Sometimes, when the night was still and quiet and even the moon seemed to drown in the sea, Tyler Whittaker could see why the world had once been flat.

He had taken the job for the pay, at first, and because it did not interrupt the tenous control he'd had over his school schedule. Cleaning the windows of Los Angelos's wealthy elite at night had seemed a blissful haven to bar tending or construction work or the other, seedier occupations that awaited desperate students. He'd had a partner that first week, a taciturn older woman who'd introduced herself as 'Do your fucking job' and had shown him the bare minimum before leaving him to his own devices.

Which, in the end, suited Ty just fine. It wasn't as though he w as hanging, suspended on only a long steel beam hundreds of feet alone at night with only a safety harness and a walkie between him and absolute peril. Who needed more than basic instruction in the face of those odds. He'd trained himself not to look down that first week, until a mistaken glance had proven that the gloom of night concealed just how far a plunge it was.

Which was fine-- his imagination could fill in the rest.

But in the end he'd never been afraid of heights, not really, and the work was interesting. He had three buildings on his 'beat', all towering apartment complexes that soared into the night sky and built the city's skyline. He could get all three of them knocked out in eight hours,if he was diligent, twelve in a pinch. Sometimes if he got done fast enough he would linger on his platform, legs swinging into open air, cigarette a pinprick of light against dull windows, and look his fill into the dark city. He had come to the city five years earlier, to pursue a degree that had in the end eluded him, and the night sky had been a constant companion during hours of cleaning darkened windows.

Which meant, of course, that on nights when those windows were lit he took notice. Especially when they were light in the Oasis-- a place nice enough to merit it's own parking garage, security, and doorman attentive enough to know even the window washer's name. Which was cool, and Chuck was a pretty nice guy, but the amenities lead mostly to the simple fact that the penthouses were often empty. Which made sense, as even imagining the price made his budget weep. He'd never seen even the inside of one, lights never lit to offer a crystal clear view of a no doubt plush interior. But as his cart sang against it's wires on the low rise up, Ty was surprised to find the view that awaited him.

Windows that were light with a pale golden light, illuminating a large and comfortable looking interior. It was fascinating, in so much as he had always wondered what the inside of one of these places looked like. And then, as his eyes trailed over it, it became less so. Because in that room, with it's warm lights and comfortable spaces, was a person. An inhabitant. A client, of the rare and terrifying individuals who were not suppossed to see the window washers at night, because they were a nuisance. The kind who could make a single phone call and cost him his job.

Cursing under his breath and Ty knelt to the grated floor of the lift, scrambling in the large canvas bag he carried for a couple of the heavy poster boards he always carried. In his blocky script he'd written out- in his first week when he hadn't realised how predictable people were- a simple message, and it was that message he pressed against the window then.

'HELLO MY NAME IS TY WITH VERTICAL SERVICES. IS THIS A BAD TIME TO SERVICE YOUR WINDOWS?'

Mitchell had forgotten just how much of a pain moving could be.

Sure, most people nowadays didn't have much trouble with it - a combination of competitive moving companies and condominium staff eager to please generally made the process pretty easy if you could pay for it - but due to certain... scheduling issues, Mitchell ended up doing most of the actual moving himself.

It certainly hadn't been his first time, and it wouldn't be his last, but it never ceased to amaze him just how much stuff he managed to accumulate. It used to amaze him that a person's entire life could be packed away in boxes - the novelty had since worn off, and what once had been an interesting chance to catalogue his worldly possessions had become an enormous chore.

But at last, the task was done: the last box unpacked, the last paperwork signed, and probably the last time speaking to the daytime lobby staff. Mitchell was relieved to rid himself of the insufferable clutter that moving can bring, and was happy to finally settle down in his new armchair and read. Tonight's selection was, "The Picture of Dorian Gray".

Poring through the familiar words of Oscar Wilde, the stresses of moving began to melt away. The book had been with him for ages, its pages yellowed with age, edges curled from years of use. It was an antique - a copy from the first batch ever printed - and though Wilde could drone on, the story between the ramblings had always spoken to Mitchell. Many times he'd envied the life which Dorian led at first: eternal youth and beauty, and nothing but a covered canvas to hold him accountable for the gruesome deeds forever recorded on its face. He sighed; if only guilt were so easy to hide.

A faint squeal took him out of his reverie; a soft tap on his window made him look up. There, outside his twenty-sixth story window, was a man. A young, muscular man, clad in a safety harness and pressing a board to the outside of the window.

'HELLO MY NAME IS TY FROM VERTICAL SERVICES. IS THIS A BAD TIME TO SERVICE YOUR WINDOWS?'

Mitchell cocked an eyebrow. Never before had he actually seen a window washer, for every other home he'd lived in had either been a private estate or had daytime washers.

He glanced at his watch - 3:15am. Looking back to the window washer, Mitchell noticed that he looked pained. No, not pained... worried maybe? Placing his book on the end table beside him, Mitchell did his best to put on a reassuring face and waved his hand in a "carry on" motion.

It wasn't the first time Ty's had an audience. A few months prior he'd traded shifts with a day worked, and spent an amusing shift teasing dogs behind the glass and being vaguely entertained by the people below him. A few always stopped, mostly the out of town tourists, to gape of cringe or snap pictures of the death defying employees. It was part of the job, and the idea didn't really bug him.

But this was the first time he'd encountered anyone at night. It was a small comfort that the man seemed as surprised to see him as Ty was himself, though after a moment they had both recovered. The wave and nod combination made his welcome clear enough though- which was great because he hated having to skip windows- and Ty dropped his board with a cheerful mock salute before grabbing the abandoned equipment.

Most people preferred the hand held sprayer for the actual cleaning part, but it was bulky and needed frequent refilling. Ty had always preferred the bucket-and-sponge approach. It was almost silent in the almost silent night, and he found that he can go faster and cover more ground with his own system. The windows were soaped and scrubbed in short order, his steps light and fast along the boom as he covered all three of the large glass panes. The squeegee was next, sending water flying off into the darkness below in controlled, even strokes.

Practice and muscle memory had him finishing the task in only a handful of minutes, and when they were clean to his satisfaction- and he found the man still sitting there- Ty fumbled for his board again. It was....weird to think that he'd watched the whole time, particularly as he was...well, gorgeous and Ty himself was wearing cover-alls and a ratty red t-shirt. But he was a professional, and more importantly in a job where clothes were often the first casualty, so he did his best to push it from his mind.

The marker glided easily over the board again, and it was held up to the glass with a new message.

'THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE. HAVE A GOOD EVENING AND ENJOY THE VIEW.

Mitchell couldn't help but smirk as the window washer saluted and took to his work. For a moment, he watched the suds slide down his window with a mite of the childlike joy that comes with seeing something from an uncommon point of view, but soon enough he caught his gaze wandering to the washer instead of the window.

This man, Tyler, looked like he should have been in a fireman's calendar, not on a swinging beam twenty-six stories above street level at 3 o'clock in the morning. He had a certain rugged look to him that Mitchell didn't often see in his circles. He couldn't help but wonder why this one hadn't taken up bar tending - the tips he would get would double his wage. Mitchell shrugged as he returned to his book. Maybe this job paid better.

As the washer did his work, Mitchell found it harder and harder to keep his eyes on the page. He found himself reading the same line over and over as he tried to catch a glimpse in his periphery; Yeah, he thought critically, this is way less invasive and creepy than actually looking at him.

Embarrassed and annoyed with himself, Mitchell got up and busied himself with the coffee maker in his kitchen, open to the rest of the room and still very much in sight of the window. How ridiculous he was being, he thought, acting like a nervous preteen at his first boy-girl dance. This man was a professional and probably couldn't care less who saw him work or what they did while he was there. And yet, even as he scolded himself, he went about pushing buttons on a coffee machine he'd never used before in his life.

The few minutes it took for Tyler to get the window spotless felt like an hour, and Mitchell was feeling rather annoyed at himself for acting so childish. For his penance, he took a sheet of paper and a marker from a drawer in the kitchen, scrawled something in cursive, and pressed it to the window, tapping lightly to catch Tyler's attention.



Mitchell watched the beam rise as Tyler left, before going back to the kitchen and dumping his first pot of coffee down the sink.

Was that calligraphy?

It took Ty a few seconds to read the elegant script, but he was impressed despite it. His own handwriting was a mishmash of d'nealian and block letters, legible but hardly something to get excited about. But the man's own script reminded him of the handwritten envelopes he used to get from his grandmother on holidays-- not spindly, but neat.

A glance up, though, found something of more interest. The man had busied himself initially at the coffee maker (which awarded a decent view), but more than once during the actual work he thought he'd seen the man's eyes constantly move to him, and then away. Shyness, perhaps, and the window washer could sympathize. He struggled to make friends with his shift, and that was with an outgoing personality. Mix in someone who was introverted or reserved- as so many night owns tended to be- and that task became six times harder.

Offering the man a quick smile Ty stepped back from the glass as much as he could, writing out a quick message and then activating the slow motors on the beam.

'No problem, you as well.'
****************

It was a long series of days between shifts that week, and not the least because Ty was actively looking forward to working. The logical part of his brain- which had steered him fairly well through most of is cravings and desires- was screaming at him not to hold out too much hope that the tenant from the Oasis would be there again. It was no doubt a random encounter, the man being up later than normal, and nothing coming of it.

But...well, it was rare for him to get out much anymore, with his hours, and there'd been no way for him not to notice that the man was attractive. Nervous, sure, but they couldn't really talk. Ty had more or less given up on dating, but there was nothing wrong with passing notes and generally admiring an attractive guy a few nights a week.

And God, when had his life gotten so empty?

But he still tried not to get his hopes up as the bar made it's way up the side of the Oasis, working along the veritable crystal palace worth of glass that needed to be cleaned.

Mitchell stared into the dark glass of his window - there wasn't a mirror in the joint - scrutinizing every detail of his face: the darkening circles under his eyes, the dull hair hanging over his brow, the gaunt look he was starting to acquire. Still, it was nothing new - though he knew he'd have to do something about it soon. By the way he judged it, he only had a few days at best before his condition would start to become... Unmanageable.

New cities were always a bitch for that.

Sighing, Mitchell fetched his laptop and set himself up at the large desk against the window in the middle of the open-concept dining room. Sinking back into his leather desk chair, he pulled out a notepad and started half-assedly checking his stocks, recording new share values on the pad to later be drafted into his ledger.

Minutes passed and turned into hours as Mitchell tried desperately to find something, anything to occupy himself with. He checked stocks, he read news, he dusted and cleaned his cat's dishes (again), but nothing could keep his mind off his cravings for very long. Get a hold of yourself, he scolded himself, you've had more than enough time to learn how to deal with this, tonight should be no different.

It really was strange, normally he had perfectly fine control over himself this many days out, what had changed now? He would chalk it up to the stress of the move, but he couldn't convince himself of that. What, then, was driving him so crazy?

A high-pitched squeal from outside his window caught his attention, and he turned with unsettling speed toward the source of the noise. The culprit, a steel wire shining in the light from his kitchen, stirred something odd inside him. It was the wire to the window washer's cart, and he found himself hoping he'd see the same face as the first time.

He gave himself only a moment to hope before scolding himself for his foolishness. Not only was it ridiculous to pine after a man he'd seen exactly one time through his window, but he'd resolved to give up on dating long ago.

And yet, just before the cart reached his window, Mitchell made sure to arrange himself at his desk in such a way that he could discreetly check the window while still looking busy.