SUMMARY: He can't help but go through this, everytime he has to visit.
A/N: Happy New Year y'all!
Stage
Three
Anger, Hurt and Decision
He is on the streets again, on his fifth day, mumbling some nonsensical words that sound as if they come out of a fairytale, which they probably have, because the reason he actually feels as if something will appear or happen when he says them must stem from childhood stories (which fostered childhood hopes), or the voices in his head are really getting to him. They call to him (call us, call us…) and though he obliges, he knows that the call won't do anything. And maybe, that's the reason it won't.
His legs tiring, he pauses and looks at the stores all bustling with shoppers and the most dedicated of consumers: a scene which emphasizes capitalism at its best. He scoffs half-heartedly, his eyes catching on something bright gold (something familiar in this familiarity), before realizing he is falling for their tricks, and so pulls away before he can be drawn into that ravenous machine. He knows, though he leaves, the beast will keep devouring and devouring, hearts, souls and all other things of worth in this world (yet, he feels a mite too cynical in his assessment and feels a hypocrite when his latest purchases come to mind).
He knows no one on these streets, though he sees bits and pieces of familiar features in the wide variety of Americans passing him with nary an interested glance (maybe it's that self-assured stance, that shining bit of the future reflected in their eyes), and some children, who are quickly towed away by their mothers, point at him in curiosity and awe. He scowls at them, his mumbling growing a little louder until he realizes that he is growing less sure that nothing will happen, and his mouth shuts closed with a snap. His uncertainty makes him feel sure that something could and will happen, but he won't take that risk, and he spirals further into his developing plot.
He spies a bench, nestled in between the entrance to a McDonald's and a movie theater, and moves slowly, his eye catching on the golden arch and the titles of the movies playing (one pair in particular catching his eye):
Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull
Quantum of Solace, a James Bond Film
And then he can't bring himself to continue reading them anymore.
The smell of French fries and hamburgers drifts around him, prompting a growl from his stomach. He endures for a few moments more, gnawing his teeth, but gives in and exits minutes later with a full and hearty McDonald's meal. He returns to his seat, noticing that the bench has earned another occupant, but he ignores him (as is the custom in this city) in favor of eating his meal. He begins with French fries, his least favorite part, intending on working on making the burger the finale (his favorite) of the meal.
"And I thought you hated his food." The stranger has a lilt to his voice, and he stiffens with the realization that his neighbor is French (something in him boils with unholy rage, but he smothers it quickly with thoughts of tomorrow).
"I—"He attempts to snipe, but his efforts are wasted as the Frenchman breezes on.
"I mean, the howling and utter fool you make of yourself proclaiming it almost made me believe you." There is something ironic in that tone, something that he doesn't appreciate, and he makes to stand when an affectionate hand brushes against his face and pale blue eyes stare at him with a smirk in their depths. Wavy blond hair (not that gold) brushes the man's face in a caress as he tilts it close to his own.
"You do not need to explain yourself, mon cher. I was just passing through, so enjoy…that meal of yours." And the stranger (was he really?) is gone in a whisper.
He sits, numb to the strange experience, and tries to push it from his mind as he absent-mindedly grabs some of his extra napkins and rubs at his face until it burns and there is nothing that could possibly be left on him. Something soft (like rose petals) had brushed him, he was sure. He looks around, wary, ending what he had never even been allowed to begin,
"I don't know who you are. So you should just clear off." And when he feels that he has been heard (a voice that says, for now, sounds in his head), he wraps half of the burger in its foil, and bites into it with relish. He feels like he will need this, later, for whatever reason. He's decided on a course of action, though he doesn't know exactly what action he's decided on, yet.
And he doesn't question it. He's suddenly feeling closer to whatever it is he needs to do now, than he had been before.
That is all the reason he needs.