He thinks back occasionally to the peeling green wallpaper like paper money plastered in that first foster home. To the smiles that so quickly faded and the sick sticky feeling of guilt that glued like sap onto his skin and prickled sharp during scoldings and reprimands. He had been at school the day it happened, returned home to a pile of rubble and his sister staring blankly faced as the smoke rose to the sky. He had never seen his Father cry before, and never again after.

It was a lonely childhood, video games when he had gotten his hands on them. Stealing bread from the corner store. Most days only eating enough to fill him up, only sleeping enough to open his eyes again. It hurt to wake up to strange walls and voices, echos in the walls of fights and fears.

Jack had been the first confidant, his first hero. Adeline and Aaron had become parents of their own kind, and the blue paint on his room in their house was a source of comfort and permanence. He had been accepted, integrated into the mainframe and written down as belonging to their family unit. For a while, he had felt like he belonged there, like everything all of the sudden made sense. But now his position was called into question. He still wrote, still visited, but once again, he was on his own.

---------

He's over heating in his jacket and the dust caught up in the sun beams reminds him of floating ash in fire. He scolds himself, feeble man, broken plan. Dust, all packed together and electrified, that's all humans are. The percussion beats a bit harder in his skull as Mel pulls up the car and smiles. She'd invited him to a concert last week and it was his understanding there'd be another person coming. That he would have to fret about ending the right outputs in conversation and not talk too loud or too quiet so he wouldn't embarrass her(Though she claimed he never would). The back seat however is empty and the passenger seat waiting for him.

Car after car, house after house. He remembered keenly the motion sickness of being packed into the back seat and driven on winding roads he didn't recognize. This was different, the air conditioner was running low and the windows open so he wouldn't feel entrapped.

Mel moved her bag into the back seat and put on her sunglasses. He laughed a little at them and shook his head, "Are those mine?"

"Maybe."

She glances over. It's not often she gets the opportunity to watch him in the bright sunlight. Backdrop of city streets and crowds out his window swirling in and out of focus. His head is cradled in his hand, his elbow on the warm sill as a shadow falls across half his eyes.

He had that small smile that often comes with nineteen, a gentle and kind expression that reveled in freedom and fought constraint. Especially when he closed his eyes a sort of peace flooded him. She wished she could had painted him in that moment. She would had sat for hours and traced and etched each line down and curved with a dark brown the curls which seemed to swirl like hurricanes as the wind whipped past. Earth, its history and it's depth all in the simple color of his eyes.

The concert venue is outdoors, a long extension of green covered in checkers of lawn chairs and blankets. It's a special feeling, like weightlessness, like every worry evaporated and expelled in the height of the moment. The band is playing loud, the lights blinding and blaring as if they controlled the sound's song with them. He thinks about how well the track levels are managed, wonders how they set up the cables and why they choose to put the subwoofers at that angle instead of the others... Mel taps his shoulder and frowns, "You okay?"

"Fine," he grins, "Great, this is a great set up!"

She talks and he laughs, and vice versa, a smaller ensemble fighting against the larger. He loves the way she sways against the crowd, the sun eclipsing as he can just scarce make out her voice among the thousands. He is used to isolating audio, but he thinks for a moment he wouldn't need his software to find her voice in a crowd. It seems locked in, automatic, sought out. His legs ache from standing so long, he is tired, but the excitement keeps his heart racing for hours.

He's confused and overwhelmed. Guilty he can't exactly find the words he wants to to talk things through. It's a different feeling than before he got in the car, a slight change that makes him tap his fingers nervously against his jeans and grow quiet.

She looks back and her smiles. He is standing with a funny expression, just watching the stage, lost in thought.

"Hey, Josh."

He looks over and she takes out her Polaroid camera, bending down to get the angle she wants, "Smile."

Her hair blows into her face, shielding her eyes as the flash goes off, her shirt is stained with grass and she watches with eager anticipation for it to print. Cross legged, facing him with her back to the stage admits a standing crowd. 

Josh smiles to himself, and thinks maybe if all proofs add up, if he's found a solution, perhaps he would like if he could remember her sitting there looking like that forever. 

----------------

The office is quiet, the street lamps outside strung together like twinkle lights as she wipes tables and folds away garments like origami sheets. She presses her thumb to the fabric and fixes her ear buds. She likes to feel the floor rumble beneath her feet as the trains pass and upset the still. Bits of coffee splashed like canvas across her desk from where she bumped it on accident earlier. She waters the plants with leftover ice from her water-bottle, placing them in little triangles against the roots and dry soil.

"What are you listening to?" Josh asks softly as he leans on the doorway, "Boring podcast?"

"No," the edges of her lips upturn in a smile as she laughs, "Just music, makes the time pass quicker."

He pulls up a chair and takes a seat, his eyes hidden as he looks on his phone, the low brightness preventing her from seeing what he searches.

"Can I listen?" He looks up and sets his phone aside. There's something in his tone that she can't place, a gentleness, a fear and hesitation as if he's made up his mind to do something he dislikes.

"On mine?"

He nods, "Sit a minute."

She sits down and balances her heels on the edge of the chair, careful that their shoulders don't brush. She's been biting her nails again he notices. She's scratched her knuckles and forgotten all her rings except for the silver signet on her left hand. Her jeans are frayed at the bottom and the white blouse has brown buttons that secure the sleeve to her elbow. She looks tired, her hair tangled back into a ponytail half lopsided and only half as high as usual.

"Can I see?" he asks again and holds out his hand for the phone.

She complies and watches warily as he scrolls through and puts in one of the ear buds.

"Here."

She accepts the second ear piece, the cord a bit too short to stay three feet away. She talks a little about work this week, about what concert they should go see next and what she thinks would be an excellent movie to watch. He nods occasionally but doesn't respond, his hands shaking in his pockets. She panics slightly, maybe she's offended by him, and says something out of turn again.

The arm rest on the chair is hard black plastic, textured in a gritty pattern that goes smooth where it curves down. As she puts her hand on it she realizes she's run out of things to talk about. He fiddles a little with the settings, adjusting the equalizer and turning up the bass a little how he likes it.

Quiet again in the little office on Fourth and Main.

She enjoys his company, his little insights and perspectives. She likes his little habits at restaurants and the way their arguments never get too heated without someone apologizing. The way he pays attention to details and then comes to solutions she wouldn't have thought of in a million miles. Though Josh says the expression is a million years. 

But above all it's the humility, the sweet and kind laugh that never mocks. That assures her she isn't entirely a bother. She feels more herself around him than anyone else. Of course there's no way of knowing if he ever thinks of her at all. She wouldn't ask, not ever, she wouldn't dare. It was just a wish, a silly wish that she pushed out of mind most of the time.

He takes his hand out of the warmth of his pocket and presses it against the cold of the chair. 

With Green and Gold, Lanterns on the Lake playing loud in his left ear, he closes his eyes and leans back his head against the wall. Thinking, wishing. And suddenly a bit of courage takes control. A small and sudden wave of inspired bravery.

He moves his hand to rest gently on top of hers, fingers curling into a hold as he focuses on not moving an inch. Goosebumps rising on the back of his neck and chills on his spine. Not wires, not connections and physics, just people. 

There was nothing special about that at all. 

He can't see the way her breathing stops and she looks over in shock. He doesn't see the small and relieved smile that takes over her face. He'll never witness the prayer that escapes her lips headed above. She puts her shoes up onto the chair and flips her hand, her palm up so fingers can lock. His sleeve brushes against her wrist and shoulders press together like covers to a story, thin pages between. No more borders, no more separation in laptops or tables or miles. Just small glances exchanged in milliseconds. Received through heightened sense, relayed through unwitting smiles of relief. The smallest brush of the thumb sent like a spark through neurons processed through another actors false expectations.

Support. A commitment. It's sealed between fingerprints and agreed. 

And for the moment at least, it wouldn't be discussed further.

It was simply understood. 

No, he had been right, it was nothing at all.