//TW: guns\\

Listen.

Can you hear the sound of the cars whizzing past, the sound of people shouting across the street for each other, the sound of the beeping at each crosswalk? Can you hear the sounds of the crowded city streets of New York?

It is the symphony of the night, combining the notes of both past and future. It is the song that will be remembered long after the empire city falls, as most tend to do. Long when the world is nothing but dust, all that will be left is the mere memory of the songs that have been sung and the lives that have been lived. It is the truth, for better or for worse, and it hides itself from no one.

Listen closer.

Can you hear the softly mumbled words of the five figures as they walk along the cement sidewalk, dodging large crowds and reveling in the secrets and the laughter meant only for each other? Can you hear the joy that encompasses what it means to belong to one another?

Look.

Can you see the sight of the lights gleaming in the oppressing darkness of the night, the sight of neon signs glistening with the promises they have yet to deliver on, the sight of the towering buildings reaching for the sky? Can you see the sights of the crowded city of New York at night?

New York City. A city to be idolized, to be adored. Perhaps there is some truth to all the esteem it is held in, perhaps it is no different from any other place in the world. The city is built on dreams, both accomplished and destroyed. The city is built on nightmares. 

Look closer.

Can you see the shapes of the five figures silhouetted by the city of light and darkness, of hope and devastation as they slowly make their way home? Can you see the faux-starlight reflected in their gaze as they enjoy each other's company?

Listen.

Two of them are arguing for the sake of making each other smile, to hear the other's laugh. They are arguing about which route to take, a quick shortcut the Frenchman knows that will take them home quicker, or the normal longer way that doesn't involve passing through desolate, silent alleys distantly removed from civilization and light, like the Frenchman proposes.

But one of them knows deep down it doesn't matter in the end. It'll all end the same. The illusion of free-will is just that, an illusion. Destiny has been written down in thick, black ink even as the universe exploded into a violent existence, and it will not change or halt for someone as insignificant as him. To think otherwise is foolishness, a luxury meant for the dreamers and poets. But he has learned, almost a million years ago, that staying grounded in the bleak reality is truly the only way to survive.

"I think Lafayette is right," he volunteers all the same, just to have that fleeting sense of love, of a family he spontaneously found himself in, whether he truly deserved it or not.

"Of course you do."

"Hey! Don't blame me, blame my fortune." He holds up the slip of paper that was recently encased in the hard, crunchy casing of a fortune cookie.

"What does it say?" asks the girl, her black hair whipping in her face as a breeze tugs at the five of them. It is foreboding in nature, but none of them pay it any mind. If only they knew what the breeze has seen before, and all it will see until the end of time itself. Perhaps they would have been more careful, more wise.

The Virginian grins, a rare— but welcome— sight. "When the moment arrives, choose the top."

Silence.

Then, laughter.

It is good to laugh. He does not know if he'll ever hear it again, so he holds onto it. Cherishes it, especially that of the shorter boy at his side.

"Fuck you, Jefferson, fuck you."

"I deserved that."

"Thomas! I thought you were a sweet, innocent bean!"

"Sweet? Innocent? Eliza, have you ever met me? Because I can assure you, I am not..." Suddenly, he sees something and freezes, his words plucked up by the breeze and carried eons away, to a time when all of this no longer matters.

"Thomas? Is everything alright?" The Frenchman asks, trying to follow his friend's gaze.

He perks up and pretends as if nothing has happened, for the last thing he wants is to hurt them more than he already has. Anymore than he's going to. "Everything is fine! Come on, let's get you guys home."

The other four share a worried glance at his choice of words, but push it away and follow him.

Observe.

See the tallest figure constantly peering over his shoulder, looking for something— or rather, someone? See the smaller man at his side, watching him worriedly?

The immigrant decides that he can't let his boyfriend suffer alone anymore. He reaches forward for his hand, desperate to feel the warmth, the comfort. The spark that exists between the two of them that so little few actually can find.

"Why are you doing that?"

"Just... making sure nobody's going to follow us home. That's all."

"I don't think that's going to happen, you worry too much," he jokes. Anything to see his love smile. Anything to see the light of the stars in that gorgeous gaze, a sight he had been deprived of for so long before the boy had walked into his life with his glorious, ethereal being. He would never admit it to anyone, least of all himself, but he needs this boy more than he's ever needed anything. He hates to be dependent; it is a flaw, a weakness. But he can not help it.

His love is his weakness.

His boyfriend cracks a wry, almost sad smile, then glances over his shoulder once more.

"Stop doing that. We can relax, we're almost home."

See the way the Virginian responds to that? See the way he takes a deep breath and forces his fear, his anger, and everything else deep inside of him where nobody could ever see? See the way he forces a smile, as if the day really is going to end with both of them going back to their home happily, no problems or implications involved?

But he knows it won't end like that.

Fate is cruel, justice unkind. There is no happy ending for anybody who deserves one, for the amount of entropy and disorder in the universe is simply too high. There is nothing left but sadness and suffering for a painful eternity, then at the end of it all, blissful nothingness.

"Sure, yeah. We're almost home," he says, almost to himself.

Home. What a wonderful concept. He is glad he truly learned what it meant to have a place to belong before his inevitable end.

It won't be much longer now. Not with the shadow silently stalking them, just a silhouette in the corner of his eyes that he is barely aware of. Not with the phantom memories of that figure's words playing through his mind, barbed and poisoned. It won't be much longer now at all.

The immigrant stares at him worryingly. He smiles and takes his hand for a brief moment, trying to feel that surge of comfort involved with being with his love.

"Hey, Thomas!" The Frenchman calls from ahead of them.

The Virginian smiles down at his boyfriend in sympathy before joining his other three friends.

Watch.

Do you see the way the immigrant watches his boyfriend's every move? The way he takes it in, wondering if something is going to go wrong? Do you see the way he sighs and turns to the girl he use to be head-over-heels in love with?

He can feel something in the air. Something thick and pervasive, following them just as the breeze did. There is no safety in the intense lights bearing down on them, hardly as comforting and as gentle as the glorious stars.

"Eliza?" he asks her. "Something's wrong."

"What is it?"

"I don't know... but Thomas seems afraid."

"What else is new?"

See how taken aback the immigrant is by this? See how he opens his mouth to defend his boyfriend, and see how she quickly corrects herself?

"Okay, no. That came out wrong. Don't get me wrong, Alex, I love Thomas. Well, platonically of course, but haven't you noticed anything? Thomas is always afraid. Thomas is always checking over his shoulder. Thomas is always paranoid. It's one of the things an abusive relationship does to you. You become paranoid, you become afraid. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, but you should try to talk to him anyway."

"Okay, thanks Eliza." It is not the answer he is looking for, but the one he believes despite knowing, deep down, that such a thing could never truly be. There's always a hitch, a demon waiting for the right moment to strike.

But she believes that everything will be alright, ever the optimist.

Oh, how wrong she was.

Watch.

Can you see the three friends ahead, leaning against a shop building and laughing about a stupid dog video? Can you see the other two finally catch up with them? Can you see them continue on their way?

Such a sweet moment in time. Such a rarity, to have that small bit of peace amongst a world that will do anything to rip it away. It is one of those things, as small as it is, that Thomas will never forget.

He will never forget what it is like to be loved, in a thousand different ways.

And he will never forget how it feels to have that all ripped away.

Safety.

Thomas feels at home. He feels as if nothing could ever go wrong. He feels peaceful, because he knows his friends would do anything to protect him.

And he would do anything to protect them.

No matter what sacrifices it meant, no matter what he had to leave behind. As long as they were safe, he was happy. He would die for them, all of them, even the ones who weren't there right then due to other obligations, the tribulations of life. All of them were the ones who offered him the most valuable thing in the world openly, never once hesitating, never taking back more than he had to give.

They gave him love and they gave him happiness, and it is the greatest gift he has ever received.

New York City is not his home. A place cannot be a home. A city itself is nothing but concrete and metal, and such temporary things will never last. Home is much more than just a building.

And they are his home.

He hums a tune to himself. It'll be all over soon, and his friends will be safe. And in the end, that's really all that matters, right? The people you care about being safe.

"Alright, we turn down here."

Listen.

The only thing Thomas can hear is silence.

Look.

The only thing Thomas can see is darkness.

It'll all be over soon, it'll all be over soon, it'll all be over soon.

A few seconds later, and someone all five of them fear, whether they admit it or not, steps out of the shadows, a gun in his hand and a malicious glint in his eyes.

And somehow, despite it all, Thomas smiles.

It's over.

The time of peace is over, and the storm has just begun.