@boypreachr
He doesn't know how long he's been wandering; it could've been days, it could've been years. It all feels like a dream. All he really knows, dizzy and delirious, is that he has to get out of the French Quarter. He has to get out of New Orleans. There's nothing left for him there. There was never anything good for him there.
He should've done this years ago. He'd been a late bloomer who ran out of time. He'd lived in the same house, in the same neighborhood, in the same city, in the same state since he was three years old, barely venturing out of the safe confines of his parents’ house, his parents’ café, and school.
When he finally made the leap, the club scene ate him alive before he ever really got his footing.
The first step out of the nest had been Lucas. He'd been stupid not to see the danger. It had been so clear that Tran wasn't used to drinking, to partying, that he really wasn't even old enough to be there. He'd been stupid not to see that Lucas wasn't interested despite his naivety- he was interested because of it.
He didn't stay naive for long- two years of a toxic on again off again relationship later, his dad kicked him out of the house and he reached a new low. He went from Lucas, to sleeping on the streets, to Jay.
A week later, he was dead.
Now, he's here, in a dream state, walking across the United States with no particular goal in mind.
But… there's a gas station up ahead. That's a sign. It has to be.
By the time he really feels aware of where he is, pulled out of his daze, he's already found his way to the gas station bathroom. He can feel the cold water he splashes on his face, despite being well aware of the puddle it's leaving on the bathroom floor. It's like he's torn between worlds, here and not here at the same time.
It rinses the tear streaked eyeliner from his cheeks, at least, though he knows it isn't permanent. He tried to clean himself up once already, back at Jay's house, when he first woke up like this. At some point since then, his appearance returned to the one he'd died with. There's still blood on his sweater. Not like it really matters. No one can see him, anyway.
He shoves his way out of the bathroom, letting the door slam behind him. He isn't sure what the next step should be- not until he notices the man behind the counter looking right at him.
