Chapter Text
The rain never stopped up here. Not when everyone in town desperately wished it would. Not when it was the middle of summer and all the children wanted to go into town. Especially not when Astraeus missed his bus.
Great, he thought, this is the third time in twice as many days. Mr Whillouby is going to be livid.
It was days like this, when the whole world seemed to be against him that Astraeus longed to run. Run and run until he didn’t recognise the signposts and no one knew his ‘name’. Until he didn’t understand the language and had the wrong currency. Then he could finally be himself.
Maybe if he ran far enough in the wrong direction his dreams would come to life, the Doctor would find him and he could leave his stupid town behind. What he wouldn’t give for a life like that! To sail amongst the stars and stand up to villains with a genius madman who, despite (or maybe because of) his age, is so accepting and kind. If he was just in the right London street at the right time (because when has The Doctor ever come to Newcastle) maybe he would be there, holding out his hand for Astraeus to take as they begin their never-ending journey through the universe.
But he wont. Because no matter what Astraeus does, no matter how hard he hopes or even prays, he can’t live in a TV show, and he can never be him. So for now he walked the two and a half miles to school, and arrived the better part of an hour late, dripping wet from the buckets of pelting rain that seemed to have a personal vendetta against him.
As he was sitting in reception being shouted at by one of the PE teachers, he let his mind wander back to the dreams of a madman with a blue box, hoping the day wouldn’t get any worse.
It wasn’t until after school, when the thoughts of running hadn’t left him alone for a second, and the threat of returning home was becoming ever more apparent that he gave in.
He didn’t stop to get his belongings or think twice. Perhaps if he did his life would’ve gone entirely differently. But he didn’t, all he did was run.
7 years later and Astraeus still thinks about that day, usually when he’s alone in his bed at night. But at least he’s out of that hell-hole they call a town.
Sometimes he thought he’d run far enough, going to live with his auntie until he finished school, and now in London for uni. He was studying something he enjoyed and he was accepted as him. Sometimes he thought he could finally move on from the first 15 years of his life. And then his parents would call.
That’s where he was now. 30th of June. And for some insane reason he’d decided that maybe this would be the time. Maybe this time they’d called him to say sorry, to tell him they understood what they’d done and they were ready to make it up to him. It took all of 10 minutes of verbal threats and mindless yelling for him to finally build up the courage to hang up. And only because his uncle was giving him That Look. You know, the one that’s half-sympathetic and half you’re-an-idiot. Or at least that’s what Astraeus thought it meant.
Mood thoroughly dampened and day ruined, Astraeus did the only thing he could in these situations. He apologised to his Aunt and Uncle, left the living room, slipped on his beaten trainers (he’d have to remember to buy some new ones soon since the soles were worn and he’d already had them much longer than advisable) and ran. He didn’t know exactly in what direction he was running, feet firmly on autopilot as he tried to block out the sudden influx of memories.
With whatever mental capacity he had free, Astraeus mentally berated himself; they acted like that every time they called “him”, and every time this was the aftermath, you’d think he would’ve learned by now, but maybe he was just as slow a this as he was in most other things. Seemed only fitting.
In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have started his run on an empty stomach after a full day of Uni classes and work, because he started feeling queasy about fifteen minutes in. But he couldn’t stop. If he stopped he would think, and he couldn’t afford to do that right now.
It was only about twenty minutes later that it all went wrong. He felt sick. And hot. And dizzy. But not in a way he’d ever felt before. He tried to pinpoint the issue even as he pushed himself to go faster. Sure, there was the hunger, the overexertion and the uneasy feeling left over from the phone call, but there was something else too and he didn’t know what, He felt it then.
The familiar squeeze around his chest, the difficulty breathing. Oh, shit! He forgot to take off his binder. He’s been running for heaven only knows how long. And he’s been in his binder.
He should’ve sat down. Went to a cafe and ordered some food or water or maybe even just slowed down. But he wouldn’t let himself think so he sure as hell couldn’t stop.
He didn’t know what happened after that; only that the world went black and when he woke up, he wasn’t where he fell.