Chapter Two

A/N: I changed the formatting, I wasn't exactly happy with the first chapter. Italics in fanfiction hurts my eyes. The point of views were still off. Past and present tense, Y'know? Anyways, I work extremely hard on this story, trying to get in 5000 words per chapter, and try to use every power to make it good. It has become a part of my life, and my previous Language Arts teacher has a copy of it, and she loves it. As a parting note, Please review and tell me what I did wrong and right, and how I can improve. Also, I am looking for a beta. Good luck with that me, you newbie. :P This chapter was written to the songs: Summer Skin by Death Cab For Cutie, What Sarah Said by Death Cab for Cutie as well, and Your Guardian Angel by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Anyone who doesn't know Death Cab for Cutie needs to because they have a beautiful sound and inspiring, deep lyrics. Perfect for story composition.

After sitting on the splinter-infested park benches for a considerably lengthy amount of time in contented silence, me apologizing for my cruelty and Myde just shaking his head acknowledgingly, Myde suddenly up-and-left, hopping off of the bench in one would hardly call a flourishing motion, his gangly limbs sprawling out under him to break his fall.

"Ienzo."

I looked up. His face and dishelveled hair framing his face quite nicely but with the look of sorrow that he had worn on his sleeve.

"I'll see you later."

"Wait-!" I spun around, but Myde was already gone. Dissappeared, like he never had happened. Never occurred, like he just ghosted over my life just a bit, a slight carress that made me shiver. I felt numb temporarily, and only by sheer willforce did I manage to remove myself from that seat.

The London sky was black with the dismal smog that always condemned us to this dreary lifestyle. Even said that the smog was killing us. I told him that it was welcome. I had long thought about the mystery of death. My life was so horrid, I thought what could be worse? But I knew in my heart that death would get you nowhere. It would get you a cold body in the ground., or, more likely, on the streets. Contemplating death marks a sad existance indeed. I decided that if death knocked at my door I would let it in. The dismal pattern of my thoughts kept me occupied for a little longer, the exact increment of time that had past I know not, but when I looked at the clock tower that loomed overhead a beacon of light in this deathly gloom, a beacon of hope for the many poetic hopless there are out there. Making their songs in thier somewhat philisophical heads about how the light will pull them through and the various slivers of hope that make up a miniscule fraction of the pie of dispair. It was pathetic optimism. Petty hope that only results in empty promises ultimately leading to an empty life.

Do not get me wrong, I am not a pessimist. I am a realist under bad circumstances. Something in the moonlight left me questioning my belief in myself. As my eyes bore in the enlarged sphere that hung over the canapy of darkness that we all seemed to dwell, I had wondered about things I never contemplated.

Was Even really my friend? Was our bond that strong? And of Eleaus! What has happened to that poor fellow. Why is Lumaria so foreign to me? Myde. What about Myde? Is he a ghost to make me question myself? Something out of the words of Dickens? A novelization of my fears?

My mind was pounding in my skull, and to prevent it from doing so further (I am not fond of headaches quite frankly) I pinched the bridge of my nose and held it inhaling deeply. The effect was instant.

The park was empty. Deserted of nothing but swings swaying softly in the night breeze. The cold winter air rushing by my flushed cheeks sending with it memories of old lovers and couples, and children sharing their first kiss in this park. The memories of Myde and I talking just a moment ago. It was peacefully idyllic, and I decided for once to let go and allow the spirits to have their way with me, to manipulate my mind with pictures of peace. The wind whispering soft stories of happiness and calming my mind, music of a quiet string instrument washing over my mind and singing like a sirens song. My mind shuddered when it stopped, the voice so beautiful, so mystical. Were these visions memories, or platonic images brought upon by painful insomnia. The music resumed sometime later.

My eyes fluttered, my lips parted as I reveled in the beautiful sounds, thinking that this is what a mother would sound like singing me to sleep. This wind wisping around me would be her embrace. What had brought on these thoughts I cannot proclaim, but I was happy for them. I was in limbo, hypnosis, a half sleep. The music…

My eyes fluttered open just enough to see a boy fading into the distance with a guitar slung behind his back. I tried to call out to him, but my body was so weak…Over my mind, my body won.

--

Even's Journal.

I was scared to the very depths of my bones. Ienzo was not coming back. It had been almost three days since he dissappeared into the city streets. No one could survive those streets alive. Lumaria barely could. The poor fragile boy. I looked at him, the shivering of the night before was a precedent to this night. He was writhing uncontrollably in his sleep. I was not much older than him, but more expierienced. He was still so naiive. A personality undescribable.

Thinking about it, pondering something, even trivial, would take my mind off of Ienzo for a bit, at least. Pondering for me was my survival in the harsh reality of the world.

Lumaria has puzzled me for a very long time. He is like my son, my friend, my brother. He is definitely not from England, as he has a heavy accent. He appears innocent, but there might lurk something guilty behind those blue eyes. There is no doubt that he is brilliant, his natural curiosity and his preference to the older people in the group are tell tale signs of that. He is inquisitive, generally happy in mood, but his eyes belie dispair. He is serious, in a carefree way. He is a deep thinker, with an odd certainty in his tone of voice. Like he has a purpose, like he needs to solve something, or overcome it. He is generally quiet by nature, and attempts to be the peacemaker, as he obviously distastes conflict of any kind. He fights to be stong, not to dominate.

At least that is what I have gathered.

Lumaria's convulsions in his sleep begin to worry me, as sickness in this city is increasingly common. Every passing second without Ienzo is not returning, and every second Lumaria shudders subconsciously; they are in tune with each other, painting a painful symphony in my head, the Overture of a play of anxiety. My eyes hang hauntingly open, my hollow face somehow draining more into my skull. I look like a skeleton.

Braig and Dilan sit in contented silence. I know that they will go drinking later. Ienzo caused that. Him not being here. It puts worry on Braig, and Dilan has basically become one of us. I believe that Braig has a feel that he is the utmost guardian. He has to take care of us. Including Ienzo. The haunting reality that Ienzo might be dead… I cannot imagine the pain it puts on the bones of Braig's proverbial shoulders. The ever concerned parent.

My only hope is for peace. I had decided as soon as I became a vagrant; peace and stability were my hopes and goals in my life. It was so, too. Everything was a routine. Unpleasant, but stable. I was content. It stopped when Lumaria came into my life. I had a different purpose. And today, I am not clear on that purpose. It is a foggy as the harmful London skies.

Now, my once stability, stability that was slowly forming once more, its progress, construction crumbles like an ancient fortress under siege. My mind and life in temporary, yet silent, perhaps controlled, anarchy.

The sun is rising. Four days without Ienzo's return. I hold my breath and Lumaria stirrs. I have not the good news to tell him. Somehow, I think he already knows.

--

The Bar Record of Dulor the Barkeep, January 14th.

Business is slow today, as it is too bitter for many to go out in the frigid cold, even to get something to warm him up. London always had the most dismal winters. In Australia, there was no winter. The doorbell on hanging above the frame of said door rung signaling the arrival of two people. Something in the pit of my stomach told me it was Braig and Dilan, my somewhat regular conversational partners. Their visits, I have noted, have become more frequent lately. Latently, I wish I could ask why.

"What brings you two fine gentlemen in today? Scotch? Whisky? Poker?"

Dilan chuckled.

"Scotch for me." He replied. I grabbed a glass, pouring the potent liquid into the tiny cup. Braig nodded that he wanted the same.

"Anyways, why so early? No one drinks this early. People are usually still in bed with mad hangovers."

"Like hell we got sleep last night," Braig replied pointedly. I could tell by the look of the two, that they hadn't. Their eyes were dull, posture slouched, and generally appearing disheveled.

"Would it be rude as to inquire why?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Missing comerade." Dilan gruffed, downing his scotch. Braig winced.

"That's not good… I'm sure he'll be ba-"

"It's been four days, Dulor!" Braig shouted. "He should be back!"

"He's probably dead." Dilan moaned dismally, burying his face in his large hands.

"Shut up! He's not dead! He can't be dead!" Braig spat.

Obviously, this was a pent-up and touchy subject for them. Therefore, I retreated to a chair behind the counter and took to shuffling a deck of cards absentmindedly.

"Stop screaming." Dilan replied in an even tone, making a gesture with his hands in an attempt to calm his fretting friend.

"This is shit!" He yelled, banging his fist on the counter of the bar.

Dilan turned to look out the window with an expression full of grief and exhaustion.

Braig shot his scotch. "Another." He said.

Dilan had the money. This time, he would not drink sparingly. That I knew. I knew his companion's circumstances. We found out a lot when he first became mildly intoxicated. Your lips are loose when drunk.

"Goddamn you-Ienzooooo." Braig muttered before replying "Another."

Dilan didn't drink as much, I believe the incident is sobering to him. But Braig.

Another.

Another

Another

Another.

I had to open a new bottle of scotch. Dilan just watched his friend worridly. I offered him a sympathetic look, which he accepted.

"Who needs you Ienzoooo! You ass!" Braig cheered to the celing.

"Braig-"

"Dilan, ol' buddy! Did I mention how awesome you are. Not like that little turd Ienzooo!"

"Braig.."

"Another! I'm feeling lively!"

Needless to say, the poor boy was smashed.

It was poisonous to drink that much scotch, so we started replacing it with ginger ale. Braig was so drunk, he didn't know the difference. Once you drink enough alcohol, the burn goes away. After my wife died…

"Another my good man!"

I decided not to charge Dilan for the ginger ale. Just the scotch. Braig was cackling like an idiot soon after as well. I stared at the ginger ale callowly. Could you get drunk off this stuff?

The dusk hung in the sky outside the window, and patrons started entering. Braig was still acting like a fool, and I winced. Not good for business.

"Braig, we should go.."

"Another!"

"No." Dilan said firmly. "You've had enough!"

Dilan threw Braig over his shoulder, and walked out the door as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

"Dilan..You're so pretty. I loooovveee youuuu." And Dilan rolling his eyes afterwards Was all I saw and heard as the two left my sight and hearing range. I smiled absentmindedly for a while, worrying about how Dilan was going to fare the rest of the night.

My senses came to when something shiny caught my eyes. The bill..

Braig had paid for the ginger ale. I shook my head. That guy…

--

Even's Journal.

Lumaria stirred for about five minutes before falling asleep again, his brow knitted between two roseate eyebrows. Sweat cascaded down his cheeks and forehead as he cried in his sleep. Tears mingling with sweat, dancing about his face in a saltine dance characteristic of a friend's tango. He looked peaceful in a great amount of what I can imagine as pain. He croaked, his voice cracked. Lumaria suddenly afterward screamed. Screamed bloody hell. His eyelids opened, but his eyes were rolled in the back of his head. He looked demented. He started clawing a the air as if he was trying to grasp what wasn't tangible.

I had never been more terrified in my life. I wished Ienzo was there, he was always sensible.

"Lumaria!" I shouted, shaking him in a vain attempt to stirr him from his terror. Make it go away. "LUMARIA!!" I was hysteric, crying myself, the ultimate fear of losing Lumaria flashing in and out of my eyes. "LUMARIA! Wake up!" I screamed, my voice choking in my throat. I hit the dingey wall of the valley hard as if it would help the situation. Lumaria and I screaming, patrons walking by shaking their heads as another one bites the dust. Dammit. This wasn't fair! Why is death so expected! First Ienzo, now Lumaria!

"Lumaria.." I sobbed into his hair, smelling sweetly of roses. When does the hair not smell of dirt here? A rarity indeed. My tears dampened his hair colour making it a darker hue, an auburn unmatched by any artist. I realized the full cold reality of what losing this boy would do to me. It'll be like-

"Mmmp." Lumaria awoke, and propped himself on his elbows. "Even?" He asked softly.

He was awake. The thought had hit me, and the instant relief was like a panacea for all wrongs. Tears fell from my eyes as I smiled and pulled him into a strong embrace. His eyes widened considerably and he blushed.

"Lumaria."

"Yes?"

"Don't ever do that again." I ordered through muffled cries.

"Hey Even?"

"Hm?"

His eyes were closing as he went limp in the hold. No..I wouldn't lose him…

"I feel sick. Real sick. I'm gonna sleep, okay? So, just be there when I wake up, m'kay?"

"Please," I whispered; "Please don't go. Don't leave me again!"

"Even. I'm not dying, I'm just sleeping for a bit, right?"

"Don't! Lumaria!"

"Good night, Even. Noapte Bune."

I wrapped him in my arms, as he closed his eyes, I was relieved to here the light breaths of sleep reverberate off his small torso.

Y'know? I'm kinda tired myself… He makes a good pillow.

--

Ienzo's Diary.

I awoke the next morning with a throbbing headache. Pain shot through the tendrils of my nerves making my head feel heavy. I examined my surroundings. Still at the park, I see.

As if in a state of REM, music flooded my senses. A beautiful lullaby. A soliloquy of many emotions. It was if dreams were put to music. A soft voice like a siren, a porceilan doll of humanity singing as if hung delicately on angel's wings.

I shook my head and the music stopped. Wait…

Someone was playing music the night before!! I was too lost in my thoughts for the source of it. But it was like it was a song for me. The lyrics were muffled in my mind, as if they weren't important, just there. The music, oh the music!

After Myde left, someone played music to me! No, it was long after Myde had left, about three hours. Enough time for him to come back. But…it couldn't be Myde! Dammit I always fall asleep at the most inconvienent times.

I searched around the park. The solomn flashes of happyness the music summoned, stories depicting idyllic camraderie and romance were gone. Replacing them was the cacaphony of screaming children and their wealthy parents, barking dogs chasing after targets they never seem to catch. But no music. The incessant noise had driven me to my feet.

Something told me to move on from this place. And as if the place were a person, I gave it a curt nod before setting out northward. I needed to ask Myde about the music, anyways.

The townhouses I passed were all the same shade of brick, its color a deep rusty red, with moss growing in the mortar due to London's moist climate. If there was any wood, it was painted a disgusting black. The shingles, although made of slate were an ugly dark mud brown. I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

The buildings went on and on, each looking exactly the same as the last. As I continued my journey, I felt my uniquity degrade sporadically. It was turning into miles of the same things. Smoke poured out of dingy chimneys. I felt the sense of intentional dehumanization. A sense of doom. The stupid buildings continued seemingly infintismally. Glowering at their height like policemen to stalk out and kill the color in a world of grey. It felt as if they were searching me, following me. The inane similarity causing my mind to personify all it saw. I grew weary. There were no alleyways to sleep in. All the houses were seamlessly seared together.

It was like there was no life at the end of the dark, monochrome tunnel. I could sense my sanity seeping away like the rainwater in the cracks of the cobblestones.

The endless search for Myde was fueling me. The music was fueling me.

I had to hear that music again.

I had to see Mydes face again.

I just had to.

And I knew not why.

Chapter Three up next yo.