He endured the stares, indicating his desire to leave again with a broad smile, and then he was on the sidewalk outside Bellevue Hospital, making his way across town with a wad of cash in his pocket and his arms wound around his torso, staving off the chill.
- - - - -
Zan learned several things on his way across town. One that it was a little past eight in the evening, which meant Macy’s would still be open when he got there. And two, it wasn’t just slightly chilly, it was ******** freezing. The skyscraper-induced wind tunnels were in full effect, turning the streets into an arctic gauntlet. By the time he reached Herald Square, he couldn’t feel his face. Even without functional lips, he still managed a cordial smile.
"Coats?"
The dismal security guard broke out of his thousand yard stupor and grated, "Fifth floor."
Zan didn’t much like department stores, even if he did quite like to shop. Maybe it was because the few that existed in the city were usually packed with goggle-eyed tourists and bargain-hunting suburbanites. This late, however, the place was nearly empty, a yawning expanse of scuffed floors and shameless disarray. He rode the creaking escalator to five and stepped off into a sea of polyester and nylon. Fur collars lined the far walls, but they were not for him. No, Zan was here for the blue, orange, purple, red monstrosities right in front of him, the ones that winked and smiled garishly as soon as he joined them on the landing.
He inched closer, reaching out to touch the nearest puffy marshmallow mistake. He’d be the talk of the Prytaneum in one of these.
- - - - -
With the store as empty as it was, it didn’t take long at all for Zan to emerge with a new coat, his former shivering soon replaced by nothing more than curious squinting and foggy breath. He turned south and west, strolling past stressed out students and rainbow flags and angry homeless until he reached a nondescript florist’s shop, devoid of life at this late hour save for the cat curled in the window and the unmoving plants themselves. He ducked close to a neighboring door, jabbing his finger at the buzzer for Apartment 8 in a simple but secret rhythm, then waited for a response, hands shoved into his pockets. When the door buzzed back and he was permitted inside, Zan took one last look at the empty street before he slipped inside and up the stairs. A surly man waited for him on the landing, the only indication that he was pleased by this late night visit a slight warmth to his eyes that those who didn’t know him wouldn’t have noticed at all.
"Mister Gethin."
"Osmund."
"How wonderful for you to visit. I haven’t seen you since... June, was it?"
Oz knew exactly how long it had been.
"June. Yes. I’ve been busy training for a new job."
"You? Really."
"Me. Really. It’s steady work and I get to travel..." He shrugged.
"So, you’re here for your things."
"Yeah. And to say goodbye for a while. And to ask about Nia."
The man nodded. "This way."
- - - - -
Zan strode into Oz’s apartment like it was his own, effectively hiding his reaction to its current appearance. The last time he had been here, things hadn’t looked quite so... ********. The glass fronts of the kitchen cabinets had been shattered, several unknown stains marred the carpet, and worst of all, Oz’s always impressive green, leather chair had a trio of matching gouges carved into its back. He took a seat in it anyway, the rips bulging with foam stuffing.
"Nia was fine two weeks ago when she did all of this," Oz said, crossing his legs, a single velveteen slipper raised in the air. "I would hold you accountable, but I don’t think you would be able to replace even a quarter of my ruined belongings, new job or not."
"You would be correct," Zan replied, a shallow swallow the only indication that he had anticipated being held responsible anyway, no matter what Oz said. "So thank you for that."
"I haven't seen her since, even so."
Zan nodded, thoroughly unsurprised but still a little disappointed. His mother had never been the type to stay in one place for long, which is probably where he'd learned it, but he couldn't help his desire to see her every once in a while, even if she was in the mood to slash a man's chair.
"I'm sorry about—"
Osmund waved his hand. "There's nothing for you to apologize for, my boy." He stood again, curling his fingers toward Zan. "Come and gather your things and then we can catch up."
