days turned to weeks, which yielded no changes, which concerned him. And when weeks began rolling over into a month, into months without a single new bit of information he began to realize that something had to have gone wrong along the line
In which Soda Bottle finds a page on a certain missing person
wow! angsty gay people that have been sitting in my drafts unfinished for a month! amazing!
(ao3 link in source)
He blinked. Despite the slits of morning sun leaking through the blinds, his eyes struggled at the relative darkness he’d been plunged into, picking out silhouettes before forming more detailed shapes. His counter. His microwave. His chair—
His apartment, just as he’d left it.
He sat with one knee to his chest, his hand half-raised in the air. A radio show blared from his alarm clock yet somehow Airy’s voice still rang in his ears. He’d never hear the rest of his sentence—if there was anything more that he’d said—but he could easily imagine whose name made up the punctuation. An empty chill hung in the air.
He slammed his hand on the snooze. Pointedly, he avoided reading the time; he figured it’d been going off for a while. Traffic cut through the silence, alongside the creaking of his ceiling as someone crossed the room overhead. The bed squeaked as he shifted, breathing deep, stilling himself before he could begin to shake.
He’d gotten out.
San Fransisco crossed his mind about a week later, just as his lunch break began.
Quite frankly he considered it a miracle that he managed to keep his job at all despite his sudden absence. Though, admittedly, he’d been thoroughly chewed out the moment he stepped into the building, and had to needle and push them just about as much as he could to keep him on. The universe had to show him pity at some point, he supposed.
Leaning back against his car, he stared at the cracked screen of his phone.
San Fransisco. The city pinged important in his mind. The bay area...Backpack was from there, wasn’t he? All the way out west, farther out than he’d ever been. Not that he could really afford the trip, anyhow, but he still wondered what it was like. He turned, propping his elbows up on the hood and shivering a bit at the late winter breeze that crossed him. It was probably warmer out there, at least, the city baking in the coastal sun. He opened his browser, if only just to fill the time, hovering idly in a new tab.
...He should’ve gotten back by now, shouldn’t he? For as much of the competition he’d been dragged through himself, he’d only really been gone a week. Plus, he figured, it wasn’t as though Backpack was trying to win. Quite the opposite, actually.
He turned an idea over in his head for several seconds before tapping the search bar.
backpack san fransisco
Several stores and Amazon listings filled the results. There was an outdoors shop four blocks from him, apparently. Figures. He backpedaled.
green backpack san fransisco
The Amazon links were replaced by eBay listings. Everything remained the same otherwise. He tried again.
male green backpack san fransisco
The search results led to male styles specifically. He huffed.
male green backpack san fransisco missing persons
The first few were local news stories, all from Connecticut and all several months old by now. The fourth, a link to the SFPD website, caught his eye.
It was a short article, giving a time and place he’d last been seen, alongside a number to call if anyone saw him. Biking home, it read, just like he’d said. A picture of him, hardly smiling, looked back from the top of the page. His name sat just below it: Liam Plecak .
Liam.
The page still referred to him as missing. He tried to ignore the slight worry that tugged at his chest, scanning the page another minute or two before letting the screen go dark.
Backpack-no, Liam-hadn’t gotten out yet, it seemed. That, or the page hadn’t been updated. It was fine either way, he decided, pulling away from his car.
Not like he’d be stuck there much longer anyway.
He didn’t check it all too often, but he kept the tab open on his phone. Every few days he would spot it, pause, and look to see if anything had changed. He expected, particularly at first, to find something every time he checked, or for the page to be gone altogether. For ‘found’ or ‘solved’ or something along those lines to be thrown in front of the title, at least. Something to prove that Liam had returned home to San Fransisco, that he’d gotten back in one piece. To ease the antsy feeling that crept on him every time he checked the page, shake the last dregs of his voice from his ears and lingering images of him from his mind.
(Sometimes, as he checked Liam’s page, he’d be reminded of Scenty as well. More than once he’d considered looking her up too, just to see if she’d made it back, but he’d find himself with too little info to go off of. She’d never told him where she was from, and while he was sure he could dig something up given the time, he never had enough to commit to it. The lack of knowledge did little to sate him.)
But days turned to weeks, which yielded no changes, which concerned him. And when weeks began rolling over into a month, into months without a single new bit of information he began to realize that something had to have gone wrong along the line. That nobody had reported he’d returned, or nobody realized he’d returned, or, or—
He began checking less often.
He’d really rather not be right.
The first signs of fall began rearing their heads just before the start of September. He spotted a small few trees painted red at their very edges, for one. The sun was already low in the sky by 7, gone behind the buildings much sooner. Not to mention the bright orange displays popping up in corner stores, boasting spider-themed garland and pumpkin-shaped candies in anticipation of Halloween. He rolled his eyes every time he saw one. Somehow they appeared earlier every year.
He was indifferent to the season most years. The weather tended to be pleasant right up until the first dusting of snow in mid-November, bringing with it then the imminent threat of storms and slushy, half-salted roads. Ads for state and county fairs would fill the radio for a few weeks, and he’d imagine ferris wheels stretching far above his head, and the sweet scent of fried dough over endless streams of chatter and laughter. He hadn’t visited one since he was a teen, accompanied then by family and friends. The thought always tangled something deep and quiet in his chest, making him want to give his parents a call.
Sometime in mid-October, when he had some time off work and could dredge up the energy to do it, he’d hop into his car, make sure the tank was full, and drive north along I-95, from one side of the state to the other. Sometimes he’d turn off at random exits, weaving his way through small towns he couldn’t name until he found himself alone on narrow, unpaved roads, all dappled in shade by the trees hanging over them, burning orange and gold and all warm colours. He’d follow the traffic out of instinct, watching the world as it passed in a mess of vibrant hues that dulled his thoughts into an awed whisper, even after all the years he’d seen them, until his car pinged that it was low on gas and he’d scramble to find a station.
He found himself yearning for it, that long drive to nowhere, as he watched dusk reach his peak from where he sat, phone in hand. Truth be told, he was really yearning for the cooler weather that came with it. A heatwave had been pummeling the city all week, drowning it in humidity and sapping it of energy. He’d been off work for a while now, but his apartment was stuffy and just too damn hot to be in, pushing him to a small family restaurant several blocks down, with staff behind the counter that hardly glanced at him when he sat by the window without ordering anything. From there he alternated between people watching and skimming the news, letting his thoughts drift until they reached the speed-blurred sights of golden sunlight on golden leaves.
He always took that drive alone. It was a bit too impromptu most years for him to really invite anyone else, not without throwing a wrench in their schedule. Even if he did plan it out in advance, who would he even invite? He wasn’t really close with many people, hadn’t been in some time. He could invite his folks, maybe, but he doubted they’d really have any interest. Besides, something about inviting them didn’t feel right. Something about the wonder of it all, the role it played in stilling him, if only for a day, it felt too...intimate, for lack of better term. Too personal. Too quiet.
He watched several people walk past the window, deep in muffled conversation. One, a small green vase, burst into laughter as they passed, loud even through the glass.
He still wanted to share that moment with someone though. Someone different.
He thought of teal wax within cool glass. Of green fabric warmed by an endless sun. Green and teal, cool shades against blazing leaves, painted in foreign night-time shadows as stars came to life overhead, talking and laughing and smiling. His heart fluttered, though he’d never admit it.
Two weeks since he last checked, he flicked the missing persons tab open, watching the page slowly reload.
Presumed Dead.
His stomach dropped.
He didn’t take a long drive that October. He avoided I-95 almost all fall until the last brown leaves fell from the trees and the first morning frost hit. It wasn’t really a conscious decision on his part, he’d very nearly gone several times, but the rows of trees and bright-red leaves brought thoughts of broken glass and water-logged fabric, of frightened, shaky hands in his and an awful horror etched on the faces of strangers.
He couldn’t really understand why it bothered him so much, they really were practically strangers. He’d known them for, what, a week? He hadn’t heard news of them in months, let alone seen them. He couldn’t have, no matter how much he wanted to. All things considered, the outcome wasn’t a surprising one given the circumstances, and yet he couldn’t get the phrase out of his head.
Presumed dead. Presumed dead. He’d made it back, but for whatever reason Liam hadn’t shared his luck. He feared that neither of them did. There was nothing he could do about it now, he knew it. He couldn’t pop into The Plain and pull them back like it was nothing. It was out of his hands, no matter how much he wished it wasn’t.
He checked the page one last time, one partly sunny day in December, before closing the tab for good. He didn’t so much as look at his phone for the rest of the day.
Winter felt a little colder than usual when it finally hit the city.
A little bit hollower too.
He blinked. Despite the slits of morning sunlight leaking through the blinds, his sleep-addled eyes spent a moment struggling to take everything in. His counter. His microwave. His chair.
His apartment, the same as it’d ever been.
He rolled awake with a groan, his mattress squeaking in sync, and shut off his alarm clock. The screen blinked up at him, a bright green 8:00 a.m. It’d only just begun to ring. Taking a moment to breathe in deep, he pulled himself to his feet, stretching, before shuffling over to the window and lifting the blinds just enough to peer out. A car or two rolled down the street, adding to the faint birdsong in breaking the morning quiet. A small puddle of water had begun forming on the outside sill, as an icicle melted somewhere above it. Uneven patches of snow littered everything they could. He let them fall back down, uninterested, and set about getting ready for the day.
Breakfast was equally uneventful, nothing but corn flakes and milk. He was reminded, as he was every morning, of how he disliked the minty flavour of toothpaste, and got about halfway through washing his face before—
Rap-tap-tap.
He shut off the sink, staring down his reflection as he listened for it again. Water dripped onto the counter as he waited.
Rap-tap-tap.
Huh. That was new. It wasn’t often that people came knocking on his door, even less so this early in the morning. They knocked again as he stepped out of the bathroom, drying his face.
“Yeah, give me a sec,” he grumbled, just loud enough for them to hear. He couldn’t think of anyone who’d visit him, not unless it was over some bill that he owed. Even still, running over everything in his head, he came up empty. He turned the lock, only somewhat hoping he looked more awake than he was, and swung open the door to the stranger awaiting him.
A scrap of blue paper was clenched in his hands, wide eyes tinged with shock and relief, set against green fabric so familiar it ached.
