emotions spill wherever his legs could carry

⠀⠀⠀⠀

june second
(the lake, where michael is far from home)
10:29pm

When Michael has one foot out the door, he runs.

He bounds across the cracked asphalt, the shoe pads of his footwear scraping against the rough concrete. The rushing wind of tonight clogging tone-deaf ears, caressing tawny smooth skin, and tangling itself into mahogany hair. Above held the inky terrestrial, enigmatic speckles of the night dotting what supposed to be pitch black. Michael almost smiles, the reluctant tug from the corner of his lips tempting.

His hands were pulled away from his white jacket's pockets, carding his fingers in his crumpled mop of hair gently while the other stayed beside. A couple miles away from home, Michael estimated, his bottom half (from the start of his thigh and down) growing drowsy from the running.

He had nowhere to go.

Pause.

Perhaps he didn't think this through too well.

He found himself stuck, far from home in the middle of the night, vulnerable enough for anyone to catch. Michael catches his breath, subconsciously tracing his finger over the worn-out paint of a nearby, outgrown structure.

It wasn't until long before hazel eyes locked with electric blue, voice catching in his throat.

The figure was tall and lanky, at least half a head higher than Michael was, but with his slumped posture Michael didn't move himself to think of the stranger as a threat just yet.

"What are you doing out here alone?"

Their voice was impossibly soft, an octave so much higher than his.

It felt difficult to see; to get a closer look at the mystery person's features until they had taken a step closer. A mop of abundant curls sat on their head, freckles flourishing their cheeks, their nose, their ears, neck, and everything else beyond and in between.

Their skin was pale, abnormal patches of stark white, much like a Dalmatian's black spots, lay upon their skin with no pattern to follow.

In hand, they held a potted succulent.

The clay pot was covered with stickers and doodles; it was heart-warming. Like seeing a puppy roll on its back for more belly rubs. It's fucking adorable, and it unfortunately makes all of Michael's insides want to explode, and the problem here is that that's exactly the problem.

"I could ask you the same." Michael replied, nodding his head toward the stranger. It was the best response he could have thought of as of right now, internally cringing when he couldn't have come up with something better.

It's too cliché, Michael thinks. Too overused. But that doesn't stop him from saying it anyway.

He's fled from his home and met a stranger who, for some reason, is out this late at night. Michael has a reason, but he doesn't know the stranger's.

His thoughts cloud over his head.

Michael thinks about home, his bedroom, the crafted terrarium he was so proud of that sat on the shelves near his bed; his comfortable mattress and PACMAN duvet. Maybe he shouldn't have run so far away with nothing but his unfit self.

—

There wasn't really a good reason.

Michael just felt he should run. Be free, away from the arguments and boredom and yelling and fear — it sounded so good. So perfect, so impossible. He was dumb enough to not bring his little jar of coins so he could at least pay to stay in some shitty cheap inn for the night. Michael mentally laughs at his dumbassery, a grimace almost making its way to his face.