It wasn’t the first time he’d been in the Richards’ household, but it was certainly the longest he’d stayed. Their families being friends didn’t mean that he and Eleanor had enjoyed each other’s company; he’d always tried to leave as quickly as he could, lest he be tainted by her geekiness and lack of what he perceived as popularity. Everything about his current situation sucked, as far as Rowan was concerned. When the announcement that the remaining citizens of Coldridge were to share homes to conserve electricity and water supply, Rowan had flat-out refused to go along with it. The black eye he’d gotten as a result of punching Dakota at the party still hadn’t healed up, and now there were matching smaller bruises on his arms from the Guard persuading him to leave his home and head to the Richards’. Since then, he’d had nothing but time to think. Even though he’d been popular at school, he had always known deep down that it wasn’t necessarily because people liked him. Back then it was more likely that they’d feared him -- what he said went, and if he thought someone was annoying or unattractive, he had no qualms about saying so and essentially isolating them from from half the kids in the place. He’d gotten using to being king. Getting a modeling contract halfway through his first year of college had only affirmed what he already know: that he was better than just about everyone else.
That worldview had rapidly begun to crash down when he’d returned to his hometown for a visit and found himself unable to leave. Sitting cross-legged in the Richards’ backyard with a cigarette in hand and smoke billowing about his face felt like the lowest he’d ever been; Rowan had always had everything, and now it felt like he had nothing. As vapid as his modeling work seemed, he’d worked hard, and now none of it mattered. Being prom king all those years ago didn’t matter. It was hard to say that Rowan actually missed his family because it wasn’t exactly true -- he’d never really liked other people, but rather, he liked what they gave him. His parents provided an upper-class lifestyle and the ability and means to do just about whatever he wanted, still receiving continuous praise for his achievements. In that same vein, he hadn’t truly had friends in LA; he had associates and plenty of them, but it would be a lie to say that he actually enjoyed their company. Coldridge was even worse. The closest thing he had to a friend there was Jessica, and though they’d run in the same circles in school and had been decent to one another since they’d come back, it wasn’t like he actively liked her. He couldn’t think of anyone he actually genuinely liked.
What was the point of anything, then?
Rowan let out an irked sigh and turned his gaze skywards, trying to decipher what his own thoughts meant. There was nothing in Coldridge for him, and it seemed like most of the people left stuck there with him disliked everything about him. He maintained that a lot of them were likely jealous of his success; even the ones who treated him with respect or admiration didn’t exactly pull his favor. What was the point of staying there when he had nothing? Rowan attempted to search his memories for moments in his life when he’d actually thought himself to be happy; most of them centered around his work, getting to see his face on front covers, being granted access to prestigious events, and honestly, getting to hook up with model girls was pretty gratifying. None of that existed any more, and before that, the only things he could think of were related to the girls he’d broken up with during his time in high school and college. Most people might have been reluctant to end relationships, but Rowan had found it rather amusing, and more than anything, making them cry and shout at him had made him feel powerful. He’d been able to evoke the strongest and most damaging emotions in them. How could he think of himself as equal to them when he could affect them so? Nobody had ever been able to do that to him.
His mind wandered through these deductions as he smoked, twirling his lighter in his free hand. He had no power any more. People his own age -- and even fucking younger than him -- apparently got to decide where he slept, what he ate, and what he did with his time. Just thinking about it filled him with annoyance and something close to anger. Flicking the lighter in his hand a little too aggressively caused him to drop the object, which landed on a couple of dry leaves on the ground; Rowan stepped on them instinctively to quash the thin wisp of smoke that rose from them, and as he did so, something terrible occurred to him. He wanted his power back, Coldridge be damned, and without planning to do so, he stood up and started to walk. It wasn’t like anyone would notice his not being there, after all.
His journey through the town resulted in more of the same. He saw plenty of other people but spoke to none of them, and none of them went out of their way to say anything to him. It felt like no time at all had passed before he reached the outskirts of town, eyes sweeping over the woods that encircled the place. Rowan had always hated them. Cities, he liked, and boats he liked even more. There was freedom associated with both of them and small towns felt like prisons. As far as he knew, he was completely alone, not another soul within a mile radius.
It hadn’t rained in days. Stooping to pick up a handful of leaves, Rowan crushed them in his hand until they crumbled, dried out and dead. Not enough.
A fallen branch caught his attention, and he reached for it without hesitation. A mere few months ago he would have freaked out at the idea of touching something so dirty, but now he continued to feel nothing even as he stood up straight with the stick between his palm and his fingers. Rowan fumbled in his pocket for his lighter and lit the end of the branch furthest away from himself, watching with fascination as it caught quickly, flames licking the bark and spreading quickly to the smaller twigs that branched out along its length. For a moment, Rowan simply held the burning branch, looking on as it lit up; realizing that the flames were creeping closer to his hand caused him to let go of it, throwing it to the ground with more force than necessary. There it fell into a heap of dried leaves. Perfect tinder and he hadn’t even planned it. The fire spread quickly to the leaves and to another few twigs on the ground, rapidly growing in size; if Rowan had a mirror, he might have been intrigued by the way the fire reflected in his eyes, but the only thing on his mind was that this was the happiest he’d felt in weeks. Nobody was close enough to see the fire, but as it slowly began to increase in size, so did the smoke rising from it until it was high enough that it may have been visible from a distance. Watching the wood and leaves curl up as they burned away sent a thrill running through him that felt just like the power he’d missed so badly. A small smile tugged his lips upward as he looked on, lingering until it occurred to him that someone would likely find him there if the fire continued to grow, and he didn’t want to deal with punishment and having anything else taken away from him. Turning around, Rowan started to walk back a different route he’d taken on his way there, looking back only to smile when he saw flickers of orange between the trees.
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