WHO: Evan and Leah WHAT: Evan figures that the best way to "celebrate" his birthday is drinking. Alone. His plans don't exactly work. WHERE: The roof of Grand Central. WHEN: Backdated (far. Fail, self for forgetting my own character's birthday) to October 17th. RATING: Medium for language. STATUS: In progress
His birthday had gone without too much notice, which was fine. Danny had wished him a happy birthday as soon as he woke up, and Evan had a hard time, but he smiled through it and he didn't tell his idealistic little brother that there was no such thing as a happy birthday anymore. Georgie responded to his moment of feigned optimism with an offended scoff and stormed into the dining area without so much as a "good morning," let alone any kind of acknowledgement of his birthday.
Evan was oddly grateful for his sister's bad attitude that day. It was a stroke of realism, even if that stroke was a slap in the face.
While he was out on his supply run that afternoon, he had made sure to snag a couple of the few remaining bottles of champagne from the department store, as well as – miraculously enough – a lone, forgotten pack of cigarettes at the very, very back of the top shelf. They were menthols, but beggars couldn't be choosers. When he got back to the (now increasingly crowded) safehouse, he told his brother and sister that he needed a smoke break on the roof, feigned a smile and took off with his personal spoils to the roof.
Back before the world ended, Evan used to love champagne. Before everything had gone to shit, he'd bought a two-hundred dollar bottle of Cliquot Rose to share with Olivia for her birthday after everyone left. After the attack, he'd quite obviously been far too concerned with making sure that no one in the family had "the change", and the celebration of his wife's birthday had fallen to the wayside. A small piece of him still wondered if that bottle of champagne was still sitting in the bucket in their bedroom, if Olivia had found it and drank it or if looters had raided their apartment and taken it.
It was the oddest thing to wish for on his twenty-eighth birthday, but a small, miniscule part of him wished that it was gone. If it was gone then chances were high that it was because looters had raided, and if looters had raided then, well… they'd probably done what he couldn't do and killed (half of) his family.
I take that back, he thought, the deaths of half your family has to be the oddest birthday wish. But… that's what it is, I think. I hope someone was less of a fucking pussy than me, he thought with a derisive snort as he looked down over the edge of the building.
Grand Central wasn't that tall, but he could still see for hundreds of yards. Hundreds of yards of smoke, desertion and walking dead. He raised the bottle of cheap, American champagne to his lips and took another long pull. "Happy fucking birthday to me."