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No one really knows what to make of them.
You all know each other, obviously. This may be a New York high rise apartment complex but there's only a couple people per floor and it's impossible to avoid each other when there's one elevator and one front desk and one pool. You meet everyone, eventually, even batty old Sylvia who lives on the tenth floor and can only afford it because her father struck it big in the California gold rush. By your sixth month living there it becomes routine to greet Jackson, the only other person on your floor, as he makes his way in the mornings to NYU, where he teaches particle physics, and to stop two floors down for some sort of pastry, which Sylvia and her neighbor Patty make nearly every morning.
Your community is small, your routine set in stone. Nothing, it seems, will ever seem out of the ordinary as long as you live here.
Until they show up. They don't arrive in a blaze of light and heavenly fury, nor do they break the bulletproof glass of the lobby and storm the complex. No, they show up in a big, obviously new SUV that rumbles to a stop just outside the doors. You're in the lobby, sharing a coffee with Julia, the part-time doorperson, and you both pause in your debate about the best ravioli in town to turn and watch them push through the glass doors like they don't stick out like sore thumbs.
You can tell they're just out of high school, probably not even nineteen yet. They don't have much, just a duffle bag and maybe a backpack each, but they have a lived-in, weary air that makes you think they're not confused, that they haven't mistaken this for the Hampton just down the street.
"Can I help you, kids?" Julia asks, like she's wary of who they are. The tallest, a boy with near-white hair and who sports a pair of dark aviators, steps forward and nods.
"We're moving in today, on the thirteenth floor. Any chance you have our keys?" You frown a little at that, as does Julia; it's been almost a year since the thirteenth floor was rented out, and its monthly cost is a number that makes you want to take a swig of brandy straight from the bottle. It's nothing that kids would be able to afford.
"Do we have your name on file, Mr…"
"Strider. Here's my I.D., and my card. We put down the deposit a couple weeks ago."
You can't help but peer over her shoulder at the computer screen, and sure enough, the coveted top-floor penthouse is registered to a one Dave Strider, and the information perfectly matches that on his drivers' license. You can see Julia shake her head minutely—understandably, because what sort of kid wants a penthouse in an uneventful, overpriced complex that's not even really near anything—but she reaches under the counter for two keys, which are snatched up by a vaguely deranged-looking girl with a blonde bob and piercing violet eyes. In the keys' place she slides an expensive-looking envelope.
"That fully covers our rent for the first year, plus the necessary utility fees." And then she turns on her heel, the group of four moving as one towards the elevators like they can't feel yours and Julia's incredulous stares.
When they're finally out of sight, Julia reaches tentatively towards the envelope and pulls out a check with shaking hands. You blanch; you've never seen that many zeroes in your entire life.
***
Word quickly spreads through the complex: someone's claimed the penthouse, and after all this wait it's just a group of kids. You live on the floor below them, the twelfth, and you were there when they first arrived, so it's only natural that Patty and her substantially-younger husband ask you over for lunch and the conversation just happens to stray over to the kids; it's to be assumed that anyone would have the complex's only other young single guy, Percy, asking are the rumors are actually true and are any of them hot?
You don't really see them, though. Once, you and the Dave Strider guy ended up in the elevator together, but he was alone and completely absorbed in a high-tech phone and you have at least a little bit of dignity, thank you very much. It's not until the gossip has mostly died down that you see them all, together, and it's not even inside the apartments.
Your firm is celebrating its founder's—your mother's— birthday, so you go out to dinner with the other three lawyers you work with to celebrate the fact that she's gone the entire week and you won't have her breathing down your neck 24/7. You go to a fancy restaurant, a steakhouse you normally wouldn't approach with a ten-foot pole, and it's there that you're seated almost right next to the group of kids.
Despite the normally-distracting banter of your coworkers, you can't take your eyes off them. They're seated in a horseshoe-shaped booth, plenty of room, but they're all bunched together in the middle of the bench. You wince a little at the sight of their clothes wrinkling obnoxiously, as they're all obviously expensive and custom-tailored and probably some sort of limited designer cut, but they sit like they don't know what personal space is, swapping food and leaning up against each other and talking lowly amongst themselves.
As you watch, the girl with thick black hair and smooth, dark skin reaches over to swipe spaghetti sauce from Dave's face, a gesture that seems oddly intimate. He squawks, says "Jade!" in an embarrassed tone, and you can see the others trying not to laugh. Your waiter, carefully setting down thin-stemmed glasses of wine onto your table, turns to frown at them.
They're too wrapped up in each other to notice.
***
"I don't know what they do, Sylvia, I'm sure none of them are planning a repeat 9/11. Don’t give me that look! I've talked to Jade once, maybe twice, and every time I'm struck by how positively sweet she is," you say, exasperated. "Judging people by their skin color is a nasty habit."
"Well, what about that boy John? You never know what he'll do!" Sylvia says, eyes wide.
"John? Is that his name?" You've seen him less than Dave or Jade, but he's the sort of person that puts you at ease. It's probably the combination of the tan skin, wide smile, and the slightly-too-large teeth that sort of remind you of your little brother, or the fact that the one time you heard him talking it was about obscure Ghostbusters trivia to Dave. It's obviously an old topic. "He's the last person I'd expect to do anything even remotely dangerous. I mean, he looks like he barely even knows how to handle a hammer!"
Never mind that sometimes you see him walking around the neighborhood, hunched over like he holds the weight of the world on his shoulders. Never mind that his eyes are a deep, longing blue that make you shrivel a little bit if he ever catches your gaze. Never mind that the only thing that cheers him up is the presence of the others.
"Those four…" Sylvia says, grinding her teeth. "There's something funny going on with them. I don't like it."
You shift uncomfortably in your chair and think about their penthouse, dead silent whenever they're not there, empty in a stagnant way that makes you wonder if that's the way their homes have always been. You think about the times you've sat in your bed late at night, reading, and you’ve heard telltale thumps and groans from above that even your complex's high-level soundproofing cannot mask. There are always four voices.
But you force down any misgivings you have because in the end, they're just kids, and you say, "You know what, Sylvia, I think you're just a little stressed. How about you let me wash these dishes for you?"
***
Once, you see a stray puppy in a box just beside your building. It's little, probably a few months old at best, and it looks like it's seen everything the weather can muster up. You stick out your hand for a sniff, because you always had dogs when you were younger and to be honest, you really miss them. It has the brightest green eyes you've ever seen, like something radioactive, and it doesn't seem to like you that much.
"Oh my gosh, is that a puppy?" Says a voice behind you. You turn, hand dropping to your side, to see Jade standing there, grinning. She sidles up next to you to let the dog take a whiff of her outstretched palm. It likes her a lot more than you, apparently, licking her palm until she's giggling like she's still in third grade.
"I used to have a dog who looked just like you," she says, in a sad tone that doesn't match up to the smile on her face. You shuffle a step back, because what she's saying isn't really meant for your ears. "Saved my life, you know. And Dave's, and John's, and Rose's."
The little puppy whimpers, and Jade rummages around in her big bag until she pulls out a phone. You sit there, not sure if you should move or stay, disturb her or remain sitting there like a creeper, until you hear the front doors of your apartment building open and Dave and John walk out, arms linked. You can't really decipher their expressions when they see the dog, but they're a little bit sad, like Jade's tone.
"Come on, let's bring it to the humane society," Dave says, and John wraps his arm around Jade, who hikes up the puppy and its box like they're feather-light. By the time you get up, they're out of sight.
***
You're in for a shock, one day, when the scary blonde girl from the floor above knocks on your door. You're wearing your bathrobe, because at this time of the day it's normally only Jackson, coming to see if you have any extra toilet paper or glue because for some reason his girlfriend uses it in her art projects. Much to your surprise and subsequent embarrassment, however, it's not Jackson, and the girl in front of you twists her black lips into a smirk when she sees your blush.
"Hello, I believe I never had the opportunity to introduce myself. I am Rose Lalonde—I live on the floor above this." You fumblingly shake her hand, stutter your way through your own introductions, and generally make a fool of yourself because Rose is hot. Sure, she also looks like she could kill you with the knitting needles you see sticking but of her boot, but that's beside the point.
"I loathe to be so presumptuous, but my friend Jade suggested I distribute these throughout the building." She slips a shiny card into your hand, and on it you can see the words Rose Lalonde: Complacency of the Learned Book Release Party September 20. "It would be an honor for you to attend."
"Yeah sure, I'll definitely be there," you say, nodding your head and smiling a bit more than necessary.
A week and a newly-pressed suit later finds you at an obscure bookstore in the heart of the city. It's packed shelf-to-shelf, wall-to-wall with all sorts of people, and you're definitely out of your element in this candle-lit, mysterious shop, but you take solace in the fact that there are multiple familiar faces from the complex. You guess she really did invite the whole building.
It surprises you a little bit to learn that Rose is an author, but apparently she's the number one horror writer out there and now that you think about it, some of her titles do sound familiar. She does a reading, serenaded in the background by haunting piano, and you realize that there's more to her books than meets the eye—one chapter alone leaves you feeling a little crushed inside, a little older, and quite a bit smaller in the void of the universe. You tell her as such.
"I appreciate your praise. It's often quite challenging to write about topics such as these," she says, finishing another glass of wine. You're leaning up against the bar, nursing a beer as you talk, and you're a little bit surprised she's able to talk so coherently after the amount you saw her drink earlier.
"Y'know, I think I actually read one of your books—maybe two years ago? It was called Homestuck, right?" You see Rose tense up, frown a little bit, and she seems to carefully choose her next words.
"Yes, that was my first published book. My greatest work."
"I remember thinking it was totally amazing. Scared the shit out of me, yeah, but that was one amazing story. How'd you even come up with that idea?"
Rose takes an enormous gulp of wine, leaving a thick black ring of lipstick along the edge of the glass, and you can see her hands trembling. She opens her mouth to respond when she's interrupted by an arm slung across her shoulder.
"Hey Rose, you alright?" Dave asks, pulling her into his side. She folds against him a bit, and you take a step back under the weight of his gaze, heavy even through his ever-present shades. "Do y'need a break? John 'n Jade could use some company."
"Yeah," you can hear her say into his blazer. He shoots you one last indecipherable glare before leading Rose over to the piano where, you're somewhat stunned to see, John is playing the haunting melody that winds its way throughout the shelves. Next to him on the bench sits Jade, every once and a while reaching out to hit a note that jars against the rest of the tune.
Rose and Dave make their way over, hand in hand, and the way Rose laughs at the two on the bench, the way she cards her fingers through their hair as she stands flush to Dave, makes you realize that you never had a chance.
***
You still don't know what to think.
About the fact that none of them seem to have real jobs, ones where they go out and earn money and work for a living, and yet they're still living more comfortably than anyone else in this already-overpriced building.
About the way they exist as one being, hands in back pockets and cheeks pressed against temples and fingers intertwined and bodies pressed side-by-side, the way only lovers exist.
About how Rose and Dave could be siblings, and how John and Jade have probably been confused for twins more times than they haven't.
About the looks in their eyes, whenever they're without the others and don't think you're watching: like they've seen the world brought to its knees, like they're the ones who held the knife.
***
One night, you're sitting on your balcony and staring out across the city, breath just beginning to cloud the air in front of your face. The trick-or-treaters have long since gone back to their homes, and the streets are packed with scantily-clad partiers who laugh at tradition and the sky above.
You should be asleep, but it just hasn't come—so you're startled when you hear the sound of the balcony door opening on the floor above you, and the sound of thick, choked breathing. You shrink back in your chair, as if you could be seen from the floor above, and you sit in silence as the person above you gasps and coughs and wheezes like the oxygen's running out. You think you can hear them saying something, but it comes out think and guttural, not even a language, and you're kind of horrified by it.
"Rose? Rose, please come back in," you can hear someone—not Dave, probably John—say, and you feel like puking at the thought that it's Rose who's making all those terrible sounds. "Come back to bed."
"Rose, listen to me," and this time it's Dave, "The game's over, okay? We're all here, we're not gonna leave you."
The hacking, growling continues, not really even human, and you feel a heavy darkness press down on your shoulders, tightening your lungs until you can't really see the stars for lack of air. Or maybe the stars are going out?
"Rose, you can't jump, please," Jade says, pleads. "Rose we love you, even if you go Grimdark again. They can't hurt you here."
"Rose, we're gonna protect you no matter what."
"You don't have to face this alone."
"You're safe with us."
The three voices overlap each other, speaking like they've had to do it before, and you hear a shuffling above you that slowly fades, moves into the penthouse and is swallowed up by their home.
You sit a long time in your chair, catching your breath and reminding yourself that the stars still exist.
***
The building manager, Ravi, always decides to throw a Christmas party in the rec room, and everyone in the complex is invited. You help with decorations, because Christmas is your favorite time of the year, and you're surprised to learn that John's helping, too. Ravi pairs you together to decorate the tree, because testosterone is the main ingredient to any respectable American Christmas tree, young man, don't you forget it.
It turns out John is pretty cool. It takes a lot to get him talking, but you think he's warming up to you by the time you're both talking about baking cookies and then just baking, general, and then Betty Crocker and how awful that brand really is.
"Betty Crocker is a witch! How could you even call that baking?" He says, smiling at you through the tree.
"Dude, I don't know why you're so against Betty Crocker, but that chocolate cake mix is the best boxed stuff out there."
He shakes his head at you, mutters, "The nerve of some people," but you can see him grinning. You continue working in companionable silence.
"Why'd you guys move here, John?" You ask, because you know the entire building is still wondering and you can only take Sylvia's nagging for so long. John slows in his decorating, still on the other side of the tree. You can't see his face.
"Well, you see… we—Rose, Dave, Jade and I—we've known each other for a while and—and we've sorta been through a lot and we didn't—"
"It's okay," you say, carefully hooking an ornament onto one of the uppermost branches. "You don't need to tell me."
John gives you a grateful look, and you turn your back to the sight of him pressing thin hands over his heart.
***
Later that night, the eggnog is weighing down your mind and your eyes, and you're slouched across a loveseat next to Julia. Most everyone has claimed seats, and a hearty crackling sounds from the fireplace. Quiet carols wind their way throughout the room.
Out of the corner of your eye you can see them, all sitting together against the wall in a corner. Rose has her legs tangled with Dave's, and Jade is slumped beneath her arm, looking for all the world like she needs a lap. John has his legs across them all, head leaning against Dave's shoulder, and you can see Rose take his hand and press light kisses to each of his fingers.
You look away, because the amount of love there is deeper than anything kids should be able to conjure up. It's more real than the couch you're sitting on, the building around you, the very salt of the earth. And in their sad, beautiful eyes you can see the stars, brighter than you ever have before.