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He envisions the sea as a mausoleum holding infinite treasures. And it stuns him into silence to know that there exist things in this world that he has yet to see. Even Andy with her thousands of years does not know what lies at the bottom of the ocean. It alone remains unknown, this mass of foaming waves that crash into each other, the highs and lows of the tide that mean every day Booker wakes to the sea, it's different.
He inhales, his feet planted firmly in the fine powdery sand, as the wind blows over his face. He's come to this spot every day since Andy said goodbye to him, since that last look he exchanged with Joe. He's not waiting for anyone, but it comforts him to stand by the sand and watch where the water merges with the sky in the distance. It's mostly cloudy these months, as fall gives way to winter, the holiday lights popping up along the boardwalk, these dangling decorations that remind him it's been months since he last heard from the rest of them.
He drinks most days because doing so affords him the courtesy of forgetting. The jumbled mess of his thoughts blend together until all he knows is the heat of whiskey going down his throat. He doesn't even taste the difference between the cheap stuff and the oaky burn of a batch bottled right. Vodka is like water to him and he drinks as though he wants it to kill him.
Maybe he does.
It's no one's business but his own these days.
Still, he comes every morning to stand by the shore and watch the seagulls landing around him. Sometimes, he watches the people on their jogs, almost laughs when he sees how they avoid him. It's the way he dresses, the thin jackets even when the wind stings and his fingers go numb. It might also be that he's never sober, always swaying with the melodic flow of the waves. He likes watching them crash onto the shore, imagining that he's the foam that splatters in different directions, dispersive and transient.
He doesn't know why he doesn't leave Liverpool and all its water. A hundred years is a long time after all, and Booker has to want something that isn't drowning his sorrows in liquor.
He stays, though, turning away from the shore everyday, walking back to his apartment with its broken lock. He never goes to bed, preferring the pull of unconsciousness he can only find at the bottom of his bottles. He wakes every morning with a headache and every morning, he heads to the water.
And so, he passes the time.
-
It's spring by the time Joe comes for him.
The trees are in full bloom, green and vibrant, the branches swinging in the wind as Booker makes his way down to the water. He's not thinking anything in particular that spring morning. His days have been short these past six month, a blur of late mornings and early evenings, all of it muddled in a haze of alcohol. It's a miracle he hasn't died once since they left him.
He's still alive despite his best efforts, muscles aching as they protest all the uncomfortable places he's been falling asleep in, lately. He needs a haircut and a shave, and perhaps a new bottle of vodka. But for the moment, he heads for the ocean, to stand at the shore and watch the people. He's given up on the seagulls, prefers to absorb the disdain on the faces of those who take a good look at him.
He feels exactly as though he's spent the last six months drinking himself to oblivion. His face is thinner, each of his shirts hanging loosely around the shoulders. He had to make a new hole in his belt, and he can't remember the last time he had a hot meal. But he persists, like the waves against the current, each one attempting their best before they're swallowed by the inevitable push of the water.
He thinks, on that particular spring day, that he'll stop by the shop near his flat and order a coffee. He's feeling good, so he might even buy himself a muffin that doesn't come from a prepackaged box. He could even skip the whiskey, could finally bring himself to open the parcel Nile sent a week into his exile.
He doesn't linger on all the other times he's made the same promises. There's no use in starting the day off wrong. Not when the sun beams down over his head, warming him up for the first time in months. He feels like humming, a bewildering exhilaration washing over him as he finally looks towards the beach to his right.
There, he sees Joe, standing near the boardwalk, his arms crossed over his chest, a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. He looks well-rested, the curls on his head shining in the way that they do when Joe's had time to buy his favorite products. He's all smooth lines and unhurried motion as he turns his head and spots Booker.
He's been waiting, and it's all Booker can do to keep it together as an agonizing pain, that feels like hope, rips through his chest. He wants to smother it, but as Joe starts forward, it bursts forth, undeniable and true.
He wants to go home.
He wants more than anything for Joe to take him back, because even though he'll live a hundred years without them, he doesn't want to. So he waits, breath coming out in short gasps as Joe crosses the seemingly endless miles of sand, the sound of the crashing waves taking over the ringing in Booker's ears. He focuses on what keeps him whole, on the rhythmic thumping of morning joggers' shoes and the call of seagulls.
He doesn't think of what Joe walking towards him means, until he's too close for Booker to run.
Joe says nothing as he reaches him, as he keeps going, pulling Booker into a tight embrace. They're shaking, Booker's hands hanging uselessly at his side as he tries to piece together what's happening. His body catches up before his brain, his muscles loosening as Joe takes some of his weight. He's crying before he knows what's happening, deep painful sobs that tear from his throat as Joe holds him.
He wants to go home, though he knows there exists more than just what he wants in the world. More than the endless days that merge into unbearable mornings.
Joe is whispering comforting words into Booker's hair, and his hands are warm as they rub soothing circles on his back. There's the sun overhead, the far-off sounds of a waking city, and the feeling of security in Joe's embrace. He should go before he gets used to the way his life realigns in Joe's presence, how the itch for a drink eases into its usual place at the back of his head. He should worry, instead, about how his well-being seems to revolve around having the rest of them around. But it's a fleeting thought that disappears into the hell of the past six months.
He's self-aware enough to accept his mediocre coping mechanisms, and of all of them, needing the others is the one that hurts him the least. So he lets Joe comfort him.
"Come home," he says, as he rests his chin on Booker's shoulder. "We miss you."
If it had been any of the others, Booker might have run. But it's Joe. Loving, forgiving Joe, who was only ever angry because of how much Booker hurt him. It's Joe, who is like the sea, full of unending wonders, still surprising Booker after all these years.
He knows better than to ask for forgiveness, but as Joe takes his hand under the rays of the midday sun, Booker thinks, just this once, things might be okay