For Beatrix.
 

Socrates

Dawn is breaking over a crawling street.

The streetlights are still lit, and they cast long shadows on the asphalt. The sky is overcast and snow has long since turned to slush. There is a plowed snow bank at the intersection, sprinkled with the dirty water splashed up from under car tires, and crushed down by people anxious to get across the street.

At this hour, there is no one driving along the water-slicked roads, except for the odd car with bright fog lights, dragging at the speed limit because it's slippery. There is no one outside, facing the biting wind, except for tired business people, weighted down by thick scarves and heavy trench coats and briefcases. And except for those who have no place to go, and those who are sick of running.

Run-off from melting snow banks trickles along the gutter, rushing into the sewer. Water meets water with atonal musicality, and then drifting away only to repeat the process.

Lance's breath mists as he exhales into the crisp air, and he keeps walking. He doesn't know where they are or where they're going. He doesn't know the city and he doesn't know the street and he doesn't know how to get out of there, if he wanted to. That sort of thing has always been the problem: not knowing. Once, he thought he knew everything, and then that wasn't enough, and then that wasn't anything.

Beside him, AJ is smoking quietly, but Lance can't smell it. There was once a time that Lance could reach out and sense what AJ was thinking and feeling, and know just what to say at what time, and just what to do in which situation.

He can't do that anymore.

He doesn't remember when that started. AJ was never open, but he's drawn in on himself. Lance used to look at him and see through him; he used to know that AJ favoured sunglasses because he hated that his eyes were so expressive. Lance doesn't know that now, because it's not true. Lance looks at him now, and he doesn't see anything but AJ's exterior, rough and unyielding. AJ's eyes don't show anything.

Lance thinks the universal truths are crumbling around him.

"What are we doing?" AJ asks, eventually. Time seems to have slowed down: it feels as if they've been walking forever, but dawn is still a faint light on a horizon that Lance can't see. And Lance doesn't know the answer to the question, so he doesn't say anything.

AJ slides his hand into Lance's, lacing their fingers together. Neither have gloves despite the cold, and AJ's fingers are clammy and icy against Lance's hand. It was mild when they left the hotel, but that was a long time ago. AJ tugs on Lance's hand; Lance would feel uncomfortable with this, but no one is looking at them. It's probably deliberate.

AJ stops in front of a garbage can - one of the long ones, with three different compartments for bottles, paper and garbage. No one ever really pays attention to what goes where, Lance thinks, because in cities like this, everything has to be fast and one thing after another, and there's never time for *now*. But that's how he is, too. He never used to be.

And Lance starts to say something, without knowing the words, but AJ pulls away from him, and he stops. AJ lifts Lance's hand to inspect it; the skin is red and raw from the cold, but all Lance can feel is AJ's gaze. AJ lets his hand fall and leans back against the garbage receptacle, blocking one of the recycling slots. He says, "you're an asshole."

Lance isn't surprised. "You're the one who wanted to," he says.

"Wanted what?" AJ asks. He brings his cigarette to his lips, but he's smoked it down to the filter. He drops it in the slush on the kerb.

"All of it," Lance says. "Everything that happened, it was what you wanted," but that's not entirely true. It wasn't all one-sided, but it feels like it. Only Lance doesn't know who was on that side.

AJ smoothly lights another cigarette, and looks at Lance. He's not wearing his sunglasses, or any glasses, but Lance still can't see anything in his eyes but his own reflection. AJ takes a drag, and wisps of smoke flit from his lips when he speaks. "How many times are we gonna do this?"

Lance doesn't know. He doesn't even remember how many times they've already done it: hooked up, broken up, reconciled. It's a cycle, he thinks, and he doesn't know where they are at this point. He doesn't know what they're doing and what end they're working towards, or even if there is an end. Most of what Lance knows has a negation.

"I guess we'll see," he says, after a while.

"Yeah," AJ breathes, and he leans in to kiss Lance softly, lips cold and chapped and unwelcoming. Lance can smell smoke on him, but he doesn't taste it.

The street is slowly filling up with people, and the cars are increasing in number and speed, and new dirt is splashed upon the sidewalk. AJ steps away from Lance and looks at him crookedly, mouthing, "later." Lance watches as he disappears into a throng of people, and doesn't know why he's letting AJ go.

Soon the street is teeming with life and warm breath and moving bodies, but it's colder than it was before. Lance looks up and thinks it might snow again, blanketing a dirty city with a layer of pristine white. Then he looks down, and thinks he might find AJ tonight, and find where they are in the cycle and break it, and start anew.

But he doesn't know.

Dawn has broken over a busy street, but it feels like an extension of the night.

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