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The porch is small, barely enough room for Jon to stand beside the desiccated remains of a potted plant. The air is bitterly cold, and the metal railing that stands between Jon and a ten story drop bites into his bare forearms when he leans against it. He can barely see the horizon between the buildings, but what he can see of the overcast sky is painted with the colors of a half-healed bruise from where the sun is, presumably, somewhere far beyond his gaze, sinking below the horizon.
Jon flips open a pack of cigarettes and pulls one out to hold between pursed lips. His hands lift to his face, one struggling with the flint of the lighter and the other cupped to protect the meager flame from the wind. It takes a few tries to light it, but the lungful of smoke soothes his nerves even as the cold tears through the meager protection of his borrowed t-shirt.
The door creaks behind him, and Tim steps out, bundled in the comforter from Jon's bed. He shudders at the cold even as he pushes out into the night air, drawing the heavy blanket tight around him. There's barely enough room for him to stand, and his shoulder bumps against Jon's as he fits himself into the limited space.
"I thought you quit," he says. Not judgmental or accusing, just curious. Jon wishes he would say something more. He doesn't. Neither does Jon. Instead, he picks absently at a small, round scab on his forearm. Tim's hand rests over his, stilling his fingers before he can peel it off. They stand in silence for a bit, Tim's hand resting heavy on Jon's, bleeding warmth into him. The wind picks up, and Tim shivers.
"Do you want me to leave?" Tim asks. Jon looks at him, face half cast in shadow, and pulls his hand away. The cherry of his cigarette burns bright as he inhales. Smoke and misty breath are torn away by the breeze when he speaks.
"Do you want to leave?" Tim shakes his head. "Okay," Jon says, and Tim stays.
The sky fades from jaundiced yellow to bruised purple to dingy grey, the darkness of night held at bay by the ever-present artificial light of the city. Jon's fingers are clumsy, aching to the bone from the cold. Tim has tucked his own behind the protective shield of the comforter. Jon could easily reach out; he knows Tim would gladly share his body heat if he asks. He doesn't. He grits his teeth to stop them from chattering.
Words rise like bile in his throat. "I'm sorry," Jon says. "For everything." The wind cuts ruthlessly through bedclothes and blankets and sweeps the words away, unheard.