The Unbearable Lightness of Fleeing [John + Willy]
John was sitting at a cafe. In a mall. It was the same mall in which Bobby worked, but he tended to push that detail to one side and focus on the fact he didn't really know any other malls to go to
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Mortal names. There were so many and he cared not for the power of names unless it suited him to recall. And it rarely suited him.
"Are you waiting for sweet Bobby?" he inquired.
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"What do you mean?" he said, curious as to why and exactly how speaking to this boy could cause another boy pain of any sort. It took him a moment but he had heard enough songs to know about cheating hearts and hurt feelings that the smile returned.
"Ah, you mean jealousy," he said, proud of himself for navigating the treacherous waters of mortal feelings. So sticky, so convoluted, and so very unpredictable. Willy was rarely around long enough for feelings to arise.
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"Mortals can experience multiple emotions, all sorts of feelings - half of which contradict the other half. He probably just would feel upset. Like I've invaded something which is his, like I'd violated it. With you, he doesn't have to remember me, or - anything. He can be safe, and that's something we mortals really like to feel. And he'd be a bit jealous because you're his, and he don't want me messing things up."
There was a pause before John made himself say the question he wanted to say. "How hard is it for you to understand feelings?" he asked slowly, tasting the words. There were like ash on his tongue, the promise of something irrevocable.
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The pause dragging out, John chose his words carefully: "And you, I guess, always live in the present, huh? No need to dwell over past mistake or future anxieties - there's a million more moments waiting for you, a thousand different opportunities. What does any mistake compare to that?"
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He smiled pleasantly.
Mistakes are just that. Mistakes. You learn from them and do not make them again. I have learned from many and repeated none."
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"The problem is that the rest of us aren't quite set up that way. You don't prepare for what might happen; you don't think about it; you don't care. Everyone else has to live with it. You step on an ant? There's gonna be a million other ants in your life. You say a mean word, lash out, get angry: gonna be a million other people in your life, why worry about just one - or two, or three."
Thundrous, John pushed himself up out of the chair. "We mortals dwell in our pasts, and ache for the future. We have so few moments that if we fuck one up, then that one sour note can throw the whole song off. And we try to care, because that makes those moments so much more meaningful, not just like a pretty canvas that you can always retouch, and replace ( ... )
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"How interesting," Willy mused. And then he had to think hard about the boy's name. Bobby had called him Al-something but it was...it was John.
"John, my friend, keep your money. This has been enlightening and I would like to repay your words with that much of a gift. You have wisdom for one so young. I appreciate that."
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And then it finally came pouring out, the words, his voice tremulous, throat straining and jaw shaky: "Don't hurt my friend because you don't know what you're doing."
He held Willy's eyes for a few seconds, imploring, and then he was lost in the crowd.
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