János: pronounced: Iá'nosh.
budapest
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The kid sitting next to him in the bar had been looking at him for at least 20 minutes now, when he thought Trowa wasn't looking.
It'd irked him at first, but, after a while, it became kind of funny- funny in the way that he made some sort of game out of catching the young man's eye when he thought he was getting away with eyeing him. Every time, the young man would get kind of flustered and pretend he'd not been looking at him.
Trowa was a patient man and he knew he could go on forever, but when an amused little smile started creeping up in his normally serious face, he felt it was time to confront his… what? Admirer?
'It's a beautiful day, isn't it?'
He was not big on small talk, but, curiously, this didn't feel like small-talk at all.
The guy seemed unsure how to react- at first, maybe he seemed nervous, even. But then he seemed to decide to be nonchalant: 'Yeah, it is,' he replied, edging slightly to face Trowa, and bluntly added - 'Where are you from?'
Well, Trowa couldn't really answer that question if he wanted to be honest about it.
'I come from Romania, now' he just said.
'Right.'
Trowa returned to his beer, but felt the young man's umber eyes on his profile all the while. He didn't know precisely why, but he was okay with it. He didn't feel threatened or intruded upon, so he let his companion be.
'Why do you drink that, if you clearly don't like it?', the young man asked, after a while.
Against the rim of the glass, Trowa smiled briefly.
'The taste brings pleasant memories.'
He didn't expand on it, and the kid (tactfully) didn't ask him about it- he just continued looking. Unabashedly.
'You looked puzzled,' Trowa commented at last, elegantly downing what was left of his beer.
The young man shrugged. 'You remind me of someone, that's all.'
Trowa could believe that.
'So,' his companion began, 'Are you planning to stay long in Budapest?'
'I don't know, yet.'
'I see. Well, I'll show you the city. There's lots to see, and it's always better to do it with a local.'
'You assume I'm interested,' Trowa noted with amusement.
'You are,' the young man said, dismissively, 'You looked so glum, there's practically nothing that wouldn't be better than sitting there, alone, drinking stuff you don't even like.'
Trowa's interest was piqued by the young man's seemingly contradictory way in which he conveyed interest and detachment simultaneously. As if he somehow believed he was doing Trowa a favor by talking to him.
'I'm Sam, by the way,' the kid said, and held out his hand to shake Trowa's, who inexplicably meant to say his name was Trei, but by force of habit found himself saying, quasi-mechanically,
'Trowa.'
His self-appointed tour guide was promptly scanned with a trained eye- 'Sam' had short, dark-brown hair and looked about 20 or 21. He wore normal clothes which were probably from well-known brands, and Ray-Bans dangling from his t-shirt's collar. He estimated he'd probably be rather tall –maybe as tall as he was– when he stood up.
All in all, a pretty ordinary –if classy –guy. And absolutely not the kind of person that usually took an interest in Trowa. He was not fazed by this.
'I'm waiting for someone,' Sam told him, mistaking perhaps his gaze for an invitation to converse, 'then we can get going.'
Trowa shrugged: 'Fine by me.'
He'd been in odd situations since he'd set out, but he got the feeling that his adventures in Budapest were going to be memorable.
'Trowa… it's a weird name,' Sam started, 'Is it actually your birth name?'
Before he could decide whether to make something up, or tell Sam to mind his own business, Trowa was saved from answering by the appearance of another young man, who asked the bartender for a beer in quick, deep Hungarian before greeting them. He also was tall, but had cropped, light-brown hair and green eyes, and was broader in frame than Sam was. He was dressed in a way that, although perfectly modern, somehow still reminded Trowa –oddly enough –of the Lord of the Rings. Possibly of Aragorn.
The newcomer hugged Sam, and respectfully tipped his head towards Trowa.
'This is my brother, János,' Sam said, 'János, this is Trowa- we're gonna show him around town.'
'What's up, man?' János asked, and immediately held his hand out to Trowa, who shook it with a strong grip and a guarded smile.
'Pleased to meet you.'
János seemed a rather carefree and cheerful sort of fellow, but, politely studying him as he drank his pint, Trowa sensed a seriousness around his edges that he concluded he liked well.
'So, Trois, were you being harassed by my brother before I arrived?'
Sam scowled at the question, and nudged his brother's shoulder, explaining, so that Trowa was not allowed time to answer, that: 'I asked about his name, is all. Gosh, you always have to assume things about me.'
'Dude, I'm not assuming anything, I saw his face! Anyway,' János said, looking at Trowa, 'Did you arrive long ago?'
Only then did Trowa stop to consider that he might look rather road-weathered. 'Got here not three hours ago.'
'Right. You look like you've been travelling for a while. You sure you're up to some sight-seeing right now? 'Cause we could leave that for later, you know. There's no rush.'
Slowly, Trowa smiled.
'We can go now. I've got nothing else to do, anyway.'
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Trowa found he'd easily become accustomed to Sam's mercurial temper and impeccable timing for witty remarks, and János's curious yet pleasant topics for conversation, and his thick, untraceable accent.
Also, upon Sam's learning that Trowa had only brought a change of clothes with him, the three of them had ended up in a nondescript store, from where they did not leave until he got Trowa to pick a decent pair of jeans (his were starting to fray at the knees), and a t-shirt with an owl lineart (which was 'cute', in Sam's opinion, and 'scientifically accurate', in János's).
It was 7 pm, yet night had fallen early, and it was already very dark.
The city center was very beautiful, and it was distantly reminiscent of Christmastime, for the chill air and the little, colorful, merry lights. By then, the brothers had taken Trowa to the worthiest spots this side of the Danube, and they'd promised to show him the neighborhood of Buda the following day, if he felt up to it.
He'd not had any trouble agreeing to it.
The brothers seemed to be fond of him, too, in a way that made Trowa feel honored. Although he was probably a good five years older than János, who was the older brother, apparently, they were still the people closer to his own age that he'd met so far in his travels. And, if he was honest with himself, too, they belonged to the few people in his age group with whom he'd willingly interacted lately.
They shed some perspective into his life, some he was so grateful for he'd not even had time to question their ulterior intentions, if they by any chance had any. They plain seemed to like him, and, for once, that was enough for him.
They walked in a companionable silence, under the looming presences of darkened, leafless linden trees.
They seemed to be aimless, traversing the neon-lit streets tightly tucked into their coats, the cold air seeping satisfactorily through. Still, when they reached the staircase leading down to a subway station, the brothers briefly crossed some words in Hungarian, and looked expectantly at him.
'We were wondering if you'd like to come have dinner with us,' said Sam, trying to be nonchalant about it, but nonetheless looking like he'd be happy if he agreed. János had a frank, I'd-like-you-to-come-but-do-what-you-want look, instead
Trowa smiled.
'I'd like that,' he said.
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No sooner had he agreed, that he found himself crammed into a small apartment with the two tall Hungarian brothers and their chatty, perky, and absolutely adorable grandmother, who seemed to be dead-accurately informed of their meeting, and all they'd been doing throughout the day (including Trowa's new owl t-shirt, which she was delighted to see him wearing), and was waiting for them with a tantalizing home-made dinner.
'Was I set up?', asked Trowa.
János laughed heartily, and gave him an amicable pat on the arm.
Sam smiled.
'Yeah, pretty much!'
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'No, thanks,'
Trowa answered, lightly, when, sipping slowly from a cup of tea that had been all but thrust into his hands by the brothers' grandmother, he stood outside in the balcony with János.
Sam had stayed inside, doing whatever in his laptop, and János was lighting a cigarette.
'I rarely smoke,' the tall Hungarian said, 'Only on special occasions'. There was a look in his eyes that was halfway between mirthful and serious.
'I smoked,' said Trowa, before the silence stretched too much (though it was easy being with János), 'I dropped the habit long ago. I just hated the smell of smoke.'
'Then why did you start?'
Trowa stared out into the night. 'Curiosity, I guess,' he said, shrugging, 'At the moment, I thought my life was healthy to a fault. But I couldn't really keep it up for long.'
'I get you,' János said, taking a slow drag, 'though that's the weirdest reason for smoking I've ever heard.'
Trowa hummed, looking briefly at the ring of smoke that János blew, and then at the naked trees beyond the balcony, orange-yellow through the street-lights.
Right after eating, Sam had suggested they all hit a local club, where a friend of his was bartending for the night, and they were very likely to get free drinks.
Trowa, who had respectfully offered to do the dishes, was simultaneously rejected by the brothers' energetic grandmother and swept into Sam's monologue about how they absolutely had to try out that club.
So, now, in the balcony, he looked at the distance and thought about how whimsical life could be.
János, who also looked like he was following his own personal train of thought, eventually caught up with Trowa's silence, and, taking a guess, decided that it fell within the jurisdiction of an older brother to point out what was taken for granted.
'You know,' he said, at length, 'Sam can be a bit unilateral about the clubbing business, but you don't have to come if you're not up to it.'
'I know,' Trowa said, easily, and smiled slightly, ever-looking into the darkness, 'I've not decided yet.'
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Some hours later, János, Sam, and Trowa, had entered the night club free of charge, Sam had vanished between the clubbers, and János had bought Trowa a drink. Currently they sat on high stools by the bar, and Trowa was saying:
'I wanted to sell the bike here, and catch a plane to Luxembourg. But it's funny. Now would be the time to do it, but the thought of quitting the road saddens me.'
János offered him a reassuring smile, full of understanding.
'I'd say, keep going until you're ready to let go, dude. No one's pushing you.'
'You're right.'
Neither of both paid much attention to the heavy electronic beats that almost felt like they could shake the ground.
'Are you usually so restrained when you go clubbing?' Trowa asked, with a quiet, half-smirk.
'It depends,' János said with a shrug, 'The best conversations I've had, I've had in places like this. They loosen people up.'
Trowa found he couldn't really agree or disagree with that. He often ended up very, very drunk after clubbing; because clubbing usually involved Catherine, and when Catherine was involved, a lot of drinking was expected… and dancing, of the acrobatic, flamboyant, sexy variety. Rarely did he remember a thing afterwards. But he was usually thankful for that, anyway.
The frantic disco lights tinged their faces with countless dancing colors.
He saw how János was subtly studying him, probably drawing pretty accurate conclusions with the ease of one who's used to that. Trowa guessed he'd had a rough street-past; since he knew that to be the only place where a man could learn to read people so, that was not the battlefield.
Trowa rarely voiced the assessments he made of people: he considered that doing it was not polite nor tasteful. But János was a breezy person –in a strange, impersonal way, even a kindred spirit. He saw the expression dancing in the man's eyes and he knew what it meant.
So, Trowa took a chance.
'You look tough, too,' he said, casually.
János smirked, not even wasting time in looking surprised at being caught.
'It's just the places where life took me, and what I did to get out of them. No big deal, it's just getting by. But you, dude. You've had it bigger. I really respect you.'
Trowa was strangely touched by those words. It might have even shown in his eyes.
'Yup,' János said eventually, 'We've gotta drink to this bro-moment.'
It was precisely then that Sam snuck in between then, and, absolutely interrupting his brother (who only smiled patiently at him, and listened), declared that he'd indeed secured them those fabled free drinks.
Also access to the VIP sector. Though that was only for him, "sadly for them".
They laughed. The free drinks would be more than enough compensation.
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He'd been a soldier, and he could drink like one, leaving aside that he could hold his liquor like a veteran.
So not even after drinking so heavily did he miss the touch of the demure-like pretty girl that innocently brushed past him, nor, minutes later, the feather-soft practiced caress of another pretty lady. Trained, both of them, it was easy for Trowa to tell.
Inexplicably they had thought he made for a good target, and so they seemed to be circling him, as though they were voracious sharks.
Not sure whether he had to be amused and give them points for trying, or irked that they thought he was easy to prey on, Trowa tactically let them do one, two times more, pretending he was oblivious to their deliberate bumping against him or fairy-like feeling for, most probably, his wallet.
However, ultimately, he'd drunk his fair share that night, so his mood settled on amused, though he decided the silly game was to end. When one girl finally succeeded in snatching the wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, he was quick in inadvertently snatching it back without the pretty girl noticing, and he followed her, and her lady companion with whom she later joined, through the club, and out of a back door.
Allowing for strategic distance, he soon enough found himself in a narrow, damp alley, where the two little failed thieves gathered in a round along with some other three or four girls, rapping unintelligibly in Hungarian.
He saw his two thieves shriek when they realized they no longer had the valuables, and, as they turned around to inspect where they might have lost them, their frustration turned into scandalized rage when they saw him, standing there under the streetlight, dangling the wallet for them to see with a serene look on his face that might've meant anything.
'I'm sure you thought you lost this…'
Maybe he meant to say more. But, the other girls in the group mimetically acquired the two thieves' anger, and they all launched at him, trying to either claw him into submission with their long, dangerous nails, or tackle him into the ground, showing a basic knowledge of martial arts.
Unfazed, Trowa dodged them with elegant ease. They could've been throwing pillows at him in slow-motion for all he knew.
Eventually, the girls realized it was futile to try and overpower him, although that did not mean they left him alone, nor that they became less angry. If only, it bothered them even more deeply- that one single, probably tipsy, man could stand his ground against five of them.
One came a step closer towards him, and began talking to him in her impenetrable language, probably cursing him, if he could read her facial expressions correctly. But, while his attention was turned to her, one of her companions tried to sneak up on him, and out of the corner of his eye, Trowa saw the seconds-lasting glistening of a knife.
Out of pure instinctual reaction, he disarmed the girl and put her unconscious –gently, but without much mercy.
Her limp body deflated to the ground, followed by the hollow clatter of the knife, next to it.
There was silence.
The remaining four girls looked at the fallen girl with incredulity, and, when two of them finally snapped and ran to pick her up, the other two looked seethingly at him, as if he'd just committed the greatest sin.
'That was not necessary,' a blonde girl spat at him, killing him with her eyes.
'No, it wasn't,' Trowa conceded with vague concern, 'but she tried to knife me. I'd say it's fair.'
This blonde girl seemed, as he looked at her more intently, to be the leader of the little band of pretty miscreants
'You know what you are? You're a chauvinistic piece of shit, think you're so great to come and try'n take on me and my girls, eh? You're nothin'!' she spat, and went on to insult him and call him all the names she thought could make him recoil.
He listened to all of it, unperturbed.
She came up to him, pushing him backwards with both hands on his chest, like a ghetto girl. 'You're sick, that's what you are, you're a sick , sick bastard!' she finished.
Trowa only sighed. 'You misjudge me. Your girls made me curious. But my curiosity's satisfied,' he just said, and turned around to leave.
The girl's anger had long turned into confusion, but her glare bore into his back nonetheless, and she seemed to have taken a personal offense through the situation.
'You think you can treat a girl like that? Mock her and her sisters and even dare to hurt one of them? And get away with it? A pathetic coward, that's what you are'
If only she knew.
His lips curved up, gently, a mixture of amusement and rare pity. She'd followed him, unsettled in her indignation (as though thieving from tourists could be righteous), and now they stood almost by the door that led back to the night club.
'Sorry for hurting your pride,' said Trowa, though he hardly meant it. He succeeded in making her want to murder him even more.
'Shove it, I don't need no pity from no man,' the girl spat, ferociously, her thundering eyes highlighting her pretty face.
He pondered.
'Come in,' he told her at length, with a little smile, 'Outdrink me, and you can take my money.'
The girl's narrowed eyes studied him for a while –she found nothing to conclude he was being anything but serious.
Suspicious and calculating, she followed him in.
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The first round of tequila was like water.
She suspected him like a spy and he did nothing to hide his alcohol-fuelled amusement. She did nothing to hide her dislike of him.
The second and third rounds were all about enhancing the swirling lights and making the noise around seem louder.
With the fourth round she said her name was Virág, but it wasn't, because virág meant flower. He told her his name was 3, so she called him Három.
Then they left, after the sixth or seventh round.
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It was dark.
Under her hands, his skin of corded muscle looked like black stone.
He saw her eyes preternaturally reflect the blue gleam that filtered through the blinds, the flicker of a police car's light that passed through the street.
They talked of things that made a lot of sense and too little, at the same time, with breaths tinged with agave tones.
He said to her he thought they were like wanderers, taking whichever path life wanted to offer.
His words reached her through a haze of small-hours and afternightclub inebriation -she told him that was definitely the most poetic one-night-stand she'd ever had.
He laughed.
She thought he had a sad laugh, and a sad voice, and a sad face.
In his 4-am-voice, he told her the story of a bird, so beautiful it could fly everywhere it wanted: people would always give it shelter and marvel at its beauty. One night, it got caught in a thunderstorm and its feathers were ruined. It wandered eversince, visiting every place it had ever been, seeking compassion. But nobody wanted to take in an ugly, charred bird. It became restless, flying day and night, until it died, dark and ugly. A child saw it fall from the sky. 'Look, mother,' the kid said, 'It's a shooting star.'
The silence in the room was like a void. It swallowed his deep, quiet voice; and the sound of her breathing. Trowa wished he remembered where he knew the story from, but it was a distant thought (everything felt distant, that late).
'That tale doesn't make any sense,' said Virág.
'It does, to me,' he replied, quietly, 'Love is like that bird. Like a shooting star.'
The streetlight that trickled through the blinds lent her skin a feeble, pale gleam; and she was like a ghost and had nothing to say to that.
Her spidery fingers brushed the outline of the only tattoo he had, which rose slightly from the surface of the skin of his neck, right below his ear. The softly prickling feeling gave him subtle gooseflesh.
While his own fingertips idled over her marked collarbones, he had a fleeting thought of how much he'd actually remember in the morning. The thought passed, and his hand contoured her chin.
She leant down to kiss him, noting for the last time how, in the darkness, everything that was "Három" looked black and sleek, like marble.
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The following morning Trowa woke up to the thought of Virág's clear hair on the pillow and the stench of nightlife, cigarette, and sweat that imbued his skin. He knew he'd never ask her why she turned to crime, or the reason for her underlying distaste for men, and he knew she'd not tell him, anyway, but he thought he understood her, in a way. For some, life could, from beginning to end, be barely more than a battlefield.
She was awake, watching him from the sofa in the corner, wearing only her jacket and halfway through a cigarette. For a long time, they just looked at each other.
Then Virág said: 'We're not shining stars.'
'I never said we were,' answered Trowa, his voice raspy with sleep. But shooting stars.
'It's a pity.'
It was. His silence agreed for him.
'Laura,' she said, vacantly, 'that's my real name. I thought you should know, Három. What's your name? So that we're no longer strangers.'
'Trowa.'
She smiled thinly, taking a drag from her cigarette.
'I should have known you'd lie,' she said, sadly, and exhaled, following the wisps of smoke until they became nothing.
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The morning was cold, and the light that filtered through the slate clouds was pale, silvery.
Trowa stood alone by the Danube, sipping some decent coffee, staring vacantly at the drifting green waters. Laura had taken all his money, but he did not resent her. She'd left him his ID and his credit cards. No phone number, too, he thought fondly.
She'd become a good memory.
He wore no watch, so when he turned on his phone to check the time, he discovered, amused, that János had sneaked into his phone at some point the night before, and left him a yellow note on the main screen. It read:
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'I get the feeling you're the kind of guy who suddenly vanishes without any kind of goodbyes.
Dude, I want you to know I consider you my bro and my friend, and you're always welcome wherever I am.
Here, have my phone. And my address Also, don't leave without saying goodbye, man.'
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Smiling quietly, he looked at the melancholy river, at the bridges that an incipient fog threatened to swallow. Friendship.
He liked it, always.
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Author's Note:
Sam and János are also people that I know (and love :) ), although those are not their real names :P János might be the strangest character I ever wrote, and the biggest challenge. Though I suspect he became a mixture between reallife!"János" and Hetalia's Prussia.
Lissie don't laugh.
In case you're wondering, yes, Trowa gets drunk with Catherine. I would, too.
And I know you guys thought of this while reading, so I'll tell you straight: Yes, indeed, Trowa has read The Lord of the Rings, because I'm sure he would, and because of my artistic liberties :D
I drew inspiration for this from my (very fond) memories of Budapest, and a very cozy song by ByeAlex called Hé Budapest, which I would recommend you to listen to, because it's very pretty.
Other songs that influenced this were 'A holnap, máse már', ("Tomorrow, yet another one") by Bereczki Zoltán, and Carry On, by Fun.
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'Ai wa Ryuusei' ("Love is a Shooting Star"), one of Trowa's image songs, has been a great inspiration for the whole story. To my mind, it's the one that shows his character the best, saying things like:
"I don't make excuses, nor do I need solace –I only believe."
I'll give you the full text next chapter, it's a beautiful song, but this note is getting a bit long...
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There is a lot of alcohol in this story. Hmmmm
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Let's see who can guess the GWing character who's gonna show up the next chapter!
It's gonna be awesome.