ASTER WRITES ★ !

Maybe its his quietness that draws her in. Not just the softness of his voice or his gentle fingers, but all of it. All of him. The unexpected, subdued nature of it all. Dad would have yelled more. Argued. Reminded her that if she didn’t step in, they’d have a bigger mess. He’d be dead. Or in the hospital. While doctors wouldn’t ask too many questions, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t call a social worker who would. Did Daisy want to be separated from her dad? Did she want to watch him die?

Funny how she’d been left behind regardless. She’d done everything right and still wound up alone.

Well. Now alone with Sid, bloodied in her bathroom. He was the one bleeding out, and yet he was comforting her instead. She liked the feel of his breath on her skin. She liked his thumb pressed into her forearm. She liked the darkness in his eyes searching for the darkness in her own. He was still a stranger to her, and yet, somehow, still the closest thing she had for a friend. She didn’t ask questions she didn’t want the answer to. Sid didn't question what he didn't want to know. Nothing about family or any other nonexistent friends. That was what Daisy had always liked. She knew nothing about him, but she didn’t have to know anything to recognize their shared damage. Just two kids, left in the embrace of night.

A different version of Daisy would have slammed the door in his face or not answered at all. A different version of Sid wouldn’t have even knocked. In the morning, she’d blame the blood, which was just beginning to dry on her skin. As if it were enough to keep her stuck to the ground rather than any sudden obligation she may feel to him.

It’s true, she doesn’t believe him. She isn’t entirely sure what he’s even trying to convey to her. Sharp teeth? What could possibly mean? Subdued words when he should have been angry had disarmed Daisy. The needle drops along side the bandages. Her guard down, her mind more open than it had ever been before. Gaze drifting down to his chest, Daisy witnesses the impossible. Until her finger traces the invisible sutures, she doubts. The tips of her nails can feel the skin heeling, however subtly. He feels very alive. Impossibly alive, where he had just seemed on death’s door mere minutes prior.

❝I…don’t understand,❞ A hush remains stuck in her throat, as if she spoke too loud she might burst the bubble that kept them isolated in the bathroom. ❝If…you’re able to do…that, what could you need from me?❞

While she’d been left in the dark, Daisy didn’t want to be kept there. Not with Sid hanging…something she couldn’t possibly know over her head. She wracks her mind. Then frowns. ❝If you tell me that sex is the only way to fix…whatever this is, then I’m officially not interested.❞ The lie slips out with ease. She even laughs, her humor having returned. She wanted to go back to her reruns. She wanted to finish the nachos she’d been working through. She wanted to pull the blanket over her head and let this whole, terrible night come to an end. She wanted morning, even if it felt so far away. ❝Will you please just tell me what’s going on instead of making me guess? I don’t want to play any cryptic games, Sid.❞

her fingers trace the edges of the wounds in a delicate, and precise manner. no more shaking, no more fear. he can feeel it—the hesitation melting away and curiosity replacing the panic that had previously ambushed her, churning her into someone he'd never seen before. she's much calmer and it's a relief, to say the least. though he's still a bit worried for her current pysche: a trauma response and a crack in reality couldn't be healthy for one night.

thankfully she doesn't recoil—trusts her own hands before she trusts her eyes and his words. he can't blame her, he supposes he would have done the same.

"...i know you don't understand, that's because your assumptions are entirely reasonable and you're trying to fit this into a framework that doesn't exist." he realizes his words answer her confusion more than her question, which could multiply that confusion. "or does exist, but doesn't in your world or, at least, it shouldn't." he's rambling now, using speech as a distraction to put off the haplessness of repeating himself. he finds that asking someone for help is the most humiliating experience in the entire world, and that includes the mild seduction of rollerblading.

he watches the impossible register across her face. the tiny movements behind her eyes as the world rearranges itself into something else. it occurs to him, belatedly, that there is no graceful way to dismantle someone's understanding of reality. "i'm— let's just say, my biological structure no longer matches yours." maybe he should have started somewhere else...

her laugh catches him off guard. brief. involuntary. enough that the corner of his mouth threatens movement before he remembers himself.

then—sex. the suggestion reaches him several seconds late. for one suspended moment, sidd merely blinks at her. his brain, despite the blood loss, makes the entirely unnecessary decision to imagine it anyway: with her. in the bathroom... drenched in blood.

he has to physically turn his face away from her to rid himself of those thoughts.

"listen... i appreciate the confidence." or lack of confidence since he's quick to pick up on the realization that he had apparently needed to arrive half dead before the subject could be mentioned at all. there was something profoundly undignified about that... another breath. "but i'm currently operating at a significant circulatory deficit."

a pause. "under different circumstances, perhaps." he shouldn't have said that. "i would be remiss if we didn't revisit that topic of conversation in the morning when i've regained my strength." he shouldn't have said that either. a pause. "…under the current circumstance, i'm mostly trying to remain conscious." the humor fades as quickly as it arrived. not rejected. simply set aside.

she asks him to stop making her guess. fair.

his eyes close for a second. "i promise you, i'm not attempting to be unclear." a pause. "i'm trying to figure out how to explain something that sounds absurd even when it's true."

he shifts carefully, one hand braced against the floor as the remaining cuts continue their slow, unpleasant work of closing. the blood around them stays stubbornly red. the blood inside him stays absent. his gaze returns to hers. steady. tired. he explains,"the wounds heal eventually." he nods once toward his chest. "my body can repair itself over time, it's part of the gift." a faint shake of his head. "but i can't replace what it's already lost, that's why i'm still weak. that's why you had to carry me here."

he lets the sentence settle before continuing. his breathing has evened somewhat, though every inhale still carries an unmistakable weakness beneath it. "i don't need stitches, though i appreciate the effort." another beat. "i just need to replace what's lost."

finally— he forces himself to say the part that has lodged somewhere behind his ribs since he'd collapsed against her door. "...and i was optimisitc..." the words resist him with embarrassing determination. he has collected debts from men twice his size without flinching. threatened lives. negotiated impossible arrangements. somehow none of it compares to this. "...that you'd help me acquire some," a heavy sigh, "blood that is."

#tbt

Zakir nodded. And the image wasn't far off, most of it was outside, on verandas and under trees, groups of people followed by conversation, music, laughter, poetry, and so forth. Invitations to everyone in the city and everyone beyond, new people streaming in through open doors and leaving whenever they felt like it. Kids lost among the crowds, playing their games or looking for an uncle to annoy or some food to steal. It had been the only place Zakir had felt at home, accepted, within good company. He hadn't been a proper part of it until he was sixteen, when his mother had begun the long process of building up his confidence, but he'd run around in the background.

"It's very nice," he agreed, with a longing sigh.

"Ah," he was surprised by the honest and the sharing of a backstory that had to be filled with pain. "I'm sorry," he said, chosing for English instead of Urdu, though he was much more used to that practice. Offering sympathy in his own language felt more natural, more honest, but he hoped he sounded kind enough. He meant no pity, though he did not understand people's problem with pity. For other people, even those who did not know him, to sympathise with the situations of others seemed natural to him.

"Habibi!" Zakir said, voice a bit louder than he meant to. "No problem at all, wallah." He grinned at the mention of introducing him to Bollywood music. "It's a rabbit hole," he promised. And it truly was.

The poet nodded, finding nostalgia in the words, even if they hadn't been meant that way. But the way Leon said it, it was the type of dreaming words he loved, a message his father would've completely agreed with. It was also the first time in their conversation that Zakir felt a little twinge of adoration for the other. In his case, that always meant instant love, of course. Zakir never felt anything half.

"The way they play it, the notes they tend to pick the most. It's what I love about music, and languages, there is... hmmm, geography to the sound. Culture, lore, history. Same with dance. And instruments... I've seen few that were handed down, but when they were, they were never exchanged hands without a formal introduction. I once held a sitar that was two hundred years old, its body replaced many times, but some elements remained." He paused, look at the instrument. "Was yours handed down?" he asked.

#── ★: leon ╱ exchanges ╱ zakir.#── ★: leon ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ★ event ╱ turner weiss wedding.

the unfamiliar word catches leon's attention before anything else. his brow lifts slightly. "...habibi?" letting the unfamiliar syllables settle before looking back to zakir. "i don't think i've heard that one before." there isn't any embarrassment in admitting it—only curiosity, there were a couple of those words he was missing. "what does it mean?" whatever the answer is, he intends to listen with the same attentiveness he'd give someone explaining the history of any other instrument. “you’ll have to teach me. i’m awful at picking up languages.”

he lets the earlier question settle between them instead of answering straight away. "...not exactly." his fingertips trace absent circles against the back of his palm. "it wasn't passed through my family." a brief pause follows. "my mom, uh, foster mom, bought it for me when i was about fourteen." his expression softens, "i'd been borrowing one from school before that, and she made me promise that i'd stick to music if she invested in it."

the memory settles comfortably, “i remember opening the case." a faint smile touches the corner of his mouth, “it smelled like fresh maple... and glue." he chuckles a bit to himself, the,” i don't think i'd ever smelled anything so… nice."

"it's been repaired a few times," he continues quietly. "a soundpost crack before it came to me. new pegs. a fingerboard planing. the bridge has been replaced..." he pauses, thinking. "...three times now." there's affection in the list rather than disappointment, “i suppose that's why i became interested in restoration." his gaze finally returns to zakir. "i never liked the idea that something should be thrown away simply because it had been damaged." the thought lingers.

"so... maybe it wasn't handed down." his fingers settle against the case once more, “but i'd like to think one day it'll be." the admission surprises even him. then, with another quiet smile, he adds, "i like your family's tradition."

he nods thoughtfully."introducing yourself before handing something precious to someone else. i think that's rather beautiful."

❝Great,❞ Daisy sighs. ❝Wrong person, wrong time.❞ The words are meant to be spoken under the softness of her breath, but given her current state, they come out harsher and louder than she had intended, like she was biting Sid when he was already down.

But she was angry, wasn’t she? Angry at Sid, for assuming she’d be able to help. Angry at her father, for showing her how to stitch up a bullet wound. Angry at herself, for continuing to play both of their games.

She also didn’t want Sid to die. Neither of them had many friends, damnit, and Sid was probably the closest thing Daisy had to that.

❝Don’t fucking joke with me right now,❞ She scolds. A necrowhatsit? She’s unsure if she even heard him correctly. It’s when his eyes close - however briefly - that a deeper worry sets in. He grabs her arm and she doesn’t even notice the blood anymore. Words, meant to soothe, sharpen her anger more.

Don’t let me fall asleep, her father had said. It was raining. He’d been running and slipped and fell. The blood down his face was as black as the night outside. If I fall asleep, I might not wake up again, and you don’t want to be without your dear old dad, do you? Now steady your fucking hands and get to work.

❝You can’t rest,❞ She insists now. ❝Not until the bleeding stops,❞ But where was it coming from? Daisy begins to realize the red stains may not be Sid’s own blood, but from whatever other fellow left him in such a state. Her hands have yet to stop shaking. You’re going to cut me up more, if you keep that up, her father’s voice rings out. ❝Please don’t yell,❞ When Daisy reflects on this moment, months, even years from now, she’ll surprise herself with the realization of just how soft her voice had grown as she made her demands.

Was she talking to Sid? Or to her father? For half a blink, she could swear that she saw Dad, pressed against the faux tile of her bathroom, holding his side together with his blood in the bathroom sink and his blood on Daisy’s hands.

And then she blinks again and Sid has returned with his hair dripping and his teeth elongating. ❝…I don’t know what the hell kinda freaky Halloween costume that is, but this isn’t the time to play games with me,❞ She sits on her knees now, so close to Sid that she could feel his hot breath against her warm skin. In a rare moment of tenderness, she brushes his hair from his face. ❝It’ll hurt like hell, but I can help you at least get back on your feet. If you’ll let me.❞

#listen this is the skin of a killer bella #── ☆: sid ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ☆: sid ╱ exchanges ╱ daisy.

it was a funny notion— that he was now the jester instead of her. that he was the one with the quips while she continued to panic. near death experiences bring out the most peculiar circumstances. even as she treats him with contempt, he finds her amusing. her threats, not to condescend, were quite adorable.

she tells him not to sleep. the words land strangely. he has heard panic before. countless variations of it. this one however, possesses a history. sequence. the cadence of something spoken once, then again, then enough times to become muscle memory.

then she isn't talking to him at all. and he understands. she's asking something of a someone else. someone who isn't in a pool of blood in front of her. the plea was never meant for him. and whatever fear lived behind her words had been planted by some other circumstance. because sidd cannot remember the last time he'd raised his voice in anger. it was something he had never been particularly capable of giving or taking away. anger, perhaps. disappointment. silence. but shouting? it had never belonged to him. not like that. not with the deliberate intention of making another person smaller. someone else had taught her that expectation. he then realizes his mistake. he shouldn't have come here—not because he didn't trust her, because perhaps he trusted her too much.

his eyes lift to her with what little concentration remains available, as he pulls himself up by his elbows. “woah…hey.” he’s quieter now. careful. his gaze follows the tremor in her hands before returning to her face. “look at me. don't go somewhere i can't follow.”

for a second, he thinks she listens. for a second, the room becomes smaller: not the bathroom, nor blood. or the fact that his body is being held together by whatever stubbornness remains. just the two of them and the strange, uncomfortable reality that she is afraid for him.

then his body betrays him. the blood loss has taken too much from him. too much control. too much effort. the fangs remain and the hunger claws at his throat—a broken gasp leaves him, rugged and nearly out of breath.

she attributes this nonsense to a halloween costume and under different circumstances, he suspects he might have appreciated the assessment.

then he watches her brush his hair away from his forehead. the gesture should be insignificant, but rather, stills something inside him. small. unexpected. inconvenient—a reaction he would prefer not to examine too closely. she says she can help. he knows she can. that is perhaps the most surprising development of the evening.

"...i know you don’t believe me.” the words leave quieter than intended. less argument. more admission. another breath. then, slowly, his hand moves toward his shirt, fingers catching briefly against the sticky stained fabric before he lifts it enough to show her. the wounds are there. the evidence of whatever found him before he reached her. except there is no longer blood surrounding them. the cuts are already fusing themselves closed. slowly. imperfectly. not the miraculous kind of healing people imagine when they think of vampires. something uglier. something clinical. a body repairing itself because it has no other choice. and poorly due to the bloodless.

“take a look..." his gaze drops briefly to the stains on her hands. to the tremor that hasn't left them, and he’s not sure she’s ready for what he’s intended on asking.

“that’s why i came here.” his eyes lift back to hers. "i needed your help." another beat. "just..."

his jaw tightens slightly, frustration appearing not at her but at the limitations of language.

"not the kind you're thinking." he looks away for a moment. because saying it plainly feels too much like asking. and siddharth desai has spent a lifetime making sure he never needs to ask.

somethignnclever

There is a tendency for her to be unfiltered. Both an endearing quality and one that has gotten her into trouble her entire life. It proved to be a task to learn the skill of hiding her emotions, keeping her thoughts off her face during working hours, and during sessions with those who were deserving of the time and space to expose parts of themselves without judgment.

This, however, is not one of those spaces.

Inhibitions dropped; there is nothing to stop her thoughts from projecting across her face, blooming across her cheeks, and deepening dimples as Nari speaks. Thoughtful. Concise. Intentional.

Then the immense loss fills her.

Being a mother had once been a dream thrust upon her along with other deemed womanly duties.

These days, Sophia doesn't want to be. a mother. She doesn't believe it's something she'd be good at, nor does she find it something that wouldn't be met with fear projected onto a child undeserving of trauma that isn't theirs. Having love and adoration to give to a child isn't enough to build them a home and to help mold them into a functional person.

Even so, she believes Nari's words, giving a slow nod of acknowledgment. There seems to be a mutual interest, a quiet, but prominent desire for a connection that has yet to be named but doesn't need one. It's a rarity, she silently agrees, to find meaning in a city where quantity over quality reigns heavy.

Sophia pushes herself off the table top, rolling out her neck and making sure she has her things before moving to lead Nari out of the crowded area. "I agree. A space should be somewhere you want to be." Thumbs hook into her belt loops, a smile back on her face.

"Oh," Nose wrinkles a bit. "I usually work evenings or nights so I"m up anyway." She explains away with a wave of her hand. She doesn't feel much like explaining where she'd come from earlier in the night.

A warm but new rush of fresh air washes over her as they step outside onto a quieter street. Partygoers mill around and disperse, flowing with the traffic of activities but being mindful enough not to block the pathway.

"Are you normally a night owl or is this a special occasion?"

It dawns on her as they find an abandoned table, probably sticky with beer and crumbs, but it was a place to take the weight off their feet, that she didn't get the other's name.

"I'm Sophia, by the by."

#i can't begin to explain why this got so long #── ✦: nari ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ✦: nari ╱ exchanges ╱ sophia.

for a moment, nari simply regards the table. there are very few circumstances under which she would voluntarily choose to sit somewhere that appears to have survived at least three separate beer spills. curiously, this seems to qualify. she wonders just how many regrettable decisions had wondered their way over to their shared corner. though their coupling would likely christen those mistakes away.

she lowers herself into the chair with the quiet dignity of someone determined not to acknowledge the condition of it at all. she’s likely failed at exuding such posturing. despite her upbringing and then clawing her way to success had seemingly separated the two contradictions. she was no longer the ballet protege taking scum filled buses to practice, nor was she the frequetner of the local dive bars in town. with edward gone, she must look like a trout of water, floundering and clinging to the closest and prettiest girl in the room. but that was always her imo, aligning herself with that which she desired or desired to be.

"how extraordinary," she observes, the corner of her mouth threatening the smallest smile. "we've discussed purpose, children, and the inevitability of loss before either of us thought to exchange names." a beat. "either we're remarkably trusting..." her gaze lifts toward sophia. "...or remarkably poor at introductions."

the conclusions she’s drawn on her account would defer to how utterly disarming the young woman was. even as they steal their own table, she can’t stop wondering just how much closer she wanted to be to this person. how they make her feel like she’s the only person in the room, and how she finds their vitality refreshing. sophia is by far the most intriguing person in the establishment.

"nari." nothing more. no surname. no explanation. no handshake. nari. simply offered as though it were sufficient. it usually was.

the evening settles comfortably around them now, the noise of karaoke reduced to little more than distant laughter carrying on. for the first time all night, silence feels less like something to fill than something to share. these were her most treasured moments with others, sharing quality time trumped all other love languages in her book.

"as for being a night owl..." she considers the question for a moment. "i've never been especially attached to sleeping."

there is the faintest trace of amusement in the admission. "there were years when it felt rather indulgent." her attention drifts briefly toward the passing traffic. "poverty has an unfortunate habit of convincing people that exhaustion is a personality trait. afterwards..." a small shrug. "habits become surprisingly difficult to negotiate."

she turns back toward sophia. "these days i simply enjoy the evening." another pause. "people become considerably more honest after midnight. or at the very least, less disciplined." her gaze lingers just long enough to soften the observation. "though i suspect you've already noticed that."

the smile that follows is quieter than the ones before. "i'm pleased to have met you tonight." it is perhaps the closest thing to an outright compliment nari has offered all evening. “i had been dreading this appearance for the longest time, and was told by a couple of my husband’s associates that it would a place to survey more art.” she couldn’t deny karaoke an art, it did after all involve a stage.

"most conversations at events like these end after someone mentions the weather." a thoughtful tilt of her head. "this one improved considerably."

she rests her cheek on her hand, her gaze tracing the fiery tresses that frame sophia’s beautiful face.

“so tell me more, how long have you been in vegas? and do you find it as enthralling as all the tourists who visit? or has it become home?”

edward-weiss

I married all of you. It's true, and yet he still manages to invent new, increasingly ridiculous reasons to doubt it on a daily basis. His mind works cleanly in systems and patterns, but something breaks whenever the subject turns emotional or vulnerable; everything misfires. He doesn't see what Nari sees when she looks at him, doesn't think he's worth half the trouble he causes everyone unfortunate enough to be in his orbit - but there seems to be very few ways of wording it that wouldn't sound steeped in self-pity.

"I can't say I care much for him either. His wife, on the other hand… have you met her? She's devastatingly witty. Absurdly talented. Patient. Beautiful." His gaze drifts to their intertwined hands, following the idle circle she traces. "I don't know how she puts up with him."

He knows her well enough to recognise exactly what she's seeing: his pathetically transparent attempt to steer the conversation anywhere but himself and his recent spate of reckless decisions. But she's merciful enough to indulge it; his eyes convey a silent thank you, an unspoken acknowledgement that she could press the issue but has chosen, for his sake, not to. He nods along with exaggerated seriousness about how awful his absence had been, as though missing him is such a grave affliction it's a miracle she's survived. But there's always a grain of truth beneath these things, and it eats Edward alive that he hadn't at least called.

He should've called.

"Seven seconds? She's improving. I usually only get five."

Instinctively, he tilts his head until it comes to rest against hers, the familiar rush of affection arriving hand in hand with the now-familiar twist of guilt. i would appreciate it if you could avoid making a habit of that. "Duly noted. I won't make a habit of it." A beat. "I love you. I don't think I say that enough." Nari hears it more than anyone, but his daughter's recent words have been ringing around his head: that he gives nothing emotionally. Whether it's true or not hardly matters; the thought keeps haunting him, bleeding into his other relationships until he finds himself wondering whether he gives enough to any of them.

#── ✦: nari ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ✦: nari ╱ exchanges ╱ edward.

she takes a moment a singular moment to continue her assessment. and for a second they aren’t husband and wife anymore. they are two sides of the same coin again, two bodies in a crowd of opportunists and schemers, and she’s the last one standing. unveiled, walls shattered and smirk disarms her all over again. she scans, as nari, the person before, but there it was again. the curious habit he had developed of presenting evidence for a question she had already answered.

she had married him, surely that settled the matter. surely that was enough for her to cement the idea in his head that despite all the ugliness the world had carved into him, that he was still deserving of so much love.

she’d never rest until it was fully known and as stubborn as he was, she could be unyielding. they’d have to exhaust each other til death do them part.

her thumb lingers where their hands remain joined, a quiet smile threatening the corner of her mouth as he speaks so earnestly about this mysterious woman unfortunate enough to tolerate her husband. "i've heard she's terribly discerning." a pause. "which, to those who don’t understand, makes her choice all the more confusing.” dry enough to pass as humor. affectionate enough so that neither of them mistakes it for anything else, paired with another nuzzle. all that mattered was that they knew the truth of their story.

only then does she turn properly toward him, “edward." his name is softer than usual. “you keep speaking as though my affection arrived by accident, as though it’s something you can lose.” she lifts a hand, fingertips smoothing the collar with absent familiarity before settling briefly against his jaw.

"i married you deliberately." another pause. “and i don’t make mistakes.” the thought seems almost obvious to her. "love has always struck me as a poor investment if it requires constant renegotiation." her gaze holds his. calm. unwavering. “but you needn't keep earning what has long since belonged to you." when he tells her he loves her, the words settle somewhere between them without ceremony.

she smiles then. small. certain. "i know." and after the briefest pause— “i’m so loved, that even clio gives me more of her time. two seconds, more.”

CLOSED STARTER for @eremitionisms ft. Siddharth

location ; abandoned traintracks just after the last train

Elanore stood, frozen almost, watching the last train run out of the station on its way to take its break for a few hours before everything would start up again. There were always those who missed it, those who had used its airconditioning to stay on their feet for a bit, to take some naps. And this was perhaps her favourite hunting ground. It was easy, people who weren't going to be missed, who weren't expecting it, who might even welcome it because their lifes were already terrible.

She liked the predictability of it: tag them, feed, kill, get rid of the body. Or in some cases, tag them, convince them, feed, let them go, clean up. She was good at compulsion. Incredibly good.

She saw two strays, exiting the station as they were ushered out from their resting spot.

"How is your compulsion, Mister Desai?" she asked.

There were few who weren't Visitors who she held close. It was not her job to recruit new Vampires to their cause, but she couldn't help it. She saw potential, perhaps she was like her father, perhaps she was better than him.

Siddharth Desai was practical, and that was a skill Elanore wished for. Her connection to the Cactus Cats was one of mutual hatred for an enemy, but that didn't mean she was against picking off their members.

"These two are ones I've drank from before, we should get away with just taking a sip and leaving them for later."

#── ☆: sid ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ☆: sid ╱ exchanges ╱ elanore.

attention settles on the pair stumbling from the platform. he takes a puff of his cigarillo while assessing if they’re inhibited or, if they were lucky, intoxicated. he looks for clues: slurs in the way their mouths move as they talk, imbalances in their gaits and even tries to sniff out a sour twinge in their scents that lingers when humans imbibe.

they’re tired, he comes to the conclusion, not drunk, simply tired. likely from a long train ride, or exhausted from sin city’s debauchery.

the exhale of smoke leaves before his answer, “adequate.” simple answer. no overselling, no underselling. compulsion and learning how to influence others had never interested him. he preferred to get his hands dirty when necessary. but if need be, he would use it as a last resort, an instrument much like a lock pick or ledger.

truth be told it was a tool of which he needed much more practice.

his eyes remain on the two figures ahead: one rubs sleep from their face, the other coughs into a frayed sleeve. neither notices they’ve caught the eyes of two vampires.

“they’ve survived this long.” a pause. “which suggests someone has exercised restraint.” gaze floats to eleanore now, inky brown eyes glinting under fluorescents. “i assume you’d like that trend to continue, unless you find yourself compelling, in which case, i’d love to join.”

CLOSED STARTER for @eremitionisms ft. Siddharth

location ; a random night club

Being one of the few with a bonified day job, Matevos usually was one of the only members who was available for anything in the night time. And he didn't much care if he had to wake up at seven the next day to walk the dogs at the clinic, while having been out until four - or later. He drank enough coffee to sustain some kind of heart problems, but so far it hadn't happened yet. His doctor - fucker who asked way too much - always said he was fit as a fiddle, because he thought Matevos would find it funny if he did a British accent.

Matevos didn't. He liked it when he was the only one with a British accent.

Enter Siddharth Desai, loan shark, often times being forced to put up with caffeine-addicted pretend-Britt Matevos Hakobyan. Of course, no mention had ever been made of whether or not Sidd found Matevos' accent believable enough to think he actually was British, and Matevos never mentioned Sidd's roots either.

Better that way.

This task however was leaving him slightly annoyed and a little frightened. He was good at picking locks, stealing, pick-pocketing, fighting, and so forth. Not very good at fighting profesional fighters.

As very bad at dancing.

Soon as they entered the loud area, he wondered if perhaps he was the worst choice for this endeavor. "Should we get a drink while we... do some recon?" He wondered if they had coffee.

#── ☆: sid ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ☆: sid ╱ exchanges ╱ matevos.

clubs possess traffic where people convince themselves they're moving unpredictably. bodies obey rules long before minds do: entrances collect optimism. exits collect regret. bartenders hear everything. security watches the wrong people, until they suddenly don’t.

hunters, unfortunately, understood these types of patterns too. that was the inconvenient part. they rarely looked like hunters. they looked like accountants. bartenders. graduate students. people waiting politely in line for the washroom.

which made the whole exercise considerably more irritating.

his attention drifts briefly toward matevos. an unusual assignment, not a poor one, merely untested and green. and while experience could be borrowed, judgment could not. fortunately the latter appeared mostly intact.

“yes, drinks first,” he nods without looking away from the crowd on the dance floor. “people notice the ones who don’t.”

he continues to catalogue the crowd searching for groups that have been stationary too long, men pretending not to watch the doors, staff who never actually seem busy and the booth elevated above everyone else because power always prefers better sightlines.

“get me a whisky, neat..” he turns exactly as promised, resting one elbow against the bar, the room reflected in the mirror behind rows of liquor bottles.

"don't look for weapons." his voice lowers beneath the music. "everyone worth worrying about has one." another pause. "look for the person who's paying attention instead of pretending not to."

asteriavinifera

Do you wanna go watch the sunlight pierce the leaves of the forest with me?

#── ★: leon ╱ self ╱ character study.

luminote

I burn for you. I wonder if you're warm enough.

#── ☆: sid ╱ self ╱ character study.

There weren’t many things that made Daisy sick. She insisted that she had seen it all. As much as anyone could, without working in a hospital or being present in the middle of a battlefield. She’d seen gun shots and stab wounds. She’d felt blood gushing from heads and watched someone throw up until their stomach had no more contents to give. During a scary movie, she played the role of cool kid, oh this is nothing, she would insist. I used to see worse when I was a kid.

And she had. On more than one night she’d come home - or been awoken - to her father, and anyone else he may have roped into his schemes, in the kitchen bleeding out. Sometimes in the bathroom. Always with rolls of bandages and sharp needles. He kept antiseptic under the sink, exactly for that purpose.

It wasn’t the blood that bothered her. Not really. Concern began bubbling in her belly as if her body was beginning to reject last night’s supper. Blood pressed against her arm. Crimson dripping down, down.

❝Jesus Christ -❞

Only barely does she mange to catch him as he falls into her arms. Daisy looks to the left, then to the right, but the hallway is empty, save for Sid’s blood. She drags him inside, slipping and sliding the entire way to the bathroom. Instinct takes over, like she’s done this before. She has done this before, in two decade old memories she had boxed away and left to rot. His blood slicks her arms. She can’t get him in the tub, so she leaves him on the vinyl floor of her bathroom, grateful for the first time that its not real tile. There was no way she was getting her security deposit back, anyway.

❝What the hell are you doing?❞ The reality of their new situation begins sinking in; she has a half dead man in her bathroom in the middle of the night. The only medical training she had was forced upon her by her father. What did she think she was going to do with Sid? Patch him up? Call an ambulance? If he wanted the hospital, she never would have seen him. If she was going to patch him up, then why didn’t her hands stop shaking? She wants to hit him, so she does, regardless of his current physical well-being. ❝What the hell is wrong with you?❞ Suddenly angry, terrified, worried, and confused, every emotion begged to leak from her. ❝Why the fuck did you come here? So you could die in my bathroom instead of…❞ For once, she doesn’t have another word. For where would be the preferable place for people like them to die? The assholes who claimed no one and had nothing. The people who left first to avoid being left behind. Certainly they didn’t deserve a peaceful death in bed, like so many wished.

❝I’ve got bandages. Somewhere,❞ Under the kitchen sink. Just in case her dad ever got out of prison. Just in case he ever tracked her down. Just in case he needed her to patch him up again. Her hands won’t stop shaking. ❝I won’t forgive you if you die on my floor. I’ll bring you back just to kill you myself.❞

#── ☆: sid ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ☆: sid ╱ exchanges ╱ daisy.

vision blurs into fragments— his mostly limp body dragged across the apartment. hazy vision is able to find places to settle on, the ceiling first, then the floor, then whatever his eyes happen to catch before the room slips again: an unticking clock likely in need of batteries, laundry unfolded on the couch, a shelf half mounted with a hole pulled out by a faulty screw, roller skate bearings next to a chipped mug on the coffee table. nothing here reaches completion it seems.

his eyes close. second sense, smell—what can he latch onto before lights out? laundry detergent, blood, old wood, blood, rain on shoes, blood, stale take out, blood, coffee, and blood. yet beneath it all—her. strange how the mind continued reaching for familiar things even when the body was considering less cooperative alternatives. he latches on to her scent as if it's the last he'll ever be able to take in.

vinyl meets cheek with surprising gentleness. it’s cold, but he presumes he’s gone colder. and she demands to know what the hell was he doing. reasonable. but loaded question given the circumstances. briefly he searches for an answer. comes up short. the corner of his mouth lifts anyway— a smirk sluggishly spreads across his mouth.

“closest door.” a slow shaky exhale, “closest person.”

he says nothing else, but notes the automatic way she reaches for supplies. the order in which she locates gauze. the cabinet beneath the sink opens before she seems to realize she's walking toward it. she keeps on—question after question until sidd finally realizes that she's shaking, and his blood coats her hands. air leaves him in an undignified rush. "wasn't planning to...” pause. “…although…” his eyes close briefly. “i may know a necromancer.” he isn't entirely certain whether he says the last part aloud.

he reaches for her wrist. "...daisy." her name leaves him softer than intended. to steady her. his fingers leave another crimson print against her skin. his thumb moves once across the back of her wrist. barely.

"it's alright. it’s going to be fine.” his breathing slows. a shiver creeps up his spine, “i just…need to rest a little.” another shiver works its way through him. his thoughts attempt, with increasingly questionable success, to arrange themselves into something resembling an explanation.

they refuse.

every version of reality sounds implausible.

"...there's a detail i neglected to mention." his tongue brushes instinctively against one canine. then concentration follows. followed by resistance. his jaw tightens. something behind his eyes flickers with a faded effort. slowly, the elongated points inch forward instead of sliding effortlessly into place. each fraction of an inch feels stolen from what little blood remains in his body, until, at last, fangs replace ordinary teeth.

"...apologies." another measured breath. "...that usually requires less effort."

a pause for a proper reaction.

CLOSED STARTER for @eremitionisms ft. Leon

location ; the bus

Sunny tapped the seat beside him when he saw Leon enter the bus at his stop. The place was particularly empty, end of the warm week sort of situation, with very few people coming and going and mostly staying home - or opting for a better airconditioned car rather than the bus which was either broken or just didn't do its job well.

Lucky for them, the fact that there weren't many passengers meant it was actually pretty cool. He was good with the heat either way - and too broke to buy a car.

"Leon, hey, how have you been? Been a few, have you been busy?" Though it was more likely that their schedules didn't line up. Sunny's job mostly ran from the afternoon till late at night, going wherever the Vitelli business wanted him to be, mostly at events or on dates with important people. He was dressed impecably once again, with a purple silk shirt, tight black jeans, and matching purple converse.

#── ★: leon ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ★: leon ╱ exchanges ╱ sunny.

the bus exhales as its doors fold shut behind him. and for a moment, leon lingers near the front, fingertips still resting against the fare box as his eyes move instinctively through the cabin. his gaze scans for empty seats first, then the exits, making sure each one is clear and unobstructed—a habit he hasn't quite managed to shake since the events of the previous month.

the tension eases the moment he hears his name. it's sunny,"hi." a small smile finds him as he makes his way down the aisle, the violin case resting comfortably against his shoulder. slipping into the seat beside him, he carefully tucks the case between his knees so it won't shift when the bus pulls away.

"i think our timing's just been... off." his gaze drifts toward the window as the city begins to slide past. it's easier than trying to explain that routines have become difficult lately—that familiar places don't always feel familiar anymore.

"a little busy, too," that part, at least, is true. work. hospital visits. trying to settle back into a rhythm that no longer fits together quite as neatly as it once did. he smooths an absent wrinkle from the cuff of his sleeve before looking back at sunny, "how about you?"

his eyes flick briefly over the silk shirt, then down to the purple converse. the corner of his mouth lifts another fraction, "you look nice." a beat. "what's the occasion?" familiar faces, he realizes, have become something of a comfort lately, and seeing sunny—bright as ever, dressed like he'd stepped out of a magazine instead of onto a city bus—feels unexpectedly grounding.

WITH: @ofdesertroses | spencer⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀WHERE: VIRGIN RECORDS, CLOSING.

the sign above the door had been flipped over nearly twenty minutes ago. long enough that the employee behind the counter had abandoned the pretense of watching the browsing customers in favor of reorganizing receipts and glancing intermittently toward the clock.

closing time had a peculiar gravity.

siddharth occupied the oldest section of the shop, as one does, fingers moving methodically through warped cardboard sleeves. second-hand collections possessed their own archaeology: names written in blue ink beneath the shrink wrap, coffee stains, corners bent by improper shelving. every record had already survived at least one life.

his search remained frustratingly specific.

portishead.

he had nearly died. daisy, thankfully, had prevented that outcome. apparently this now obligated him to repay the favor. he would be quite hypocritical he didn’t.

his fingers paused briefly over massive attack.

close. not close enough. another sleeve. another.

he had almost convinced himself the excursion would prove unsuccessful when movement registered several aisles over.

his attention lifted automatically. recognition followed a fraction later. …wasn’t that one of the spawns?

he watched for exactly one second longer than politeness permitted before returning his attention to the records, as though the coincidence required no acknowledgement whatsoever. it lasted approximately twelve seconds.

"...i've checked all these in this section" he says without turning around, sliding another sleeve forward with practiced care, "if you're looking for something specific, i may have passed it up."

#── ☆: sid ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ☆: sid ╱ exchanges ╱ spencer.

Anyone who had an extended interaction with Daisy would be able to guess that her apartment would be a mess. It was not the sort of thing she shied away from; their entire life was a mess, wouldn’t it make sense that their living quarters were the same way?

No, what took most people by surprise was just how threadbare it was. She hung no posters from her walls, did not decorate the halls with nonexistent family photos. At most, her single landline ( not even a cordless ) had a few stickers they’d picked up from the grocery store and concerts, but little else that made the space uniquely Daisy.

Other than the mess. Of course.

Those who knew her would be surprised to find her at home with the moon. Despite not being a creature of the night, she still had many nighttime habits. Only by some miracle was she at home when someone knocked on their door. A stranger, Daisy thought. They should have tried her phone first, to see if she was even at home, rather than show up unannounced. The moon still hung high - she should have been on the street, in the casino, at work, maybe getting a facial; anything was possible at three am in Sin City. Instead, they were home. In their robe, watching reruns of Golden Girls and answering their front door.

❝This had better be something good,❞ They muttered. ❝If you’re not bleeding out or throwing up, you’re about to wish you were half dead,❞ She said as the door swung upon.

That is when they saw the blood.

@aster-writcs

#tw: blood #── ☆: sid ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ☆: sid ╱ exchanges ╱ daisy.

admitting he hadn't earned his injuries would require a level of self-importance he had never managed to cultivate.

therefore, cause remained stubbornly loyal to effect.

if one were interested enough in conducting a proper post mortem—and siddharth briefly considers that he might qualify for that—they would've arrived at several complicated conclusions, slowly becoming evident to the battered entity now.

one: antagonizing the leadership of a particularly unpleasant vampire coven had, in restrospect been an error.

two: assuming hundreds miles would discourage creatures of crossing state lines for vengaeance demonstrated an optimism entirely out of character

three: relying on local vampires to display a loyalty beyond immediate convenience had proven, once again, futile

four: he really needed some fucking friends.

he files these observations away accordingly in their neat little folders, though none of it proves particulary useful now. it wasn’t necessarily ideal: the amount of blood he could feel draining from his face, then the trail of it that followed him home to those conventional apartments. by morning, the desert would oxidize it all, turn it brown and disguise it as something else. las vegas excelled at that. evidence rarely survived sunrise.

his building finally comes into view, close but his door not close enough.

despite the fact that he had been a vampire of nearly a decade, his healing abilities could still take their slow time, but that wasn't necessarily the issue. the issue was the fact that he was too weak to hold himself up. he needed more blood.

he tells himself proximity is the only deciding factor, as he crashes onto her door. her door being closer to his, that is. but that's a matter of opinion at this point. his knuckles meet the wood with considerably less authority than intended, dragging rather than rapping.

thankfully she's home.

inside he can hear the television chattering away, four elderly women arguing with a cadence only lifelong friends seem capable of possessing. he catches fragments of laughter. a familiar theme song.

the golden girls. ironic.

"amusing, your choice of words..."

one bloodied hand finds her forearm for balance. crimson fingerprints bloom against her skip and leave their imprint on her forearm to match the streak of blood upon entering.

"long time no see, hot wheels."

gravity begins negotiating its own terms, however, and the collapse into her arms isn't as graceful as it is when their on the rink.

somethignnclever

"Perhaps." She shrugs, an easy smile on her face, soft, lazy, enjoying conversation amongst the crowd around them. "But it's the presence you have. I dunno I just got a feel for these things." And she does. Sophia knows good people. Bad people she's still working on, they seem to evade her senses easily, but good people she locks down.

Her assumption is only furthered when Nari begins to speak about her son. The feeling of deserving a child, rather than the other way around, is something she has only heard about a teaspoonful of times in her career, let alone in her life. It's not only the statement itself, but it's also the tone she has when she says it. An airy trait, a genuine sense of enrichment and adoration laces every word and delivers it carefully.

Sophia can only assume; she treats her son just as gingerly as she speaks of him.

It puts a blush on her cheeks, the tenderness of it all, the softness over someone who carries themselves with posture and stature carved from marble. Her eyes fixate on Nari's face, trailing the covers of her jaw and lips. Delicate. Her stomach scribbles, TV static or butterflies she isn't sure which but she chews on her bottom lip all the same as the other woman continues to speak.

To say she's enamored of her current conversation partner would be an understatement.

"I would agree." Her own tone was soft, finally removing her gaze from the other, turning to the bar to see if she could get away with another drink before turning back to Nari. "Loaded question." Sophia chuckles, but drifts her vision off into space for a moment as she tosses it around.

"It looks like... Getting home to the sun coming through my window." An image she finally lands on, a tangible experience. "My apartment has a lot of good light, which is rare," A note worthy of mentioning. "But especially in the afternoon, I get enough that it makes my apartment look so dreamy. Romantic even." She drawls out, eyebrows raising a bit as she looks Nari over again.

"I take my shoes off, wash my hands, and just breathe for a few minutes. Take it in." A pause as she thinks, her expression changing to bashful.

"I really like talkin' to you... Would you like to step out? Get some air with me? It's gettin' kinda loud in here too."

#── ✦: nari ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ✦: nari ╱ exchanges ╱ sophia.

the compliment is accepted with little more than a small inclination of her head, though she receives everything accompanying it as well.

her attention lingers upon the younger woman's face. the warmth gathering beneath her cheeks—likely owed as much to the alcohol as the crowded room. the unguarded way her eyes wander over nari, as though searching for something worthy of admiration rather than merely finding someone to speak to.

curious.

she had long since grown accustomed to occupying people's attention. respect was expected. courtesy was routine. admiration, however, was another matter entirely. it had become surprisingly rare to encounter without calculation hidden beneath it.

she finds that she does not dislike it. the realization arrives with the quiet persistence of something she had not realized she'd been missing.

conversation drifts, as it so often does, toward hyunjae.

it always does.

she has often wondered whether her son grows weary of it—the endless concern, the habitual reminders to eat properly, sleep properly, call when he arrives safely. edward had endured months of the same relentless affection with remarkable patience, though whether that patience was genuine or simply practiced remained open to interpretation.

love, she had learned, possessed an unfortunate tendency to accumulate. it asked to be expressed, regardless of whether its recipient believed they required so much of it. she has never quite discovered what one is meant to do with the excess.

before motherhood, she would have dismissed such sentiment as melodrama.

now she knows better.

"there is a possibility," she says, the faintest curve finding the corner of her mouth, "that if you have children one day, you may discover i was understating the matter entirely."

her gaze follows the description of the apartment, effortlessly assembling the picture from the scattered details.

"a balcony," she muses. "that alone would have sold me."

she imagines shelves crowded with houseplants, leaves spilling toward the light. a chair tucked into the corner. a blanket forgotten over its arm. the sort of place that invited quiet mornings with tea and a novel one promised to read only a chapter of before inevitably finishing half.

"a home should encourage lingering," the thought escapes before she has quite decided whether to keep it to herself.

at the invitation, nari allows her gaze to travel across the room.

the evening has surrendered entirely to itself. music swells louder than necessary. somewhere in the crowd, edward has disappeared with the effortless predictability of a man who could occupy an entire room while remaining impossible to locate when required. she supposes he will survive another half hour without her.

"i would like that," she says simply, already turning toward what appears to be the nearest exit. "meaningful conversation becomes increasingly difficult to find as these days"

a glance slips toward her companion, touched by quiet amusement.

"you'll have to tell me," she says, "what keeps up so late to miss the sun?"

Gemma imagined him spitting out the words, not wanting her to have anything to do with him anymore. She tried to envision that side of him, of the heightened emotions, the growl, the rage. But it wasn't. The way Siddharth brought it. Like he regretted that it wasn't anymore. She decided to ignore that and instead fix upon her imagination. She did not want Siddharth, she had to believe that, because if she gave in to what she did want, she would collaps at his feet.

No, she'd make him collaps at hers.

"I suppose it isn't," she said, solemnly. But in her voice too there was the slightest hint of longing.

The annoyance grew, returned, pulled at her and pushed any lingering feelings of warmth towards Siddharth aside. He spoke and he wished. She almost wished he'd voiced that long ago, as if that would've made any difference. As if anything Siddharth could've done would've changed what was between them.

She hummed. "Well... perhaps I could find you a spot in my busy schedule, there would be blood, I don't think there could be anything else," she admitted. There had to be blood. She wished for there to be blood. But she wasn't sure if she was merely wishing for there to be because it would make things easier or if she needed there to be because else she'd start thinking the wrong direction.

She did not look away, even if she noticed that he did, her sharp gaze constantly trained on him, not wishing to look away. She wanted his secrets spilled in front of her, she wanted to see him miss a beat, to watch him lose his composure, but when he did she couldn't decide if she saw his real emotion or if he was still keeping himself in check.

His big brown eyes looked away before studying her again, and she wondered if she could drown in them. If it was possible to see them widen with surprise, or slowly slide close in exhaustion. She knew she'd seen it, but it was different now. Everything was different now. Now she wondered at every turn if she was being played or if she got through to the real Siddharth Desai.

And if she did. Would she feel absolutely thrilled? Or would she be disapointed?

Her breath was hitched in her throught. He echoed words back that she thought herself every moment she was in a room with him, but she felt annoyance at it. A loss of control, a loss of being the top dog in the room. He seemed to think of her secrecy and mystery as something that would never uncover itself because she would not allow it, because she held it so deeply buried that not even she could answer those questions.

She stepped closer, as if there was still space left to bridge between them.

She whispered, because she didn't want a single soul but Siddharth to hear.

"You're not much different, are you?" she asked. "Everything I want to know is kept hidden behind your beautiful brown eyes, and every time I think I've uncovered a layer, I find a lie instead. I think I know you, but I know I don't know the tiniest bit about you."

"But I too could spend all night studying you and I would simply be left with paranoia that nothing is what it seems."

"So." An inch closer. "Here we are."

#the fact that he stays playing in her face #i wish he would just act right so they can kiss #── ☆: sid ╱ interaction ╱ thread.#── ☆: sid ╱ exchanges ╱ gemma.

the answer she gives him should have been easier to accept, and the sentence settles between them in that calm and reasonable manner. he finds, rather inconveniently, a pull in his lips, the beginnings of a disdainful grimace, not a frown, a grimace. its earliest inclination is much closer to quiet distaste than sorrow.

"perhaps." the answer is quiet, and he almost bites his tongue. a tiny spot of blood on his tongue for fangs otherwise sharp enough to abstain. “the more i think about it, you never did have much patience for things that stopped belonging to you." she almost sounds as if she believes it, and for once sidd wishes to file her words into a lie.

"i don't think either of us is afraid of blood." it’s an ironic jape for a vampire of his nature with unrelenting eyes stay on hers. "i think we're afraid of whatever survives after it."

there it is again. that familiar, inconvenient feeling. like the drugs- like fine powder sinking into gum lines, down this road before, into the veins and off with the palpitations, the nausea and dilated pupils. the same loss of control: dependency reclaiming its shape— as that wallowing disorganized brain thinks of nothing but how weak she makes him feel. and how he wishes gemma would detonate already, use her sharpened axe and tear him to pieces until he was nothing more but a fragment of her memory.

and it curls around his ribs—that feeling— like ivy, tightening with every breath until even indifference becomes unachievable.

he’d rather it be poison or hatred or fear. fear has always been simple.

this is something far less cooperative.

gemma continues looking at him as though they genuinely believe there is a person buried somewhere beneath everything. beneath the restraint. beneath the measured withdrawal that has become so habitual even he occasionally mistakes it for personality.

most people eventually tire of digging, perhaps that is the problem—gemma never has —or perhaps it is that some part of him has never truly wanted her to stop.

her description of his muddied gaze lands strangely. he has never understood compliments directed toward things he happened to inherit.

still— his expression shifts. only slightly.

"they aren't lies." his voice is quieter now, defensive and simply tired. "omissions aren’t lies,” the distinction must be known, whether it matters, he isn't entirely sure anymore. "i spent a very long time convincing myself that giving people less of me was safer."

his jaw tightens once. minimal.

"eventually you stop noticing you're doing it,” his gaze drifts somewhere beyond them before returning again. "then one day someone accuses you of being impossible to know."

another beat. "and you realise they're right." the admission hangs there. uncomfortable. irretrievable. he should stop.

instead— "the unfortunate part..." his attention lowers briefly to the narrow space separating them. hardly any. he makes no attempt to reclaim it. "...is that i do it all because i’m not good for you.”

Harsh nodded slowly, the awareness of the other hitting him to the bone. The idea that he'd let things go, burried things he'd loved and liked with the memories of his parents. All that was left was the fear, the fear of being dragged back into the whirlwind that had been their choices, of which consequences still had him by the throat now.

He sighed. "Have you been in my head?" he asked, with a short and warm laugh. It had not thrown him off, if anything, it had warmed him to Siddharth. So he offered his hand in introduction, hoping it would be accepted. "Harsh," he said, then, as he was prone to do. "My name, that is, not the comment." He always did that, even towards people who he figured would know Harsh was a name. It meant joy or happiness.

He stood up quickly to give his order to the owner of the place, a few words in Hindi and they luckily didn't recognise him. But kindness went a long way. He threw in a "thank you, uncle," and returned to his seat.

With a chuckle, Harsh announced his agreement. He'd never out in the open. He knew most actors didn't. Few actually wanted to shine that belonged to being a celebrity, he worried it would make him absolutely unbearable if he did give into it. But he had great co-stars who loved their jobs but didn't like the attention as much. "No no, they chased me down the street, and if they'd thought I went in here, they would've showed up by now," he said. "So I think I'm in the clear. They're not... well, they tend to follow but give up quickly if they get the feeling their attention isn't wanted. I'm just not so great at saying 'no', so running felt like my only option."

Harsh frowned, not sure what the other meant. Concerned for anyone's safety? But he realised he hadn't been forward about what he did, why he had fans chasing him. He filled in the words that were left unspoken with his own experiences. "Mine? They're with way more people."