Work Text:
He stares at the house.
There are lights on, in both the floors, but the drapes on the second floor are closed. Behind the window, on the first floor, the boy can see into the kitchen, one he’s seen dozens of times before.
The boy sees Flynn, there, bustling about and likely cooking dinner, based on the large pot that appears on the stove when he moves away. He wonders what it is tonight. Chili? Slow-cooked ham? Spaghetti? Lasagna?
For a moment, he’s tempted—so, so tempted—to move from his hiding place and go up there. Knock on the door, have Flynn welcome him in, pretend like everything is fine. See his best friend again, listen to her about what she did in school, have Flynn sneak him out of his guest room after dark and help him balance the checkbooks. Pretend like his life wasn’t about to fall apart at the seams.
It’s so tempting. Their house is warm and cozy and clean, is everything he wishes his home was.
But the boy knows he can’t. He can’t go back there, because if his mom looks for him that will be the first place she looks and- he can’t. He can’t drag them into this. They’re too good. And he can’t be dragged back there, either, not any longer.
Maybe they’d try, but there was nothing they could do. He was a ward of his mother, as the courts demanded, whether either of them wanted it or not. And Flynn had enough to worry about already. The recession had made it hard for him to support himself, much less the boy. He would know; he had seen the meetings the jeweler had when his friend was back home with her parents, where she couldn’t be stained by his illicit dealings.
The boy didn’t want to stain her, either. She was too good for that. She had a future, a much brighter and richer one than the boy can imagine himself having at the moment. Starting tomorrow, there was going to be no time for the future when he had to focus on the present.
More movement. His friend skips into the room, clutching her uncle’s shirt, followed by- huh. He didn’t know her parents were visiting. Her mom kisses Flynn on the cheek and leans over, plucking a spoon from the countertop.
Chili, then, if he had to guess.
He’d like to know for sure. But he can’t. For as long as he’s at risk of going back there, he can’t. He can’t go there.
Idly, he toys with the bracelet she had given him. A simple, cheap present that was a little too big for his skinny wrist and kept trying to fall off, so he had delegated it to the bag of all his favorite possessions. Cheap as it was, a simple brown leather band with a sun charm dangling off of it, he couldn’t risk his mother finding it on the ground and selling it—that would have devastated him.
For a minute, he debates the idea of leaving it on the front porch. A goodbye without speaking, a message without words. He doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to see her face when he tells her he needs to leave.
But the thought of leaving it behind, even as a goodbye, pains him deeply, and— he’s selfish. He wants something for himself. Just one thing. He’s already leaving her behind.
Slipping the bracelet back into his bag, the boy cinches it tight and slips off into the city streets.