# Home Is Where Your Heart Is

Title: Home Is Where Your Heart Is
Status: Complete
Characters: Anon
Rating: SFW
Classification: One Shot
Author: P.M.
​
>Anon knew it would eventually come to this
>At this point, he's only delaying the inevitable
>A mountain of bills lay stacked on a table. Too many to count, all marked late with red inked stamps
>Creditors had even started garnishing his navy stipend in an effort to get their money back
>Turns out gambling is a terrible hobby to have when your expendable income can be counted with your fingers
>Especially if you're not getting money in return
>He can't afford the legal work required to properly declare bankruptcy. Those assholes are sure to fuck him over just like that crayon-eating navy recruiter
>All he has are artfully rendered images that remind him of better times
>The game attached to those images lost its appeal a long time ago. It's on his phone out of habit
>It's hard to leave something that's been a part of his life for so long, especially when some of those images remind him of a love long lost
>There's nothing left worth selling to pay the bills. All that remains in his skin row apartment is what came with it
>His half-broken phone might fetch twenty dollars if he haggled hard enough
>He might end up doing that. It's not like he has a phone plan. No-one phones him anyway
>Wifi works just fine to shitpost with and gamble his life away
​
>There's not much time left. His landlord already gave him the ultimatum weeks ago, and today's the day. Money or eviction
>Anon slams the apartment keys down on the bills as his answer before leaving, the entryway door noisily protesting the movement
>Yet something nags at him, demanding he look back at his empire of dirt
>He obliges, turning around to take in one last sight of what was comfortable living
>Mounds of garbage bags, Smoke stained carpets and moldy drywall greet his vision
>He really thought he could do it, just drift through life like he always wanted to
>Life really seems to have it out for him
>...or maybe it's just him. His own worst enemy
>A coward who can't even use a coil of rope correctly
>One consolation he holds tight to his heart is that no-one he's ever known can see how far he's fallen
​
>Cold evening air bites through the layers of Anon's clothing
>Guess that's the first thing on the agenda.
>The trip to the local charity is much more fruitful than he expected. The charity workers must have been trying for weeks to get rid of these clothes
>Sure all of them have various bodily fluids on them and smell horrible, but at least he's warm
>It's only been a few hours and he's already fitting the part of being a hobo
>Now he just needs some cardboard signs written in sharpie displaying his plight to complete the look
>That can come later. It's far too late at night to consider anything but sleep
>Despite looking the part, none of the local homeless camps want to deal with him
>Too large a risk to just let some unknown person waltz in, especially a skinny.
>Other potential places were either too exposed or already had measures in place to prevent people like him from sleeping there
>That rainbow coloured boulder in the alcove was the icing on the cake.
>He can't go on forever. The lethargy attacking his mind and legs threatens to knock him out as he walks
>A metallic sheen illuminated by a streetlight catches his vision
>A large commercial dumpster in a dead-end alley. Certainly large enough to fit Anon, and the shop its behind looks abandoned
>He wanders over, flipping up the lid to reveal its contents. Cardboard, styrofoam, and some plastic sheeting.
>Surprise grips him. It looks too good to be true
>Then again, who lives in a garbage container? Guess it'll be him. Trash begets trash he figures
>Anon hops in, pushing the cardboard around to make sleeping space
>The damp smell of mold reminds him of home as he makes himself comfortable
>...Good enough. The spores can be roommates with the cigarette tar in his lungs
​
>Days turn into weeks turn into months as Anon gets himself into a routine
>Wake up whenever, wander to some crowded place, beg for food or money, get chased out by the police or angry mobs. Repeat until it's time to return to the dumpster for sleep
>He wasn't sure what was worse, being ostracized or being completely ignored
>At least the people chasing him confirm he exists first
>Some days are better than others, but Anon's addiction to cigarettes forces a choice onto him. Hunger or peace from his cravings?
>Other days he doesn't get to make that choice, the bruises along his body bearing witness to disagreements escalated by irritability
>His phone didn't make it through one of those days, his last link to the internet completely severed
>The long periods of downtime give Anon plenty of time to think, to yearn, to regret
>All those years, wasted. Everything he did to prevent this, worthless. Every person who ever cared about him, long gone
>All that time spent trying to get a laugh from people who now would prefer seeing him beaten or dead, pointless
>It really put the plight of the homeless into perspective for him, now having first-hand experience
>If he could go back in time, he would be the one punching himself on that beach, unleashing all his rage and regret into someone too dumb to know just how good he had it
>Yet, despite everything, a burning desire exists in Anon's heart for the first time in his life
>It isn't enough to simply exist, listlessly drifting down the river of life
>If he ever gets out of this living hell, he's going to make absolutely certain he never returns
​
>Anon startles awake with a bang and sudden crushing pressure on his body
>The blinding light above him is quickly obscured as piles of junk are tossed in
>Just his fucking luck that someone would actually use the dumpster for its intended purpose
>All his shouting doesn't stop them. It almost seems to encourage them to pile it in faster
>The voices above are too deep to be human. God damned racist dinosaurs
>By the end of it, Anon can hardly breathe, the large mass of it pressing down on his chest
>He pushes up against the trash ceiling, his emaciated arms shaking under strain
>His fears of being buried alive are alleviated as he feels his obstacle shift, a small window of light appearing overhead
>He rests for a minute before continuing his self-excavation
>Push and rest. Push and rest
>The shifting glare from the skylight above counts the time as Anon drives himself to sheer exhaustion
>With one final heave, the way opens up, the hole opening just enough to let Anon squeeze himself through
>He slumps down on the concrete, his back against his home, as he greedily replaces the mold in his lungs with fresh air
>If it wasn't already late enough in the day, Anon is in no condition to go anywhere. Today is chosen for him, he goes hungry
>He still needs to clean out his home before the sun sets
>One staggering lurch later, Anon finds himself upright, facing the dumpster
>...There's a lot of junk in there
>Better get started
​
>Streetlights sparked on, giving Anon the last of the light he needed to scour the dumpster
>He bends in and grabs one final bag, giving it a heaving throw onto the pile with the rest of its kind
>He'd have to go through them later. There might be something usable inside
>Anon hefts himself up, feet swinging over into his home before stopping
>Something is rubbing up against his shoes. The bottom of the dumpster isn't that shallow
>He hops off the metal rim, and reaches back in, feeling for the foreign object
>Oh hey, comes with a handle.
>Anon pulls it free, the streetlight outlining a curved shape
>What even is this?
>He pulls the object up to the light, illuminating the edges
>An oblong body, a long section, an oddly placed handle
>It's a guitar case, and judging by its weight, it's not empty
>The clasps holding the body together are undone, the lid flipped open
​
>What greets Anon makes him wonder if he should grab a lottery ticket with the remaining change in his pocket
>A beat up acoustic guitar stares back at him
>The face of the guitar well worn, well loved. The varnish is peeling off in patches, with stickers of unknown bands and albums patterned across it
>The fretboard is similarly dull, surviving countless days and countless hands. The metal frets have worn notches from strings grinding against it over all the years
>The metal gleam on the strings mark them as new, unblemished by the elements
>He pulls the guitar out of its case, resting it on his lap, feeling the weight and shape of it against his body
>His hand up running and down the neck reveals the flaw that destined it for the landfill
>Its wooden neck is slightly twisted, having fought a losing battle against the tensioned strings for years and years
>Anon feels a kindred spirit somewhere in there. It's broken, broken just like him
>He fiddles with the tuning keys, memories of old songs used as a guide
>But what to play?
>It's been so long since he played a guitar, not since those lazy days in the room of a person he used to love
>There's only one song his fingers remember. It drives daggers into his heart to even consider it, but it's all he knows.
>Quavering hands get into position, and he strums the the first notes
>The sounds reach his ears as his heart screams at him to stop, yet he presses on. Everything that he can remember about those days sounds out through the guitar
>The resulting melody that echoes out is incomplete, off key, broken. Absolutely perfect
>The soundtrack to Anon's life
>He plays late into the night, until his heart can finally take it, like a bitter medicine
>His eyes are another story, but he doesn't need clear vision to play
>If anyone cares enough to ask, it's raining
​
>The days and weeks that followed made Anon feel like he had entered into another world
>As it turns out, people are much more willing to help a musician who looks down on his luck over a dirty hobo
>Even if his playing is atrocious
>They were either paying for Anon to continue playing, or for him to stop
>He desperately hoped it was the former. At least people aren't pretending he doesn't exist anymore
>Also turns out that 24-hour gym chains are a cheap place to clean up. Get a membership and go during the dead hours near midnight
>Can even sneak in a few hours of sleep in a warm building if the cameras don't see him
>Between that and some new clothes, he almost looks presentable
>The transient audiences he plays for seem to think so too, as the amount of money being thrown into his guitar case increases week to week
>Even if Fang didn't mean to, even if she didn't want to, Anon feels her ethereal presence, helping him despite everything that happened
>He thinks of her whenever he tries to piece together the shattered memories of what they played together
>...He should have talked to her when he had the chance, or at least stayed until she had finished for the day
​
>Another day completed
>Anon's starting to think he's actually pretty good with the guitar
>The cardboard sign adorning his open case now has a section for requests
>He might not be able to play every request, but his repertoire was growing by the week
>Sometimes giving an earnest try was enough to satisfy them
>He rounds a familiar corner, ready to be done for the day
>...It's gone
>It felt too soon, yet it had to happen at some point
>The company that owns that dumpster must have finally come around to collect it
>He takes a moment to observe the brightened shadow of where it used to stand.
>He didn't think he would be this attached to it, but it was a place he called home
>Someplace safe enough to let his guard down
>Someplace to rest
>Everything he left in there is gone. He can only thank Raptor Jesus that he always brings his guitar with him, else he would be back to begging for scraps
>Back to being ignored
>Anon checks his wallet, contemplating renting a motel room for the night, or trying his luck at the fitness center
>The glare of the sun makes his choice for him. If he's going to rent a room, he may as well busk somewhere until the sun sets
>It'll give him some money, and some time to think
​
>The commercial zone near Volcano High is always a good choice
>At this time of day, the place is crowded with affluent students milling about, looking for things to alleviate their boredom
>A good portion have headphones in, closing off the outside world, but enough of them are looking for an experience they can talk about with their friends
>The loose change and bills in his guitar case can attest to that
>One dinosaur in particular has been hanging around for a while, a blue brachiosaurus. Certainly too old to be a student
>Anon would be annoyed at how the guy's been looking down at him, but with a neck like that, he likely doesn't have a choice
>Maybe the guy is looking for inspiration? A guitar case decorated with emblems and decals sits by his feet
>One of them sparks something in Anon's memory, but the resulting shape isn't concrete enough to grasp
>A stylized 'W' flanked by wings. The brachio's case is littered with them. Perhaps his indie band logo?
>Either way, the last beams of light leaking from the horizon mark the end of Anon's busking. He grabs at the money floating around his guitar case
>"Done for the day?"
>Anon pockets the last of the cash before turning around, casting his gaze upwards at his solitary audience member
>"Yeah."
>He shifts side to side, eyes unfocused, clearly in thought
>"Mind taking one more request?"
>A request eh? If Anon didn't know any better, he'd think the guy was his first fan
>Anon gives him an affirmative nod. He's already here, and it's not like he has anything to be late for
>The request he's given sinks his heart
>A song of his own
>He's not a musician. He doesn't understand any of the intricacies involved with creating music. Mimicking the works of others is the sole thing he's capable of
>The only thing that could come close to his own music would be the the broken melodies floating in his soul
>Does that even count? Fang was the one who made that music. All he did was provide some thoughts, maybe some motivation
>...it's all he has
>Old memories of a time long lost filled Anon's vision, the world around him fading to pinpoint lights
>Crimson wings on a roof, the intimate feeling of two bodies pressed together over a guitar, the softness of feathers draping over him
>The voice of heartfelt confession, the tender touches of a loved one, and the biting rage of love scorned
>All lost to time
>The world fills back in, Anon's guitar having sounded out the last recollections of his fragmented heart
>The brachiosaurus's stunned face is what greets Anon as his memories fade, his jaw slack, whispering words meant for no-one leaking through it
>"Sounds just like-" is what Anon swears he can hear as he rubs away the wetness in his eyes
>The guy snaps back to reality, a heartfelt smile on his face. He grabs a few bills out of his wallet for Anon
>The amount in Anon's hand is way too much. His mind scrambles trying to remember what he had just played, returning with nothing
>He begins to sound out his thanks before he is interrupted by the brachio, who has his hand extended towards him
"There's more where that came from. You'd be a perfect fit for my band. We're having a rehearsal tonight if you wanna come with"
>A smile creeps onto Anon's face. The motion is slow and rough, as if he was remembering how to use those muscles all over again, but no less assured
>Another hand reaches forth to grasp the other, an offer accepted
>"Yeah."