Chapter Text
***
Amherst, Massachusetts
March 5th, 1998
maybe — sienna spiro
A March breeze penetrates the fabric of the light parka, washing over the body with a cool breeze.
The brunette shudders slightly, as he opens the mailbox to retrieve the incoming letters.
The crease between his brows deepens, as his eyes scan the addresses, his slender fingers fingering one envelope after another.
Spam. The electricity bill. The water bill. An invitation to some other bullshit writers' convention. A letter from a fan. (How did they get his address again?) Spam. Laundry bill. Spam. Spam. A toilet bleach ad? (Wonderful.) Spam. A letter from New York? (That’s… Weird.) Spam. Spam. Spam. An advertisement for sanitary pads. (Thank you so much, dickheads.) An advertisement for a new snack bar. A letter from mom. A letter from a publisher. An advertisement for a trampoline center. (Jesus Christ.)
The guy leaves the necessary papers, tossing the rest in the nearby trash can.
How many trees are wasted on such utter nonsense.
He sighs heavily, as he turns and finds himself in front of the stairs. He takes a deep breath, then begins to climb sedately.
One step, two, three, then another. A flight passed. He moves on.
Shit.
He hates stairs.
He hates climbing stairs.
Who the fuck invented stairs? Why couldn't they have come up with something more logical? Something more mechanical, so he wouldn't have to endure such useless physical activity.
Thinking, he reaches the floor he needs, fishing his keys out of his pocket.
The apartment greets him with its familiar silence and coolness.
Massachusetts doesn't mess around with the weather any more than the heating company messes around with shutting off the heat.
Fucking idiots.
He's only been gone a month, not five years.
He sighs heavily again and closes the front door, starting to take off his shoes. His jacket ends up on a hook, his boots on the shoe rack, and his heavy duffel bag follows him into the living room, landing on the sofa.
He cracks his neck and goes to the bathroom, pulling off his street sweater along the way.
He's incredibly tired.
Another work trip had taken longer than he'd planned, draining too much of his energy.
He needed to visit several southern regions in order to develop full and accurate character profiles for his new book.
Actually, it had been quite interesting. He'd had a good time. He'd enjoyed the scenery. The people were also quite pleasant and open to communication and collaboration.
But that didn't change the fact that he was still exhausted.
The brunette strips off the rest of his clothes and climbs into the shower, adjusting the settings to his liking.
He sincerely hopes the water company isn't as nasty as the heating company.
At first, a weak stream hits him, jarring his nerves, but after a few seconds, the flow picks up speed and lukewarm water pours over him.
Well.
Perhaps he'll leave them a positive review.
Unlike the heating company, of course.
The brunette spends about fifteen minutes on his routine, genuinely enjoying how every cell in his body relaxes, freed from the burden of the long journey.
He's had to drive for twelve hours, and he's really not in the mood.
The cool air touches his skin as he rummages through a drawer, pulling out a suitable set of loungewear, but he doesn't even wince, feeling perfectly comfortable.
He wipes his damp curls with the remaining towel and goes into the kitchen, turning on the kettle.
There's no food in the fridge, of course, so he moves back to the living room, where he left his bag, to get out a couple of pre-made sandwiches he picked up along the way, a bag of chips, and a few bags of convenience food.
It'll work for a snack.
On the way back, he grabs the mail he left behind and finds himself back in the kitchen.
He likes the apartment.
It's more of a studio apartment, of course, but he lives alone and doesn't bring anyone here, so it's more than enough for him. It has a living room, a sitting room, a small enclosed balcony that he's converted into a study, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a hallway.
It's quite a cozy place for a recluse like himself.
He's arranged the space so that it contains the attributes that bring him pleasure, but doesn't overly clutter it. He also bought some pillows, a couple of blankets, several sets of bed linen, a lamp for the living room and a nightlight for his room, a desk, several cabinets, a set of dishes, a few plants for better oxygen circulation, and a bunch of other household essentials.
The guy leaves the things he brought on the counter, putting the prepared meals in the refrigerator and the sandwiches in the microwave.
The kettle is already clicking, indicating it's ready, so he takes a cup from one cabinet and the needed bag from another, then pours boiling water over it.
The microwave also signals that he can take out his food, which he does, placing his plate on the table.
He takes his usual place by the window and takes a couple of sips of his warming drink before starting to sort through his letters.
The first thing to pay is the water, electricity, and that damn heating.
He's not really sure he'll need it anymore, since it's supposed to be warm enough next month, but he still decides to pay for it just in case.
Next comes a letter from Mom, which arrived two weeks ago.
Shit.
The brunette takes a bite of his sandwich and opens the letter, chewing slowly.
“Hey, honey.
How have you been doing?
I tried to call you, but you haven’t answered in days, so I decided that something had happened and I started panicking already, but then I remembered you told me about your work trip and I figured out you were probably out of the city for it.
I’m just a mom, don’t blame me for this.
I still wanted to reach out for you, so there is a letter.
I have just seen you a couple of weeks ago, but I miss you already so much. You should come visit.
Is it okay I want you back so soon?
Anyway, I don’t really care cause I’m your mother. Come and visit me as soon as possible cause I miss you a lot.
Holly misses you too.
Remember we talked about the end of the school year? Her graduation? She talks so much about it, but I can’t bear it because… Oh.
You, kids, grew up so fast, it is still so hard to believe it. It feels like you were only ten apples tall just yesterday.
Anyway.
Where was I?Oh, right. Graduation.
Me and your dad were talking about giving her a trip to Europe as for her graduation present and I wanted to know your thoughts on it.
We can discuss it, when you are back.
Call me, when you are home from your trip.
Please, take care and eat well and not just your usual junk food. Eat something healthy too.
Love you so much, honey.
Miss you.
Mom.”
He nods slightly to his thoughts and a light smile appears on his lips.
A mom is such a mom.
Europe tour sounds nice. He knows Holly will really love it.
The brunette sips from the mug and makes a promise to himself to call his mom as soon as he has some rest.
He puts the letter to the side and pulls another one with a familiar stamp on it.
It’s from his manager’s publishing office.
Sent four days ago.
”Hello, Mikey! (don’t roll your eyes, asshole)
How it feels to be back to your lonely-only-I-live-in-it-cause-I-am-an-introverted-social-phobic-pain-in-the-ass apartment?
I know you are still on your work trip, but I’ll just wait for you to come back and reach out for me about all the details. We actually should meet for a coffee and your further plans on the book.
Whatever, that’s not the point of the letter.
The New York Art Gallery called me today and I have great news!
They want you to come to this super fancy and important annual exhibition that takes place the last week of March.
You don’t give a shit about it, I know, but it really is an important thing and not every random person is being personally invited to visit it. There are always many famous authors, artists, illustrators, publishers, writers and other people of art.
And this year you are one of them!
Isn’t it cool?!
I actually think you can meet Tom Wolf or James A. Michener!
Anyways, they’ll send you an invitation in days, so you really need to reply.
Reply, fucking, politely, Michael!
And not with any of your shitty-You know what?
Forget it.
I know you.
I’ll reply myself, just let me know, when you get the letter.
Waiting for your call, douchebag.
Actually, miss you.
Richard.”
The brunette snorts.
Asshole.
He folds the letter and puts it to the side, reaching for the last one he already knows what is about.
He looks at the envelope and can’t deny the fact that this paper is more expensive and exquisite than a usual one. The material feels pleasant on his fingertips and the ink neatly frames the surface, forming a beautiful calligraphic handwriting.
Unlike his own.
Invitation
“Dear Mr. Wheeler,
We are happy to invite you to the “Draw your memories” exhibition.
As a person of art yourself, you will honor us by attending our long-awaited art exhibition, which will take place in New York City on March 20th at the Art House Gallery.
This is one of the most significant and large-scale annual events, featuring works by the most talented and renowned artists and illustrators from all over the country.
All these works are meant to expose human memories and demonstrate their experiences through life, showing stories of those ways that each of them had to go through.
We will deeply appreciate your presence and support of such a memorable event.
Respectfully,
Joseph Drew.
The head manger of New York Art Gallery.”
***