prompt; opposites meet in the city
[about 1.8k words]
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He wanted to live somewhere, not be somewhere. He was tired of smoke from his lips, from pipes, from a lady on the street corners cigarette, tightening around his lungs like ropes. He hated every blaring horn, every aspect of city bustle and street life. He hated the dark of alleyways, and he hated feet rushing on the sidewalks, paying no mind to life.
He hated this city, and if he could leave, he would. But he was tied to the bridge near the heights, and he was tied to his city devotee; a blue eyed boy with black hair and the most home like smile.
A blue eyed boy who hung out by the bridge, hair swept by drift, and clothes reflecting on the city's appearance, a casual type flashy. A city style boy with country style eyes.
He had first found him while strolling through the heights, his eyes catching sight of a boy looking out over rushing cars. He had thought, "Oh, God, not another Jumper."
But when he confronted him, he was not a poor boy on the edge of suicide, under eye stained with purple and overrun with street lamps. He was bright, beautiful--under eye stained with almost invisible freckles and a blush from the wind.
"You know, I wouldn't do that if I were you," he had said, coming up from behind him on the bridge and gaining his attention, "I'd have to watch, and I couldn't live with myself if I let you jump."
The boy had laughed, "Don't worry, I'm not here to end it. I'm just here to listen."
"For what?" He asked, afraid of sitting next to him. He was never very good in social situations.
"The city," the boy said, "Isn't it beautiful?"
He had to keep from laughing at him, grunting instead. This city was not beautiful. Beauty is not so man made.
"No," he said bluntly, "It's loud."
"That's part of why it's so amazing, its's so full of life."
"It's full of lives with no care for life," He said, shaking his head, "You'd have to be naive to see this city as something grand. It's ignorant, crawling with desperate souls and no one gives a damn about anyone."
"It's more opinionated," the boy defended, "It's smarter, a place full of ideas that spill out of mouths like water. It's sophisticated in appearance, in sounds and in action. It's loud because it's constantly talking, making this life evolve. The city is a brain, full of everything."
"It's too opinionated, constantly at war with itself. That noise isn't conversation it's a battle of intelligence and ignorance and influence. The city's an insomniac, it's unhealthy, dangerous. Don't you see that it's too much? That it's not beautiful, it's complicated."
"That's just it," the boy said quietly, "That's why I love it so much. It's a puzzle." He paused, looking up at him curiously, "And you know what?"
He scoffed and raised an eyebrow, "What?"
"We often hate in others or things what we hate in ourselves," the boy said, "Maybe you don't like the city because you're just like it."
He looked away from him and out over the bridge, silent for a while. Problematic. Open minded. Argumentative.
"What's your name?" He asked suddenly, the blue eyed boy looking up at him warmly.
"Phil."
"City lover," he mumbled.
Phil hummed amusedly, "What's your name?"
"Unimportant," he said.
"You talk about individuality as an aspect of what life in a place is, and yet you don't give me a name," Phil noted.
