The Lost
He rested on his back, an arm draped lazily over his abdomen. His eyes were half-closed and for a few moments he simply enjoyed the feeling of air moving in and out of his lungs. Two decades later and he couldn't get enough of that sensation. Being here in a comfortable bed was just a bonus.
Feather-light kisses brushed against his jaw. August turned to capture those lips in a kiss. The caress was soft and gentle, his fingers combing blindly through soft ebony hair. His eyes fluttered open to meet the gaze of the girl lying next to him. She was beautiful; they all were. But August thought he might just last longer than a week with this one. Her name was Carmella.
"I could tell you weren't really sleeping," she told him in Italian. "Your face always grows troubled when you sleep."
"Because I'm worried I'll miss something," he replied, also in Italian. He picked up languages so quickly that he easily built up a life wherever he went. Here in Milan, he found work in a museum while he worked on his next great novel. Or at least he always told the people who asked that's what he was doing. The box carrying his typewriter was hardly ever opened.
"I should go to work," Carmella sighed. She gave him another kiss before rolling away. "What will you do?"
"I'll keep busy," August answered vaguely. She just smiled and shook her head. That was what August liked about her: she didn't prod too much into his mysteries.
Once they were both clothed they went their separate ways: Carmella to her job as a waitress and August to the nearest church. Italy had churches everywhere and August made a point to visit every one he could. He always sat in the back, listening to the music and the words.
Whatever churches were supposed to do didn't seem to reach him. He would leave no better or worse than when he came.
Carmella came home to find him packing up his things. "I'm feeling claustrophobic," was his explanation. She didn't protest or try to stop him. It was almost like she expected it of him. All the other girls took his departure the same way. None of them ever lasted long.
In Greece, he took a job helping a farmer. Working the soil felt good; going back to his roots, so to speak. His employer was delighted to have someone with such a green thumb. It wasn't long before he caught an eager young thing's eye, and only a matter of time after that for them to be in bed together.
It was inevitable for him to leave. As soon as he started settling, he would get a restless feeling and need to move on. India found him in the mosques, Japan showed him its own stories and legends, and in Australia he stepped into the ocean for the first time in years.
August kept putting more years and miles between him and Storybrooke, Maine. But he couldn't lose it. Every time his eyes caught blonde hair his heart jumped before he remembered it couldn't be Emma. Whenever he heard crickets chirping his heart ached in loneliness for Jiminy's still, small voice. All his lovers saw his troubled sleep but never knew why. August knew and wished he could find a place far enough to lose it completely.
Packing was so natural he almost didn't notice. It wasn't until he was ready to leave the hotel room that he finally noticed: the book he worked on with such care, the thing that held all the stories of his home was gone.
He started to shake, though he didn't know if it was from relief or pain.