friendofcasper (friendofcasper) wrote in birthrightrpg, @ 2020-12-23 19:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | flynn russo, npc |
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Who: Flynn/NPC Ryan Russo
What: Christmas Visit
Where: Searchlight, Flynn's Trailer
When: Christmas Day, Present
Ratings/Warnings: S for Sadness
He was used to spending holidays alone, even if sometimes he wasn’t always alone in the most technical sense. This year felt a little different. His father had called Flynn the week before to let his son know that a perfunctory holiday visit wasn’t necessary, he had been feeling under the weather anyway, and would just as soon spend the entire day in bed. Flynn agreed easily.
Now he wondered, as he sat in his trailer, nursing his fourth beer of the evening, if maybe he should have pushed a little harder. Maybe the old man was testing him. Lawrence Beals had finally left Flynn alone, at least, for the time being, but he still felt the aftermath of spending prolonged time with the chaotic spirit.
He had texted Ellie to let her know what was up, and that he didn’t want her to see him this way and to give him a few days. The television was on but the volume was down. Three empty bottles and a takeout container sat on the cheap coffee table as Flynn sank deeper into his couch nest.
He definitely wasn’t expecting to hear an insistent knocking on his trailer door. The young man sat up, turning his head quizzically toward the sound, as if that was sufficient investigation. When the pounding grew louder, Flynn heaved a sigh and got up, crossing the space to look out of the peephole.
“Dad?” He swung open the door to see his father, looking rather wan and tired, standing on his front stoop. “What are you doing here?” Flynn craned his neck to look for his father’s car, but could only see his own Challenger parked in the drive. “Come inside, you’re not even wearing a jacket.” The older man was dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, and there was a chill in the air. He followed his son inside the trailer.
“Looks different.” Ryan Russo finally spoke as he walked around the periphery of Flynn’s living space, looking at the walls. He knew his dad would zone in on the various pieces of art that Ellie had been leaving around. “You take up drawing or something?”
“No, those are from…” Flynn sighed under his breath before continuing. “Those are from a girl I’m seeing. She’s an artist. Her name is Ellie.” He grabbed two fresh beers from the fridge, used the bottle opener magnet on the door to open them both, and set one on the table for his dad before settling back into the couch with the other.
“She’s your girlfriend?” his father asked dubiously. He knew his son’s history with relationships. They didn’t tend to last long enough to garner any labels. Flynn would get too deep in his head about whether to tell them or not about his abilities. Scenario A would end with him being called too distant and closed off. Scenario B would involve being met with a grating mixture of pity and disbelief.
“Ellie is special to me,” the younger man answered, clenching his beer and keeping his eyes glued to the TV screen. If his father was going to stick around, it would take a Christmas miracle for them not to get sucked into a decades-old argument that they could never seem to finish.
The older man sat down in the chair next to the couch, eyed the beer in front of him but made no move to drink it. Maybe he really wasn’t feeling well, Flynn thought to himself. “You tell her about your problem yet?”
Flynn finally turned his gaze in his father’s direction, brown eyes flashing in the blue-ish light cast from the television. “And what problem would that be, exactly?” He leaned forward and set his bottle down on the table before spreading his palms in the air. “I have quite a few, so you’ll have to be specific.”
Ryan regarded his son closely, not saying anything, just watching. He had a salt and pepper version of Flynn’s thick brown hair, and the same dark brown eyes. He was shorter than his son, and slighter in build. He always said Flynn got his height and attitude from his own old man. “I’m not using the right word, but you know what I mean,” he answered wearily. “What would you prefer? Gift? Talent?”
“I thought you said you were sick,” Flynn answered, his voice going slightly flat. Whenever they entered this territory, he could always picture metal gates slamming shut around his heart and mind, protective and impenetrable. It might have been a little on the nose and literal, but it seemed to work. “Got tired of staying in bed?”
“I don’t know,” his dad answered with a tired shrug. “Just thought of you, and it seemed like the next moment, I was here. Didn’t really plan it.”
“Well, I don’t have any food, really,” Flynn told him in a strangely combative voice, as if tensed and ready to argue the point with his father if necessary. “And I doubt anything in town is open.” His foot tapped frenetically. There was something making him more uneasy than usual, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. “If you had given me a heads up, I could have bought something.”
His father leaned back further in the chair, as if the effort of holding his body upright was just too much to handle at the moment. “I’m not hungry,” he replied placidly. “I just wanted to see you, Flynn.”
He turned and looked at his father, a sharp pang of guilt flashing briefly enough that he almost missed it. His dad did look a little sick. There was a concrete grayness about him that made Flynn depressed, followed with the thought that he wished the man had just stayed home and left him alone.”You can stay here, if you want,” he told his dad. “So you don’t have to drive again tonight.”
“I would appreciate that,” Ryan replied, his voice sounding more distant. Flynn watched him for a moment, unsure of what else to say, before getting up and grabbing an extra pillow and blanket out of his bedroom. He set it down on the couch.
“I’m gonna pill myself to sleep. You okay out here?”
His father waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine. I think I just overexerted myself. I’ll sleep it off.” The man paused, looking down at the floor before sweeping his gaze upward to meet his eye. “Good night, Flynn.”
“Good night, dad.”
He closed his bedroom door shut behind him, and looked at the silhouette of his bed in the darkness. It hadn’t been as welcoming as it usually was, and Flynn eyed it cautiously, as if it were a potentially venomous snake curled up in a corner, waiting to strike when his guard was down.
True to his word, he entered the small bathroom, pulled open the mirrored medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Ativan, shaking two tablets out into his palm. Flynn ducked his head to drink water from the tap, then popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed.
Flynn peeled off his t-shirt and pants and tossed them at the foot of his bed before climbing resignedly under the covers. His dad must not have been fully asleep yet, he mused to himself. The man usually snored like a bear. That was the last fully formed thought he would have that night.
He woke up sometime around 10:30 the next morning. Flynn sat up slowly, reaching for the bottle of water on his night stand. His mouth was unbearably dry and he drank half the bottle in one sitting before capping it up and setting it down. He swung himself out of bed and padded blearily to the living room to check on his father.
There was no sign of anyone in the living room or kitchen. Confused, Flynn looked at the couch where the blanket and pillow sat, unmoved and untouched from where he had left it the night before. “Dad?” he called out. No answer. Where did he leave his phone? Back into the bedroom he went, searching his night stand, through his covers, before remembering the discarded pile of jeans at the end of his bed.
He dug his phone out of his pocket and typed up a text to his dad, then got into a clean set of clothes. Still no answer. Flynn texted him again and went to brush his teeth and wash his face. Once that was done, his phone still remained message-less.
A mild pit of worry had begun to dig its way inside. Flynn frowned, dialing his father’s number and bringing the phone to his ear. With each unanswered ring, he could feel his throat start to tighten and his stomach sink further. Unable to handle it, the man grabbed his keys and walked out to his car. Getting behind the wheel of his Challenger, Flynn sat impatiently as the vehicle warmed up.
There weren’t very many cars on the road on the way to Henderson, and Flynn crept a little bit more over the speed limit after each passing minute. It took less than forty minutes to reach his former, childhood home, now just his father’s home. His dad’s black ‘72 Buick Skylark sat in the driveway under its dust cover.
With the extra key on his ring, Flynn let himself into the house. “Dad?” he called out again. “You awake?” He looked down at the floor in front of the door, a pile of mail strewn about from being tossed through the slot. It had to have been from Wednesday, at least, he thought to himself.
He passed the hallway, walked back toward the kitchen. Flynn froze in his tracks. On the floor, leading into the kitchen, lay his father, completely still. He made himself move, lurch forward, crouch down to his knees as he touched his father gently on the shoulder at first, then rougher, until he was practically shaking the man’s inert form. His skin was completely cool to the touch.
“Dad, wake up. Come on.”