the linoleum floor of the gas station was strangely sticky, as though someone had sabotaged the matte finish. in wayne’s opinion, it was the variant of sticky that made your shoes squeal like pigs. not pleasant, and certainly not incentive for a return to this ridiculous place.

he stood by the rack of off-brand beef jerky, squinting at the contents as though he wanted to ensure there wasn’t any certified poison in the ingredients. the fluorescent lights overhead wavered, candle-like—the strange hue that poured from them cast a yellowish tone to his already snow-white skin.

the boy looked as though he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of sleep for a few days. washed out hoodie half-zipped, knuckles bloodied and bruised, and that usual air of tightly wound violence wrapped around him. the only embrace he’d received in months.

mccullough wasn’t actively engaging with anyone, simply standing idly, pensive.

and then he looked up, and his gaze snagged on you. he had to double take, startled by your appearance—for you were not supposed to be here. not here here. not in this part of town, and certainly not in this store.

your back was to him, hovering by the coolers, considering something bottled and suspiciously blue. wayne wondered whether it was windshield fluid masquerading in an energy drink can. around here, in these murky environments, such things were hard to tell.

wayne hadn’t seen you in a while—not since you split off on that fatuous plan. the very one he told you not to go through with. you had always maintained your own way of doing things, irrespective of how detrimental they could be.

he hesitated as you pivoted, inciting an awkward moment of eye contact. merely a second—yet somehow prolonged enough for him to register your alarm. wayne turned away.

but his will was malleable when it came to you— he grabbed the jerky and swivelled once more, pacing up to you without a welcoming word. he paused few feet away. his jaw tightened slightly, before he jerked his chin in a devastatingly wayne fashion. god, he hadn’t changed, not at all. perhaps a little more solemn, more grief-stricken. but his mannerisms were unaltered.

“ . . . thought you weren’t comin’ back,” he uttered flatly, a shadow strewn over his face. his features flickered with each movement.

bare of emotion, stripped of warmth, but it wasn’t cold, either. moreso wary, raw, stripped of pretense. he looked you over, absorbing every inch of you whilst maintaining a carefully neutral expression. you were alright. at least for the most part. and that was all that mattered.

he shifted in place, uncomfortable standing motionless.

“saw a guy las’ week get jumped behind this place.“ he didn’t bother confessing what he did about it—it was an easy guess to make. wayne was allergic to being a bystander, you see. “don’t like seein’ you here. place is wicked sketchy.”