no longer bothers Balthazar, as he bites into the soft meat, that a chicken breast has just about the same texture as a human eyeball. Years of practice in not letting it get to him have dulled his senses to the fact that, if he were to shut his eyes, it could more easily than not be just that between his teeth. Though, it does occasionally cross his mind, and to that he thinks, delicious, because joking is easy and just about everything else is hard.

It is as normal a day as any, though it becomes just a bit less so when Balthazar hears the automatic glass doors split open from behind him with a swoosh and a man-a stranger to Balthazar-steps inside before they click back into place. He pays no mind, as it isn’t much of an occasion when a new costumer happens to stumble into the shop.

It is only when the man seats himself across from Balthazar, two tables away and in the same row of booths, that Balthazar realizes how truly extraordinary this man is. Or, perhaps he isn’t at all, perhaps he’s just as average as his appearance would suggest-with his plain brown hair, average height, and normal beige trench coat-Balthazar would have no idea, he marvels solely at the man’s eyes, which are the color of a lapis gem, as deep and blue as the ocean with waves weaved about that are only fitting.

Balthazar thinks first that the man’s eyes are beautiful. Accompanying this thought is one of how grand it would be if the world’s first superhuman were to have those eyes, as well as how grand it would be if Balthazar were to be the one who supplies them.

When the man returns the next day to the café, and it becomes apparent that almost if not nearly every day he will be found with his trench coat spilling off the bright red fabric of the booth’s seat and with something fresh from Meg’s oven on his plate, Balthazar begins to plot.

He will be given a raise, he knows, likely even a promotion if he is the find to find the perfect eyes. He ponders this contently as he twirls pasta around his fork, watching the man, who, again and not for the second time now, sits two tables across from him. He wonders if the man has yet acknowledged him, though he doubts it and decides ultimately that its probably much better and easier that way.

He will be known across America, across the world, even, not simply mentioned in the very bottom of an article as one of hundreds of scientists, when the eyes of all who read it would be twitching and tired by such end and no longer interested in the slightest. No, that won’t due, and it won’t at all be the case-his name, with the names of only a few others at most, will live on forever in headlines and television specials.

He will be a legend. And what-what, he asks himself with always a smirk and always the same answer-could be sweeter?

It’s probably terrible, he thinks, again in the café He’s probably terrible, probably become somewhat of a monster of a man, He’s become desensitized, he knows better than he knows just about anything else, but he can’t help but be a bit surprised when he realizes exactly to what. He knows the man will have to be killed. If he isn’t, an eyeless man walking about will surely raise suspicions and conspiracies that are more trouble than they’re worth. People have been killed before, all of which Balthazar’s been told, none of which he’s even known the name.

He can’t bring himself to care, as he hasn’t even spoken to the man. He can’t imagine, though, that caring would be anything but a disadvantage.

Every day for weeks, Balthazar eats lunch at his same table and so does the man at his own, always two tables away from Balthazar, always facing him, and always so prominent in Balthazar’s thoughts even without saying a single word or doing a single remarkable thing. Balthazar considers telling his superiors about the man with the eyes that could launch ships, but he decides ultimately against it. He must find out more-for instance, the quality of the man’s vision or whether he has any sort of blood disease, and there’s always the hideously disappointing possibility that he wears colored contact lenses.

So Balthazar waits, and waits. He waits because he cannot approach the man, for he’s sure he’s being monitored in some way and he wants not to draw attention to the man, not yet.

It has been a week. Balthazar realizes that he’s been staring. He looks away quickly, off to the side and then back to his food, hoping desperately that the man hadn’t noticed. What if he asked? And Balthazar had to lie to him, and say something other than the government wants to harvest you for your eyeballs? He couldn’t have that, it would ruin everything. Still, Balthazar can’t keep his own eyes from wandering back to the wonderful, murky blue of the man’s. He is grateful more than anything that the man hasn’t once looked back.

It is a day later, and Balthazar is in somewhat of a daze. He sees blue eyes and the pale lids on their top and bottom, along with visions and thoughts of the future and his life, and nothing of his surroundings or the present is anywhere near a bother to him. That is, under he’s interrupted by a pale moon that he’s shaken into realizing is a smooth face with blonde hair cascading down the sides and a knowing smirk resting on thin lips. “Well,” Meg says, plopping down eagerly across from Balthazar in his booth, “can’t say I’m surprised.”

Balthazar blinks, sits back, and rubs a hand across both his eyes. “…what?”

“Come on, Balthazar. I see you staring.” With a sly grin that only a woman could truly master, Meg crossed one leg over the other, leaning forward and tapping well-manicured nails on the tabletop. Balthazar, at a loss for words, shakes his head.

“Look, it’s not like that,” he sighs, waving his hand in a small, disbelieving gesture, but it seems to be futile.

“Sure it isn’t.” Meg punctuates the words with a wink, slipping away and back to the counter before Balthazar can get another word in.

Balthazar groans, deciding he’s got to do something soon.

It has been two weeks. Balthazar decides that, if his plan does work out, he would very much like to be the one to perform tests and surgeries on those eyes, just so that he may have the privilege of being able to look at them whenever he so pleases. They’re so lovely, captivating beyond question.

Gems, are what they are. Gems with an entire ocean and possibly an entire world packed inside, but not trapped.

Three weeks have passed when Balthazar comes to realize that he needs those eyes in his life for reasons completely unrelated to his work.

Three weeks, when he realizes that now he must never speak to the man, because if he does, he will be found out and someone will be sent in a matter of days to kill the man and pluck his eyeballs straight from his skull for science.

Balthazar sits alone in his study (though it isn’t as if he’s had any companion at all in years), letting himself sink comfortably into the plush of his armchair and the soft jazz music that flows smoothly from his stereo set-a style of music that has become thought of as obsolete in the year 2046, but one that Balthazar enjoys nonetheless and always has. He owns a saxophone as well, which he does not often play, but cherishes still, as he’s sure he’s the only person to set fingers on one in decades.

He has just gotten home from work. It has been hours since he’s seen the beautiful man with the beautiful eyes.

All he can do is think, though he reaches no solution. All he can do is mull over and repeat sentences and situations in his mind until emotions stronger than he’s felt in years are pouring in on him like waves, one after the other, pulling him into the tide and crushing him under their weight. So that he cannot get up, he can only drown, under the music, into the chair.

Perhaps he will reach the sandy ocean floor soon.

It is ten o’clock and he may have dozed off-when he’s been sprawled across a chair for hours with his eyes closed, he has no way to tell.

Sitting up and rolling his neck around with an obscene cracking sound that aches to hear almost as much as it does to feel, he realizes with a small groan that food is what he needs. Though, his empty stomach feels comfortable, in a way, comforting-it fits, an aching stomach for an aching heart, two organs that are not connected at all, but that Balthazar now feels should be. Still, he might as well make an effort to get something in his stomach before he falls asleep.

He rises, and though it hasn’t been more than a hour hours since he sat down, it feels as if it’s been years of perhaps the apocalypse, as the world has certainly shifted, somehow, he’s sure of it, but it’s also stayed so horrifically the same.

On weak, aching legs, he descends the staircase, overly and scarily aware of the possibility on his bare feet slipping off the wooden stairs and sending him crashing to the ground. He grips the railing until his knuckles are white and walks the stairs meticulously.

The light blue tile of the kitchen floor is cold against the bottoms of Balthazar’s feet, but it soon turns cool and just a bit refreshing.

In the fridge there is everything but also nothing, and looking at the display that is not usually troubling, he decides that he cannot possibly stomach meat. Just the thought makes him feel sick, and he almost wants to close the fridge and turn away, but he decides against it. So, from a shelf he takes a single pepper and places it on the table before fetching a knife from a drawer.

He finds soon that his finger slices as easily as the pepper-probably more easily, if he were to think about it, but he doesn’t stop to think much when blood is spilling out onto the tabletop, red and watery, thinning as it spreads across the wood. He can only stare as it does so, as it covers the table inch by inch, and it takes a few moments before he’s surfaced fro his daze and he thinks, god, not now. He’s too tired for this.

There isn’t much blood, not when he looks at it rationally. He tears a strip of paper towel from the roll and wraps it around his finger, because he can’t be bothered to find a band-aid, securing it over the cut with a stray rubber band that he finds on the counter. Not wanting at all to cook but knowing he’s got to make food somehow, he tosses the slices of pepper half-heartedly into a pan and sets it on the stove.

Five minutes pass, with Balthazar staring at the sizzling peppers, before he’d fed up with the whole ordeal of having to wait. He’s too tired for this. He grabs the stove’s dial and turns it off harshly, before grabbing a fork and eating the peppers straight from the pan. He tosses it into the sink, where it lands among other pots and plates with a loud crash.

He’ll clean the blood later.

He’s too tired for this.

As the clock ticks on and the night swallows more of the world b the minute, Balthazar falls asleep on his living room couch watching a movie of which he doesn’t remember the name, suffering and suffocating in the endless repetition and constant analyzing that won’t let him be, of what he’s ever going to do.

He decides the next say, as he sits at his table and the man at his own, that what he’s going to do must be nothing at all.

It’s a bit silly, he decides, and he smiles to himself because perhaps the act of doing it might make him want to. It’s a bit silly, because Balthazar does not know this man, and he never has. He hasn’t even a name, other than the man. This is what Balthazar tells himself, over and over, until he feels like there is dialogue pouring out of his ears and flooding the air around him, you do not know this man, he is not important to you.

But it’s not silly, not really, because even though he’s never fallen for someone, Balthazar can’t imagine that this is anything but that. And, both to his surprise and his expectations, it feels just like that. Like falling. Falling into a pit from which he cannot emerge, as hard as he tries to climb. And the pit must be filled with water, must be filled with the vibrant blue ocean water of the man’s eyes, because Balthazar is sure he is drowning in it.

With this in Balthazar’s mind, with his soul having been dropped into an endless ditch with a tarp stretched across the opening to seal any light Balthazar might see, days pass, and then more.

A week passes, and though Balthazar knows he was never truly happy, he now cannot even fathom the meaning of that simple word.

It is selfish, he decides. He is selfish. And though the idea is riddled with self loathing, it is comforting, in a way. It is comforting, because it just makes so much sense. It gives him a reason not to approach the man, to den himself the privilege of ever speaking to the man, because he does not deserve it. And it is for the greater good, because he is nothing but immature and he surely does not need this man in his life as much as he imagines. Surely.

He’d known, anyway, of course, that to continue to be s stranger to the man would be for the greater good. How could letting the man live be for anything but? Though, he sometimes imagines that, in ignoring the man, he is doing himself as well as the man a great disprivilege, thinking of which he tries desperately to get himself to stop. But, sometimes, he does think, and he begins to curse his mind for all that it brings him.

So-he says hello to the man, and then what?

He says hello to the man, and someone or a wire picks up on it, and the government and his superiors know.

He says hello to the man, and suddenly there are teams and-for all Balthazar knows-hit men out to get him.

He says hello to the man, and the man is dead. So simple.

He says hello to the man, and the next thing he knows, those dashing ocean eyes are on a metal plate in front of him, ready to be torn and snipped up and groomed for genes, and the rest of the man’s body is nowhere in sight, disposed of in a landfill or a ditch, not even given a proper funeral.

So he will not say hello to the man. He will not speak a word. Simply, easy, and he has nothing to fight but his own desire.

That is, until the man speaks to him.

It is as normal a day as any.

If Balthazar’s days can even be considered normal, anymore, of which he tries restlessly to convince himself. What is there to be strange? Certainly not the man, because the man should be irrelevant to Balthazar’s life.

He sits at his usual table, skimming his fork lamely over a meal for which he has no appetite. He hasn’t much of that, lately. An appetite. Still, he goes to the café each day, for he can’t bring himself to tear himself away from it. When he is in the mood for eating, it is never for eating meat. He can’t possibly, not when a piece of meat could easily someday be the man he… loves

No. Likes. Still wrong. Is interested in. He sighs. He doesn’t even know this man-why can’t he remember that?

…Because, he feels like he’s has the man in his life for ages when in reality it hasn’t been more than a few months.

He looks down at his salad, makes himself think about that instead. Because salad doesn’t hurt. Unless, he jokes half-heatedly to himself, it’s got Brussels sprouts. Then it’s damn right painful

Still, as always, his mind wanders, and with it go his eyes. And he is not looking at the man, he is merely looking, and the man happens to be in his way. Still, Balthazar’s eyes skim over the man’s and find themselves halted and unable to move away when the man turns out to be looking at Balthazar as well, for the first noticeable time.

Balthazar’s heart is warmed, yet panicked, before he manages to convince himself that eye contact isn’t enough to draw attention.

The man smiles shyly, raising a hand in a limp wave, and with the grin his eyelids crinkle like pale flower petals around his eyes.

The man speaks up, “Hello,” and it’s not very loud and it doesn’t need to be in the otherwise almost-silence of the restaurant. His voice is gravelly and low, and a bit strained from his not having spoken since he’d sat down.

“Hi,” Balthazar says, smiling, trying not to let on that his heart’s just dropped into his cave of a stomach. The man offers another small grin and a shrug before he goes back to his food.

Balthazar is, despite his best efforts to remain calm and collected, panicking now as it’s absolutely inevitable, and it easily becomes evident that he cannot even function as he normally would when he can hear his heartbeat and feel his entire body beating with it, as it it is it’s own planet with a gravitational pull that sucks Balthazar’s skin in around it as the pull strengthens and recedes, and strengthens again, with the pull sucking all the oxygen out of Balthazar’s lungs as well.

And so, he leaves. He leaves, because he cannot do anything else, and as he steps across the tiled floor he is too aware of the taps that his shoes make against it, a rhythm that taps taps taps to the reality of disappointment, of surrender, of panic and of absolute helplessness, not to mention Balthazar’s bubbling rage at himself.

So many things, he could have done. So many things that could have saved this man, that Balthazar didn’t do, and he realization hits him like a slap in the face just as the double doors open in front of him and, as they part, the rushing wind does the same.

He, so easily, could have stopped going to the café and never seen the man again. Why hadn’t he done that?

He does not go back to work, instead just to his car. He hadn’t the heart or the energy for that, or anything even resembling that. If I’d had anything of the sort before, he thinks, and would have scoffed, had he, again, the heart or the energy. But anything he’d had has now been extinguished, put out like a lone dancing flame by a puff of air.

He could have found a different restaurant so easily, he thinks, even after the first day. A different restaurant in which the man would be nowhere in sight. It would have been like leaving a home, a home he’s lived in for years, but it would have been worth it, would it not? Maybe one just around the corner or even just a few buildings down it wouldn’t have matter, as long as it was far away from the man and there was far from any way Balthazar could hurt him.

When Balthazar gets home, the first thing he does is open his laptop and find one of the “online home buying” websites that he’s heard are so convenient. It’s crazy, he knows, but it could work, couldn’t it? He could help the man run away, to somewhere else, where he won’t be found and he won’t be killed.

So what, if his computer history is tracked? He can lie, he can always lie. It’s for a vacation home, he can say. He doesn’t think about it much, doesn’t care, he just wants to figure out something.

He gets an e-mail.

A specimen has been brought to our attention.

All measures will soon be exercised to obtain said specimen.

Expect new materials by the end of the week. Thank you.

The small part of Balthazar that had been believing that possibly, his small exchange with the man had not been picked up on, has now been put out as well, another lone flame that dances no more.

And the rest of Balthazar, that is panicking and working out a plan where each detail falls into place as light bulbs light up on the timeline in his head, kicks into overdrive and soon, he has a plan. An actual plan. He’s so relieved he could cry, but still, he is panicky enough to cry as well.

He scrawls his address as neat as he can on a slip of paper, puts it in his coat pocket, and goes to bed, sleeping more soundly than he has in weeks.

The next day, he does not go to work. He calls in sick, and goes only to the café at his usual time. He sits facing the door, this time, and it’s almost as if he’s sucking in the sight of the door instead of air, and he can’t breathe because if he does, it will be gone from him-not only the door but his concentration, which he holds tight like it is life itself. And the door holds him tight, as if he is connected to it by a rope.

The slip of paper on which he’d written his address is pinched between his fingers inside his pocket; he won’t let his fingers stray from it for a moment, lest it get lost. But he realizes soon that his hand may be sweating a bit, and he can’t get the paper damp. What if it rips-is he rips it? He slides his hand out from his pocket carefully.

Balthazar sees the man the instant he comes into view-first, the bottom of a trench coat swishing near the ground, then the rest of a person and Balthazar’s hand flies straight to his pocket the instant he can be sure that this is the man.

Yes, the paper is still there-where could it go? He watches intently as the man approaches the doors, then through them, then is walking into the café.

As soon as the man is just a few feet away, looking at Balthazar quizzically as he passes by, Balthazar propels himself upright and standing and it feels like breaking a seal to be on the other side of some invisible gravitational barrier. Swiftly, trying not to look into startled blue eyes, he grabs the man’s forearm, searching for flesh to grip through layers of clothing, and the man flinches at the touch, gasping and tensing. Though the man says not a word, his ragged, fear-stricken breaths convey a very clear message, and Balthazar feels terrible for that, absolutely terrible-yet, he leans nonetheless in close to the man’s ear and whispers through clenched teeth, “The government is planning to kill you and harvest you for your eyeballs.” A small whimper escapes the back of the man’s throat as he gulps, and Balthazar wonders what must be going through his mind; is he scared? Obviously. Interested? Likely at all to believe what Balthazar is telling him? “Here is my address,” with that, Balthazar slips the paper into the man’s trench coat pocket. “I can help you if you show up here sometime soon. Very soon. Alright?”

Balthazar doesn’t wait for an answer before he releases the man’s arm harshly and walks determinedly away. Though he does not once look back at the man, he can feel before he’s far away the man’s hand shooting up to rub his arm, where Balthazar had probably bruised him. Damn.

What a first impression.

But he can’t worry about that now, not when all that matters is getting the man away and safe. He just hopes to whatever divine force he’s never believed in that while he would be surprised if the man didn’t fear for his life, he not fear for it in Balthazar’s hands.

In the dark Balthazar sits, jittery and nervous on his living room couch, with no light but for that of a few lit candles scattered about the room. His laptop sits next to him, charged, because he can’t plug it in.

He’s turned all the power off. Can’t risk being watched by hidden cameras, or whatever may be hiding in his walls. He’s almost surprised at how easily he could get both the man and himself gutted and killed. Maybe not gutted, but certainly killed.

He isn’t quite sure why he’s gone to all the trouble to get everything safe for tonight; he doesn’t even expect the man for a few days. He can’t imagine the man will be all too eager to jump right into whatever Balthazar will be getting him into-hell, he doesn’t even know if the man will be coming at all.

Still, in the dark he sits, and he waits, without much of an idea of for what he is actually waiting. The severely boring lack of electricity and therefore entertainment begins to grate on him after a while, so he gets up and plucks a book at random from the small bookshelf he keeps. He’s read them all, but it’s something to occupy his time at least, so he sits back down and flips it open.

He, however, doesn’t end up reading the book for very long-the doorbell is pressed outside and throughout the house it rings.

How anxious he is when he turns the doorknob, and how surprised when he opens the door to find the man standing on the doorstep, looking up at him with the biggest puppy dog eyes he’s ever seen and a clearly faked determination that shows helplessness, if nothing else. The man gulps and coughs. “Hello.” More surprising is the fact that the man seems already to have packed a bag, an old backpack that he has slung loosely over his shoulder.

Balthazar blinks. “Hello.” He hasn’t the slightest clue what to say, so he decides he may as well figure it out as he goes along. He steps aside and says, “Come in?”

The man nods, clearly at a loss for words himself, and steps into the house, hesitating with wide eyes when he takes notice of the candles.

“It’s… I’ll explain everything, alright?” Balthazar sighs as he closed the door and offers the man his hand. “Balthazar Powers.”

The man shakes it. “Castiel Novak,” he says, and his voice sounds uncomfortable, forced. Like he’s going to be sick.

Balthazar almost feels bad for all the panic and pain he’s causing the poor thing. It only makes him angrier at the people responsible for this whole mess. “Castiel,” he repeats with a small grin. “Lovely name.”

“Is it? Always thought it was kind of strange.” Castiel cracks a small grin but it’s too forced, too awkward.

“Nonsense. Lovely.” Balthazar grins as well, and he imagines he looks just the same, “Care to take a seat?” He gestures to the couch and moves the laptop to the coffee table, where the plastic shell audibly clacks against the glass surface.

Castiel does just that, slipping the backpack from his shoulder and dropping it to the floor. Balthazar takes his own seat next to Castiel. “I suppose you want to know what’s going on?”

Castiel nods, eager but anxious, eyes searching Balthazar’s face actively but failing to find a thing before he begins to speak. “Yes. Please.”

“I can’t promise you’ll believe me.”

“I will.”

“It probably sounds a bit… surreal.”

“I don’t care.”

Balthazar sighs, searching for words, scanning his mind like the database of the robot he feels like, lasers scanning over words that jumble into letters and numbers of random degree-it isn’t too complicated, is it? He’s never thought it so. Though, never had to explain it, or ever was allowed to-“Well, I work for this sort of… this government agency, and we’re-they’re trying to create a human being without using any of the usual reproductive methods, for… for efficiency, for science. A super race, I’d say. They… they want your eyes.”

Castiel blinks, looks at Balthazar, opens his mouth to speak but shuts his lips again. And he mumbles finally, “They… what?”

“They want to kill you,” Balthazar says, trying to keep his voice steady when he feels he’s being whisked away by the current of the dam he feels he’s broken in saying it all aloud. “They’re going to kill you and take your eyes. Experiment on them, slice them open. It really is horrible.”

Castiel looks frozen, his entire body, as his eyes still and his brow creases, and a tiny shiver takes over his fingers-loosely folded hands in his lap, he looks so terribly interested yet so willing to escape and forget. “Why? Why do they want that? Me?”

“Because your eyes are unique, they’re lovely, I’d say. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“…Do you have proof?”

Without a word, Balthazar opens his laptop, shows Castiel the last night’s e-mail. Castiel reads over it, and then again, and then with a soft sigh and thick gulp he says, “And that’s… that’s me?”

He scans it with worried eyes on more time, and his eyes stall halfway through the short text when Balthazar tells him, “Yes. I’m sorry, Castiel.”

“Are you going to help me?” How it hurts Balthazar to see those shining eyes laden with grief, with distress-like the blue on the brink of day turning to night, and it’s raining, clouds thick with gray and Balthazar cannot do a thing to stop the whether.

“Of course,” he mutters.

“How?”

“You might not like it,” Balthazar says, but Castiel’s gaze on him doesn’t fleet for a moment, and so, he continues. “I can help you buy a house up in Canada, or, or something, and we’ll get you on a train and send you on your way.”

“Won’t you get in trouble?” Castiel asks, worry spiking in raised eyebrows and widening blues. “With the government? The law? Your job? Even… even for me just being here!”

With a grimace, Balthazar scratches the back of his neck. “I can’t imagine anyone knows just yet. I switched off all the power in the house-hence, the candles-and with that probably went anyone secret cameras anyone’s set up to watch me. I figure I’ve got about three days until anyone notices…

“Give, well, nothing, probably. Take, about three days.”

“So,” Castiel gulps, shaking his head slightly as fear builds up, bursts through his eyes, and he looks at Balthazar solemnly, “so they could kill you too?”

“Right now,” Balthazar sighs, “I’m just concerned with getting you safe.”

Castiel nods, sucks a deep breath into his heaving lungs. “Why? I’m… I’m a stranger.”

Balthazar says, “We’ve known each other for months,” and it doesn’t cover a thing, he knows-but it’s all he can offer.

“We’ve known each other existed for months.”

“Well how about you?” Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up at the question. “Why do you trust me?” Balthazar asks, air thick in his voice which grows exhausted, worn. “Why do you even believe me?”

With another deep breath and a shift of his weight on the couch’s cushions, Castiel asks, “Do you really want to know?”

“Definitely.”

For a moment Castiel is silent, eyes slipping shut as he slowly draws in air, and when he opens his eyes again, stares directly ahead-it’s almost as if he’s trying to float, to float away, and Balthazar can only hang on by the hem of his trench coat-he says: “The reason I moved out here all those months ago, is, I was almost killed. And I would give anything not to have that happen again.”

It’s a shock to Balthazar’s spine, spilling warm throughout his limbs before drenching them with ice water-he can only stare at Castiel’s face, at the creases in Castiel’s skin, and though his eyes are wide the rest of his body feels just the opposite.

“Yes, I… I was stabbed. By a stranger in the street. I have a scar, on my stomach. It’s ghastly.” Another gulp, and Castiel is looking at Balthazar again.

“Well,” Balthazar mutters, as he hasn’t a clue what else to. “I’m sorry.”

“I had to get away from there, I left pretty much everything behind.” Castiel’s eyes flit over to Balthazar’s laptop for a moment before he says, looking into Balthazar’s eyes like he’s trying to turn him to stone, like snakes with spill out from his hair any moment and strangle possibly himself, “I have nothing to lose, anymore.”

Balthazar’s fingers feel so impossibly numb, as he opens the screen once again. “How... how do you feel about Ontario?”

The laptop feels like jelly in Balthazar’s fingers, the couch like it could melt right under him, Castiel like he could disappear right into thin air because it isn’t possible that this all is true.

A hallucination, brought on by stress?

Balthazar gulps and he buys the house anyway-a quick transaction, thank the internet-and as he shuts the laptop and watches Castiel’s nervous eyes flit about the room, he feels like he’s floating on warm water, like Castiel is the rescue tube that’ll pop at any moment.

“Is that a saxophone?”

Balthazar’s eyes are drawn in the direction of Castiel’s, to the top of his bookshelf and the saxophone that sits there, untouched and unmoved for years, glow cast by candles onto its dark rust, glimmer across worn keys. “Yes,” he says-it’s nothing special. “I got it when I was a kid.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, “that’s nice. It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of those. I never could play, though.” There’s a small smile gracing his lips-and, well, anything to make Castiel happy, now, even just slightly closer to-

And so, Balthazar stands, crosses the room to the bookshelf, reaches up on his heels and plucks the instrument down from its resting place. “Have it,” he says as he hands it to Castiel, and the blue eyes that Balthazar still finds absolutely astonishing widen as Castiel stands as well.

“Really?” Castiel’s fingers hover over the brass, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“Yeah.” Balthazar says, forcing a chuckle and a small grin, planting the saxophone in Castiel’s nervous hands. “I don’t ever play it, anyway. Why don’t you think of it as… something to remember me by, after we get you on your way,” and he starts out joking but finds that he quite likes the thought, that he wants, more than anything, Castiel to remember him.

Castiel smiles as he runs his fingers meticulously over the rusty metal, weighing it in his hands, clutching it like it’s one of Balthazar’s vital organs he’s just been given. “Thank you.”

Hesitantly Balthazar reaches out, lays a hand over Castiel’s shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze and feels muscles shift under his fingers. “Don’t mention it.

“Now, I’m afraid you may not be able to go home tonight.”

“I know,” Castiel utters, “I was worried about that. I can stay here, can’t I?”

“Yes,” says Balthazar, “yes, of course. I have a guest room.”

Castiel sighs, gulps-“Thank you. So much.”

The train is parked, stalling as passengers filed onto it, and by the tracks Balthazar stands, by an open window where sits Castiel, where final goodbyes are said less than twenty-four hours after first hellos.

“Balthazar,” Castiel says, sucking in a deep breath that stays supple and strong all the way into his throat. He blinks, and Balthazar watches. “I’ve… I’ve wanted to do this ever since I saw you in that café for the first time.” He blinks again, swallowing and shuddering. “I’m sorry if this isn’t okay, but, well-I guess I’ll never see you again so it doesn’t even matter…” He chuckles softly, mostly to himself.

Balthazar stares, in perplexity as well as anticipation, because Castiel is now leaning forward, out of the window, and grabbing the collar of Balthazar’s shirt-he presses his lips to Balthazar’s much more eagerly and shamelessly than Balthazar would have ever envisioned the man capable.

And suddenly, as quick as a snap of the fingers, with Balthazar’s breath taken away and his lips still parted, Castiel is torn away with a buzz of engines and a loud scrape of the metal train against its metal tracks.

If Balthazar’s never been sure of anything in his life, he’s sure with very rushing ounce of blood and every panicking nerve in his body that he has to get on that train.

On a whim and shaking all over because he has to figure out something, he puts his hands on the stream of windows that rush by him, hoping that maybe there will be an open window onto which he can grab. His fingers find and dig into an open window soon-he barely has time to shout “Sorry!” to the person to whom it belongs before he’s pulled off the ground and struggling to find purchase with his feet on the side of the train, moving at least a hundred miles per hour with nothing to hold him to the train but his fingers which feel like they can be torn in half or off at any second.

Because he has no other option, he plants his shoes on the side of the train and hurls himself onto the top-he’s thrown back a few yards before he can get a handle on one of the rails that line the train’s roof (used to transport things, mostly, certainly not used for this). The rail’s metal is cold against his palm but he pays no mind, holding onto it like it is life itself because it very likely is. The wind is strong, rushing in Balthazar’s ears like the roar of a dragon and breathing a fire that is cold even though it burns. He might be screaming or groaning but he has no idea, he can’t hear a thing or pay attention as he flies halfway off the train, struggling to secure himself to it with both hands while his shoes slips right off and away from each rail he tries to push them against.

He’s found a hold. His hands are clasped around one rail and his feet are pushed against another, and the wind is ruthless in that if it doesn’t succeed in pushing Balthazar off the train it’s sure to peel, strip, and push away each layer of flesh until he is no more, just a skeleton that they’ll find and say, Well, looks like some dumbass thought he could hitch a ride.

No. Balthazar’s going to get on the inside of the train, he’s going to find Castiel-while he’ll admit that this is not far at all from suicidal, he’s not going to die, not going to let himself. He’s got to find Castiel.

When he reaches out with one hand for the next rail, it’s like trying to push though rock, though the wind is not as hard but certainly as thick and as hard to break through. But he manages, somehow, even though he feels like the wind is going to peel off his face and bend his fingers backwards and snap them right off or maybe flat against the backs of his hands.

It’s like fighting gravity on a planet that has far too much gravity for its own good, like trying to swim to the bottom of the ocean when the water is thick and heavy and much too dense. Balthazar has never been athletic and he now rues that more than anything he has in his life. Still, he’s climbed two rails already, he can climb more. He reaches for the third, and he’s actually starting to believe this might work.

Five rails, now. Seven. Ten. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He keeps going.

Fifteen. He can’t believe he’s actually going to survive this.

He’s lost count, and he thinks he’s almost found Castiel. This could be suicidal, now, he’s sure of it, but he has to see. He slides over to the edge of the roof and leans down, both hands on the rail, and his upper body is whipped back and smacked against the side of the train as soon as it’s lowered.

He sees a woman, who looks absolutely horrified to see him. But he doesn’t care for her in the slightest-he sees Castiel, three seats ahead, and his heart lunges without enough force to knock him off the train all in itself. He flings himself back up to the roof and climbs, again, trying to muster as much force as he can in his weakened arms.

When he drops again and sees Castiel, staring forward and bored like any other passenger, he swears he’s never felt more relief. Risking his grip on the trail he now holds onto, he drops an arm to knock on the window. When Castiel looks up to see him, he looks at first just as shocked and horrified as the woman had, if not more. He scrambled to open the window-when he does, Balthazar shouts, “Pull me in!”

Castiel takes Balthazar’s arm-the one with which he’d knocked on the window-while the other still grips the rail, of which Balthazar is terrified to let go. Still, when Castiel’s got him in far enough for him to barely reach the trail, he releases it, slinging that arm in through the window for Castiel to grab, legs flailing against the outside wind.

Castiel is able to pull him in all the way and he tumbles into the compartment, lying of the floor for a moment before he can stand and promptly collapse into the empty seat next to Castiel, struggling to find oxygen and to find his voice. He swears again that he has never felt more relief, and also that his muscles have never been so strained and ached so much.

“What-“ Castiel is struggling to find words as well. Darting his eyes every which way and chewing the inside of his cheek when he finds none. “What-how did you-“

“Couldn’t just let you go after you kissed me, could I?” Balthazar wheezes, closing his eyes and groaning when he takes notice of the dull pain in his head. “Held onto the train and climbed up the roof.”

“Oh my god,” Castiel mutters, shaking his head and looking back up at Balthazar every few seconds as if to make sure he isn’t seeing things. “You’re amazing.”