Here's the thing: Gray hopped onto that boat, the one that was responsible for bringing all of those annoying tourists from the Sunshine Islands back home, hoping they'd all be travelling to some bright and warm destination... but no. Despite them being called the fucking Sunny Islands, it was still goddamn freezing.
What the shit?
He genuinely stayed for a solid 45 minutes, tops. It mainly consisted of him grumbling to himself along the beach's shoreline, but he saw that another boat had arrived to dock itself by the pier, with animal dealers and transporters galore. He hitched a ride with it to the nearest city: Wilmington, Delaware.
And this version of "downtown" just felt like an oxymoron, like it was some town trying to be disguised as a city. It was rural as hell, lacking the thousands of skyscrapers that used to litter themselves around Chicago. Lacking the overall coolness of Chicago, too, but anyway.
Here's the real kicker though: parts of it were still packed. There were people everywhere he looked, like a reverse-plague or something. Was he just totally not mentally or physically present in his sophomore geography class? Wasn't Delaware like, one of the least populated states? Next to Wyoming and shit? Maybe it was because the place was so small, so people were like, jammed in like puzzle pieces that didn't fit? But Jesus Christ, he wanted the convenience of a city, with the peace and quiet to accompany it. He wanted to be alone.
'Cause, that's the ultimate goal, eh? To be alone, truly alone, to do whatever the hell he wants, where no one can bother him, where he isn't able to keep disappointing anyone, right?
To get fucking lost.
He decides that he'll just stay until after New Year's, because it's not like he's got some other plans to work around anyway. He's in Wilmington for roughly three weeks, dividing his time between a shitty bed and breakfast that he's surely not welcomed back at ever again, and a liquor store where he's regarded with open arms as their best customer in awhile. He drags his bottles of liquor into his semi-secluded room in the b&b, listening to the chatter of others through its paper thin walls as he catatonically drinks his days away.
Sometimes he blacks out, other times he's stuck in a state of numbed exhaustion. He tells himself it's good, even though it kind of stops feeling good after awhile.
For some brilliant reason, Gray chooses to not drink in depressed seclusion anymore on his last night there. He wants to be alone, yet the genius that he is fucking goes out for drinks. It's because he went to the liquor store too late; they were closed, and he still wanted needed to get fried. He must have begun his black out at the beginning of the night though, because he awakens the next morning on a cot in a little clinic, the back of his head pulsating with each shallowed breath that he takes. There's a silver tray right beside him with thirteen miniature staples piled in the middle, dried blood clinging to their silver material.
His first thought is that he had a rough accident with a stapler. He's a genius, remember? That happened once when he was in the second grade—he'd somehow managed to lodge them into his arm when fooling around with it.
He checks his arm under the scratchy blanket that's doing next to nothing to keep him warm, staring back in shock at the beginning of a tattoo sleeve on his bicep, poking out from under his t-shirt. He lifts the short sleeve, tilting his head so that he can stare back at the inked-out image of Hercules fighting off Hydra, the God's hands wrapped around the serpents' thick body. He pokes it, and it's tender to the touch.
Jesus, the shit's real.
He blinks because he can't believe it. He's wanted this one, along with a couple of others for a long time... but this is what he does when he's fucked out of his mind? Not get laid or cause ruckus or anything; he gets a goddamn tattoo?! Where are his priorities even at anymore?
When Gray feels his head throb again, his fingers reach for the portion that Trent had struck with a wine glass, and he realizes that it's his scalp's staples that have been removed.
He recognizes six Greek letters scrawled together on the outside of his other forearm. Like, what—he just said fuck it, let's get fully inked? He doesn't even remember asking for any of these, he can't even understand or read this one. What's with his random heritage embrace all of the sudden? Jesus, his mom'd kill him if she saw.
"Found you passed out outside that new bar in town," says the surprising voice of a nurse at his door, nodding. "Your head wound was starting to heal around your staples—we had to take 'em out. That's gonna leave one gnarly scar." She frowns, leaning against the door in her teal scrubs. "Your blood alcohol was 0.3, if you can believe that, by the way."
Oh, he can believe it.
The nurse sighs. "What am I supposed to bill for your medical expenses today?"
And Gray stares, saying nothing. Yeah, he's already decided that he's not paying for this shit. He could have removed the staples on his own.
Well, maybe not, but you get the point.
She grows frustrated with his silence and leaves, promising to be back in a few minutes to figure out what to write on his file, since they only have what's on his driver's license.
Shit. He reaches for his wallet, heaving a sigh of relief when he notices that he's still got it, but simultaneously freaking the fuck out because a huge chunk of the money that he had is missing. At first, he obviously thinks that it's been stolen, but why would a thief leave some of the money? 'Cause they felt sorry for his pathetic ass?
And then a receipt is tucked away in one of the flaps, his reminder to the goddamn tattoos that make him realize where most of his money went. They don't tell you not to get inked when you're out of your mind because it's a bad life decision, or because you'll clot or something; it's because it's a bad financial decision. Like Jesus Christ, that money was supposed to be for getting fucked up, not to get tatted so that he could fully embrace the Greek in him.
Realizing that his cash is dwindling, and that he's sure as hell not paying for this goddamn hospital visit, he climbs out of the cot quietly, sneaking past a receptionist. Despite stumbling over his own two feet, he effectively manages to peace the hell out of this shit all the same without getting caught. When he gets back to the bed and breakfast, he goes to take a shower because he reeks, and upon finishing, is informed that they're permanently removing him on account of him being a horrible guest. Like, yeah, he hasn't gotten around to recycling the bottles upon bottles of liquor stashed in his room, but this warrants him as a horrible guest?
... Now what?
Imagine not even being able to handle a place like Wilmington. Jesus, there's something wrong with him.
He grabs his rucksack and dips, making his way toward the docks, forking over nearly the last of his money to ask if there's a boat that'll take him to the valley. He can't think of anywhere else to go; anywhere else that he can afford.
And there he is; commuting from the city to Forget-Me-Not Valley, omitting his tracings of where he's been entirely.
The people that he left behind in Mineral Town don't even cross his mind at this stage; not even for a second.
"I know I keep saying it, but it's so nice to see you, cuz!" Flora exclaims, smiling as she hands Gray a mug that she clearly made herself out of some smoothed-over clay. It's filled with piping hot, murky green liquid.
Gray takes it, harbouring the heat that it radiates against his rigid palms. He's exhausted, and convinced that his blood now runs permanently cold. "Yeah… you too."
Given that his cousin's tent is about yay-big, he sits crosslegged on the ground, his long limbs feeling gangly and squished together over her Aztec-styled carpet and artifactual knick-knacks that he nearly knocks over.
She's from Oregon; they're a little strange over in that state.
His cousin pushes her circular rimmed glasses up the crooked bridge of her nose, the skin around her large eyes crinkling as she smiles. She's more than a whole decade older than Gray; he recalls a time when she had to babysit him and keep him out of trouble whenever their families visited each other.
The way that she's looking at him now tells him that he's her first visitor in awhile. This is sort of a given when you think about it, because who the fuck else would she be letting into her tent here?
"How's your dad?" Flora asks eagerly.
Gray stares at her, his grasp on the mug tightening. "Same old."
Her positive attitude diminishes slightly, but his dad's insobriety is pretty unsurprising for everyone. She tries to shrug it off. "And your grandfather? I haven't seen him… y'know, since the funeral."
Gray doesn't answer. The only time those two had really interacted was a couple of birthdays here or there, and the wake.
Flora's smile wilts when she catches his empty expression. "Does he know you're here?"
And after some time, he shakes his head no. He didn't even expect to be here himself.
Or, maybe this is unconsciously part of his plan all along.
Her face falls as her mouth pulls into a frown. "Did... did something happen, Gray?"
He doesn't bother responding. Flora's college-professor-turned-boss, Carter (not to be confused with the pastor), steps in, nodding at the two of them as though he's unalarmed to be finding a random guy just chilling there. The dude's totally bizarre in general though, with the sun-damaged skin of a ninety-year-old and the wardrobe that looks like he got himself fitted at a Sprouts Farmers Market.
That's not his burn; it's Claire's. He remembers her ironically being at her funniest when she wasn't trying at all.
Funny how it's all worked out now though.
"Carter," says Flora, motioning with her hands. "This is my cousin, Gray."
He peers at him, adjusting his own spectacles, grunting out a response as he digs through a drawer that looks like it's been crafted blindfolded.
"No one knows I'm here," Gray tells her, not caring if her weird supervisor has anything to say about the matter. "And I know that you don't have any contact with my dad's side, so it's not like you can say shit."
Flora curses in Greek under her breath. "Here we go."
"I need somewhere to stay for a bit."
She stares at him for a long time, her expression unreadable. Gathering her dirty blonde waves into her hands, she stuffs them into a messy ponytail with an orange scrunchie tied near the end. "Gray, I'm sorry, but I really can't be spending my time entertaining you right now. Carter and I are on a very important archeological dig. That's the only reason we're here!"
Carter grunts out another response in agreement.
Gray frowns at her. "I swear to God, I'll be out of your hair. I can even help you with... I dunno, whatever you need help with. I just need somewhere to lay low."
"Till?" she asks, furrowing her brow.
"... Not sure."
"Good God, Gray." Flora scowls, her chipper demeanor totally gone. "What the hell kind of trouble did you get into?"
He scowls right back. "Nothin'."
"That's not—"
"Look, don't worry about it. Like I said, I just need a place to stay," he mumbles. Then, he adds in a "please" so she knows how clearly serious he is about all of this.
"Oh, yeah, sure. Take one of my many private suites." Flora gestures around the tiny tent with the mock-charisma of a realtor.
It's like Gray's just now noting the two sleeping bags perpendicular to him. "You live here?"
Carter rubs the skin between his eyebrows like he's giving him a headache. "Ah-huh," he mumbles.
"What part of archeological dig didn't register in your head?" Flora rolls her eyes, not bothering to hide her blatant annoyance.
He stares at her incredulously. "You can't stay in a warm place and accomplish the fucking dig?"
She scoffs outwardly at him. "Thank you for the two cents, Gray. Let me just go and start taking life advice from my nineteen-year-old cousin." She straightens her glasses out again with a huff. "We get more accomplished being within close proximity to the mines at all times. Also… the inn's kinda nasty."
"Also, we've had a multitude of robberies," Carter adds, grabbing an instant noodle package from one of the drawers. He takes the kettle of hot water that Flora boiled on a fire outside, pouring it into the container.
"Yeah, that too," she agrees wearily. Her eyes stay locked on Gray. "You of all people really shouldn't be staying here in a town like this. I'm not even joking, this place can get really messed up. It's just not good for you."
"Flo, I can't go back there. Fucking Christ, seriously I can't."
She makes a face, shaking her head. "Your mother wouldn't want—"
"Don't," he snaps. "Don't even friggin' start."
Flora glares at him, unimpressed. "You can play this mean tough guy role all you want, but you're still my little cousin. And I'll be damned—"
"Look, I just need somewhere to lay low," he repeats.
"Some of the people here… the shit they do... I mean, fuck!" She knits her dark brows at him in concernment like she hasn't heard him. "You already have that in your life. You don't need any more of it."
Gray stares at her, ignoring the jab about his father. His mom's side never really got along with his shithead of a dad. "I'll be fine."
"I don't want what happened to your dad to happen to you."
"Yeah, well, it won't."
"How can you be so sure? Some things are bigger than you."
He freezes. Where has he heard this bit before?
"I just… I just need to get lost for a bit. Away from the city, away from all the bullshit… I wanna be left alone."
Flora frowns, throwing on a sweater over her green tank top. She shakes her head in disappointment at him. "And you can't accomplish that in Mineral Town?"
Absolutely not. "No."
"Jesus, you're really keen on this, huh?" Flora sighs tiredly, shaking her head at him again. Her little military watch beeps on her wrist, signifying an hour past midnight. "It's getting late. We have to be up really early tomorrow, but come by in the evening, hm?" Her expression softens. "Get some rest and stay out of trouble. Do you need any money for the inn?"
"Nah, Flo. I got it. Thanks though." He was really banking on the fact that he'd be able to crash somewhere kinda rent free… there had to be a sort of abandoned house or shack somewhere here, right? The money he's got left is for drinking his life away; the funds to get lost. Not to blow at some shitty inn.
Maybe he's become a total freeloader because neither his grandfather or Claire ever even thought about charging him rent. He didn't even account for his money to go toward a place to stay.
Didn't account for some goddamn tats either. At least he looks cool, or, that's what he's telling himself.
Gray's not about to mooch off of his cousin, though. He's convinced that living somewhere for free isn't the equivalent to borrowing money, even though it kind of is.
He knows that's selfish; he's already well aware.
Carter clears his throat attentively, his expression dark. "We can use an extra set of hands in the mines, so long as you promise not to disrupt any of the markings we've laid out… or steal anything."
"Carter!" Flora snaps.
"He looks like a goddamn criminal, Flora."
"Well, he's not!"
"Isn't this the cousin you told me about who went to jail for stealing a cop car?"
"He didn't end up actually getting charged with anything."
"Do you hear yourself right now?"
"You got arrested at that animal rights protest five years ago."
"That's very different."
"An arrest's an arrest. You're being completely insensitive right now!"
"Well, I'm sorry for being a little weary ever since that thief tried to—"
Gray scowls at the two of them, like they've forgotten he's here. "Yeah, don't worry. I don't want your fucking fossils."
Carter looks offended. "Those 'fucking fossils' are priceless and could recognize Flora and I as—"
"Sick. Don't care."
Flora rolls her eyes. "You're such a shit."
He shrugs. "It's like that."
She stands up with him as she goes to lead him out. He carries his rucksack to the side, the one that he packed back home in a frenzy. It represents all that he's got anymore, maybe all that he is.
"Inn's down the road, you can't miss it. Be sure to ask for room 42… that's the cleanest one out of all of them," Flora tells him.
"That's why Ruby always gives her son primary access to it when he needs it," mutters Carter.
"Ugh. Keep away from the freaks around here, and stay out of trouble." She pauses. "Oh! And if someone named Daryl asks about me… you need to reiterate that I died in a horrible fireworks accident, 'kay?"
Somehow, this doesn't even remotely faze Gray. "… A horrible fireworks accident."
"You got it?"
"... Yeah. I got it."
"He's in love with Flora, and now he thinks that she's an apparition from the Goddess," Carter adds, cleaning his glasses as though this is all just casual conversation.
Gray frowns. "What's this guy smoking?"
"PCP, mostly. Or bath salts, I'd reckon." Flora shrugs. "Hell of a drug."
"Sounds like fun."
She sighs. "That's why I don't want you here. Lack of a law enforcement means this shit just keeps happening."
Lack of law enforcement is kind of the driving force behind why he got his ass here in the first place. No one's gonna bother him, and no one's gonna say shit about him getting fucked up in the ways that he intends to.
And when he runs out of the money to fund his vices... well, he'll just have to cross that bridge when he gets there.
Flora sighs again, continuing. "I mean it's nice for the fresh air… nice to lose yourself for awhile, but I personally can't wait 'till we're done here. I miss home." Her eyes soften. "Don't you?"
What even is home?
"Nope," says Gray. He shrugs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Maybe he shouldn't have even shown his face to his cousin, if she's just going to worry about him like this. He's nineteen, he can take care of himself.
Like, not well, but you know what he means.
"Just stay out of trouble," she repeats firmly. "And please be careful. And think about what I said. I bet you'll find that this place isn't for you."
"I can handle myself," he says sharply, not intending for it to come out so harsh.
Flora stares right through him, like she's looking through a ghost. He wonders if the exhaustion in his eyes and around his face is that apparent. It just seems like she feels sorry for him. "Right."
The people here don't say much, and that's fine by him. They keep to themselves; the bartender hardly mutters out a hello or gives a response when he orders a drink.
When he orders several.
There's gruff small talk surrounding his ears here or there. For a second, he's reminded of the chatter that used to hang around the bar at the inn: Karen and Kai talking about sex as usual, Popuri trying to get Cliff to loosen up more while her brother threatens to kick Kai's ass—like he actually could. Ann attempting to mediate the peace at first, before giving up so that she could just stir the pot with Karen by her side. And then Claire: sitting there at the stool, clutching her water and laughing so hard because she loved feeling like a part of something—being a part of something—with her head thrown back and a grin over her mouth.
For the life of him, he can't picture his own role in that scenario.
Gray clears her out of his mind in record timing though, with each slug back of his whiskey. Forgets that he fell in love, because he didn't.
Keeps telling himself that he didn't.
A cold draft comes in the room and bites at his back when the worn out door to this Blue Bar (?) bursts open. Someone's holding it like that for a long period of time, and he's about ready to snap so they'll shut the fucking thing, but remembers that this would require speaking to others, so no thanks to that.
"Would you just fucking get in here?" a guy demands. Gray doesn't bother turning around to address it—again, he's decided to keep to himself. "Jesus H. Christ, woman. Quit your bitching and hurry your ass up."
Someone else's voice chirps back, muffled from the wind outside. It's a girl; she's far away and the clear reason behind this door staying fucking open for as long as it's been. He can make out a "leave me alone" and "tiny dick" and "you're drinking alone tonight." Finished with a "screw you" as the cherry on top. Classic.
With the door wide open like this, Gray listens to the sound of ice being crunched under a pair of shoes, as whoever the hell this chick is walks away.
"Fucking slut," snaps the guy, slamming the door shut. The sound reverberates throughout the bar, causing everyone to stop their conversations immediately.
"Watch it, Rock," warns Griffin, the bartender.
He waves him away, dusting some snow off of his blue, long sleeved shirt. "Can't tell me what to do. I'm your best customer."
"Oh, shut up, Rock," mutters the red-headed girl beside him.
Rock scoffs at her. "No one's talking to you, dyke."
"Your mama owns the inn, it don't mean you walk around here like you own the whole town," mutters Takakura, an older looking man in a white tank top.
Rock shrugs, sauntering over to the bar. "Exactly what it means, eh, Griffin?"
"No," he says gruffly.
"My usual," he orders, in a low voice. He leans against the bar with both elbows propped up on it behind him, smirking at the red-head. "And for your information, Nami, my dick is huge. I know you wanna take it for a test drive."
"Idiot," Nami mutters, downing back her drink and hitting the bottom of it against the counter. "You just called me a lesbian and now you're asking me if I want a ride on your dick."
"… Huh?"
"Goddamn genius you are," mutters a local farmer with a jet-black quaff of hair. "No wonder your girl's done with you."
Rock's jaw tightens, but he brushes this off, directing his attention back to Nami. He arches his brow at her expectantly. "Well, do you?"
She scowls. "Do I what?"
"Do you want a ride on my—"
Nami angrily pulls out some change from her pocket, handing it over to Griffin with a stoney look on her face. She storms out of the bar, her combat boots stomping against the ground.
Rock blinks, his face twisted with disbelief, before laughing breathlessly. "Fuckin' women, eh, Marlin? They're such bitches."
"Shut up," says Marlin. "Just shut the fuck up."
"When's the last time you got your dick wet, though? Celia definitely doesn't let you—"
"Twat," says Takakura. "Goddamn twat."
Rock shrugs at him, tapping the bar counter impatiently as he waits for his drink. "I could have you fired," he tells Marlin.
"From my sister's ranch? Jesus, you're stupid."
Takakura pushes air between his teeth, clearly amused by all this going on right now.
Rock ignores him, and… look, Gray doesn't know if it says Losers Apply Within somewhere on his body, but Jesus Christ, it must. 'Cause this… Matt Damon circa '97 lookalike, with the blonde bowl cut from Good Will Hunting but the lack of a genius IQ, takes the seat right next to him, grinning at him lazily from the side of his eye.
Gray brings the front of his cap closer over his face so that he can just enjoy his drink in damn peace.
"Hey, man! You new here?"
God, go away.
He just stares straight ahead, lifting the drink to his mouth as he lets the alcohol sear his throat.
The guy's nostrils flare from the corner of his eye. He clearly doesn't like not getting the attention he requires. "Asked you a fuckin' question."
Griffin interrupts by sliding a dark amber drink toward Rock. "Here's your Sex on the Beach."
"G-Griffin, what the hell?! I, I didn't order a—"
And because Gray can't help but be a smug asshole, he smirks over at him. "Your usual's a fucking femme cocktail?"
The guy stammers in embarrassment as Gray downs back his drink in record timing. It burns, but this is the most amused he's been in weeks. He tosses some bills at Griffin and throws on his jacket, ignoring the blonde guy's threats that he'll ruin him in this town.
Whatever the hell that means.
"Get away from me!" he hears someone snap. Jesus Murphy Christ Almighty, he needs peace and quiet—not loud bullshit. If he wanted a headache, he may as well have just stayed in the city to drink his life away.
Yeah, don't remind him that he doesn't exactly have the funds to do so. Fuck this tattoo, man. It's sick as hell, and he's wanted it for awhile, but Jesus, how'd he justify drunkenly blowing all of his money on it?
He wonders if it's already time to go home. Maybe this was all a mistake.
But he can't go back; he knows it.
"Just hand over those earrings, maiden."
"Maiden?"
Maiden?
Aw, fucking hell, man. Not this guy again.
"Fine, whore. Whatever. Just give me your shit and I'll be off." And from where he's standing, Gray can see that silver-haired motherfucker in the distance; the one who grabbed Claire that night. His fingers are tightly wound around the wrist of a girl.
And it's like déjà vu. Despite it being ages ago, he can still hear Claire's strangled voice pleading with him: "Let go of me! STOP!"
Gray's feet have a mind of their own right now. He can't walk a straight line for the life of him; he just depends on the cracked cobblestone that's embedded into the ground as a clear pathway. He's not thinking straight, but his mind is concentrated on one thing, if that makes any sense at all.
Both of their backs are to him; they don't see him coming.
"No! Get your dirty hands off of me!"
"Give me, the goddamn—"
And the thief isn't able to finish because Gray's already caught up to the scuffle, his fist soaring across the guy's mouth. He stumbles back, clutching his split lip, mouth hanging open in pain and horror.
Gray notes his missing incisor instantly—the one that he was responsible for knocking out.
"Y-you," the guy sputters, spitting out blood. He rubs at his face, groaning, looking down at the blood like he's both very afraid and very tired of getting his shit rocked once again. "Son of a bitch!"
The girl backs away and gasps, her gloved hands flying over her mouth as Gray punches the fucker again. He almost winces as the not-yet-healed skin breaks and cracks over his knuckles again, but he merely shakes them out, his rage consuming him. When the thief is hunched over in pain like this, he seizes the opportunity to knee him in the stomach, decking him with his sneakers as he kicks into the guy's gut. This shithead, this thief who clearly never learned to keep his goddamn hands to himself, groans, as Gray lifts him by his collar to drag him up.
"P-Please," he begs. "I'm sorry, I just—"
"I thought I told you not to fucking touch anyone," Gray snaps through grit teeth. The guy… Skye? Star Prince? Jesus Christ, he groans, and because Claire's not here to say shit, Gray hooks him again across his cheek once, then twice, before throwing him back onto the ground with such force, he actually starts crying.
And Gray stops, realizing that he's out of breath, with each puff of air coming out like a cold, small cloud before him. He straightens his back out, lifts his chin up defiantly, and carries on, like this is his new normal. His blood-stained hands are jammed into his pockets as though he's just finished his round in the fight club, feet unsteady, but managing like he always does along the path. He doesn't know where he's going—but he's going all the same.
"Umm… can you wait a sec?!"
The girl is calling after him, running in his direction. She's got on an expensive looking leather fur-trimmed coat, huddling into it further as she catches up to him. The lamplight beside them illuminates her face, and although drunk, Gray can tell that she's actually pretty cute.
"You like, saved my ass back there, and then you just walk away?"
"Sorry," he mutters. The girl has light brown hair, chopped jaggedly in a bob cut by her chin. Wispy bangs frame her forehead, and an expensive gold headband sits atop her scalp. Her face is slender and thin, eyes a warm chestnut. She can't be much older than him, if at all.
"I usually don't thank people," she says coyly. "But I wanted to thank you!"
The thief groans on the floor down the road from them as they both turn to face him. He struggles to crawl his way toward the nearest lamppost, attempting to use it so that he can try and hoist himself up. He collapses in pain though, dropping to the floor and whimpering further.
"Oh," Gray mutters, like he didn't just go apeshit. Sheepishly, he avoids her eyes, removing his hand from his pocket to rub his arm. He tries not to focus at the redness over his knuckles. "Yeah, uh, don't sweat it."
The girl looks down at her white mittens, then back up at him skittishly.
Actually, she's pretty.
Very pretty.
"I haven't seen you around here before," she tells him. Her voice is breathy and playful, bordering on sexy. Just hearing it makes his face grow hot.
"Guess I'm new," Gray mutters, not realizing that she's taken a step closer to him. High school him would have mirrored the action, but this version of himself feels the need to take an inch back right now.
"Mhm," the girl says, smiling up at him. "I'd have totes noticed you."
He swallows back a lump in his throat, because how's he supposed to respond to this? Sure, he's got alcohol in the system to give himself some liquid courage but… er, this feels different. He's completely out of practice.
"Are you okay?" Gray finds himself asking, 'cause words aren't exactly coming easy to him right now.
"Better now that I had you to save me," she whispers, her cheeks taut and pink. "That was really something."
"Yeah?"
"Mmhm." She smiles. "I'm Lumina."
"Oh," he says again, feeling dumbstruck and tongue-tied all at once. "My name's Gray."
"Where are you from?"
"Chicago," he says, and that's all. It's not like he's lying.
He isn't going to bother mentioning Mineral Town anymore—why should he? That was just a place where he was forced to live for awhile, nothing more to it.
He's not fucking going back there.
She looks at him expectantly, and it's been long, too long since he's talked to a girl, been with a girl like this. It was different with Claire; it came easy. Easy to talk with, easy to laugh with… not to deal with, but to be with her, it was always easy.
Nothing about it is "easy" anymore.
Except the fact that I called her that.
He cringes at the very memory.
Lumina's looking at him like she's waiting for him to inquire about her life. He feels his ears get red, and he'd blame it on the cold, but he knows it's not that.
"Uh, where're you from?"
She bats her eyes flirtatiously. "Guess."
Ugh, fuck. "Dunno."
"You have to guess!" she exclaims, pouting cutely.
"You gotta gimme a hint first," he says.
Lumina offers him a cheeky smile. "Think sunny beaches."
Jesus, he's got a headache. He tries to work through the potential answers in his hazy, drunken mind.
"… Florida?"
"Uh, no!"
"Cali?"
"Ah-huh." She nods like she's surprised. "L.A. to be exact. Well, like Orange County."
"… The fuck're you doing here out east?" he asks, no filter as usual.
She flashes a grin, revealing straight, pearly teeth. "That's a secret."
Gray looks away when he catches her staring at him for a long time, doing his best not to shiver into his jacket. It's still goddamn freezing outside.
A puff of her cold breath mixes with his own when she takes another step closer to him. Her eyes search his innocently. "You doing anything tonight? I mean, if you wanna come by my place."
Okay, well, looks like he found somewhere to sleep for the night.
"You're serious?" he asks, because his first reaction is that he's being Punk'd or something right now.
"Why wouldn't I be?" She shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm not done thanking you, obviously."
Gray swallows, his mind in a trance. Jesus, is the girl forward or what?
"Where?" he asks quietly, his mind swimming.
Lumina points down a sparking, snowy fountain, past a thicket of trees. He cocks his head, frowning at the large mansion before them as she confirms it with a nod. "Right there."
And as she's telling him "right there!", as the feeling between them is too good to even describe, as he loses himself in her, Gray realizes that he's asked himself before: what's emptier than empty?
It's him—he's the answer to his own question.