Something Sharp

They sat on the rooftop in folding chairs watching the city burn. The fire was over, now it was thick pillars of black smoke holding up the late afternoon sky. Adver was hunched over, his chin on the bridge of his arms, inscrutable. Dorge leaning back, ankles crossed, watching he smoke undulate, smelling the carnage. Somewhere below a car alarm protested twice, three times, then stopped.
"Do you still keep that list of people that didn't come to your dad's wake?" Adver asked, tilting back to Dorge.
"No, good lord," Dorge said.
Then Why is Your Jaw Clenched is what Adver did not say.
Things had not gone the way Dorge thought they would and he felt cheated. When his dad died two months ago, there was supposed to be Dorge out on his knees in the pelting rain and crying into the mute, thunderous heavens, grabbing fistfuls of wet earth. Later there would be a procession that would rival a Roman Emperor's, and probably the United States Air Force would do a flyover, screaming raptors against an eye-hurting blue sky. It was not like that.
Dorge uncrossed his ankles and brushed some of the dust and grit off his thighs, it seemed as if he were getting ready to stand, but then did not.
"All this ruin," Adver sighed.
"Is this where we belong?" Dorge asked, looking at Adver.
A shrug in response, "It's where we are."
"Were we fighting?" Dorge closed his eyes, "I'm glad you're here, either way."
"No. Not this time."
Adver would not ask how long they would be there, did not mention he hadn't eaten since breakfast, did not play with his phone, did not make long whistling sighs, did not bounce his heels. Dorge hoped he could be for Adver what Adver was to him, but knew he fell short on a lot of it.
Below them a building finally tilted far enough to come crumbling down, sending up a fresh gout of sandy gray dust. There was a piano in the heap, the sound of it had opened Dorge's eyes and he stared at it until it was obscured in the miasma of destruction. He remembered something then.
"National Geographic says Nero didn't play a fiddle while Rome burned."
Adver stretched his neck, "So, do you want me to fetch you a fiddle, or something, Caesar?"
Dorge choked on his laughter and tears pinched into his eyes, his throat raw and burning from the smoke and dust, "Yes! Ass. Then if you'll teach me how to play it, too."
"Who the hell says Nero knew how to play?"
Maybe it didn't go the way Nero wanted it, either. Maybe playing the fiddle was all he knew to do. Keep up the music, keep up the dance, keep playing, playing, playing. Maybe he cried after that final note faded away, and the tears tore out and the earth split open beneath him, enough to swallow him into the dark. Maybe there was something sharp down there to open himself with, and let more come out, thick and scabbed and finally wet and warm, underneath, there it is, he would think and rejoice, there it is.