Listen To The Silence by Sheryl

Chapter 1

Chahiela, my friends...

He sits back with a sigh, relaxation total, curling bare toes around the balcony rail.
Deep dusk, the first hints of dew kiss the smooth iron, blessedly cool. His eyes close briefly as he breathes in the evening air, air so fragrant and redolent with growing things it is very nearly a taste. Did the air ever smell so good? He doesn't know, doesn't care, it does now, and a balm for his soul it is. His eyes open again on the purple-blue of almost dark. Only in heavy summer does the night end with this vividness of color. It is serious color, not the gaudy circus hues of sunset, brash and somehow cartoonish. No, this is drama, if color can be said to have such a quality.
He smiles slightly, rocking back a little against smooth strapped plastic, feeling the give as it contours to his body, bare arms and legs grateful for the cool. Has it been this hot before? Probably not, he'd remember if it had. Thank God for the night, for this sweet silky air against his skin.
He lets his mind drift slightly, faint sounds floating around his head, the rustle of leaves, the faint giggling of children somewhere nearby, music... oh that any music created by man could even hope to compete with this music of the night. The trees resonate with some sweet sound, and he vaguely remembers being told it is frogs. His smile widens a little, just thinking that something as odd looking as a frog can make such a sweet sound. It makes him think of home, of nights as a little boy, bathed and comfortable, safe in bed with only a soft sheet for cover, the fan blowing gently currents against his legs.
He'd go home again, if he could, no question. Life has taken on a hectic flavor that doesn't much suit him. Only these nights, in the now velvet darkness, studded with diamond stars, these stolen moments alone, bring him relief now from the constant activity. His down time, precious to him, and private, uninterrupted by request, and acknowledged consent. This time is his.
He feels the smile slip a little, as his newly relaxed mind becomes aware of the steady tap against his barriers, there again, as it has been night after night, intrusive and irritating. Persistent, even, the tapping will go on, he knows. It's Jordan, trying again, trying to reach him by that peculiar means of communication his family and friends aren't aware of, the mind to mind of two adepts, tuned to each others frequencies. Such friends he had, psychics who pulled him from the razor edge of a stress break, who taught him to relax, who healed his fractured mind and taught him to heal himself. Such friends, introducing him to the limitless abilities of his own self, imparting on him the benefits of longevity, resilience, resistance.
Smiling a little, again, he pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pleased at the scent rising from the pack. He loves the smell of unlit tobacco. Sweet, as fragrant as the night he now surrounds himself with. Just as pleasing, the gentle hiss of the lighter wheel, the sharp crack of the flame, it's tiny heat against his face as he lights the tip of the smoke, wondering briefly if it reflects its glow against his face, and what it must look like, if it does. His family knows about the cigarettes, just as they now he doesn't need to smoke them. There is no addiction hidden here, he smokes part of one most nights, enjoying the heat and the burn and the tingle that rushes through him, unable to develop a dependence, unable to even sustain a craving, a side affect of that peculiar mental programming of his body. He pulls the smoke in, sighing at the pleasant ache in his lungs, idly watching the small cloud that floats past his face, hovering mosquitoes dancing from it's path. They won't bite him, they never do. He supposes he must just not taste good, for while they hover, and often light, they never leave their mark, and their jet plane drone in his ear causes him no discomfort.

One drag, two, and he's had enough of the smoke, tapping it out, frowning again at the stubborn tapping that matches his motion, that insistent tapping on his mind. Sooner or later he knows he'll have to answer it, it cannot be unimportant, this man would not break his silence, would not hammer at him so unendingly, were it not important. He know Jordan understood his withdrawl, his need to leave them, and he knows he respected it entirely. He knows it would take a lot to make him break into his solitude. But can he bring himself to answer? What will he be opening himself up to? And why does he intrude on this, his one and only time to regather his sanity, to breathe on his own?

He tips the chair back, running bare feet along a crossbar now quite wet, runs those bare toes up an equally naked leg, touches fingers to the tiny puddle on his skin, tastes the dampness on the fingerpad, somehow disappointed that the dew does not taste as sweet as the night smells. Water, it is only water.
He sighs again, sudden drowsiness stealing over him, and lets his eyes close on the steadily darkening view. He knows to fall asleep out here will lead to waking up wet and cold sometime in the small hours, but he's too comfortable right now to get up and go in. It's too quiet, this ringing song of the night, too soft, this dewtouched darkness, he can't bear to leave it now. If he falls asleep, so be it. He shifts a little, drawing one leg up, foot resting across his knee, the warmth of skin on skin an intense contrast with the cool damp.
He lets himself sink a little, closer to the tapping against his psychic door, feels the shift as he makes the decision almost helplessly, his mind reaching out, mental fingers clasping those seeking fingers. If he lets him keep trying the only result will be illness for Jordan, and he loves him too much, he realizes with glass edged honesty, to let him make himself sick for his own selfish isolation.
He falls deeper, asleep now to any watching eyes, breathing heavy and even, muscles lax, as the foot falls from the knee, coming to rest on the smooth tiled floor of the balcony.
Deep inside his mind, the illusion of sleep falls away, as intensive alertness takes hold, and the tap is met with an answering tap, suddenly resolving into words as clear an any he has ever heard with his ears, spoken by any voice.

At the table, time zones away, in the haunted soul stealing hours of early morning, when the ebb and flow of human biorhythm is at it's slowest, the young man lifts his head, finally, eyes alight in profound relief. His regret is strong, the decision to break into the privacy of one who's pulled away is not an easy one.
He rubs the ache at the front of his head, knuckles his watering eyes, as the answer comes through, soft, hesitant as he knew it would be, reeking of suspicion. Such pain at that, suspicion and mistrust from one so loved. Ah, if the boy only realized how treasured he was...
Shaking off the cloud of melancholy, the young man tucks dark hair behind ears, swallows coffee too long in the cup, cold and bitter, wincing at the disagreeable taste, scowling against his stomach's complaint at such treatment. One of so many long nights, struggling to get through, to reach him, feeling the truth, that he is being heard and dismissed.
His eyes take in the ashtray, crowded and overflowing with stinking butts and ash, and reaches a fingertip into it, dabbing the ash onto his tongue. Burnt offerings, there should be some sacrifice for what he is about to do, for the end of the peace he is almost sure to cause. He shrugs off guilt, refocuses his attentions, meeting the answering call of "What is it?" with the one reply he'd hoped never to voice.
"We need your help."

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