aauuh ill finish this tomorrow probably but like. here. a one fic wip cause i really wanna post it
Connecticut winters weren’t known for being the kindest. Sure, they weren’t the worst New England had to offer, as far as he knew they couldn’t hold a candle to New Hampshire or Maine, but the air still bit straight through him, wind bellowing, rushing like an onslaught of dogs. Come November and he was already digging out his coat.
Stepping out of his car, Soda Bottle found this year to be no exception, the late hour exacerbating the dry chill. He pulled his coat tighter around him, breath billowing before his eyes and hiding the near-midnight sky, twinkling with clear icy stars, behind a momentary foggy sheen. Warm humming lights lit him. He squinted at the gas prices over the pump. $3.40. He rolled his eyes, turning to the rest stop behind him.
Truth be told, he really didn’t want to be out on the road right now, late hour aside. Were it up to him, he would’ve spent the past two days curled up in bed catching up on sleep, or watching movies on his phone, or even just staring at his ceiling, watching over the hours as the lights through the windows stretched and fell back. But his family would’ve killed him had he not come up for the holiday, or at the very least would’ve dragged him up themselves. So, despite the fact that he really hadn’t celebrated it for years, he’d dragged himself to his parents house for the two day celebration, seeing relatives he’d otherwise go years without hearing from. Aunts and uncles and cousins prattling on and on over cheap wine and plates of lasagna, nieces and nephews running underfoot by the dozens, catching each other up on their new jobs or engagements or achievements he couldn’t match. He always preferred listening to them rather than sharing news of his own, but even still, on the evening of the 24th, one of his aunts turned to him, an older retired woman well into her 60s, nearly 70s.
“What about you?” she’d asked him. One of the kids trotted into the den, right in between them, plucking a plastic brick from the floor. The tv behind her was muted. One of his elder cousins leaned over the back of the sofa she sat on, looking across to him. Both watching him.
“What have you been up to?”
“Yeah, finally meet anyone?”
He’d thought of the endless sun. Of green, and teal, and the feeling of really, truly, missing his family for once. He’d thought of the chance he didn’t regret passing up. He’d thought of the chances he did.
“No,” he’d replied, shrugging “Just more of the same.”
Now, after many goodbyes, he was driving home, feeling some way about it. Or, more accurately, was getting gas for his near-empty car at the only rest stop for miles, feeling some way about it. The convenience store was empty, stepping in. The cashier scrolled through their phone.
Outside it only seemed to grow colder.
The sign seemed like a beacon, yellow and red and glowing blue, shooting out against the night. After following the highway for hours—which one, exactly, he wasn’t sure any more—Liam could’ve cried at the sight of it. He very much would’ve, had he the energy. It was so close too. It wasn’t one of those massive signs that towered over the trees, visible for miles but not at all near, no, it was smaller, dimmer. He could see the station itself, and its little shop, windows glowing warm. His legs shook as he approached.
He’d been walking for...a while. Days. Weeks. Well over a month, he knew, though the exact time frame was lost on him, mind hazy. The east coast was wildly different than the west, more so than he’d anticipated. He began to really take in the weather differences around Ohio, or maybe Pennsylvania, or maybe New York, and at first he figured it would be easy enough to handle. Things were more clustered together out east, if maps were to be believed. He’d tried to stick to more populated areas, particularly at night, so at the very least he’d have somewhere he could drop into once the cold became too much. But eventually he found himself facing long stretches of highway, or got turned around and wound up in small towns, spaced widely out with no places to stay, and would drag himself through wind and frosty grass in search of lights that didn’t come from cars, wishing he had the money for a bus or a train ticket, or had learned to drive while he’d still had the chance. He considered hitchhiking, had even tried it after getting lost somewhere around Iowa, but the results had been less than stellar. The roads being nearly empty hardly helped, but even still everyone just drove on past him. After about a week he gave up trying.
His breath rattled in his chest as he approached the parking lot, only in part from the effort. He began noticing it a couple days ago, coupled with an annoying achiness that settled in his limbs and made his mind a little blurry, enough to get him turned around more than once. He’d started coughing yesterday, and sometime that afternoon his head began to ache too, growing more and more incessant by the hour. Deep down he knew that wasn’t good, that catching something while running on empty was a dangerous combination. He knew that his luck was running out, but he didn’t really bother acknowledging it. Instead he leaned against the building, stone cold against his palms, pausing to catch his breath. Another moment or two, and he slid to the ground.
God he was tired. Exhausted, really. But tired worked too. He was too worn out to care.
Slowly, deliberately, to work around the stiff cold in his fingers, he fumbled for his inner pocket, pulling out what he had: a handful of coins, he counted out quickly and carefully, totaling about a dollar seventy, give or take. The small blue cap of a water bottle he’d lost yesterday, likely blown away by the wind once it’d gone empty. He pulled out the papers last. They’d been thoroughly crinkled by now, the left side of the SF paper torn, the right corner of the address paper stained. He’d memorized it weeks ago, but read it anyway.
Over and over it repeated in his head, like a strange melody. 5628. 130A. Bridgeport, Bridgeport, Bridgeport. Was he even close? He had to be. He had to be by now. He already passed through New York, he knew he was in Connecticut, but where? The north? The south? He couldn’t remember what town he’d come from, and didn’t know what town he was in. The parking lot was empty, pumps all free, the sign overhead listing only prices, $3.40 for a gallon of regular. A few cars peeled down the highway. Where were they going, late at night in the middle of December? Home? To visit friends? To visit family?
He pulled his knees in close, coughing roughly into the crook of his arm. His thoughts grew cloudy. He felt indistinct. He hardly registered the wall against his back.
What he wouldn’t give to visit family.
