#prestontask1

Luca didn't dare check his voicemail. 

You have - six - new messages. To play your messages, press one. To set up your mailbox, press two. To change your PIN number, press -

He pressed the flashing red button in the lower right corner, and the call registered for twenty-three seconds before disappearing from his screen. Though alone in his dorm, he flourished his phone through the air before dropping it dramatically into his pocket, patting twice to make sure he hadn't missed.

Pausing, he frowned and quickly pulled it back out. He set the device on airplane mode before putting it away again. Then he shrugged, felt his other pocket for a lighter, and made his way out the door.

Late November winds nipped at Lea's once warm cheeks, completely negating her reason for sweeping on blush before she left her dorm room. Nights were far too chilly now as the brunette found herself standing amongst rustling naked branches and leaves that have breathed their last breaths. Pulling her Louis Vuitton scarf tighter around her neck, Lea let her mind wander as she waited for the town car she called twenty minutes prior to show. Tonight, she'd be returning to her beloved Upper East Side; the city that never slept, the city of blinding lights.

It was the night before Thanksgiving and Lea could already picture her home. Her mother would be hovering in different rooms as the chefs prepared the most decadent banquet and the florists and design team her mother hired every year to decorate their grand apartment busied about testing and placing. That's what she was going home to; that was Lea Briem's holiday norm.

As a sleek black car pulled up in front of Lea, the brunette exhaled cloud of breath in gratitude. She muttered a 'thank you' as the driver had gotten out and opened the door for her before taking her luggage and placing it in the trunk. Now that she had been enveloped in the warmth of the town car, Lea relaxed and took out her IPhone from her pocket. She turned the device in her palm before thinking of who she was going to text. She didn't care to initiate anything with anyone from school and  didn't want to disturb Theo, who at the time, was probably heavily immersed in a paper; there was always a reason not to text someone with Lea. Unlocking her phone, the brunette began to compose a message to her father:

Missing y|

As quickly as the letters appeared in the bar, they were rethought. Lea found that sending a quick 'can't wait to see you' to some of her friends in the city would be the best option and most certainly, easier. Because dealing with her father was always a bit messy; not outwardly of course, but inside.

By now, the scenery flying past Lea's eyes as she settled her gaze on the tinted window was one that she found comfortingly familiar. She was among her skyscrapers, bright lights, and buzzing sound of life once more. This was her city; this was her Manhattan and this was her heart.

When the elevator slid open to reveal her beautiful home, Lea couldn't help but smile at the welcoming aroma. Normally, homecomings were bushed off with a simple hug and a "Just tell Bert what you'd like to eat!" But this was a holiday and if there was anything Catherine Briem enjoyed, it was holidays. With a kiss on the cheek and grin from ear to ear, Catherine showed her daughter all around the apartment as though it were a showcase. In some ways, Lea believed it was and if that's what pleased her mother, that's what pleased her.

As Lea got ready for bed that night, thoughts of tomorrow found their way into her head. It'd be what had become their traditional Thanksgiving: place settings for an exact amount and a house that smelled as though the scent of warm apple pie and pumpkin spice would never leave it. Their dinner would be as grand as the table it was set on and lots of red wine would fill each glass. The ends of Lea's lips couldn't help but rise up at the thought. But quickly and as it always did, the brunette's mind had a way of always thinking of what the tradeoff would be; what was missing in the what was painted to be the perfect picture.

The waves of the ocean licked his small feet and the morning sun basked him in warmth. He carried a red plastic pail of worms, a smile on his boyish features. A tall man walked with him to the wooden cottage not far away, where a woman in blue stood with her arms crossed over her chest, his corporate long sleeves pulled up to his elbows,  his black slacks folded up to his knees. On one hand was a good fishing pole and on another was a wooden fishing tackle box. Stephen never got the chance to take a peek inside but his mind told him there was a picture of him tucked in the storage bin under the lid.

"You know what fishing is unless you catch an actual fish?" His father had asked.

Young Stephen blinked, the pail of worms swaying with every step. "It's not fishing anymore?"

"It's boring, then it is disgusting." A deep boom of laughter followed not long after. Stephen's mind paused and tried to connect the dots. He looked up at the man beside him. No face was visible, only the white of his teeth as he smiled down at him. "The garbage and everything."

Stephen turned his attention to the wooden cottage. He felt they had been walking forever but they weren't getting any closer, the figure of his mother depicted solely by a bright blue dress and caramel brown hair tousled by the salty breeze of the sea. Time didn't matter. He knew they weren't stopping soon.

"My friend Joseph taught me a good lesson the other day. You know why I fish, son?"

The kid's eyebrows furrowed, his mind racking up any witty comeback. He didn't want to disappoint his father, even at jokes. "'Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.'?"

"I fish to lose myself." His father laughed again.

Stephen didn't understand any of it but he laughed with him.

It was his 18th Thanksgiving morning. and his first Thanksgiving without family. It was also the only one that ever counted in his mind, the most important one of all. The young man knew his parents were having the time of their lives and his siblings were probably enjoying themselves as well. But the blood inside him began to boil as something within the depths of his stomach lurched against the walls of his body, lighting a fire against his skin as sweat began to accumulate on his brow. As he grew older with time, the longer the list of people he despised grew and the quicker he had to extinguish the flames of hatred in his heart, since he knew they’d only burn and sting him if he succumbed to the pain they brought. He didn’t know if his disdain for sickening world leaders or wrongful practices made him cynical, or simply human; but one thing was certain: the thought of being another year older made his throat go dry and his hands feel clammy, ripe with the notion that age was upon him. Time was like a beast, chasing him down as every fiber of his being raced onward to fruitlessly escape. He never cursed time's name, merely looked back in the darkness, the memories of his past staring back at him.

The memories of his youthful spirit and innocence always had a way of torturing him, and yet something about the whole thing consistently found a way of holding his interest. It was like he was learning from the past in the best way possible, the harsh reality of his situation sinking deeper and deeper into his skin with each heartbeat and each day - prolonged and stretched by time. The growing pains and unfamiliar sensations felt amazing to the young man, he had to admit; though masochism had never appealed to him in the slightest, making it rather difficult to explain to others who asked. The thing that terrified Evan the most was the sheer notion that he could someday be useless to the cause he sought so hard to defend. That he'd be well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age. That he'd be surrounded by people who didn't care. He understood how lucky he was to have what he wanted, and as their peaceful flag flapped in the breeze next to the stage, Evan promised that he would never allow his life to become some bitter routine.He would never stop hearing the sound of the call, the rallying of those around him would be enough.

The car door was swung open for Xavier in it's typical formality, as soon as he stepped out into the stuffy Californian air he placed the already lit cigarette lazily between his lips. As his driver pulled the door shut Xavier pushed a wad of notes into his chest,

"Take the day off Keith, Happy Thanksgiving." the last two words were a lot more cold hearted than the dismissal, "Thank you Mr. Grey!" his driver over enthusiastically replied in his strong British accent, "You too sir!".

Xavier smiled, but it was more of a grimace as the mans voice went straight through his throbbing head. It wasn't often the boy got hungovers, but last night was a peculiar one and no matter how much whiskey he and the pretty little freshman  shared between them, all emotion was still computed it it's robotic calculating mind. Of course the morning after was a feeling no man or women could avoid. 

After beckoning is driver away he pursed his lips slowly, looking at the generic A-list actor house stood towering before him, it would be hideously large if it was not for the windows instead of walls, which somehow added daniety too it. Even Xavier was surprised to receive a call from his fathers agent earlier on that week, inviting him to spend the break at home. Xavier of course knew full well it was for publicity, to trick the public into thinking Preston would be the place to throw a reign over Xavier; but the people of California were not easily fooled and he had all intentions of confirming their queries as they would ponder over the 'New direction in life' articles splashed over newspapers in their platinum white kitchens. Just as he has every year since being thrown into the school.

He took a large drag of his cigarette, eyes dancing following the shadows of his parents inside the walls, after running his hand through his hair Xavier plastered on his spoilt little rich boy smirk and tapped the door, the frame hitting his silver ring. 

Wes Donovan was a happy guy. For the first seventeen years of his life, he wasn’t arrogant or selfish enough to believe he had any reason at all to complain. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth — an heir to his father’s business, an only child to monopolize his mother’s love, and more friends than he could keep up with sometimes. There wasn’t anything he wanted that he didn’t already have. He knew it. He didn’t think he took it for granted.

His fingers twisted in the sheets of his mother’s hospital bed and he pressed his lips together in a tight line. Yesterday, Delaney had been here. Things had been easier to handle with the teasing blonde, as they always had been, but Delaney had her own family to go to and Wes was alone. Well, he was with his mom, but she had been sleeping for the last three hours, so the only real company he had was the low volume on the television playing the sounds of the Macy’s Day Parade. He knew his mother loved the silly tradition, but he didn’t dare to wake her.

Still, he was glad he didn’t listen to his parents and go home to Florida where the rest of their family was. He couldn’t imagine having a better time knowing that his mom was on the other side of the country by herself in a place surrounded by people just as sick as herself, so staying had been the only option for him. He didn’t resent his dad for leaving — he understood — but he couldn’t bring himself to make the same choice.

A few more floats and terrible lip syncing artists later, his mother stirred and Wes shot up to attention. He immediately smiled so that would be what she woke up to, but her eyes didn’t open. Instead, she clenched them tighter and let out a long groan, her hands curling around her blankets in what he could only assume was pain. When she was awake she was able to hide what the chemo and radiation did to her, but sleeping was a different story. He felt his smile slowly fade as anxiety set in. Should he try to wake her? Should he call a nurse? His heart pounded in his ears and for the millionth time since she was diagnosed, Wes realized that he had no idea what to do.

His hand reached out to grasp hers and she took it instantly. He winced at how tight her grip was, but he relaxed his fingers and let her squeeze away. Growing up, he knew this situation was always reversed. If he was scared or hurt or anything else he’d grab his mother’s hand and hold it as right as he could until he was better, and now it was her turn. “You’re okay, Mom,” he mumbled, ignoring the stinging in his eyes as he watched her face twist and contort and finally, finally relax.

She fluttered her eyes open and stared at the ceiling for a few moments before she looked towards her son. Wes tried to swallow whatever was hindering him from smiling — he had made it his mission to always smile at her — but it caught in his throat. His mother’s lips tugged into a frown before she gave him a small smile. “Hey, kiddo,” she breathed, the words short like she had just run a marathon. And maybe she had.

"Hey, Mom." His eyes shot to the floor when his voice cracked. Damn. He needed to get a hold of himself.

"What time is it?" She turned her head as if looking for an alarm clock, but she just blinked at the table next to her bed when she found one there. A few beats passed. Her face sagged. She did this a lot — forget she was in a cancer treatment center and then remember — and Wes thought her brain was really cruel for that. He imagined her dreaming of being well.

"Almost noon," he replied, giving his problems one more swallow before he finally managed a small, teasing smile. "Lazy."

She laughed, which made him feel a little better and her face a little less sad, and gave his hand another squeeze, but more gentle this time. “Thanks for not waking me,” she almost whispered.

He nodded and moved his chair back so she had a better view of the television in the corner of the room. “You missed most of it, but the grand finale’s about to come.” He tried to put enthusiasm into his voice, but the truth was that Wes was exhausted. He hadn’t slept at all the night before and had only managed about three hours before that. He couldn’t remember the last time he got a full nights sleep without the aid of alcohol and it was hard to appreciate seven hours of sleep when he woke up with a pounding head and churning stomach. Enthusiasm was difficult to come by these days.

"You’ve always been so excited to see Santa," his mother teased lightly, reaching a tender hand up to brush his cheek. He rolled his eyes and pretended to try to pull away from her, but really he just leaned into the touch more. "Thank you for being here, Wes baby. You know you didn’t have to."

He let out a sigh, a little louder and a little longer than he intended, before he straightened out his shoulders almost stubbornly. It didn’t matter how tired he was, he knew his mother was more so. Why was he acting like life was one big pity party for Wes? Wasn’t that the reason he hadn’t told anyone what was happening with his mom? To avoid people looking at him like he was the sick one?

Get it together, asshole, he silently chastened before his smile finally came easily once more.

"I’m here ‘cause I want to be, Mom," he assured, this time definitely sounding cheerful. "You’re the one telling me to be normal. It’s not Thanksgiving without you."

He expected her to make a wise crack at that, maybe something about how she didn’t remember giving birth to a sentimental daughter, but instead he watched her face slowly crumple. And, for the first time since all of this madness started, Wes watched his mother cry.

He felt his heart weigh heavily in his chest at that sight, but he refused to look away. She was so beautiful, even with her sunken eyes and her bald head and numerous tubes running in and out of her every which way, that crying looked out of place on her. He felt like he was intruding, like this was something she only did behind closed doors and he wasn’t supposed to see it, and again he felt helpless. He fidgeted in his seat, another wave of anxiety washing over him at the sinking in his gut, but he didn’t look away. “You’re going to miss Santa, Mom,” he said softly, fighting to keep his voice even.

"This is the last holiday I stay here, Wes," she sobbed out, her tiny shoulders shaking with the force of her tears. She brought his hand to her chest and kissed his knuckles, nodding along with herself as she drew deep breaths. The next time she spoke, her voice was calmer. "This is the last holiday I’m not home."

The moment was so selfish and part of Wes was glad because of it. He knew she wasn’t making that promise to him, but to herself. He felt his tension roll off him as relief sank his shoulders and he nodded, hoping she understood that he understood. Fighting this cancer for other people wasn’t the way to do things. Fighting it for herself, and only herself, was what she needed to do. It was too draining to be selfless about it. “I believe you, Mom,” he swore as she sniffed. He offered a sloppy half smile. “I’m going to hold you to it, y’know.”

She laughed again, this time a real one, and wiped her eyes with her free hand. “When did you become such a nice, young man? I think I missed they growth spurt.”

"It’s pretty recent," he jokingly assured, his lips tight in a smile. "Pretended to be Jude in a couple of his gentleman classes. I guess they’re paying off, huh?"

"Remind me to thank him." Though her eyes were still watery and red, they were shining from something besides the tears and Wes knew that, under all the machines and sickness, she was — and always would be — the same woman who raised him. She only proved this further by shooting him a quick wink. "Or perhaps I should be thanking Delaney."

He let out a short, somewhat embarrassed laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. Even though it was the last thing Wes wanted to talk about, his curiosity for his mom’s opinion overrode his temporary bout of shyness. “Why do you say that?” he asked, glancing from under his eyelashes to appear less interested than he really was.

She rolled her eyes, a sign that she saw right through him, and shook her head. “Call it mother’s intuition.” He gave her a bright, sheepish smile as his reply and she gave a mock sigh. Her eyes broke away from his to look at the TV and she gestured in sudden annoyance. “All my blubbering made me miss Santa!”

He gave a breathy laugh and leaned back into her, the panic from before completely gone. It was easy to know what to do in these times; it was easy to not feel helpless. “Football comes on next, though,” he reminded with a nudge.

"Right," she replied with a nod, "here’s the game plan — you go to the cafeteria and load up on everything you can; get a nurse to help you if you have to. Then we’re going to pig out while I man up and watch football with my son on Thanksgiving." She quirked her brow in a typical Mom I-Mean-Business way. "What’re you waiting for, slow poke? I know I’m not going anywhere, but I’d like to get this started ASAP."

Letting out a long sigh, Delaney cast her gaze around her room one last time, trying in vain to remember if she had packed everything she needed for the weekend back at home. She'd spent the last hour packing, throwing whatever was in her line of sight into her suitcase. Technically, Del was supposed to be home already, cuddling up with her sisters as they watched the dog show - Delia always wanted the Shih Tzu to win best in show - and helping her mom with the cooking for their yearly dinner with the Whittakers. instead, Del was going to arrive into Myrtle Beach only half an hour before the dinner was set to start. Her mother hadn't been too happy when she'd found out, but Delaney had seen it as the best compromise. And anyways, it was only a few hours. Not seeing anything more that was essential, Del zipped up her suitcase and stood up, glancing at her phone for the time. It was 6:30 already, which meant that she needed to get moving in order to meet Wes in time, so that they would be able to make it to the treatment center by 9. 

A large bouquet of yellow and white flowers, wrapped up with a neat pink bow, and a small pumpkin pie lay on her bed. She'd spent close to an hour at the local florist before she'd been satisfied, trying to pick out the perfect bouquet. Scooping them up, Del placed the items inside of a bag, before grabbing her suitcase and heading out of the room. It was already quite cool outside, though it wasn't even December yet. Still, Del loved this sort of weather. There wasn't this sort of thing in South Carolina, where mild winters were the norm. She found something magical in the bitter cold and snow, even if it left her freezing and chilled to the bone. Pulling her scarf tighter around herself, Del stepped outside of Trinity and stood by the door, shielded at least from the gusty wind. Clutching the flowers, Delaney waited for Wes, slightly nervous for the upcoming hours. It wasn't that she was meeting his mom for the first time - it wasn't - but this felt different for some reason. 

If Carter had to pick one thing he never ever thought he’d find himself doing, hiding in one of Preston’s many winding staircases on a Thursday night, a bottle of something brown and strong sitting next to him would probably come on the very top of the list. Except it wasn't just any Thursday night, it was Thanksgiving, because stuffing one's face full for dinner made any reagular day special. The being with family part does, a trecherous part of him thought. Carter fiddled with the neck of the bottle absently. He had nicked it from the stash Carson thought he kept oh-so-secret and he really did need to find a better hiding spot than their shared closet. The unmarked bottle had looked normal among the more than likely illegal things his roommate kept and had so far proven to be harmless in the three or so hours of sporadic drinking. (He had been sulking for two of those hours, drinking his way from his room to anywhere, but he wouldn't admit to it.) Carter had managed to get tipsy enough that he didn't so much mind the hard floor he was sitting on and Carson would find a better hiding spot, it was a win-win situation.

Staring out into the empty hallway made him realize how loud Preston was. Wwithout the everpresent chatter and stray groups walking up and down the stairs at every hour, the silence of the place was unnerving. It said much of his state that he didn't even consider sitting in the middle of a frequent pathway while trying to get pissed on some unknown brew. He took a swing off the bottle and nearly dropped it when his phone rang, the sound startling him as it resonated through the empty air. He unlocked the screen, its bluish glow helpfully letting him know that he had a new text.

VIEW MESSAGE FROM: DAD (DON'T PICK UP)

"No. Nope. Not dealing with this shit." Carter announced to the steps, hands flailing wildly. "If I'm gonna be grateful for something this year, it's not talking with my dad. Nope." A broad gesture of his hand sent the phone clattering down the few steps. He felt like like burying his hands in his hair and not getting the phone at all and why do you feel like crying, Carter? You're not a sad drunk, you're— "Fuck."