Michigan [Larry Stylinson AU]

July - September

This mentions heavy non-consensual elements and other things that may be triggering. The next part is unfortunately private, and if you don't want to follow me you can read it on AO3. Just click the external link of this chapter and it'll take you there. Take care xx

July

The strap of Harry's backpack scorches and rubs his naked shoulder as it bounces on his thigh, held down by the brick-heavy packing. Heat prickles through his tank top like beestings. People walk in broad circles around him, his gaze straying from their faces to his cocked thumb and the machine across South Street. The cigarette he bites isn't even lit. Taxis stop five feet away to pick up ancient ladies with grandchildren and men similar to his dad. As no one spares him a pair of friendly eyes he melts into the concrete. His hand drops into a forgotten pocket, fumbling for comfort to dive into a hole the size of four thick digits. No lighter either. He could light the stick by holding it to the sun, but it isn't past noon yet, and he'll have plenty of time to kill when he sits waiting for the night, time to search or buy a new one.

The woman on a bench behind clears her throat and scrapes her heels against the ground. He turns, and by the fire in her bleak eyes lets the useless cigarette drop dead on the asphalt between them. Her bitter features smoothen and she leaves her seat in a light breeze, chin up high as she rounds Harry in a wide detour. He sees her chubby ankles jiggle even from where he stands.

Conversations about the financial market and national shootings buzz in a thick day-rhythm on these streets, where most of the participants are retirees whose opinions have since long been forfeited by their young counterparts. A man in a mustard jacket bears a "FEED THE POOR - END POVERTY" sign on his torso and back and shakes a small empty jar when an unfortunate soul gets too close. Light dances in his eyes when Harry stops three feet away.

"Sir," he says and hurries forward, "would you be so kind to spare a dollar for the poor?"

Harry scrunches his nose at the stench of spoiled ham and oregano. Studying the dirtied jar in the man's outreached hands he makes a show of staring from that to the man's red moustache and back to his own clothes that show more skin than they hide. Sun hasn't bitten him all summer.

"You're asking the wrong guy," he says. "Try outside the malls instead."

Endless roads build before him, and after his brief head start the man calls out to his shrinking back in the crowd. The rolling gravel beneath his shoes reminds him of stampede, and when no soothing voice whispers in his ear it's difficult to look beyond that anger locked in the people around him to see the world's grace. They mutter and whine about happiness, success they'll never lay a finger on. Garbage litters the alleys like a reflection of their high hopes. The garbage is a universal thing, and like the sun everyone depends on it. Even the corners back in Brick hold them as trademark. Foremost the alleys serve as haven for his likes.

The glittering asphalt on Rodman Street opens a path to Bradford Alley, a path he's yet to familiarize with. The further from centrum he travels the fewer bags of forgotten groceries fight for space. As he turns the corner a force tugs the bag from his shoulder and tugs him onto the ground. His things empty out and stones gather in his hair. He rolls over on his side with a steadfast grip on his belongings. The source of his fall stands up on the knees, coughing, and reaches out a battered hand.

"I tripped, and you were the closest lifeline," the man says. "I didn't mean to bring you down with me." Harry ignores the gesture and pulls himself up, packing his stuff back in.

"That wasn't my fault, was it? Otherwise I can fix it for you real quick."

Harry stares to his thank top, where patches of skin speckle the fabric, and his battered arms.