we will wake
fandom: prose (crossover); den sternen sind wir gleich & light 'em up
pairing: philja x tarek
wordcount: 3730
notes: das ganze hier ist entstanden, weil philja und tarek alle happiness der welt verdienen und bisher leider viel zu wenig davon bekommen haben. they deserve a soft epilogue. (bonus: diese pinnwand hier.)
f ü r v e e.
I.
Can you teach me how to feel real?
Tarek isn’t sure if he still knows how to speak when he sees someone sitting on the railing of his favourite and simultaneously most hated bridge, the one he keeps returning to for some reason.
For the first time in months he feels a curiosity strong enough for him to step closer instead of turn away. Walking up to another person like this feels strange, almost like he’s about to start a conversation. He doesn’t even get close but it’s enough to make his nerves run wild. Tarek’s whole body is tense as he puts his hands on the railing and lets the cold metal sting his palms.
He watches the street below for a moment, head- and taillights rushing past like blurry specks of light in a starless city. Their movements are fast enough to make him dizzy if he stares too long and loses focus. When Tarek turns his head to look at the stranger instead, he’s surprised to find something familiar in his expression.
He’s watching the cars, too.
Not like you might watch traffic just because, not out of boredom or wandering thoughts, no. He’s watching the cars like Tarek used to watch other people before he stopped bothering with them: With a kind of longing that could be mistaken for envy; a fair bit of careful fear, and a hint of sadness.
Everything about it screams I know you, I know you, but he knows he doesn’t.
Tarek has never seen the pale-blond hair before that’s obscuring half of the man’s face. It’s almost white in the faint glow of the streetlamps and hopelessly messed up from wind and weather. A cigarette dangles from bruised knuckles and exhales a thin, steady string of smoke. He moves his hand as if to raise it to his mouth but stops halfway there, noticing Tarek out of the corner of his eyes. He looks up.
Their eyes don’t meet but it’s a close thing and Tarek grips the railing a little tighter.
“Hey,” the stranger says slowly, with an edge in his tone that could be wariness or annoyance. Tarek can’t really tell.
He feels like prey. Cornered by the weight of a heavy, attentive gaze and his own inability to form an answer, he can’t do anything but watch the potential predator from under his lashes and hope he won’t choose to attack. He doesn’t even remember why he got too close for comfort in the first place.
Being invisible was easier than this.
Right now, Tarek thinks he’d prefer being a ghost again.
I’m sorry. Just let me leave. I’m -
“Hey,” the stranger repeats and suddenly there’s a hand moving in front of Tarek’s face and the smell of cigarette smoke filling his senses and he reacts with a violent flinch that sends him stumbling to the middle of the pavement. Eyes wide and lungs struggling to catch enough air for his quick breaths, Tarek barely hears the muttered “Shit, I’m sorry,” directed at him, followed by rustling clothes and two feet hitting the ground lightly.
“Don’t,” Tarek manages with agonizing effort.
Surprisingly, the stranger stops his movements. “Okay,” he says and it doesn’t make any sense because no one ever listens.
Tarek closes his eyes for a moment and thinks about the fleeting traffic lights, hundreds of lives flashing by in an instant without making an impact on his own, and he wants to be like that so badly: Fleeting and bright and temporary, never quite real or close enough to hurt. But at the same time, he wants to stare at this man who doesn’t try to approach him anymore, who apologized and stopped instead, who looks like a fighter in all the ways Tarek is not and still seems strangely familiar.
Tarek looks at the no-man’s-land of asphalt between them. It’s a compromise he can handle.
I should just go.
The thing is, there are probably other people walking by who he’d have to face if he ran off now, and with the city drowning in evening rush hour, most places he could disappear to are most likely busy and crowded. He wants to stay, even if he really doesn’t.
“Tarek,” he offers hesitantly when the silence becomes unbearable, trying to make up for his strange behaviour somehow. “I’m Tarek.”
The stranger drops his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with the tip of his shoe. “Philja.” It looks like he’s going to leave so Tarek lifts his head in surprise when he adds, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“N-No, it’s …” … not your fault I can’t deal with my issues.
Philja seems like he knows exactly what Tarek doesn’t say. His jaw tenses, turning the angles of his face dangerously sharp for a brief moment, and something in his eyes darkens. Tarek’s breath hitches. As they consider each other carefully, both of them unsure what to make of the situation while their paths collide with gentle but inevitable force like a slowly nearing summer thunderstorm, it begins to rain.
The first drops paint irregular dot patterns on the pavement and Philja’s grey hoodie but they can’t draw his attention away from Tarek.
“What?” Tarek asks uneasily. A raindrop lands on the tip of his nose, making him scrunch up his face.
Philja’s lips twitch. “I’m trying to figure out if you’ve just seen a ghost or if you’re trying to be one.”
Both.
He doesn’t say it. “I should go,” he mumbles instead, struggling to keep his voice steady and risking a quick glance at the sky. “It’s going to get worse.”
“Second one, then,” Philja says.
Tarek shakes his head. “Stop.”
In truth, he isn’t bothered that much. No, he wants to see if Philja’s going to listen again. He needs to know. The rain falls faster and heavier now, soaking them within seconds and Philja raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even bother pulling his hood up.
Every inch of him is a challenge Tarek isn’t sure he’s ready to accept. The only thing he knows is that he’s never felt so free standing in the pouring rain and letting it soak him to his bones. He imagines a sea of umbrellas crowding the streets and is glad not to be one of them.
I don’t want to be a ghost anymore.
The thought forms slowly but steadily in his mind and grows and grows and grows in a matter of seconds until Tarek can’t keep quiet anymore.
“I want to be real,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the rain.
“You are.” Philja frowns, mouth turned up to a half-smile and he looks ridiculous as he says it, wet hair clinging to his forehead in messy strands.
“Not yet.”
“Fine. Come back here and I’ll prove it.”
He waits for Tarek’s nod of agreement and then he’s leaving, making his way across the bridge in a relaxed jog like he doesn’t even notice the flood pouring out of the sky. Tarek watches him go until his blond head disappears from view, and lingers a few minutes more before heading back to his place.
.
.
.
II.
We can dream this nightmare away
Two weeks later, Tarek still remembers what the raindrops felt like as they hit his face, what it was like to turn his head skywards with both eyes closed and something similar to a smile tugging at his lips. He wants to be that person again.
His instinctual course of action is going back to the bridge and he tries his best not to think too hard about what that means, or might mean, while he stares down at a street he has seen a thousand times before and waits for Philja.
He’s always been waiting for something when he came here - a possibility of change, an escape route he hadn’t considered before - anything, really, to get him out of this suffocating city. Now he’s waiting for someone and Tarek is so out of his depth, it feels like a physical ache in his chest. It’s even more terrifying to finally match his hopes with a name instead of blindly willing them to take shape. Suddenly there’s room for disappointment, an awful lot of it, and Tarek doesn’t know if he can survive clinging to another thread only to have it ripped apart again.
He wants to try anyway.
He’s going to cling to whatever he can get as long as it means not being invisible anymore.
In a burst of determination, Tarek pulls his jacket off and places it on the handrail next to him without risking a glance over his shoulders to make sure no one’s walking by. The hoodie he’s wearing beneath has too many holes to pass as inconspicuous, too many proofs of an existence far from what society would call acceptable. It tells a little too much. And yet, Tarek doesn’t turn around.
Keeping his gaze glued to the nauseating low in front of him, he stands exposed and real and reckless, daring someone to notice him. Tarek’s heart beats so hard he feels every beat of it wracking his body but he is so tired of hiding and he just wants to have this - a moment of bravery when all he ever does is running from everything.
I am here, he wants to scream, I exist.
Footsteps approach from somewhere to his right, then, distinct scraps of foreign conversations ringing in his ears and Tarek curls his hands into fists to hide their tremor, lets them dangle over the edge and leans forward slightly.
Let them see. Let them -
Whoever it was walks by without acknowledging his presence and Tarek exhales a long breath. Voices and footsteps mingle for a moment and he blocks them all out until there’s a shadow at the edge of his vision, broad and unmoving.
“You’re not thinking about jumping, are you?” Philja asks him.
Tarek opens his mouth to say, the thought never really leaves, only to swallow the words back down when he realizes it has. He didn’t even tense up when Philja appeared. Stunned into silence, he turns to look at him and tries to ignore how his pulse speeds up even more than it already has.
Philja’s carefully neutral expression turns into a frown. “Hey, you … wouldn’t, right?”
Tarek watches his casual façade crumble and it’s overwhelmingly unfamiliar to be the cause of genuine concern in those guarded eyes. “No,” he says slowly, disbelieving but honest, incredibly honest. “I used to consider it,” he admits after a moment. He couldn’t explain it if someone asked but he feels safe with Philja knowing. Tarek takes a deep breath and allows himself to keep his eyes locked with Philja’s a little longer. “Not anymore, though. Not recently.”
“Okay,” Philja says. “I’m - I’m glad.” His voice isn’t shaky but it doesn’t sound very even, either. Tarek knows better than to point it out and finally looks away, feeling brave and bold and a little shaky himself. He can’t help but mentally go through possible things to say, ways to keep Philja talking because he’s spent so much time in silence and Philja’s voice, contrary to many others, doesn’t feel like a threat.
Tarek is so focused on doing this right, he jumps slightly when a soft chuckle startles him out of his thoughts.
“You’ll give yourself a headache,” Philja tells him. “I can hear you overthinking.” His lips curve up into a crooked grin and he looks invincible like this, hands stuffed into the pockets of his ripped jeans and a look in his eyes like he owns the world but feels too lazy to prove it, and maybe he wouldn’t even have to. Not to Tarek at least.
At first glance, Philja looks like trouble. But Tarek, who is way too familiar with existing in the furthest corners of people’s perception, always looks twice and considers Philja’s words carefully. Tarek thinks, it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?
“I’m not good at … this,” he says after a moment, gesturing vaguely in a way that’s supposed to encompass communication and people skills and whatever else belongs in this terrifying category.
Philja shrugs. “So what? I’m not good at anything.”
Tarek feels like he should say I don’t believe that, because he doesn’t, but Philja is already pushing off from where he was leaning against the railing and starts walking down the pavement.
“You coming or what?” he calls over his shoulder and before Tarek consciously decides to move, he’s following him.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. Someplace that isn’t this depressing bridge.”
And Tarek thinks, well, maybe that’s not such a bad idea.
He lingers a few steps behind Philja, preferring to keep his focus on the back of his jacket instead of catching up and inevitably paying attention to where Philja leads them. For once, Tarek wants to be unprepared and unafraid. (He’ll have to put a lot more work into the latter but he’s trying, he really is and maybe one day it will be enough.)
Philja turns around a few times to make sure he’s still there, slowing his pace at first but he soon accepts Tarek’s dawdling and doesn’t comment on it.
They end up in front of a small convenience store somewhere in the outskirts, its entrance neon-lit even in the light of midmorning and safely tucked between rundown two-storey-houses with graffiti-covered walls. It’s quiet compared to the busy main streets they left behind and quite similar to Tarek’s place, although he doesn’t mention that.
“I work the night shifts here,” Philja explains, noticing the questioning gaze directed at him. With practiced movements, he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it.
“It’s … not even noon.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He exhales smoke in Tarek’s direction and lifts his shoulders, walking backwards like he’s going to enter the store anyway. “I’m not tired yet. And day-drinking on my own is no fun, so.”
So you walked all the way to the bridge to see if I’d come along.
Something like awed disbelief makes a home in his stomach and Tarek feels the rain on his skin again, only this time there’s no actual rain involved - just Philja and his words.
These are the facts:
Tarek doesn’t day-drink and he barely knows anything about Philja, except that he’s not scared of him.
The dark circles under Philja’s eyes are a few shades too close to bruises to believe he’s not tired.
This is what happens:
Philja buys beer for them, and it’s cheap and disgusting but neither of them cares as they roam the streets bright-eyed and aimlessly in search of places to explore, toasting each other with their beer cans every once in a while.
“This real enough for you?”
“I don’t know. It’s good, though.”
Philja smiles at Tarek and Tarek smiles back.
Hours later, when Philja finally stops in front of his door, exhausted but marvellously alive in an electric way that Tarek can’t help but notice even in his slightly drunk state, it’s not a goodbye.
It’s a beginning.
.
.
.
III.
I’m a little broken, I thought you should know.
It takes him a while to figure out Philja’s relationship with basic human needs is a very complicated and potentially disastrous one. He barely eats if no one’s there to remind him, and he tends to deny himself sleep up to the point where his eyes struggle to open again after he blinks and his legs start trembling from exhaustion.
The first time Tarek gets to witness it, it’s 2pm in the middle of June and the sun burns its heat all the way through Philja’s dirty windows. They met after Philja’s shift and haven’t been doing much since then, content to just keep each other silent company for a while. Things start going wrong when Philja runs out of cigarettes and starts pacing the room instead, infecting Tarek with his nervousness.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “Maybe try to rest for a bit? It’s been hours since we got here.”
“Bullshit,” Philja retorts. “I’m good.”
“You don’t look like it.”
“And you can leave if I’m pissing you off.”
Tarek puts a very neutral expression on his face and doesn’t move from his spot on the sofa. Not until ten minutes later, when Philja crashes into the kitchen counter during another restless round through the room and doesn’t get up again.
Tarek is by his side in an instant and sees Philja’s muscles tremble, his eyes tightly squeezed shut and red-rimmed when he opens them again. With a lot of concern and determination, Tarek manages to pull him back upright by the sleeves of his shirt. A low sound of discomfort escapes Philja. He looks terribly young and absolutely dead on his feet.
“That’s it,” Tarek says, “You’re going to bed right now.”
“No, fuck off,” Philja reaches out as if to push Tarek away and realizes his mistake just as Tarek steps out of his reach. He drops his hand back against his side and looks up both guilty and relieved, but also reluctant to give ground. “I can’t see them again. I can’t, okay.”
Tarek almost doesn’t want to ask. “Did you … lose someone?”
Philja’s face falls for the fraction of a second as he processes the question, thinking for a long moment before he says, “No,” very quietly. He seems genuine, Tarek thinks, but maybe it’s the kind of truth that only became one because you’ve made yourself believe it for a long time. He doesn’t push it.
Another half hour passes before Philja admits defeat and collapses on top of his unmade bedsheets, his breathing evening out immediately. Tarek grabs a hoodie from the ground near Philja’s bed and gently places it over his back and shoulders, taking at least some of Philja’s vulnerability away.
He stays.
He’s there when Philja wakes up four hours later, crying and whimpering the same two names over and over again.
Tamen. Roslyn.
His pain hangs unbearably heavy in the air and Tarek feels his eyes tear up as well because he has never seen Philja fall apart like this. It hurts.
Scraping carefully collected fragments of bravery together, Tarek sits down on the mattress next to Philja and pulls him into his arms. Philja pushes into the touch without hesitation. Shaky fingers curl around the material of Tarek’s shirt, close to his chest and safely trapped between their bodies. Tarek exhales a stuttering breath and allows it. Keeping a gentle grip around Philja’s waist and shoulder, he’s utterly overwhelmed by their proximity and the resulting sensations: Philja is warm and soft and sweaty and Tarek can feel the tiny gasps of air he’s exhaling against his neck, feels Philja’s hair tickling his chin.
They move and search until more contact becomes an impossible goal; they’re close, closest, sharing each other’s warmth and comfort as if it’s the only thing keeping them alive, and maybe it is. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s just overwhelming in every sense because Tarek has been starved of touch for so long, he can’t even remember what it feels like.
It was too scary after he escaped. Even now he isn’t fully convinced they didn’t succeed, can’t get rid of the idea of having a fault in his code he won’t be able to outrun, no matter how hard he tries.
But he’ll deal with that another day. Right now, Philja needs him.
“I-It’s okay,” Philja whispers shakily after his choked sobs have faded to small hiccups. “I wasn’t enough, I never … they were n-never mine to lose. I just … I hate waking up to see they’re not here. I hate it so much.”
Tarek holds him as tight as he dares while his heart breaks for the realest, safest person he’s ever known and it hurts. “You are more than enough,” he says fiercely, making sure that Philja is listening. “You are alive and when I’m with you, you make me feel like I am, too. You’re important, okay, and you matter so much.”
Philja looks up and lets go of Tarek’s shirt to raise a trembling hand, lets it hover inches away from Tarek’s cheek. “Please don’t leave,” he whispers, a little broken, a little desperate.
Leaning his face into Philja’s palm, Tarek tells him, “I won’t. I won’t,” and he’s crying almost as much as Philja now but then they move until their foreheads touch and it doesn’t hurt anymore.
.
.
.
IV.
He swallows stars one by one to reteach himself how to glow
“Let’s go,” Tarek says softly, stretching his hand out across the thin blanket until he finds Philja’s and tangles their fingers together.
“Where?”
Eyes still fixed on the endless, starless sky above them, Tarek sighs. “Someplace that isn’t this depressing city.”
“Don’t you think this roof is pretty nice?” Philja’s tone is teasing. He leans up on his elbows and moves until his face is right in front of Tarek’s, blocking his view. They breathe each other’s air for a moment. Tarek smiles.
“It is. But you know I want to see the stars.”
There’s another half to this truth he doesn’t voice and doesn’t have to - Philja knows enough to understand Tarek’s resentment towards the city and accepts it as far too deep-rooted to simply erase and replace it with better memories. Even when Tarek moved in with him, they both knew they were going to leave eventually.
“You sure you’re ready?”
“Yes.”
Philja hums thoughtfully. “We don’t even know any constellations, though.”
“I don’t care. We’ll name them ourselves and find new ones every night.”
I’ll name the brightest one after you.
“Okay.”
Philja lifts their intertwined hands to his chest and holds them there, up in the air while making sure not to rest his weight on Tarek, and when he kisses Tarek’s knuckles one by one it’s a bigger promise than any words could capture. None of Tarek’s many hiding places ever felt as safe as Philja does. He smells like beer and cigarette smoke and hope, and Tarek never wants to let him go.
pairing: philja x tarek
wordcount: 3730
notes: das ganze hier ist entstanden, weil philja und tarek alle happiness der welt verdienen und bisher leider viel zu wenig davon bekommen haben. they deserve a soft epilogue. (bonus: diese pinnwand hier.)
f ü r v e e.
I.
Can you teach me how to feel real?
Tarek isn’t sure if he still knows how to speak when he sees someone sitting on the railing of his favourite and simultaneously most hated bridge, the one he keeps returning to for some reason.
For the first time in months he feels a curiosity strong enough for him to step closer instead of turn away. Walking up to another person like this feels strange, almost like he’s about to start a conversation. He doesn’t even get close but it’s enough to make his nerves run wild. Tarek’s whole body is tense as he puts his hands on the railing and lets the cold metal sting his palms.
He watches the street below for a moment, head- and taillights rushing past like blurry specks of light in a starless city. Their movements are fast enough to make him dizzy if he stares too long and loses focus. When Tarek turns his head to look at the stranger instead, he’s surprised to find something familiar in his expression.
He’s watching the cars, too.
Not like you might watch traffic just because, not out of boredom or wandering thoughts, no. He’s watching the cars like Tarek used to watch other people before he stopped bothering with them: With a kind of longing that could be mistaken for envy; a fair bit of careful fear, and a hint of sadness.
Everything about it screams I know you, I know you, but he knows he doesn’t.
Tarek has never seen the pale-blond hair before that’s obscuring half of the man’s face. It’s almost white in the faint glow of the streetlamps and hopelessly messed up from wind and weather. A cigarette dangles from bruised knuckles and exhales a thin, steady string of smoke. He moves his hand as if to raise it to his mouth but stops halfway there, noticing Tarek out of the corner of his eyes. He looks up.
Their eyes don’t meet but it’s a close thing and Tarek grips the railing a little tighter.
“Hey,” the stranger says slowly, with an edge in his tone that could be wariness or annoyance. Tarek can’t really tell.
He feels like prey. Cornered by the weight of a heavy, attentive gaze and his own inability to form an answer, he can’t do anything but watch the potential predator from under his lashes and hope he won’t choose to attack. He doesn’t even remember why he got too close for comfort in the first place.
Being invisible was easier than this.
Right now, Tarek thinks he’d prefer being a ghost again.
I’m sorry. Just let me leave. I’m -
“Hey,” the stranger repeats and suddenly there’s a hand moving in front of Tarek’s face and the smell of cigarette smoke filling his senses and he reacts with a violent flinch that sends him stumbling to the middle of the pavement. Eyes wide and lungs struggling to catch enough air for his quick breaths, Tarek barely hears the muttered “Shit, I’m sorry,” directed at him, followed by rustling clothes and two feet hitting the ground lightly.
“Don’t,” Tarek manages with agonizing effort.
Surprisingly, the stranger stops his movements. “Okay,” he says and it doesn’t make any sense because no one ever listens.
Tarek closes his eyes for a moment and thinks about the fleeting traffic lights, hundreds of lives flashing by in an instant without making an impact on his own, and he wants to be like that so badly: Fleeting and bright and temporary, never quite real or close enough to hurt. But at the same time, he wants to stare at this man who doesn’t try to approach him anymore, who apologized and stopped instead, who looks like a fighter in all the ways Tarek is not and still seems strangely familiar.
Tarek looks at the no-man’s-land of asphalt between them. It’s a compromise he can handle.
I should just go.
The thing is, there are probably other people walking by who he’d have to face if he ran off now, and with the city drowning in evening rush hour, most places he could disappear to are most likely busy and crowded. He wants to stay, even if he really doesn’t.
“Tarek,” he offers hesitantly when the silence becomes unbearable, trying to make up for his strange behaviour somehow. “I’m Tarek.”
The stranger drops his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with the tip of his shoe. “Philja.” It looks like he’s going to leave so Tarek lifts his head in surprise when he adds, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“N-No, it’s …” … not your fault I can’t deal with my issues.
Philja seems like he knows exactly what Tarek doesn’t say. His jaw tenses, turning the angles of his face dangerously sharp for a brief moment, and something in his eyes darkens. Tarek’s breath hitches. As they consider each other carefully, both of them unsure what to make of the situation while their paths collide with gentle but inevitable force like a slowly nearing summer thunderstorm, it begins to rain.
The first drops paint irregular dot patterns on the pavement and Philja’s grey hoodie but they can’t draw his attention away from Tarek.
“What?” Tarek asks uneasily. A raindrop lands on the tip of his nose, making him scrunch up his face.
Philja’s lips twitch. “I’m trying to figure out if you’ve just seen a ghost or if you’re trying to be one.”
Both.
He doesn’t say it. “I should go,” he mumbles instead, struggling to keep his voice steady and risking a quick glance at the sky. “It’s going to get worse.”
“Second one, then,” Philja says.
Tarek shakes his head. “Stop.”
In truth, he isn’t bothered that much. No, he wants to see if Philja’s going to listen again. He needs to know. The rain falls faster and heavier now, soaking them within seconds and Philja raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even bother pulling his hood up.
Every inch of him is a challenge Tarek isn’t sure he’s ready to accept. The only thing he knows is that he’s never felt so free standing in the pouring rain and letting it soak him to his bones. He imagines a sea of umbrellas crowding the streets and is glad not to be one of them.
I don’t want to be a ghost anymore.
The thought forms slowly but steadily in his mind and grows and grows and grows in a matter of seconds until Tarek can’t keep quiet anymore.
“I want to be real,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the rain.
“You are.” Philja frowns, mouth turned up to a half-smile and he looks ridiculous as he says it, wet hair clinging to his forehead in messy strands.
“Not yet.”
“Fine. Come back here and I’ll prove it.”
He waits for Tarek’s nod of agreement and then he’s leaving, making his way across the bridge in a relaxed jog like he doesn’t even notice the flood pouring out of the sky. Tarek watches him go until his blond head disappears from view, and lingers a few minutes more before heading back to his place.
.
.
.
II.
We can dream this nightmare away
Two weeks later, Tarek still remembers what the raindrops felt like as they hit his face, what it was like to turn his head skywards with both eyes closed and something similar to a smile tugging at his lips. He wants to be that person again.
His instinctual course of action is going back to the bridge and he tries his best not to think too hard about what that means, or might mean, while he stares down at a street he has seen a thousand times before and waits for Philja.
He’s always been waiting for something when he came here - a possibility of change, an escape route he hadn’t considered before - anything, really, to get him out of this suffocating city. Now he’s waiting for someone and Tarek is so out of his depth, it feels like a physical ache in his chest. It’s even more terrifying to finally match his hopes with a name instead of blindly willing them to take shape. Suddenly there’s room for disappointment, an awful lot of it, and Tarek doesn’t know if he can survive clinging to another thread only to have it ripped apart again.
He wants to try anyway.
He’s going to cling to whatever he can get as long as it means not being invisible anymore.
In a burst of determination, Tarek pulls his jacket off and places it on the handrail next to him without risking a glance over his shoulders to make sure no one’s walking by. The hoodie he’s wearing beneath has too many holes to pass as inconspicuous, too many proofs of an existence far from what society would call acceptable. It tells a little too much. And yet, Tarek doesn’t turn around.
Keeping his gaze glued to the nauseating low in front of him, he stands exposed and real and reckless, daring someone to notice him. Tarek’s heart beats so hard he feels every beat of it wracking his body but he is so tired of hiding and he just wants to have this - a moment of bravery when all he ever does is running from everything.
I am here, he wants to scream, I exist.
Footsteps approach from somewhere to his right, then, distinct scraps of foreign conversations ringing in his ears and Tarek curls his hands into fists to hide their tremor, lets them dangle over the edge and leans forward slightly.
Let them see. Let them -
Whoever it was walks by without acknowledging his presence and Tarek exhales a long breath. Voices and footsteps mingle for a moment and he blocks them all out until there’s a shadow at the edge of his vision, broad and unmoving.
“You’re not thinking about jumping, are you?” Philja asks him.
Tarek opens his mouth to say, the thought never really leaves, only to swallow the words back down when he realizes it has. He didn’t even tense up when Philja appeared. Stunned into silence, he turns to look at him and tries to ignore how his pulse speeds up even more than it already has.
Philja’s carefully neutral expression turns into a frown. “Hey, you … wouldn’t, right?”
Tarek watches his casual façade crumble and it’s overwhelmingly unfamiliar to be the cause of genuine concern in those guarded eyes. “No,” he says slowly, disbelieving but honest, incredibly honest. “I used to consider it,” he admits after a moment. He couldn’t explain it if someone asked but he feels safe with Philja knowing. Tarek takes a deep breath and allows himself to keep his eyes locked with Philja’s a little longer. “Not anymore, though. Not recently.”
“Okay,” Philja says. “I’m - I’m glad.” His voice isn’t shaky but it doesn’t sound very even, either. Tarek knows better than to point it out and finally looks away, feeling brave and bold and a little shaky himself. He can’t help but mentally go through possible things to say, ways to keep Philja talking because he’s spent so much time in silence and Philja’s voice, contrary to many others, doesn’t feel like a threat.
Tarek is so focused on doing this right, he jumps slightly when a soft chuckle startles him out of his thoughts.
“You’ll give yourself a headache,” Philja tells him. “I can hear you overthinking.” His lips curve up into a crooked grin and he looks invincible like this, hands stuffed into the pockets of his ripped jeans and a look in his eyes like he owns the world but feels too lazy to prove it, and maybe he wouldn’t even have to. Not to Tarek at least.
At first glance, Philja looks like trouble. But Tarek, who is way too familiar with existing in the furthest corners of people’s perception, always looks twice and considers Philja’s words carefully. Tarek thinks, it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?
“I’m not good at … this,” he says after a moment, gesturing vaguely in a way that’s supposed to encompass communication and people skills and whatever else belongs in this terrifying category.
Philja shrugs. “So what? I’m not good at anything.”
Tarek feels like he should say I don’t believe that, because he doesn’t, but Philja is already pushing off from where he was leaning against the railing and starts walking down the pavement.
“You coming or what?” he calls over his shoulder and before Tarek consciously decides to move, he’s following him.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. Someplace that isn’t this depressing bridge.”
And Tarek thinks, well, maybe that’s not such a bad idea.
He lingers a few steps behind Philja, preferring to keep his focus on the back of his jacket instead of catching up and inevitably paying attention to where Philja leads them. For once, Tarek wants to be unprepared and unafraid. (He’ll have to put a lot more work into the latter but he’s trying, he really is and maybe one day it will be enough.)
Philja turns around a few times to make sure he’s still there, slowing his pace at first but he soon accepts Tarek’s dawdling and doesn’t comment on it.
They end up in front of a small convenience store somewhere in the outskirts, its entrance neon-lit even in the light of midmorning and safely tucked between rundown two-storey-houses with graffiti-covered walls. It’s quiet compared to the busy main streets they left behind and quite similar to Tarek’s place, although he doesn’t mention that.
“I work the night shifts here,” Philja explains, noticing the questioning gaze directed at him. With practiced movements, he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it.
“It’s … not even noon.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He exhales smoke in Tarek’s direction and lifts his shoulders, walking backwards like he’s going to enter the store anyway. “I’m not tired yet. And day-drinking on my own is no fun, so.”
So you walked all the way to the bridge to see if I’d come along.
Something like awed disbelief makes a home in his stomach and Tarek feels the rain on his skin again, only this time there’s no actual rain involved - just Philja and his words.
These are the facts:
Tarek doesn’t day-drink and he barely knows anything about Philja, except that he’s not scared of him.
The dark circles under Philja’s eyes are a few shades too close to bruises to believe he’s not tired.
This is what happens:
Philja buys beer for them, and it’s cheap and disgusting but neither of them cares as they roam the streets bright-eyed and aimlessly in search of places to explore, toasting each other with their beer cans every once in a while.
“This real enough for you?”
“I don’t know. It’s good, though.”
Philja smiles at Tarek and Tarek smiles back.
Hours later, when Philja finally stops in front of his door, exhausted but marvellously alive in an electric way that Tarek can’t help but notice even in his slightly drunk state, it’s not a goodbye.
It’s a beginning.
.
.
.
III.
I’m a little broken, I thought you should know.
It takes him a while to figure out Philja’s relationship with basic human needs is a very complicated and potentially disastrous one. He barely eats if no one’s there to remind him, and he tends to deny himself sleep up to the point where his eyes struggle to open again after he blinks and his legs start trembling from exhaustion.
The first time Tarek gets to witness it, it’s 2pm in the middle of June and the sun burns its heat all the way through Philja’s dirty windows. They met after Philja’s shift and haven’t been doing much since then, content to just keep each other silent company for a while. Things start going wrong when Philja runs out of cigarettes and starts pacing the room instead, infecting Tarek with his nervousness.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “Maybe try to rest for a bit? It’s been hours since we got here.”
“Bullshit,” Philja retorts. “I’m good.”
“You don’t look like it.”
“And you can leave if I’m pissing you off.”
Tarek puts a very neutral expression on his face and doesn’t move from his spot on the sofa. Not until ten minutes later, when Philja crashes into the kitchen counter during another restless round through the room and doesn’t get up again.
Tarek is by his side in an instant and sees Philja’s muscles tremble, his eyes tightly squeezed shut and red-rimmed when he opens them again. With a lot of concern and determination, Tarek manages to pull him back upright by the sleeves of his shirt. A low sound of discomfort escapes Philja. He looks terribly young and absolutely dead on his feet.
“That’s it,” Tarek says, “You’re going to bed right now.”
“No, fuck off,” Philja reaches out as if to push Tarek away and realizes his mistake just as Tarek steps out of his reach. He drops his hand back against his side and looks up both guilty and relieved, but also reluctant to give ground. “I can’t see them again. I can’t, okay.”
Tarek almost doesn’t want to ask. “Did you … lose someone?”
Philja’s face falls for the fraction of a second as he processes the question, thinking for a long moment before he says, “No,” very quietly. He seems genuine, Tarek thinks, but maybe it’s the kind of truth that only became one because you’ve made yourself believe it for a long time. He doesn’t push it.
Another half hour passes before Philja admits defeat and collapses on top of his unmade bedsheets, his breathing evening out immediately. Tarek grabs a hoodie from the ground near Philja’s bed and gently places it over his back and shoulders, taking at least some of Philja’s vulnerability away.
He stays.
He’s there when Philja wakes up four hours later, crying and whimpering the same two names over and over again.
Tamen. Roslyn.
His pain hangs unbearably heavy in the air and Tarek feels his eyes tear up as well because he has never seen Philja fall apart like this. It hurts.
Scraping carefully collected fragments of bravery together, Tarek sits down on the mattress next to Philja and pulls him into his arms. Philja pushes into the touch without hesitation. Shaky fingers curl around the material of Tarek’s shirt, close to his chest and safely trapped between their bodies. Tarek exhales a stuttering breath and allows it. Keeping a gentle grip around Philja’s waist and shoulder, he’s utterly overwhelmed by their proximity and the resulting sensations: Philja is warm and soft and sweaty and Tarek can feel the tiny gasps of air he’s exhaling against his neck, feels Philja’s hair tickling his chin.
They move and search until more contact becomes an impossible goal; they’re close, closest, sharing each other’s warmth and comfort as if it’s the only thing keeping them alive, and maybe it is. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s just overwhelming in every sense because Tarek has been starved of touch for so long, he can’t even remember what it feels like.
It was too scary after he escaped. Even now he isn’t fully convinced they didn’t succeed, can’t get rid of the idea of having a fault in his code he won’t be able to outrun, no matter how hard he tries.
But he’ll deal with that another day. Right now, Philja needs him.
“I-It’s okay,” Philja whispers shakily after his choked sobs have faded to small hiccups. “I wasn’t enough, I never … they were n-never mine to lose. I just … I hate waking up to see they’re not here. I hate it so much.”
Tarek holds him as tight as he dares while his heart breaks for the realest, safest person he’s ever known and it hurts. “You are more than enough,” he says fiercely, making sure that Philja is listening. “You are alive and when I’m with you, you make me feel like I am, too. You’re important, okay, and you matter so much.”
Philja looks up and lets go of Tarek’s shirt to raise a trembling hand, lets it hover inches away from Tarek’s cheek. “Please don’t leave,” he whispers, a little broken, a little desperate.
Leaning his face into Philja’s palm, Tarek tells him, “I won’t. I won’t,” and he’s crying almost as much as Philja now but then they move until their foreheads touch and it doesn’t hurt anymore.
.
.
.
IV.
He swallows stars one by one to reteach himself how to glow
“Let’s go,” Tarek says softly, stretching his hand out across the thin blanket until he finds Philja’s and tangles their fingers together.
“Where?”
Eyes still fixed on the endless, starless sky above them, Tarek sighs. “Someplace that isn’t this depressing city.”
“Don’t you think this roof is pretty nice?” Philja’s tone is teasing. He leans up on his elbows and moves until his face is right in front of Tarek’s, blocking his view. They breathe each other’s air for a moment. Tarek smiles.
“It is. But you know I want to see the stars.”
There’s another half to this truth he doesn’t voice and doesn’t have to - Philja knows enough to understand Tarek’s resentment towards the city and accepts it as far too deep-rooted to simply erase and replace it with better memories. Even when Tarek moved in with him, they both knew they were going to leave eventually.
“You sure you’re ready?”
“Yes.”
Philja hums thoughtfully. “We don’t even know any constellations, though.”
“I don’t care. We’ll name them ourselves and find new ones every night.”
I’ll name the brightest one after you.
“Okay.”
Philja lifts their intertwined hands to his chest and holds them there, up in the air while making sure not to rest his weight on Tarek, and when he kisses Tarek’s knuckles one by one it’s a bigger promise than any words could capture. None of Tarek’s many hiding places ever felt as safe as Philja does. He smells like beer and cigarette smoke and hope, and Tarek never wants to let him go.