[b]Graven Birch[/b]

[hider=April 3rd]Stepping out of the ring, Gray tossed his gloves over near a black gym bag, throwing himself down on the bench beside it with an equivalent degree of grace. “Excellent bout, old man.” Called a smiling figure, just stepping out of the ring himself, “It’s always a pleasure, sir.” The man added, youth beaming off his face.

“Well it’s damn good that one of us is enjoying this, kid!” Gray joked in return, “You’re going to have to start going easy on me, or I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep up with you.” He laughed, still out of breath from before.

“I’ll tell you what, sir, how about you let me win a few rounds every now and then, and maybe I’ll start to take pity.” The man, James was his name, replied. The two shared another tired laugh or two, and then it was off to the showers. The cool water felt good cascading over his shoulders, and running down a pair of well-muscled arms. All in all, Mr. Birch couldn’t complain; despite his grey hair he had aged very well, his still attractive sleeve tattoos worn as testament. 

[center]---[/center]

Bitter nostalgia hung heavy in Gray’s heart as he rode up to the small plantation style house, the sunset casting its warm glow reflected in the front windows. Slowly dismounting his prized Indian motorcycle, Mr. Birch wondered what it even meant anymore, having all these things. The most obvious answer would be to be able to appreciate their beauty, an easy remedy for the successful art dealer to satisfy any doubts he might have had. However, as he stepped inside the grand old house, its southern charm still failed to replace the empty silence trapped within its walls. There were several fantastic pieces of art in the large foyer, ranging from classic paintings to the delightful chandelier that hung over his head. But it was always the same picture that caught his eye, containing a proud, smiling young man in an Army Rangers uniform. 

The next thing he notices was anything but typical however: the briefcase that sat at his feet. “Margaret?” He called out through the empty house, simultaneously apprehensive about her possible presence, and still somewhat hoping it was true. “Are you looking for something?” He added, picking up the briefcase and walking into the parlor on the right. There was no response, but Gray supposed it was more likely that she had left it there for him than that she actually had stuck around. Putting the case down on the antique coffee table, Mr. Birch resigned to pour himself a glass of bourbon before dealing with whatever it was she had felt the need to deliver.

Popping the top of the decanter, he poured himself a drink without much regard to the quantity. At least he could bet he had poured too much rather than too little. Then sitting down on the couch, Gray leaned forward and hit the latches with more boredom than anticipation, opening it to find much what he expected: a couple envelopes. The party popper was a bit of a surprise though, he noted, taking it out to examine it further. He put the toy aside and took a deep drink of the bourbon before moving on to the thinner of the envelopes, discovering his passport underneath it. With piqued interest he now quickly opened the letter, scanning through it once, before reading it again in disbelief. He would have dismissed it outright, except weird scams didn’t hand out five thousand dollars. 

Gray pulled out his phone and tapped her contact number, putting it to his ear a listening as the dial tone played out endlessly. She probably won’t pick up, he mused… “Graven?”

“Yeah. Hey, so did you leave a briefcase at the house?”

“No. I haven’t been by [i]your[/i] house since that thing for Henry.” The stress on the word ‘your’ did not go unnoticed. Did she really have to distance herself from it all so much? Perhaps it was the fact that he was reminded of it everyday, but Gray still remembered when it had been [i]their[/i] house. All three of them. 

“Oh, okay.”

“Is there anything else, Graven?”

“No, not really. I bought him some flowers the other day. I told him you were sorry that you couldn’t visit. And that his mother still loves him very much.”

“Oh…” Silence hung between them. “Th… Thanks, Gray.”

“He must be lonely…” Gray trailed off.

The line was already dead.[/hider]

Stepping out of the passenger seat of the beat up old Jeep, Graven Birch headed around to the trunk, pulling his luggage out of the back of the car. “I’ll see you around, James.” He said, shaking the young man’s hand as he turned to leave.

“You still haven’t told me where you’re going!”

“Don’t worry.” He called back, over his shoulder, “I don’t know where I’m going either!”
[center]---[/center]

14 hours later, Gray stepped off the plane. Drunk. Not a sloppy kind of drunk, but certainly a very fun kind of drunk. In fact, he carried it with a grace that would surprise anyone that knew how much alcohol was running through his system at the moment. Someone like the pretty young stewardess, who despite being taken with Mr. Birch’s southern charm, remained steadfast in her refusal to disclose any information about the flight whatsoever.

Wineglass still in hand, the stewardess led Gray to the waiting room, where the other guests appeared to be waiting. “Oh, it is such a pleasure to walk into a room full of such beautiful faces! I do hope I haven’t kept y’all waiting too long, now.” He smiled, casually lifting his free hand to remove his sunglasses, easily folding them with a flick of the wrist and placing them carefully in his vest pocket. Sitting down, Gray lifted his right leg to cross it over his knee, taking a sip of his wine before resting the glass on a one half of a fashionable pair of burgundy wingtips. “Graven Birch, by the way. I’m sure introductions have already passed, but that’s no excuse to be rude, of course.”