The Boy I Met On the Roof

Deep Talk

Dustin wakes up gradually, his hearing coming back first. Sasha is talking with someone whose voice he doesn't recognize, chatting about the better times before things turned to shit. He can relate in a way; things always seem better when they lie in the past. Trying to regain the function of his body, he tries to move his fingers, only to have them twitch pathetically in response. Opening his eyes, he shuts them immediately after; the usually dim lights suddenly become too bright.

Groaning, he twists to the side, attempting to go back to sleep. "Are you awake?" the stranger asks, shaking him by the shoulder. If he wasn't already, he sure would be now.

Again, he groans, making the stranger chuckle. His headache hasn't gotten better; if anything, it's worse now.
"The lights hurt," he moans, squeezing his eyes shut tighter to avoid the lights shining through his eyelids.
"You want an aspirin?" they ask, adding, "I used to get like this, too."
Dustin nods in the affirmative; the motion is painful. Behind him, the stranger rummages through their bag, pulling out something and holding it in front of his mouth. Opening his eyes just a slit, he sees an unsuspecting white pill; nothing he should be worried about, but there's something deep inside him that doubts the stranger.
Regardless, he sits up, gritting his teeth through the pain, and picks up the pill, swallowing it dry.
"Give it, like, twenty minutes to kick in."

For the first time, he catches a glimpse of the stranger; their hair is pin straight and a dark blond color, pulled back in a messy, low ponytail. Their eyes are a deep brown, adorned by deep eye bags and eyelashes that would make any girl jealous. Their face looks relaxed, if not a bit tired, looking neither particularly mean nor friendly; tough looks tend to be deceiving. They stand tall, shoulders pulled back and chests puffed out, and like everyone else down here, they are rather skinny, furthering their androgynous appearance. Unlike Sasha, their facial rot seems mild, looking more like bad acne than an actual infection.
"The name is Ezra, by the way."
"Dustin," he sighs.

"I knew you'd two like each other; he's from the surface, too. You're from LA, right?" Sasha asks Ezra, draping her arm over his shoulder, which Ezra seems to barely tolerate.
"Yeah, from the suburbs, tough," he answers unenthusiastically.
"Oh, you're rich!" she chuckles, which makes Ezra shove her off.
"I was upper middle class." Ezra hisses, raising his hand back to smack her upside the head, but Sasha seems way too fast for him.
"Yeah, of course. Bet your parents had two cars!" Sasha mocks.
"Yeah, I bet you went on trips to Europe every year!" Dustin joins in, his voice still shaky.
A proud look covers Sasha's face, her smile widens, and she laughs harder, doubling over and holding her stomach.
"Stop being so loud!" Ezra whisper-yells, grabbing the girl by the arm roughly.
"Sorry, I just didn't expect the newbie to be so sassy." Sasha gasps, struggling to contain her laughter.

It's kind of surprising how the ones from Down Under act; despite their circumstances, they act more like teenagers than the ones from the school, joking around and all. A comfortable silence fills the room, only broken by Sasha's desperate gasps for air and Ezra mumbling about how he isn't rich and how she would know what being rich is.
"You can get rid of the tie, you know?" Ezra points out, pointing toward Dutin's neck.
"Oh, I know. I just kind of forgot about it." Dustin says, untying the faded fabric.
"Yeah, it took me a while to adjust to the fact that I can wear whatever down here. It wasn't so bad up there; at least I didn't get red."
"Just because it could be worse doesn't mean it's good. I had a kind of good childhood back when the section wasn't abandoned." Sasha claims, making Dustin raise an eyebrow in confusion.
"You had a good childhood? I find that hard to believe, respectfully."
"Get that often, too. School sounds like hell from what I've heard, so I'm glad I never went there, and since they wanted me to develop normally or whatever, I was treated well enough as a kid. I couldn't say that about the kids from the psych sector."

"The psych sector?" Dustin echos, furrowing his eyebrows.
"Yeah, they do more than disease research down here. If you go left on the last hallway, you'll get to the psychiatric sector, where they do mental health research or whatever. They traumatize people on purpose to see what happens or something. I used to be called in to compare to the sick kids, so I can tell you that it's better here than there." The girl explains that the tone is too nonchalant for Dustin's liking.

"I mean, isn't it still your childhood here? You're what, fifteen?"
Sasha giggles in response, ruffling his hair. "That's sweet of you, but I should be around nineteen now. I aged beautifully, with no sun damage of any kind. I always got my vitamin D in shots."
Confused, Dustin prods further: "So you've never seen the sun, like, ever?"

"Of course I did," Sasha responds, seeming offended: "In pictures. Plus, it's just a giant ball of gas, so it doesn't matter."
Snorting, Ezra quips, "We'd all be dead without it, Sasha. Maybe school would have been good for you."
Elbowing the blond, she sticks out her tongue to him: "Nu-uh. According to one of the professors from the psych sector, I have ADHD or something, so I wouldn't have done well either way."
Rolling his eyes, Ezra walks back to what seems to be his pile of cloth, lying down with his arms and legs spread out wide, like a starfish. "He's always like that; kind one moment and then an asshole."
Shrugging his shoulders, he utters, "I liked him."

Sitting down next to him, she leans her head on his shoulder. She seems like a very tactile person, always touching and petting everyone. Dustin wishes he could say that he minded it, but it's just been so long, too long, that someone with as pure of intentions as she had touched him in such a kind way, especially with no expectation of returning the favor.

"What was it like up there for you? I've heard so many stories, some good, some bad. It makes me wish I grew up with a mom and dad instead of a dozen different caretakers. Not that it was bad; I've never been hit unlike the others, but it's just...different, I guess."
Sighing, Dustin thinks; he hasn't been hit, either. Sure, his mom never cared about him, and technically you could accuse her of medical neglect at least, but he survived without any long-lasting physical damage, so it doesn't count. Yes, his stepdad, who doesn't want him to call him that, yelled a lot, swearing and insulting, but again, he's fine, isn't he?
"I never really met my dad, either," he blurts out instead of saying what it was really like.
"I mean, he was alive for a couple of years, but I don't remember much, you know, since I was like...four?"
"I wish I could have met my dad. I heard a lot about my mom, and from what I heard, she was great. But my dad remains a mystery. I got told that I was a miracle because my mom was the first one to arrive pregnant and not miscarry." Sasha's head leaves his shoulder as she lays down on the couch, placing her legs over his lap instead.
"I got a stepdad at eight, and he was an ass, so I don't think fathers are what they're made out to be."
"Nah, Ezra had a great dad; he used to play baseball with him and all. We both just have low-key fucked up lives."
Humming, he shrugs his shoulders; the aspiring had kicked in long ago, and for once, he's feeling content enough. Not good per se, but not horrible for once.

"And your mom? Mine is like my hero. I used to be a journalist investigating the place and got caught, real brave and all."
It's strange to hear someone say that they see their mom as a hero; even at the school he went to before all this, all the kids called their moms annoying, complaining about how they always nag and never let them go out.
God, how much he hated those kids.

His mom never cared. He could go out and stay out; he could sleep under a bridge for the rest of his life for all she cared, and those kids always told him he should be glad. Told him that they wish their mothers cared less.
But their moms cooked for them, did their laundry, and talked to them regularly.
"Eh, she didn't care much. She kind of stopped caring after I turned eight and she married my stepdad. Did I mention that he told me to kill myself more than once?" Dustin giggles, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. It's funny somehow, how he knows he was treated badly but also knows that it wasn't bad enough to count.

"Man, he was a dick; I'm sorry. The worst I ever got was when one of the caretakers called me a brat."
Sniffling, trying to suppress his urge to cry, he chokes out: "Were you acting like a brat?"
"Yeah, kinda. I tried to cut my bangs off."
They both laugh awkwardly; she smiles at him, compassionate but not pitying. He hadn't had someone tell him that they were sorry for him, usually responding with how badly they were treated, like hurt is a competition.
Maybe it is, but hey, second place is something, right?
"Meh, I bet you were a good kid," he reassures, trying to sound comforting as well.
Again, she smiles at him, something twinkling in her eyes: adoration, maybe a platonic kind of love, or is it too early for that?
"No, I was difficult, but that could as well just be ADHD. The profesor said my brain works differently.

"Well, different isn't always bad, you know?