Written in the Stars

For some, dusk is the most beautiful time of day, it is romanticized, almost to the extreme, it is the lover's hour, the time for walking hand-in-hand down sandy beaches, for reaching out to entwine sweaty fingers in your own, for winding your arms around their waist and burring your nose in their shoulder, only a matter of time until sunset, when the first kisses begin. However, some do not think this way, especially not when you are surrounded by hazy, smoke-filled air that burns your lungs as it goes down and makes your eyes water, even as you crinkle your nose in disgust.

The dark haired man had left the party, never having been one for dancing. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his warn, leather jacket and made a few polite excuses, untangling himself from the clingy blond who's name he wasn't even sure if he'd learned in the first place, much less remembered, and meandered out to lean against the unsteady, once white rails of the picket fence surrounding the front yard.
    
He has failed to realize however, in the over-all party commotion of the atmosphere, that he is being followed. Only when he hears footsteps crunch down the gravel driveway and a second figure steps up beside him does he turn to face them, one eyebrow raised inquiringly. The other simply flashes him a grin, reaching up to run a hand through his shoulder length hair, fingers catching momentarily on a small not in the wavy blond.

"Hello," His word is not a question, statement or any sort of greeting, merely an acknowledgment of the other's presence, of the fact that yes, he knows they are complete strangers, and no, that does not bother him. The dark haired man gives a small nod, his own acknowledgment that blond is more than welcome to share his space of rust covered fence if he so desires, as he finds it quite understandable why one would wish to spend their time away from the sex, drugs and altogether too 'done up' atmosphere inside. This done, the blond speaks again,

"I'm Arthur."

"Roy."

He offers a hand, and Roy takes it, squeezing the other's fingers momentarily in his own before turning away and leaning out on the fence once more, careful not to put too much weight on it, least its out-dated holding capacity be exceeded. Arthur mirrors him, jerking a thumb over his shoulder with a small, skeptical snort,

"Bunch of sodding idiots they are." Roy nods in agreement, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth for a fraction of a second.

"Yet you're still here."

"So are you." The dark haired man nods again, this time, a sign of acceptance as Arthur cocks his head slightly to the side, tone questioning once more, "And why is that...?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you here?" Roy rolls his eyes, his hands bunching inside the torn material of the insides of his pockets, apparently yet unwilling to open up to such a complete stranger, and counters with an equally prying question of his own,

"Well why are you here?" Arthur takes a moment to respond, pulling a box cigarettes out of  a pocket of his sweat pants, he lights one, taking a long drag before raising his arms up to his sides, burning end of the cigarette leaving a small trail of smoke in the fading light,

"Why am I here?" Roy nods once again, his blank face full of what Arthur would like to refer to as eager anticipation. "Because I was bored and needed to do something and besides, I would rather be here than anywhere else I could have been." He shoots Roy a sideways look, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, his glace inquisitive, and the other moves to answer the obvious question before it has even left his lips.

"I had nowhere else to go." Arthur laughs then, one hand flying up once more as he speaks, as if to emphasize the meaning of his words.

"So tell me then, Roy, who are you? Just what in this huge expanse of nothingness made you decide to come here," He pauses for a moment, taking his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and blowing a small stream of smoke out of a corner of his mouth, "What made you decide to stoop this low?" There is a hint of mockery in his voice, one that does not go unnoticed by the other man.

"I'm an artist," Roy takes a small step back, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his head back to study the newly emerging stars above. "I knew I was doomed when my first picture went out."

Arthur gives a small snort.

"That bad are you?" At that, Roy reaches out, elbowing the blond lightly in the ribs and stepping back, just out of reach before replying,

"Not that i'd like to think, but as i said, i'm an artist." Arthur nods, still grinning.

"I get it." And with that they lapse into a comfortable silence, Arthur flicking a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette before turning to rest his forearms against the fence, dark green eyes lowering to survey the trampled grass and cigarette butts just outside the gate. Roy however tips his head back, loosing himself in the overhead mass of stars above them, thousands of tiny pinpoints of light, freed at last from the hazy clouds of day to shine their brightest hearts out to the uncaring lights of cities and the buzzing street lamps of more rural areas.

"They're beautiful." He breaks the silence at last, words barely more than a whisper, as if afraid to somehow mar the overwhelming presence of night sky, but Arthur just smiles; a small, sad gesture.

"Yes. No one notices them anymore though…" He trails off and Roy picks up the end of the sentence, voice quiet and knowing,

"No one cares."

The blond shakes his head, "Not true. You care, I care." Roy laughs softly at this, skeptical and mocking,

"And what do we count?" A shrug.

"As much as we want ourselves to." The two turn to face each other then, Arthur grinning, Roy smiling lightly, and a silent understanding passes between them, a bond in some ways that can never be spoken in words. It is only shown; in the way Arthur bumps his shoulder lightly against Roy's before grinding the remainder of his cigarette to ash under his heel and beginning to meander slowly back towards the pulsing house. Or in how Roy raises a hand momentarily in a small salute to the blond's retreating back. Or how in the end, when they both depart, stuffing their hands into their pockets, fingering lighter and stray ball-point pen respectively, all they can think of is, not the yet nonexistent road ahead, but of each other and how at times, it seems that the people who mean the most, the people who really and truly understand, are the ones you never see again.