He looks depressed.
It's her brother who first notes this. She would never have noticed or cared if it wasn't for him - the man was always depressed, no matter how he tried to hide it, and that fact was hardly going to change because of a New Years' party - and most definitely wouldn't be doing anything if he hadn't looked so down himself because of that fact. It makes her seethe, but she chases after him when he slips out "to get some fresh air".
He's cornered in front of the stairs leading to the roof. The door is halfway open, allowing the cold from the unheated stairways to permeate the air surrounding them. She gets the feeling that he's been expecting this, waiting for it, even. The weary smile he wears doesn't help.
(She knows she's been here before, many times, many times. It's déjà vu, and she knows what's going to happen next. She just doesn't realize it at first.)
"What your problem may be, I don't know, but - "
He's heading up the stairs.
(And it clicks.)
He doesn't look back once.
(And she knows what he's going to do.)
She stares up at his figure until it disappears around the turn, before turning away herself - and then stops. Turns back. Faces that open door, the stairway beckoning to her.
The events unfold as they always do. She knows.
She goes up anyways.
::
It is snowing when she opens the door leading out to the rooftop. He acknowledges her presence with a fleeting glance before returning to gaze out at the streets.
"I'm going to kill myself. I love you."
The sentences that are supposed to hold so much meaning don't. They come out a detached mess of vowels and consonants that could never deliver heartfelt and passionate, in an apathetic voice that could never charm or enchant. And she's heard both before, far too many times to care. (Though she's never cared.)
"I love you," he repeats. As if she needs clarification. As if she needs to hear those words again.
"Do you ever think," she says, "that you could be more original? Try something new? Anything besides this?"
The bitterness never seems to leave his laughter, not even now. Especially not now. "But I have tried new things. A plethora of new things. This is best at getting your attention."
She scoffs. "I doubt that." But she knows it's true.
Laughter again. Then he lets out a breath. A plume of white appears, and then fades away as quickly as it came. "I suppose you do." His eyes remain fixed on the sight below them.
Creeping into his voice is the tinge of resignation - or maybe denial - that she has come to associate with him. She is only briefly silent before replying, "Of course."
He nods, and then adds (only a little hesitantly), "You never fail to follow me either. Why don't you try something new? Stop following me on my suicide mission, make me feel even more... worthless?"
"I'll never know." Quick and preceded by a flinch. Maybe it's the way his words echo hers. Maybe it's the earnest way he asks, desperate, almost, for the answer.
"Ah."
Her next statement ("And if I were to - hypothetically, of course - reciprocate your feelings, thus breaking this ridiculous routine, what would you do?") is genuinely curious on her part. His response is immediate: "I'll never know."
"Elaborate."
"I don't know. I'll never know. I might dream years and years about 'what if's and 'what would I's but I'll never know."
She understands. "... and if you were to - hypothetically, of course - stop loving me, thus breaking this ridiculous routine, what would happen?"
"That would never happen. We both know that."
"Love is fleeting. Hypothetically."
"You could say that, but is it really?"
"Hypothetically."
"It would stop a lot of suffering."
"Then why do you never stop?"
He sighs. Suddenly he looks old. Tired. His back is hunched slightly. He seems smaller, weaker. Defenseless. "I can't."
"Why do you resort to this?"
"I'm just tired."
He faces her and gives her a weak smile. It seems unfair, because out of all the smiles he's given her, out of all the radiant, warm smiles, this one will be the one that stays the sharpest in her mind. The pathetic shadow of what used to be.
"Tired of this? Life? Me, perhaps?"
"Yes."
"To all three?"
She hopes and she dares but he says "No".
An uncomfortable silence settles between them. Cars pass by below. Snowflakes dance lazily. They dust their figures, sprinkle the two. He turns back around and leans on the metal. The distant sound of a frying pan hitting skulls, of cheerful laughter, of dancing and drinking is heard from two stories below. The cacophony of frosted cars' horns reaches them from even further down. Fireworks begin, brightening up the sky with vivid colors and starlike sparkles. Bells chime, greeting a new beginning.
Absentmindedly, he traces a pattern across the railing, and then on a sudden impulse leans out over the edge, hanging over the streets. It is hardly a shock when she asks him if he really does mean to kill himself.
"It's pointless. You would not, would never, succeed."
"I can try," he responds offhandedly.
There it is. That dogged determination. Relentlessness. She hates it and admires him for it.
He's climbing onto the railing now, sitting down comfortably though comfort should not have been an option there. Cold and slippery and hard. A perfect formula for unwelcoming, but he takes it as if it were the epitome of hospitality.
"It's pointless. You have not, have never, succeeded."
She's not telling him to stop. Just telling him in a thinly-veiled way that he is an idiot (forlovingher-forbeingblind-forlivinglikethis).
"I can try," he tells her, and it's sincere. Warm. It's been ages, she thinks, since he's been sincere. Warm.
He faces the sky. Yellow-green-red, it flowers with, and then red-green-white. He chuckles. She stares.
They observe the firecrackers soundlessly. The colors blossom, flare, and then fade. Blossom, flare, fade. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
The grand finale comes all too soon, showering the night in brilliant sparks. Burst after burst of colors, vibrant and sharply contrasting the midnight-blue sky. Their gazes are transfixed. They seem to have forgotten everything but that moment, that now. And then it ends. The sparkles fizz out and leave an imaginary trace of what was there. Then they blink, and it's over.
He sighs wistfully. "That was beautiful. I should tell America that."
"I thought you were going to jump."
He seems taken aback by that. "Well, yes, but..." He pauses. "I suppose you could tell him?"
She nods and turns away.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Are you staying?" he asks abruptly. "You didn't the last time."
She whirls and walks away then and there, leaves the rooftop for the comfort of the heated floors below without so much as a goodbye. She refuses to even watch him try. She won't give him that.
The party, when she returns, is at its peak. The nations here are indisputably drunk. Intoxicated nations - intoxicated siblings - letting go of their inhibitions, letting loose. Distasteful. But she accepts the glass of vodka when her brother offers it, and then another, and another.
Things become a whir of events. One minute she's sitting next to her brother and the next she's looking up at - but not really seeing - a blonde with hazy eyes and crooked glasses, speaking slurred "I love you"s that she knows he doesn't mean. She thinks she has to tell him something, something about fireworks and beauty, but she forgets the words and then he's gone and she's next to someone else. She forgets everything that happens in the moment before the last, lives in now. A half-coherent conversation. Uncontrolled laughter contrasted by uncomfortable silences filled by downing the next shot, and the next, and the next. Can't stop. And then it stops. Hellogoodbye, and everything fades to black.
::
She wakes up in the morning in her hotel room with a murderous hangover. Remembers previous night events and is disgusted at herself. Then she wonders for a fleeting moment if he jumped or not. (Of course he jumped.) And then she goes to the sink to get some water before falling back asleep.
She'll see him the next conference, anyways.