When the Snakes Slither By

Will isn't being nostalgic on purpose. He's supposed to be cleaning, decluttering his life, because he doesn't like things feeling too messy and disorganized. Papers being in odd places and fishing lure materials being strewn about the house is a bit messy, but in a way that Will can accept. The mess in his closet, his pantry, his desk, and the space under his bed, however, is nowhere near acceptable, though probably more organized in its own strange way.

But Will is in a cleaning mood today, so he cleans. He pulls everything out from under his bed first, and begins to organize what he finds. He then continues over to his closet, pulling everything out of it except his clothes and shoes. Those can be worried about at a later date.

As he begins organizing what he pulled from his closet, he comes across a small suitcase stuck at the back, hidden under boxes and spiderwebs. Will cringes as he feels the spiderweb while pulling the bag out of the closet, hoping there aren't any spiders on or in his old suitcase. He lays it on the ground, coughing as dust flies into the air. He's still coughing as he unzips the bag. He doesn't have to wonder what's inside.

The inside of the suitcase is almost bare, save for a few photographs, some documents, a couple of old books, and several Louisiana postcards. An invisible force tugs roughly at his heartstrings, and he considers the idea that perhaps pulling this suitcase out of the closet was a bad idea. He disregards the thought, along with the way his eyes burn and his chest aches, and pulls the contents from the suitcase.

He reaches for the postcards first. He slips them into the top drawer of his bedside table, but not before pressing a kiss to the top of the stack. He tries not to think about how much he misses his old home.

He goes for the documents next, old copies of his personal information, and slips them into the second drawer of his bedside table. He then examines the two books, one from his father and one from his mother.

From wasn't exactly the right word. The book had belonged to Will's mother, but it was yet another thing she'd left behind when he was young. His father had kept it and given it to him as a parting gift when he left home.

"What's this?" Will asks, unwrapping another box amongst his graduation presents. He quickly realizes it's a book, and his eyes light up when he catches sight of the cover. " A Brief History of Time ," he reads aloud, "by Stephen Hawking. Doesn't exactly seem like your speed, dad. Or mine."

Will's dad laughs. "I didn't think so either, but..."

Will raises an eyebrow. "But what?"

Will's dad seems reluctant to respond, and upon his reply Will realizes why. "It was your mother's."

Will can't keep his expression from twisting unpleasantly. He lays the book on the table.

"She was interested in—"

"I don't care," Will interrupts. "I don't care about what she did, or what she liked, or anything else about her. She's gone."

Will's dad frowns, and Will is almost afraid he'll start yelling. Nowadays, it's a toss-up between dropping the subject or screaming at Will.

"Sweetheart," he begins, but Will isn't having it.

"I don't want to talk about her." Will forces a smile. "This is a good day. Let's keep having a good day." He picks up another present, a small, thin square. "I wonder," he says, "could this be the Best of Queen album I asked for?"

Will's dad smiles, and Will's own smile becomes genuine.

Will sets the book aside and picks up the photographs, flipping the lid of the suitcase closed and zipping it shut. He shuffles through the pictures, all of them old, until he comes across one in particular; it's the last picture Will had taken of himself before he left Louisiana for good. Will stares at the photograph, and almost feels as if he's looking at a stranger. He sighs, then looks over at the copy of A Brief History of Time. He picks up the book, tucking the photo between two random pages.