#also look at that cute divider kit found for me kashlkhas it's the last of us but no it's not it's linds and maisie

[lindsohalloran]

WHO: ashton ryder ( @ashton-ryder ) WHERE: the atrium WHEN: march 15 / late evening, post-release from quarantine

for as many weeks ― nay, months ― as he'd spent not even a block away from the wexley, trying to scope out what he could of his surroundings from the snowed-over rooftop of the elementary school where he and maisie hunkered down for the winter, none of his many observations could have prepared him for the state of the place once he'd entered. in spite of the debris that litters the lobby ( further inspection leads him to believe it was a planned detonation to protect the residents within, swifter and ultimately more effective than a constructed barricade ) the building remains in surprisingly decent repair and there are significantly more survivors hidden within its walls than lindsay could've possibly estimated. it feels surreal, for lack of a better word ; he's not been closer to a visual representation of normalcy in just shy of half a year and, quite frankly, he isn't sure what to make of it.

he's still on alert as he walks the perimeter of the atrium, hands tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket and gaze constantly scanning, observing ; slow and methodical, he takes the time to map out the floor. ( he'll inspect the upper floors later but the atrium and its attached diner seem to be a central hub for activity, and considering he's been told this is where he's been told their daily meals will be rationed, it seems as worthwhile a place to start as any. ) details are neatly filed away, faces and conversations and locations to be mulled over once he's returned to the flat they've been assigned, the same one where maisie now sleeps soundly. the antibiotics have been helping ; his reservations about the safety and authenticity of this place are tempered by a debt of kindness he doesn't know if he'll ever have the means to repay.

perhaps the most surreal of all, though, is the presence of a familiar face amidst a backdrop of stark unfamiliarity ; it catches his attention swiftly, as if he's been mindlessly spinning the dial of a radio to the static drone of white noise only to catch the sonic scraps of a song he knows by heart but hasn't heard in years. decades, more like. lindsay does not freeze on the spot as instinct might suggest upon receiving a hearty slap of shock to the face at a glimpse of the past, though his footfalls do slow, giving him time to determine whether he can trust his own eyes. and he can. he looks older now ― he is older, it seems a foolish observation, but that's not what lindsay means. the last time he'd seen ashton ryder, he was a young man. ( they both were, even if lindsay was still nearly a decade his senior. ) he was a spitfire then, bright-eyed and brash. time and circumstance may have that subdued that flame, but lindsay never forgets a face.

he walks with purpose now ― not enough to draw any unwarranted attention, but there's a destination to his trajectory. ❝ ryder? ❞ he calls as he draws near, his volume barely above conversational to catch the other man's attention. ❝ i cannae believe ― ashton ryder? ❞