Colton had not seen Philip for a week or so, and after a conversation with Cassie raised some questions, he found himself texting Philip that night. Much to his surprise, the older man was around that evening, and suggested a night out. Whether he was doing it for Colton's sake or his own, Colton didn't much care. He was just glad of the opportunity to see his friend again.
So he arrived on time to the bar Philip had proposed, and waited outside, playing an app he had downloaded earlier that day on his phone. Sometimes he thought about downgrading his phone, getting one that wouldn't need charging so often, but it had been second hand and he didn't use it often enough to run up bills, so it would stay for the moment. Outside it was chilly, but Colton was actually quite pleased - the cold nipping at his skin made him feel energetic and alive, and he was excited for the evening ahead.
Friendly advice. You get too soft, you can't play the game. Against her will, those words echoed through Rosalie's head as she exited the hospital, plucking a cigarette from their cardboard box as soon as her heels hit the asphalt. Leaning against the wall, she lit it and brought the glowing stick to her lips, inhaling and exhaling the smoke rhythmically. In. Out. In. Out. She rested her head against the cool surface, closing her eyes and letting exactly what she was feeling, whatever it was, roll over her like a tidal wave.
When she opened her eyes, it was to discover a familiar face standing close by--one she hadn't counted on seeing. Glancing down at the cigarette in her hands, realising that Philip had probably never seen her smoke before, she hesitated before bringing it to her lips again. "Hey," she greeted, offering him a soft smile. "What brings you here?"
Ugh. Maybe she did have a bleeding heart, after all.
The cruise had been yesterday, and Colton had spent the last 34 hours sat on the floor of his flat with a packed bag by his side and a crushing sense of self-loathing, splitting his time between trying not to cry and staring aimlessly at the blank television screen. On his 35th hour, he thought that maybe he should attempt to stop feeling quite so sorry for himself, and should instead go and apologise to Philip for wasting the tickets. So he took 45 minutes to shower and get dressed so he looked presentable, then found a bottle of red wine in the back of his cupboard and tied a ribbon around it, deciding that it would do nicely as an 'I'm sorry' gift. Not even thinking about whether or not Philip would even be available, he found the address in his phone notes and managed to grab a taxi. About twenty minutes later, he was rubbing his palms nervously together, not only out or worry but it was fucking freezing in the evenings these days, and he hadn't worn his warmest coat. Colton knocked on the door and waited, only then considering that Philip might not be in, or might not want to see him.
Summary: She fastens her seatbelt and tells herself that this is not running.
Mentions: Flynn Reynolds, Philip Gregory
"You want to be regular people? Hm? Do you? Well, go ahead, go on. Go do that. They’re crying out for foot soldiers down there. Go and have your life run by bosses, bank managers, and politicians. But if you want to be a grifter…
Don’t have anything in your life you can’t walk away from in a second.”
You store away your carry-on and tell yourself that this is not running.
One piece of luggage. That is all you bring with you on the flight to nowhere in particular. Your entire life and person, distilled into a hand carry; reduced to only the bare essentials and nothing more. No reminders. No mementos. No sentimental little trinkets to bring back fond memories of a time and a place that you are determined to leave behind.
Except the two bracelets you’re wearing. One on each wrist.
On the left, a simple, delicate gold chain—it has little to no monetary value, but it is an enduring symbol of the eight years that you have considered Flynn Reynolds to be your one and true family. A symbol of all the years to come that you will continue to consider him the single most important person in your life. No matter how much time passes, no matter how many miles you put between yourself and him, or how many years you go without speaking. He is your brother. Your best friend. Your other half. Yes, there is the distinct possibility that somebody else out there might be the love of your life, but Flynn? He is your soul mate.
(You trace the loops on the symbol in the centre. Infinity. Forever. That’s apropos.)
You chide yourself for doing this to him again, before you even have a chance to properly make up for doing it to him the first time. Then you chide yourself for using him to romanticise a past that wasn’t as perfect or as emotionally healthy as you like to believe that it was.
Still, rose-tinted fantasies about your late teens aside, you can’t even bring yourself to contemplate the brand new, silver bracelet currently sitting snugly against your right wrist. Because if there’s one thing that’s worse than thinking about all the things that you once had?
It’s thinking about all the things that could have been.
You fasten your seatbelt and tell yourself that this is not running.
You got an apartment. You furnished it. You made friends, real friends who accepted your real identity—who knew the real you. Against all better judgement, you put down roots in this town, with these people, that you are now forced to rip from the ground. It’s as painful as it sounds.
But you already knew the day was coming, didn’t you? You’ve always known that staying in any one given place for too long is unfeasible. Not impossible, per se—but unfeasible. Because you are a con artist, and con artists live on borrowed time. You either get arrested, get killed, or… Keep disappearing.
You hate the thought of jail. You’re not too fond of the idea of dying, either.
So, disappearing it is.
You put on your earphones, turn up the volume, and tell yourself that this is not running.
You switch your music to shuffle mode and immediately regret that decision. Not that you’ve ever been one to put much stock in fate, or in the significance of song lyrics; but as the opening riff to that one Jason Walker song that you really like starts playing in your ears, you wonder if maybe the universe is playing you the world’s cruelest prank.
After the silence, after the last words, caught in the silence, caught in between… After the madness, after the slow shock, before the wave hits, the flood comes rushing in…
You close your eyes. You will yourself to change the track but for some reason you can’t. You think about a man with soft lips and piercing blue eyes, and suddenly the urge to put your head through the seat in front of you grows much, much stronger.
You take one moment to be grateful that are you still above crying in public.
This is the bad before the worse, this is the storm before the storm, and I haven’t even hit the bottom of this ocean floor… This is the bend before the break, this is the mercy, not the grace, this is the proof and not the faith I try to find…
It’s a joke, right? It has to be. You have been through close encounters with law enforcement, near misses with gunfire, the corruption and consequent dismantling of your childhood memories, life-changing issues with your own morality, even watching people you care deeply about come in and out of hospitals and having to bitterly accept the fact that you do, indeed, have emotions. None of those things have broken you—they have changed you, they have pushed you to your very limits. But they have not broken you. And yet somehow this does.
Your heart is actually broken.
How is that rational?
(It isn’t. Love isn’t rational. But this is not love, so that argument is invalid, anyway.)
You let the song run its course. Then you listen to it again.
Completely irrationally.
There shouldn’t be a good in goodbye.
You stare at your reflection in the window and tell yourself that this is not running.
It’s surviving.
(Please. This is running. You are running from him and you know it.)
Colton was excited - he hadn't been to a concert in some time, after all. And when was the last time he hung out with somebody who was a potential new friend? This was going to be a good night, with any luck. So, he got to the venue at the time he'd been told, and hung around the door for a minute or so whilst he dug his phone out of his bag and found Philip's number.
