Grey.
Detroit was well and truly a shithole.
That wasn't anything Bryan hadn't known before, of course, but today the realisation hit home harder than others.
A couple months in this concrete jungle were all Bryan needed to become properly acquainted with the downtown backstreets and alleys, and he'd had a lot more than that now. Half a year he'd been stuck here. He knew the place almost as well as Moscow. Almost.
A sharp right and up, over a dumpster and into the neighbouring alley. The sirens were just starting to fade some, now. One more block between him and that nameless piece of scum and he'd be fine. Well out of harm's way, and the reach of the law. Readjusting the guitar in his grip, he slowed his pace to a careless swagger as he turned back onto Woodward Avenue and mingled with the pedestrian traffic once again.
Bryan never could stand thieves. He saw a lot of them when he was on the streets in Russia. Sure, he was a kid at the time, but he wasn't thick and he knew a thief when he saw one. There was something dirty about the act, something cruel. It was underhanded and there was a part of him that couldn't tolerate it. Of course, that isn't to say he'd never stolen in his life. He had stolen, lots of time – he'd had to if he wanted to survive. If he didn't want to go hungry. If he didn't want to go cold for the night. But therein lay the difference.
You see, there was a difference between lifting an apple or two from the market stall which bore tens, hundreds of other such apples. It was different to slip away a loaf of bread from the baker who could afford to throw out the burnt biscuits and cakes which didn't rise. It was something else entirely to take a scarf or a mismatched pair of gloves from the department store's discounted stock. Bryan was a kid at the time, but he understood the kind of stealing that had no victim.
This theft had a victim. This thief took one man's only way of feeding himself for nothing but a little side-cash and the sheer, wretched enjoyment of causing misery to those worse off than himself. So as the adrenaline faded and Bryan felt his bloodied knuckles begin to swell and throb, and he remembered the satisfying crack of bone and cry of pain as that gutter-rat tried to run and had his ankle broken instead, he found he regretted nothing.
Taking a left down onto State Street, Bryan could see the park and public library ahead. He hoped the bearded man with the green beanie was still around. Bryan narrowed his eyes against the chilly spring breeze and searched. But was a late on a Friday afternoon and between the people milling around the library's green space and the groups of people huddled around the Hard Rock café, Bryan couldn't find him; not even outside Vincente's which Bryan knew for a fact was the busker's regular spot.
"Great," he muttered acidly to no one in particular. He sat down on one of the nearby benches in the Library's verdant space and cradled the guitar carefully, tenderly, almost as if it were his firstborn son. This instrument had been through a lot, he could tell.
It was old and weathered, but perfectly so. Small nicks in the body here and there: the head was more than a little buffed, and one of the tuning keys seemed out of place. Bryan strummed at it once, twice, and winced. Something was out of tune and he hoped that thing was him rather than the guitar itself. Absently, he tried to remember some of what he'd learnt from the only man who'd showed him any kindness on the streets back in Moscow. But… that was an age ago now, and he was so young with so many other things on his mind at the time. Like the pangs in his empty stomach or his daily growing collection of bruises, for example. Absently, he tried to force his fingers into something resembling what he thought might be the formation of a chord and strummed again… to no such luck.
But Bryan was smart and had a good ear and eventually, through sheer stubbornness and lack of anything productive to do, managed to remember some of what the old man on the streets had taught him. He repeated the tune a few times, scowling as it never sounded quite right.
"Keep at it and you'll get there. Comes with time."
Bryan started, and looked to the left of him for the voice which took him by surprise. There sat the busker with the green beanie looking at him pleasantly.
"Ah," he grunted, feeling a little on the spot and not exactly sure why. Probably had something to do with the fact that he was fingering another man's guitar without permission, which was akin to doing the same with his girlfriend, in his opinion. An instrument was a private thing. "I was looking for you," he said awkwardly.
"What, inside the guitar?" the beanie man laughed. The motion brought a crinkle and a light to his eyes that revealed his age – or rather, lack of. He can't have been older than thirty. Bryan wondered what ill chain of events brought him to the streets.
"No," he said quietly, feeling ill at ease with the busker's humour and unsure whether he should scowl or try to smile. "I was just looking to return this," he explained, carefully lifting the guitar up by the neck and passing it over to him. As he did so, his bloodied and bruised knuckles did not escape the man's attention.
He received it carefully, his eyes brimming with emotion, as though the beaten old thing was worth its weight in gold to him. It probably was, Bryan thought, stowing his hands into his pockets. The teen considered leaving then, but found himself frozen to the bench as the man began to play. He watched as his fingers gently ghosted over the strings. Two of the keys were tweaked and then he plucked and strummed again, releasing a quiet, plaintive melody into the wind. The sound took Bryan back to his childhood, the time he spent running and hiding from his father, shivering on the streets.
"What's your name?" he asked, after a few minutes.
It took the teen a few moments to answer, being lost in the past. "It's Bryan," he replied.
"Well Bryan," the man said, in a voice like crumpled paper, "I'm not sure what I can do to thank you."
All Bryan did was shrug and shuffle his feet in reply. There wasn't anything he wanted from this man. And even if there was, he wouldn't ask for it. He knew what it was like to have nothing to look forward to and nothing to fall back on, to be cold and hungry - the Abbey hadn't beaten that out of him.
"There was once a time when I was on the streets," Bryan began softly. "Before I came here, when I was a kid back in Moscow." The music from the busker's guitar didn't stop as he spoke, but it softened somewhat. Bryan found that it seemed to move with his words, giving them colour, and feeling. He wasn't one to talk about himself – never was. There were things about himself even Tala didn't know. But Bryan spoke now with all the comfort and reassurance that came with the anonymity of talking to a complete stranger. "My father was a drunk and violent man – still is, the bastard – and often the streets were my only escape."
"That can't have been easy, for a kid," the young, homeless man said sympathetically.
"Easier than you'd think," Bryan smirked grimly, pulling out a cigarette and setting it to light. "Damn sight easier than a lot of the things I've done in my life, at any rate. Anyway, there was this old man who lived under the bridge, on the other side of the river, everyone called him Old Man Lev 'cause he had this beard, you know, all golden and thick and bushy, like a lion," he gestured, reminiscing fondly. "It was much better than yours," Bryan jibed with a sideways smile at the busker who'd absentmindedly just reached up a hand to stroke his own beard. There was a pause in the music as they both chuckled lightly before the teen continued.
"I think Old Man Lev was probably the first person I ever met who gave a damn about me. He had this old guitar and loved it like life itself. Used to take me around the streets when he went busking, sometimes. Eventually, he even tried to teach me a thing or two. But I never really picked it up… My hands were too heavy, even then," he said, looking down to stare at them. "He never gave up on me, though."
And it was true. Even when Bryan became frustrated because his small fingers couldn't stretch out to shape a chord, or when he'd strummed with a pebble because his fingers hurt and broke a string, Old Man Lev didn't give up, and always had a kind word. He told Bryan that there was a magic in music that he'd like to pass on. That there was a hope and a beauty in it that nothing could take away, not cold or hunger or gutter-rat thieves. Until, of course, Bryan realised they could steal it. Realised it as soon as he'd gone to meet Old Man Lev that morning under the bridge and found him cold in a dark puddle of his own blood, guitar nowhere in sight. No kind words or friendly smiles. In his young mind, it was his kindness that killed him. Kindness and smiles and music couldn't defend against the razorblade cruel reality of the world.
The next day, Bryan walked through the doors of the Abbey and never looked back.
"He was a good man…" Bryan concluded introspectively. "He cared about people."
"I can tell," the busker smiled. "It shows through you."
These words left Bryan with a bad taste in his mouth. Bryan was nothing like Old Man Lev. He didn't care about people, didn't sacrifice for them. He'd spent years in the Abbey stepping on other hopeless, frightened boys as he made his way to the top. Hurting them, ending them, just so he could live another day. He thought of Tala, Ian, and Spencer whom he'd left behind in Russia. Of his father with whom he'd always fought and could never, ever forgive. Of the bruised, bleeding and broken man he'd left behind in that dingy alleyway. "You give me too much credit."
"Or maybe… people have just never given you enough."
Bryan shook his head, self-contempt rising in his throat like bile. "I've gotta go," he said, stomping the butt of his spent cigarette into the ground and forcing his voice to remain steady. He could no longer meet the busker's eye.
"Well, you take care of yourself, now," he said as Bryan turned and began to walk away. "And thanks again."
Bryan pocketed his hands and walked silently away, disappearing into grey crowds inside an equally grey city. The sunset was a dirty, muddy smudge in the sky, just as clouded and turbulent as the teen's mind. The cold air seemed heavy and thick around him. But even heavier was the weight he carried that descended when the busker compared him to Old Man Lev. Compared him to a good man.
Bryan looked back and found that he could see nothing good at all.
A/N: Just a short one to end the day. Three updates in a single weekend - it must be the end of the world!
So this is just something that popped into my head this afternoon as I was skimming through my old work and I had to get it down before it simply evaporated. If it's a bit rambling, melancholy and unpolished, I apologise. I just had this image and a mood in my head and rolled with it. Oh and er, apologies if you're from Detroit, I've just heard it can be rather rough - I don't mean to offend your lovely city, please don't hurt me! xD
Anyway, I'll probably see you guys later this with with the next OTY: Convergence update.
Until then, take care, and have a nice week!
~ Indie