The sky was full of fireflies. Or so he could pretend, staring up at the darkness, lights bright and dim sparkling in the twilight. He had never actually seen real fireflies -- it was too cold for them up here -- but he had heard about them, about how they lit up the plains in the darkness, giving everyone a way to get home.

He wanted a way home.

This wasn't home anymore. It wouldn't be for long, anyway. Sitting on his bed -- no, their bed, it wasn't his anymore, it never was his -- staring out the window, he felt ripped away from what he loved and knew. He was in a stanger's house leeching of their hospitality. He was annoying, he was useless, they were watching him like owls waiting for him to make one right move so they could get rid of him forever. He could imagine them somehow staring through his door, waiting for him to make one wrong move, as if he could make a right move at this point.

Alden sighed softly as he rolled back onto the bed, staring up at the gloomy ceiling. It seemed like he had so many options. He could run away, leave this behind, prove to them that he could survive without them. The idea tore at his heart, however, and he knew even as he berated himself for foolishness that he could not do it. He could then sleep until tomorrow, pretending eveything would be all right. That idea tore at his brain and logic, which knew that there was no way this would ever be all right. Then there was the middle idea, the weak attempt at balancing the two extremes: leave until tomorrow.

Yet where would he go? What was the point? He risked getting caught, which would make the ground beneath him shakier, send him deeper into a mud pit. Though, could he get any farther? There wasn't anything left; even he could see that. No amount of optimism was going to pull him out of this. A little optimism may help him keep going, though, for at that moment, his mind was telling him that there was nothing beyond this, that when the decision was made and all was said and done, he would be nothing anymore. Nothing at all.

Slowly, painfully, he rolled out of bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. He threw a coat around his shoulders, not even bothering to change into something more appropriate, not particularly caring how cold it may be outside. Freezing, scalding hot, it didn't matter. He still would feel like he was on fire and yet ice cold on the inside.

He creaked open his door, listened, then opened it slowly. Out in the hallway there was nothing beyond cracks of moonlight filtering through a few windows. The rest of the doors were closed, the way to the stairs free. He gently shut the door, then walked softly but briskly to the stairs, descending them as rapidly as he dared. At the bottom, he paused, sucking in a breath, listening to the house. It almost breathed.

No sounds from the kitchen, nothing from the living room, but from the study room there came a rustling. He froze, not daring to breathe, wishing he could stop his heart lest it be heard, squeezing the railing of the stairs. Yet no one came into the room, eyes blazing, having been waiting for him to make this very slip. No one crept down the stairs and grasped his shoulder as a signal that he had screwed up for the last time. Instead, there was silence, himself and paranoia having a quiet love affair by the stairs.