Songfic because why not. Believe it or not, this has been sitting on my hard drive for well over a year. I can't seem to finish it, though. It was supposed to just be an average ordinary songshot, or songalong, as I like to call them, but the smut defeats me. I'm hoping by posting it in drabble-y sections, you guys will give me the motivation I need to finish it.

The song is called "Cape Town" by The Young Veins. I love Ryan Ross.

What does one normally think of when one hears the word vacation? I don't mean like, summer vacation, or a couple of days off from work. I'm talking about a trip of at least moderate travel, the kind that usually requires lots of travel or planning in advance, unless you're the spontaneous type. The kind that are really fun while you're doing them, but then leave you exhausted when you come home because you aren't used to so much walking around.

I supposed most people would first think of their dream vacation, to a far off tropical place, like Hawaii or the Bahamas or Italy. Then lots of people probably think about places they've been before. Maybe they think about sunny beaches littered with those crappy tourist kiosks, or maybe they think of mountain climbing or long road trips. If you're the meticulous or the anxious sort, perhaps you cannot think anything past the trouble you're sure to run into at the airport. In contrast to that, a more free spirited person might think of camping, about getting away to the great outdoors.

As a very average and boring human being, I used to think about all of those things too, until I went to Cape Town, South Africa.

Most people probably also think of family when you think vacation, right? Family, or friends at least. Big groups of people to enjoy the trip with, whether it's spent it with kids, a best friend, or a lover even. After all, where's the fun in going to indescribable, exotic places of not to share it with the people you love?

In my case, such deductions are wrong. I went to Cape Town, South Africa, alone. I went to Cape Town, South Africa so that I could escape the company of my friends and family and the people I loved. They didn't even know where I went. I just decided to get up on a sunny Friday, pack my bags, and leave my roommate a very vague note on the kitchen table. I hustled my airline ticket at a random bar playing pool, and then I was on my way to a country I'd never been to. Good thing I got my passport renewed last month.

I'd been in town for four days when I started to think about when I might want to leave. I hadn't then decided how long I planned on staying. My mother was incomparably successful; she probably hadn't even noticed the considerable dent I'd put in her credit balance with the "emergency" credit card she'd entrusted me with. I booked the nicest hotel with the best view I could find, and I'd been eating at the most expensive places in town.

I could see what drew people. While the tourist-y areas were as full as any beach town with visitors, the cape was also full of culture, and economy. The way the people traded, ran their businesses, and really just lived out their lives was new and fascinating to me. A cacophony of accents and languages filled the air as travelers passing through and sellers on the street bartered for goods and shared stories with one another. The first few days had me captivated, and for a while, even, it helped me to forget.

But such fancies were short-lived. After a few days it started getting depressing. I wasn't getting tired of the people, rather I hated that I had nobody to share my revelations with. Don't get me wrong, the solemnity from my family was great, but it also tugged at my heartstrings, just a little, to see all of the happy couples everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Bars, beaches, restaurants, clubs, park benches, everywhere. The majority of the tourists there, after all, were either young families or honeymooners.

Then, out of nowhere, along came the red.

While I was meandering along, contemplating when to go home, I happened across a little outdoor Tiki bar. You know, the kind that advertise exoticness and only offered tropical fruity drinks. I can't say that I was a fan of them, but my feet were starting to hurt and it was a bit of a walk back to my hotel. I'd been sitting down maybe thirty seconds before I heard someone clearing their throat in front of me.

I lifted my head to meet a pair of curious, almond-shaped eyes of bottle green. Expanding my gaze a bit, I found myself face to face with the bartender. He was a prime example of the mixed culture Cape Town had to offer. He had this crazy red hair tied back in a low ponytail, and this long, gangling body that gave the impression of a bunch of pipe cleaners wound together. He was attractive.

Like, really attractive.

"What can I get you, cutie?" He asked in plain English.

Despite his lack of native appearance, he had the slightest hint of an accent. The kind that a person got when they grew up speaking two languages but spoke mostly the other. It was hot.

"Surprise me," I said indifferently. I was really only there because I felt like killing some time before night time television would come on, and I could go back to my room and watch it, all night. The sun was beginning to turn orange, so I knew I wouldn't have to wait long.

He continued to talk to me as he set to work.

"Are you here alone?" he asked as he shook something in a decorated container, offering me a cordial smile, "I don't usually see that."

"Yeah, I'm alone," I told this complete stranger, not knowing or caring what I was getting myself into by saying so. "I'm here to get away."

"From who? If you don't mind my asking…"

I sighed. It wouldn't hurt to tell him. Not anymore.

"From my dead wife."

The man's face paled as he set some electric blue drink in a fishbowl down at the counter. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"Everybody says that," I snapped, "My family, her family, even people at work. It's been five damn years and they're still treating me like a basket case. I wanna move on, you know?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. I probably was crazy. But hey, in my head, it was a hell of a lot better of an expression than pity, and for that I respected him. I was so sick of people looking at me like an abandoned pack of baby squirrels, or in even worse cases, avoiding eye contact at all. It was like they were afraid to set me off just by looking me in the eye. I mean, come on, I know the difference between staring and seeing. Five years might not seem like a long time when you look at the big picture, but after just experiencing it? It's a long ass time. Long enough, apparently, for me to get over becoming a widow at twenty years old.

It was true, my wife was dead. Some creep cornered her behind this gas station. First he told her to give up the wallet, naturally, and of course, like anyone would she gave it to him without a fuss. But then he pulled a gun on her. Told her that if he couldn't have her way with him he'd shoot her. She told him she'd take the gun. She went down fighting, because that's the kind of woman she was. I know this, because she told me from her own mouth, as I sat back waiting for the internal bleeding to claim her life. What do you say to somebody, knowing that they might only have minutes left?

No matter what, my thoughts always ended up returning to the gas station. Why that night? That gas station? It was a mile down the road from our house, we used it at least twice a week. How many times had he hung around there, trying to muster up the balls to mug somebody? What was it about my Naminé that empowered him? She was wearing my jeans and a trenchcoat, for fuck's sake.

I was snapped out of my daze when the guy finally came up with a reply.

"I can understand that," he said softly.

Well, thank god somebody could. I just don't understand why I have to travel halfway around the world to find him. Isn't that what my friends were supposed to be for? He didn't avoid my gaze, or look down like he was embarrassed to have accidentally touched a sore subject. I guess working in a bar trained you to handle all kinds of situations like these.

"Thanks…" I said lamely, testing the drink he gave me. It was good.

That was the first encounter I had with the mysterious redhead bartender.