i was a dreamer (but i only dreamt of you)

1

Monday

21:27

The sky was gradient. There were yellows, fading into oranges, fading into pinks, fading into purples. They faded into each other with the ease and gracefulness of a ballerina, a grace that possessed such an underlying beauty that captivated the eye. There was a moon, shining through the sky persistent, wanting to be noticed as if it were the lead in a Broadway play. In a way it was; the sky was its own little show, trying to please a world of cynical critics. The air smelled of growing moss and persevering dreams. It filled any empty space in the city, even though there was none.

A boy woke up just as the sun set. His sheets clung to his body like a lover that he didn't have and his pillow stuck to his cheek like a pair of lips. The world around him spun as if he was on a carousel, and he still felt half-drunk. His blaring alarm fought through the cotton in his ears and he groaned, probably louder than he should have. He could hear the man he let stay with him the night before shift from the other room. The room was dark enough for his liking, even though the lights of neighboring buildings shone into his eyes almost as bright as the sun. The sky was painted black, his room illuminated by lights that belonged to the still-bustling city around him. He peeled his sheets away, leaving his body at the mercy of the summer heat.

He took his time standing up, now certain that he hadn't sobered up from whenever it was he last drank. He quietly slipped out of his apartment, careful not to wake the stranger he had forgotten the name of from his rather light slumber. He climbed the creaking stairs up to the roof, unsure if he should have listened, should have waited for a story to come from the star's groaning. He stepped out onto the roof, waiting, just like every time he came out, for some sort of epiphany to strike him. At least an idea. Preferably a novel. But, nothing, just like usual.

He took his seat in his usual spot, just by the edge, and stared over. His building wasn't high enough to have much to look down on; if you wanted to look at something to look at, you needed to look up. He thought that was kind of beautiful, but not the kind of beauty that writes stories. The building was high enough though, that if he were to jump, he probably wouldn't make it to the bottom. He sighed and continued to stare. He watched the people pass by his building and tried to turn them into characters, tried to turn them into words. He tried to make that old woman into a hopeless widower, wishing for her husband to return from the skies, to be with her once more when facing the tough world. Just as he thought ha had a story, she spit at a pigeon and started cursing. The boy, no older than 7, was an orphan, looking for a family, dreaming of a home. He ran away.

The boy woke up on the roof, just as the sun rose, filtering through he windows of other buildings. It was a beautiful sight. He wished he had chosen to become a photographer. He rose from his perch on the ledge, and went back to his apartment. The stranger he had let in last night was sitting on the couch, drinking a coffee from the café downstairs.

"Thank you, man," the stranger said. "'M Niall. Really, thank you for letting me stay, I really needed it." The boy shrugged, walked over to the desk next to Niall, and sat down. He stared at the typewriter and set his fingers on the keys. He thought of Niall and began to type. Besides the clattering of the keys, the room was silent. It was soothing, being so comfortably silent with a stranger. He wrote about a lost boy, and a boy who tried to lead him home. It sounded too much like a romance novel, something that would probably have been called "sappy", so he threw it in the general direction of the bin, probably missing, but the bin was full anyways.

"What's your name?" Niall questioned from beside him, gingerly taking a tiny sip from the cup, whose contents were probably cold by now.

"Harry," he rasped out, not having said anything to anyone for what seemed like weeks. Niall nodded, and placed his cup on the desk next to Harry. "What's your story?" Harry added quietly, almost too quiet for Niall to really hear.

"My story?" he questioned. Harry nodded. "Well, I was in Mullingar, that's in Ireland, and was visiting family. Was there for about a month, and came home to a completely trashed flat. Everything I owned was either broken or gone. All I was left with was an almost empty wallet and the clothes I have on. You found me just after I left." Harry tried to let every single word sink in slowly. He tried to let each sound reach his brain and write itself out. But the story stopped, and so did Harry's hope.

"I'm sorry, that's awful, mate."

"Yeah, it is."

"You're welcome to crash here until you can get back on your feet," Harry offered, secretly hoping Niall would accept. It could be a lot less lonely. Niall immediately perked up and raised his eyebrows higher than they should probably go. Harry nodded, and Niall immediately started cackling. He got up and pulled Harry out of his chair into a hug. Harry smiled for the first time in months.