Company

Written by Anakin McFly

Sometimes, Neo cannot understand how someone like not-Tim ever created someone like him. He graciously accepts the sandwich that he's handed, trying not to show his discomfort with the way the actor enthusiastically waxes lyrical over every ingredient that went into the making of that sandwich and his disproportionate concern over the temperature of their drinks ("No, no, it's gotta be cold. I'll go ask if they have any ice. I'll be right back.").

Neo sets his sandwich down to wait, and looks nervous when other patrons curiously glance their way. He overhears loud whispers - "dude! That's Keanu Reeves!" / "OMG! Who's that hobo he's eating with?" / "I dunno, he said on Facebook that he likes to help homeless people." / "Awww!" / "Should we ask for an autograph?" - and awkwardly averts his gaze. He stares down at his hands clasped loosely in his lap and wonders if any of this is real. How can it be, he thinks, how can this be realer than the Matrix, realer than Zion? Realer than me?

He looks up as Not-Tim returns, proudly carrying their drinks with ice now clinking against the glasses. Not-Tim sits back down on the other side of the booth, beaming at Neo. Neo manages a small smile. He doesn't feel like smiling, not really, but it's hard not to when not-Tim is around, even though he's uncomfortable enough, being here with him, and the way it sometimes makes him feel almost unbearably self-conscious.

They eat, not-Tim chatting animatedly between bites of sandwich ("Oh, this is really good," he comments appreciatively), talking about anything and everything - food, books, life, the inexplicable joy of white tablecloths and riding motorcycles into the sunset. Not-Tim sees the wistful longing on Neo's face, and for a moment - just a moment - his cheer fades, knowing how soon all that would end for him. But they still have weeks to go. Neo still has time to live.

Not-Tim pays the bill when they're done, and is briefly confused about the whispers ("OMG, he's making the homeless guy pay for him! What a jerk!").

They walk out of the restaurant, passing a table of people who for some reason are all glaring at Neo. Not-Tim places a comforting hand on Neo's back to guide him out the door, and they exit into the light afternoon sunshine of LA.

Neo looks up at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds, and for a moment, his own world seems like a distant, unreal thing of no real consequence to his own life. Not-Tim is saying something about books. Neo's barely listening. Perhaps he notices after a while, for his words die off into a compassionate silence.

A few paparazzi pop up and flash cameras in their face as they walk, calling out to Neo, who looks at them in distress until not-Tim puts his hand on his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. "Please leave us alone," he says firmly, and steers Neo away from the mob until they are little more than a clamour of flickering lights in the distance.

They walk, for a long time. It's one of his favourite motorcycle routes. It takes much longer on foot, but he has the feeling that Neo needs this. He senses the other man relax, subtly, and some of the quiet anguish leave his face.

The route inclines uphill and he pants a little on the climb, looking on in bemused envy at the way Neo's younger body moves so much more easily.

"We could turn back," Neo suggests, pausing, and there's concern in his eyes.

"No," he says. "It's all right. I'll be all right. My knees just aren't what they used to be." He grins. "That's how I know I'm not immortal."

Neo doesn't know what he's talking about, but accepts it as just another of not-Tim's many quirks. He slows down to a more manageable pace, and together they crest the hill just as the setting sun is burning up the horizon, the whole of West Hollywood spread out below them in a blaze of crimson gold.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" not-Tim says, catching his breath.

"It is."

They watch the sunset together. Occasionally, a car passes by behind them on the road, headlights sweeping across their darkening figures as the evening turns to twilight. There's no need for words as they watch night fall, nothing but each other's companionship and the profound understanding that passes between them.

Eventually they head back, nothing but streetlamps guiding their way as they steal down the curving path blanketed by night. There are crickets, and a cold wind that chills Neo as it passes them. For a moment, he's suddenly afraid, walking on this strange quiet road in this strange land full of unknowns in the dark beyond the lights, and he half-wishes for not-Tim to talk again and dispel the shadows all around them. But if he spoke... things might hear, and Neo spends a moment to marvel at the simple fear that for so long in his life had been supplanted by so many greater terrors.

Not-Tim glances over at him to make sure he's all right. Neo moves a little closer. He feels more safe - more sure - with him around, and soon he's right next to him, the two of them walking side by side in the comforting safety of each other's presence.

Conversation starts up again as the first houses and hedges rise up on the road to meet them, homely lights on in the windows that assure Neo of the human lives warm within. If the residents were to look out, they would see them, two figures in the night, actor and character passing through the streets like any two friends or acquaintances might. Not-Tim is talking quietly about birds - the streets here were all named after birds, he says, and suddenly Neo feels a peace greater than that he has ever known. It will be all right, he thinks. No matter what happens, it will be all right.

They reach not-Tim's house and enter. There's Bordeaux wine in the cooler, and he pours Neo a glass (Neo only takes a little), and then they sit at the edge of the infinity pool as stars and streetlights glisten off the surface of the water. Not-Tim's speech turns to effusive poetry as the alcohol takes effect, and Neo listens, leaning back in his chair and thinking - if only it could always be like this, with nothing that matters except this friendship and this place and the blameless sky above. The glass windows behind them reflect them into the house like ghosts, the intangible spirit that he is, his impossible presence in this world.

He helps not-Tim back into this house when he yawns, eyes struggling to stay open as the wine nudges him gently towards sleep. He leans a little unsteadily against Neo's shoulder and lets Neo guide him onto his bed, where he falls amongst the white sheets (" 's almost like tablecloths," he slurs incoherently), and is asleep soon after, snores rising into the air.

Neo leaves and gently shuts the door. He stands a while in the hallway, newly self-conscious with his creator asleep in the room behind him. Yet he still lives; yet he still breathes, even without him, even then.

He pads through the house, clearing away the wine glasses by the pool and turning off lights before heading to his own temporary bed in the moonlit guest room. There's a picture frame hanging on the wall - a minimalist ink painting of a spoon that not-Tim had cheerfully presented to him. There is a spoon, Neo thinks, lying in bed and gazing at it. Illusions are real, sometimes. There can be truth in fiction.

He sleeps.

#

The tabloids are abuzz the next morning.

"IS THIS KEANU'S NEW HOMELESS LOVER???"

#