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@eremitionisms
a dependent multimuse blog for THE BONEYARD. written by aster (he + him)
𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒 ⭒˚ JONATHAN DAVISS + HE/THEY.
introduction. timeline. stats. connections. threads
𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐀𝐈 ⭒˚ DEV PATEL + HE/THEY.
introduction. timeline. stats. connections. threads
⠀⠀⠀⠀──ˋˏ ★ with @boneyardstarters ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ WHERE: THE WAREHOUSE. NIGHT - MAY 30
while the rest of the city had dressed itself in imitation—cowboys, rhinestones, and other borrowed mythologies the strip sold back to them at markup—the warehouse continued as it always did. unremarkable. untheatrical. functioning regardless. even if he had intended to take the night off, and had nearly been persuaded otherwise by one flower-named roller-skating variable of chaos, he could not ignore what the crowd became when half of the city was otherwise occupied by spectacle above ground. less restrained. less interested in pretending otherwise.
instead, he remained beneath flickering warehouse light that never fully committed to illumination. someone nearby coughed into a towel already too used to be called clean. the irony, at least, was consistent.
the third fight ends the way most of them do—loud enough to convince the room it mattered, abrupt enough to suggest it never did.
the ring is already dissolving into its aftermath. one fighter sits half-folded against the corner post while gauze is wound around skin that is too weak to hold itself closed. another is being guided off with an arm slung over shoulders, weight dragging behind them. someone wipes the canvas down with a towel, even more blood and grime within its fibers.
the crowd has already begun to forget it happened.
then, finally, toward the newest arrival. a pause. “if you were going to take anything tonight,” he adds flatly, “that would’ve been the one to bet on.”
OPEN STARTER: ( @boneyardstarters ) LOCATION: waffle cottage. DATE: mid may, around 3:00am.
Las Vegas never really slept. At three in the morning, the city still buzzed neon-bright outside the diner windows, all flickering signs and tired dreamers stumbling through another endless night. Iris sat tucked into the corner booth with a cup of coffee cooling between her hands, dark eyes following the blur of headlights outside. The jukebox near the counter crackled softly with some old love song from years ago, and for a moment the whole place felt suspended in time; like maybe the rest of the world had stopped moving while Vegas kept spinning. She looked human enough under the dim lights; a careful smile, leather jacket tossed beside her, exhaustion hidden behind practiced ease. Nobody ( at least she damn well hoped ) here knew what she was, and she preferred it that way. The waitress had stopped asking if she wanted a refill almost an hour ago, but Iris still came here most nights for the comfort of noise and company she didn’t have to explain herself to. When the bell above the diner door rang, her attention drifted up instinctively toward the newest arrival. A small smile tugged at her mouth as she slid a fry absentmindedly around the plate in front of her. “You look like you’ve had a worse night than I have,” she said gently, motioning toward the empty seat across from her. “That’s honestly kind of impressive.”
three in the morning suited the city more honestly than daylight ever had.
sidd steps inside carrying the residue of somewhere louder.
smoke clings faintly to his jacket alongside warehouse dust and the metallic scent of circulated cash handled too many times over too many hands. one sleeve remains rolled slightly higher than the other, exposing the ghost of ink beneath his wrist where someone’s blood had nearly dried before being wiped away incompletely. not his. probably.
his posture carries the particular stillness of someone who has spent hours observing violence without participating in it directly. attention sharpened too long. nervous system running several degrees above rest.
the invitation reaches him half a second late.
his eyes settle on her briefly.
“impressive isn’t usually the preferred terminology,” he says at last, voice low and roughened by cigarette smoke and disuse.
his hands settle loosely around the coffee mug without drinking from it yet. “depends what qualifies as a bad night.” his gaze drifts toward the window again, tracking headlights without really seeing them.
eventually, his attention returns to her.
lauryn + ??? : may 30, day @ the doll house burlesque club @boneyardstarters
rodeos weren’t a thing lauryn attended. in fact, she’d never been to a rodeo before, but it reminded her of the times when she would go to coney island. or just to central park to spend a day there. sure, it was a big city like vegas, but it felt like a small town, seeing these businesses come together and make something unique and fun. she was dressed her very best for the occasion, an all denim ensemble with cowboy boots and the hat to match. but something she knew, was dancing. sunday morning clean ups in the nears home made for a family bonding that always seemed to end up in dancing around the living room and singing into brooms. she had music in her life again, but in a different way. cosmix was something she loved, let's be real. she loved coming up with melodies and figuring out slant rhymes that would make jay-z proud. but at times, she missed just singing and dancing for the fun of it. she had those moments with the girls, but they were few and far between. she found herself in the burlesque club, sipping on a homemade lemonade and watching the dancers, trying to maneuver her feet the same way the more competent dancers did. these cowboy, west coast line dances were something that lauryn wasn’t used to. sure, it had been a few years since she properly danced, but she wasn’t afraid to try. settling down her lemonade, she turns to a person sitting at a nearby table. “join me for a dance? or are you one of the ones with two left feet who can’t keep a tune?” her tone is playful as she tips her hat towards them and extends a hand.
the invitation catches him so off guard that he looks over his shoulder first, like there’s a chance they meant someone else.
the rodeo had been… a lot. not bad, just loud in ways he still hadn’t adjusted to. too many voices layered together, too much movement happening all at once. he’d mostly settled into observation instead—nursing the same drink far longer than socially acceptable while watching everyone else seem to understand the rhythm of the place naturally.
he’d long since finished the lemonade that vyvyan had brought for him, but the sweetness of the appltini had countered the tartness. it was only one drink, right? and he found that it tasted nothing like alcohol. it was actually kind of delightful.
his gaze flicks from her outstretched hand to the dance floor then back to her again. “me?” the question leaves him quieter than intended, nearly lost beneath the music. “are you sure?”
his thumb catches against the band of his ring automatically, tracing along it once while he thinks.
but he doesn’t say no. that seems to surprise him a little too.
a small breath escapes through his nose as he finally pushes himself up from the table. “i should warn you now,” he says, something faintly sheepish softening the edges of the words, “there’s a very real chance i step on your foot.”
"Uh... It was my grandmother's brooch--she had a whole collection. She gave my sisters and I each a brooch." Thinking back to that time--god, she must've been about fourteen or so?--and it was cloudy, probably because she hadn't been paying much attention at the time. "I'm sure she told me where it was from but I don't really remember the origin story. I was too much of a brat to listen..." she chuckled. "Though I'm almost positive it's from London. I mean, that's where she was from, so..." She didn't realize she could just...name the desired price. Surely, that's not how it worked. "I mean... I don't know what it's worth but I know it looks nice. Ideally, I'd love to get..." She thought for a moment, trying to decide if she should be honest or choose a price higher than the one she had in mind. If it was outrageous, maybe he could be talked down. "At least around $4,000 for it..." she said, her eyes moving from the brooch to meet his to gauge his reaction. Really, she needed at about $2,000 so she could have something in her savings. But if she threw out that number, he might go lower.
Selling or pawning? Her light brows furrowing, she said "...Is there a difference?" It was an honest question. It was the same process, was it not? You exchanged goods for money. Perhaps 'selling' just sounded better than 'pawning' but let's get real--she was an ex-heiress who had gone from being flushed with cash to fucking broke literally overnight. She needed money, especially considering that her position at the Waffle Cottage didn't make shit. This could at least hopefully set her up to start saving so perhaps one day, she could get off of Salem's couch and have her own trailer. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. But even though it was difficult, she still felt like that fall from grace had been worth it. As shitty as this life was, at least it was her own. She'd never had that before.
That explains the cut. Whatever the hell that meant--sure, she knew he was talking about the cut of the stone but she had no idea if they cut jewels a specific way in London versus the U.S. But not the placement. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asked. Her tone wasn't accusatory, per se, but she didn't like where this was going. It was times like these that she had to remind herself that she wasn't who she used to be. Let's get real--Romi would never have found herself in a place like this to begin with. Had she gone to that shady motel to meet up with her dealer? Sure, she had. But she'd also paid for thousands of dollars worth of coke and then returned to her cushy penthouse at the Manor Suites. Pawn shops weren't really her scene and it was difficult to unlearn the years of entitlement.
I'll need confirmation of ownership. And identification. She stood there for a second, trying her best not to scoff. Pulling out her wallet, she took out her ID and put it on the counter. Looking down at it, she knew she really should get a new one. In the picture on her ID, she still had her long, curly blonde hair and a winning smile to go with it. "How am I supposed to confirm ownership? My grandmother is dead--God rest her soul. Unless you want to hose a seance next door, I don't know how I'm supposed to prove that."
four thousand. ambitious. impossible for a pawn shop of this standing.
“selling transfers ownership permanently,” he says after a moment’s sigh, tone even. “pawning means i loan against collateral. you reclaim it later if repayment occurs within the contracted period.” a beat. “one assumes optimism. the other doesn’t.”
his attention settles briefly along the setting again, gaze tracing symmetry rather than sentiment.
“the cut refers to the stone.” flatly. a pause follows. not apologetic. “london jewelers favor different symmetry ratios depending on district and period. older family pieces tend to show it.” whether she understands the explanation matters less than the fact it exists.
at the mention of the séance, something near amusement threatens the neutrality of his mouth before disappearing again. “i’d charge extra for necromancy.” deadpan. “no, confirmation usually means receipts. photographs. insurance documentation. estate records.”
another glance toward the ID resting against the counter. then the identification reaches him fully. his jaw ticks once.
there it is. weiss.
recognition arrives without surprise, only the dull irritation of pattern confirmation. families like that moved through the city as though wealth itself constituted virtue—insulated from consequence long enough to mistake comfort for competence. and now one of them stood in his shop attempting to convert inherited excess into emergency liquidity.
his attention lowers back toward the brooch.
suddenly, the entire situation feels predictable.
he has spent too long watching people from neighborhoods like hers treat places like this as invisible until desperation finally forced them through the door. pawn shops only became acceptable once their own systems stopped protecting them.
pieces tied to families like that rarely survived long in public-facing inventory. too recognizable. too easy for the wrong eyes to trace back through glass cases and transaction records alike. items of that classification tended to move differently once they entered circulation—narrower channels, quieter exchanges, selective buyers who understood discretion as part of the price structure itself.
“i’ll be honest,” he says at last, voice remaining level despite the colder edge settling beneath it now. “items attached to names like weiss tend to create complications disproportionate to their value.”
I don't think you're pushy. Determined, maybe. There's a difference. At his kind words, she gave the smallest of smiles, appreciating his kindness. He was right, she was determined--but she was pushy, too, and she knew it could be a lot at times. But he never seemed to really mind whenever she'd come to him, asking for information about the latest case--or when she waited right outside the courtroom doors, like she had today. "Thanks, Leon," she said, her voice sincere.
She nodded when he mentioned things getting buried. He was right and that's exactly what she'd been trying to prevent--too many things had been swept under the rug in this town. And maybe if the cops weren't so fucking busy taking bribes from the Weisses, they might actually make some sort of a difference in this town. It seemed to Alice as if Bez was the only one on that force who wanted to do things the right way.
She looked at him with a sad smile when he expressed his seeming fatigue regarding the Nightstalker. She couldn't blame him at all, really--she got tired of it herself, at times. "I know... It gets to be a lot, that's for sure... It's difficult to find a balance sometimes, some way to escape." Personally, Alice tried to focus on her daughter to help clear her mind of the serial killer. However, even that proved taxing at times--especially after she'd been gunned down in the graveyard two years ago and almost lost her life, she practically had nightmares about what might happen if the Nightstalker finally came looking for her. Was it a paranoid thought? Perhaps. And yet, at the same time, it didn't seem too far fetched.
She was appreciative of Leon's willingness to join forces with her--after all, they were working towards the same goal. "Well, if there's ever anything I can do for you in return, just let me know," she said with a kind smile.
“i think people stop listening when someone pushes for answers too long,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “so they call it pushy instead.” his shoulders lift faintly beneath the thought. “but i don’t think wanting the truth is a bad thing.”
his gaze drifts briefly toward the courtroom doors again, expression dimming at the edges. “especially with something like this.” the nightstalker case had started to feel less like one terrible thing and more like a shadow stretched over half the city. every new detail only seemed to make people quieter afterward. more suspicious. more tired.
he understands what alice means about balance more than he knows how to explain aloud. there are nights when he goes home from court and can still hear fragments of testimony replaying in his head while he tries to sketch literally anything else. nights where even music doesn’t fully drown it out.
“i think people forget sometimes that hearing about awful things over and over still… does something to you,” he admits carefully. “even if you’re not directly involved.”
a pause settles there,“but i’d rather people keep looking than decide it’s easier not to.”
his expression softens slightly when she offers to return the favor. “you don’t owe me anything,” he says first, instinctive. then, after a second, something quieter: “but maybe…” his thumb brushes once against the edge of the briefcase handle. “if you ever figure out how to stop carrying things home with you afterward, you could tell me that part.”
nadine had siphoned all the passion and willpower she possessed breathing life into six string—which entailed crafting it lovingly enough to where others felt as at home there as she had. she was beyond proud that she'd accomplished this feat. not only had it become a hub for the music hungry youth, but her friends and family had also come to find it as a place of respite, a place where they could visit and shoot the shit and feel completely comfortable. in many ways, it was almost better than communing at her trailer. while you would be surrounded by guitars and amps in both instances, sometimes being away from home did wonders for clearing the mind. at least in nadine's case; though, if her girlfriend was around, she often sought her comfort when it concerned unburdening herself.
"if you give me a heads up next time, i'll sit real still for you," nadine offered, tossing a rag she was using to wipe down guitars between both hands as she spoke. "but it looks sick. i kind of like it more than your typical portrait. bet you'd make a killing out of this stuff. i'd buy your whole stock, personally. maybe hang some more stuff up around here."
while nadine and leo talked, say say continued tapping on the keys lightly, a sort of background ambiance to their conversation. when she heard leo's admitted desire to play, she perked up. "oh, i would love to teach you," she cut in. "i used to teach my brothers and sisters, but i don't know if any of them keep up with it now." it'd been almost a decade now since she had seen them, which always made her heart contort in her chest.
say say's face settled into a soft smile. "i like being here, too," she agreed, her hands finally lowering from the keys. "we should do it more often. at least, until dina's wedding. she'll be super busy being a wife soon enough. gonna forget all of us."
"i will not forget you," nadine denied with laughter as she went to take a seat beside leo. "speaking of, leo, i was gonna ask if you'd wanna come. ava's doing the invitations, but i thought i'd ask ahead of time," she offered a grin, nudging him. "maybe you can even do people's portraits."
the idea of nadine sitting still long enough for him to sketch her properly feels difficult to imagine, especially with the rag still moving between her hands as she wipes down the guitars. but something softens through his expression at the offer anyway. “only when it’s not busy,” he says with a small nod, thumb catching briefly against the corner of the page before he folds the journal shut against his lap.
“i don’t know if they’re good enough to hang up anywhere,” he admits quietly, gaze drifting toward the walls of six strings instead—the instruments, handwritten signs, layered flyers. lived-in things. somehow all fitting together despite the clutter of them. and for a brief second, he thinks maybe it wouldn’t be so strange to leave a little piece of himself here too. something small. something quiet for his home away from home.
his attention shifts between them after a moment. “which do you think is harder to learn?” he asks. “piano or guitar?”
and when reina says they should do this more often, something unfamiliar settles quietly beneath his ribs: inclusion. not simply being nearby while other people existed around him, but being wanted there too. it still surprises him every time.
at the mention of the wedding his gaze lifts almost immediately toward her, surprise crossing his face before he can smooth it away. “you want me there?” the question slips out quieter than intended. almost immediately, embarrassment follows close behind it. “i mean—” his shoulders shift faintly. “of course i’ll come. i wouldn't miss it for the world.”
the suggestion of portraits draws another pause from him, softer this time. he pictures it briefly—small moments caught before they disappear. people laughing when they think no one’s paying attention. hands linked together. motion held still for a second longer than life usually allows. sketching the brides as they bask in their love. his expression eases around the thought.
“i could do that,” he says after a moment, more certain now. “i’d love to.”
with: @eremitionisms ; leon where: the doll house burlesque when: june 1st, 1997
Vyvyan didn't care to play waitress. When she had started out in the city, there were few other options for her, and she had to make do, but she didn't believe she was good at it. The biggest gripe from customers when she worked at Jeff's Joe was her proclivity to stare — almost ironic, for the fact that she could not. However, she put on her brave face and asked Briar twice over whether her outfit looked nice backstage before hitting the floor to ensure guests had their refreshments at the club, amid the music and the dancing. The vibrations through the floor told her what to avoid and sidestep, and she had a pretty good idea of the layout of the event once she had done a few laps around the floor.
"Would you like a drink?" Her hand brushed along the table, sensing that someone was there and pulling her hand away. "It's a variant of appletini. I hear it's quite delicious," she suggested, putting on a smile as she waited for an answer, and lowered the tray on the table. "Pardon my asking, are you by yourself here, or should I leave other glasses for your... dance partner?"
The singer pondered if she should ask anything else of them — some people wanted her to stick around and converse, especially on busy evenings at the burlesque, but tonight was alive and vibrant for entirely different reasons. At least most people seemed to be having fun. Admittedly, she was a hair lonesome — it wasn't as if she had family or another person to share such social calls with. Instead, she went with something cordial. "If you don't like the drink, there's lemonade I can return with. No alcohol."
the table had become less of a place to sit and more of a checkpoint. somewhere leon kept returning his attention while the rest of the club moved around him in loud, glittering circles. every few minutes he’d glance toward the entrance again out of habit, half expecting mikey to finally appear with lipstick on his collar and some impossible explanation attached to him.
the burlesque club fit his brother far better than it fit him. the lights flashed too much here. boots striking wood. laughter arriving in bursts. perfume thick enough to settle in the back of his throat. even seated, he feels vaguely out of place inside it all—too still for the room around him.
then vyvyan’s voice reaches him and something in his shoulders loosens before he fully realizes it. “oh,” softer now, more grounded. “hi, vyvyan.” her hand brushes the table briefly before pulling away and leon’s gaze flicks downward instinctively, noticing it the same way he notices most things—small movements first.
the mention of the appletini earns the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth, tired but real. “i probably shouldn’t,” he admits, glancing toward the glass anyway. “mixing alcohol with my medication usually ends badly for me.” not dramatic. just factual. “it does sound good though.”
his fingers shift once around the edge of the table before he shakes his head lightly at the mention of a dance partner. “no, it’s just me.” a quieter pause follows after that. “i was looking for my brother, but i think i’m close to giving up for tonight.” not upset exactly. more resigned to the fact that mikey moved through vegas like someone impossible to pin down.
then, after a second: “you can sit for a minute if you want.”
his gaze lifts toward her again, expression softening slightly, “have you gotten a break at all tonight?” he asks. “or has it been this busy the whole time?”
She nodded as he confirmed her suspicions about his own opinions--and he had a good point. She doubted that Meng Hei was perfect--but of course, who was? She may have made some mistakes, committed some sins--hell, she may have even committed crimes. But the Nightstalker? There was no way. It was too easy, too simple. Leon was probably right, that they just wanted it to be over and done with. But that never worked. Putting away the wrong people only ever bought time, it didn't actually solve the problem. Even if the killer got wise and got the hell out of Vegas, they'd just go elsewhere and wreak more havoc.
I have a terrible feeling that the case of the Nightstalker is going to be a long one, but thankfully we have honest journalists who will get to the bottom of this, people like you. She gave a small smile to his kind words--it was sweet of him to say and she knew that he meant it. Still, she felt a pang of guilt float through her chest for a moment. She wasn't as honest as he might think--but she wasn't about to correct him. At the beginning, she'd set out to be honest and to be fair, she still was, in a lot of ways. But there also secrets that she kept to protect the ones that she loved. And as morally gray as it might be, she was intent on making sure her family stayed safe at all costs.
"Thank you," she said softly, following it up with "I think you're right, that it's going to be a long one... But I hope that eventually, we'll get to the bottom of it. I know I certainly wouldn't be able to do as much as I do if I didn't have people like you in the court room. I appreciate your intel, Leon. I know I can be a bit...pushy at times, but... You never seem to mind." She chuckled and said "Well, if you do mind, then you're really nice about it." She was definitely grateful to have found a friend in the artist.
leon’s expression softens at that—not because he thinks she’s wrong, but because he can hear the guilt tucked underneath before she even finishes it. “i don’t think you’re pushy,” he says quietly. his thumb drags once along the edge of the briefcase handle, attention settling somewhere between the floor and her voice instead of directly at her. thinking while he speaks, as usual.
“determined, maybe.” a small pause. “there’s a difference.” because there was. leon had met people who pushed simply to consume things. ill-mannered people who treated tragedy like entertainment once it stopped being theirs. alice had never really felt like that to him. a little stubborn, maybe and too willing to chase answers even when they unsettled her. but never cruel.
his gaze flicks briefly toward the courthouse doors behind him before returning. “i think if people stop asking questions just because something gets uncomfortable, then…” the sentence trails for a second. he searches for a cleaner way to phrase it and doesn’t quite find one. “that’s how things stay buried.”
another quieter pause settles between them. “i just wish there was less of it to ask about sometimes.” that part comes more absentmindedly and honest enough that he doesn’t realize the weight of it until after he says it. because he hates hearing about the night stalker. hates the photographs passed around in sealed folders, the careful language people use when they don’t want to say mutilation out loud. hates how often his work keeps placing him close enough to it that he knows details he never wanted in his head to begin with.
his shoulders shift faintly beneath the thought before he looks back toward her fully again. “and you don’t have to thank me for the courtroom stuff,” he adds, softer now. “i’m just… there.”
a small breath through his nose. “since you’re trying to make sense of it, you need eyes. i don't mind being your eyes.”
location: petal pals flower shop
date: early may
@boneyardstarters
Anni was still getting used to the fact that they were actually engaged to the love of their life, Hermione, and that soon, the two would be married. It all still felt like a wonderful, mystical dream that they didn't want to wake up from. That being said, there was a lot of planning to be done, especially if the two wanted to be married by early August as they planned. It was sort of all-hands-on-deck and they certainly didn't want to leave their partner stuck with all the work. This is why they found themselves at Petal Pals today, a place that they weren't all too familiar with.
Looking around the shop, it was lovely--all of the spring blooms were gorgeous and it smelled heavenly. However, amidst all the beauty, the dancer couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed. They knew nothing about flowers, aside from the fact that they were pretty, and they had no idea where to even start with planning the wedding florals. They knew that both brides would need a bouquet but what about all the other things you could do with flowers? And how much would that cost?
Realizing that they'd been standing and staring at some pink flowers--apparently, peonies by the look of their label--for far too long because they didn't realize that someone was trying to get their attention until they gently tapped them on the shoulder. "What? Sorry..." they said, feeling a little embarrassed. "I'm just...having decision paralysis, I guess... Do you know what flowers are popular in August by chance?..."
petal pals had become one of the few places in las vegas leon could visit without feeling crowded. the owner knew him by name at this point—not because he talked much, but because he kept returning. sometimes for single stems or small bundles of herbs he didn’t technically need.
he preferred wildflowers in truth. things that grew unevenly. stubbornly. blooms found along trails or tucked between dry stretches of rock where no one expected softness to survive. but petal pals helped him understand seasons better—what was native, what bloomed when, what survived heat, what wilted too quickly under desert sun. inspiration lived there in quiet ways.
the shop itself settled something in him. he carried his sketchbook there more often than not, though rarely with the intention of drawing anything specific. usually just petals. the curve of sepals. branching leaf veins. stamens clustered at the center like careful little cities.
he wasn’t particularly skilled at color theory, but shape made sense to him. texture made sense. and his pencil let him study flowers quietly without needing to understand why certain combinations of color made his chest ache a little when he looked at them.
the tap on the shoulder feels forward the second it happens. uncharacteristic enough of him that embarrassment follows almost immediately after. leon values his own space too much to not assume everyone else values theirs. he takes a step back once she acknowledges him, arms hugging his sketchbook, pressed against his chest and his eyes drift toward the little information cards instead, reading while she speaks rather than holding eye contact for too long.
“sorry if i startled you,” it’s a bashful apology, typical leon. “i just wanted to take a peek at the cosmos they look a little livelier today.” he may take one home with him to set in a jar and stare while sketching.
giving her a shy smile, he nods in understanding though, he didn’t know if he could help with decision paralysis. he doesn’t pretend expertise. he tries to search for an answer anyway. what flowers showed up most in wedding sketches? which ones survived august heat longest? what flowers did people seem to gravitate toward emotionally?
instead he pivots, “hm. maybe it’s easier if you start with color instead.”
Extremely terrifying. At least, Zakir had been at a point in his life where the opinion of others had pushed any confidence he could've had down the drain. The bullying had gotten so bad that his mother had pulled him out of school and they'd home-schooled him while his siblings still went. It had meant missing a lot of things that Zakir could still be jealous of from afar. But he'd loved being home-schooled, and he'd recognised only later in life the life lessons his parents and his grandparents had tried to teach him were to his benefit. Much more than missed parties and fun excursions could've ever been.
His face softened. "She knew I needed it. It was rare I got praise, these are aunties after all, but they taught me a lot, and the moments I did get praise felt incredible." His mother was sure to let him know that what he'd recited was beautiful. Building up his confidence one step at a time.
He bit the inside of his mouth, and nodded. He had stopped caring, but he remembered what it was like to care. To be judged for how he looked before anyone got to know him. "Yeah, I know. Been there, bhai," he said, with a sigh. "It isn't easy, wallah, it's incredibly hard. But it's not important what they think, what matters is what the people you love think."
"Violin? Jhakaas. Do you still play?" He'd once thought about getting into music too, but well... life had other plans for him.
He laughed. "Bhai, let me fly them over from India, I am sure they'd praise you if you played violin for them, they're harsh on family but adoring on anyone else."
the more he sat and spoke with them, the more leon felt at ease. the wedding slipping to the background, while possibly making a new acquaintance, maybe friend, or even a confidence counselor. he liked the sound of that, and he wasn’t loathe to admit that he could use a bit of confidence boosting. he could be quite introverted and a little too clammed up in his shell.
“sounds like you have a nice family,” though he understands families can be complicated, it’s still nice to be grateful for the positives. while he wishes he had a more supportive mother from birth, his foster parents were there to champion him as much as they could when he was younger. his smile extends at the words and they sit with him longer than expected—like something that’s found a place to stay. that someone like them could have started from somewhere uncertain too—it doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the distance between then and now feel… smaller. “thanks. i’ll remember that,” he adds quieter. “when i start overthinking things.”
the violin is something that is fond but a bit strained. in truth, he hadn’t learned a new song in awhile. “when i have time.” he nods. “work fills most of my days now. and my brother tends to turn the apartment into noise whenever he’s around, so…” a brief, softer exhale. “it’s not always the right moment.”
then, after a beat — a bit more open, but still tentative: “but i like it. when i do play.”
a pause.
“maybe one day i’ll take you up on that,” he agrees. “maybe one day i can play for you, if you have any favorite violin pieces.”
Daveed nodded slowly. So very late. He'd been stood up on dates before, he knew how easy it was to ignore the clock and instead feel the creeping feeling of time slipping by. But those were strangers, this was family. He worried for a moment something might've happened to the brother, but he didn't say it, he didn't want to make the other even more worried himself.
He would've offered even if he hadn't been asked, so he offered a smile and nodded. "Of course." He disliked how Las Vegas made monsters of anyone who tried to help. Because this city didn't run on kindness. It shallowed up the weak and either spit them back out with an edge or made sure they were never found again. It made him eager to prove the city wrong, and care for those who needed an extra hand.
Also it wasn't as if the bar was out of his way.
"Follow me." He said, as he started walking.
leon falls into step beside them, one hand hooked tightly around the strap crossing his chest. the messenger bag bumps lightly against his hip with every few steps. the sound of two sets of footsteps against the pavement feels strangely comforting after spending the last while searching alone. enough that some of the tightness in his stomach eases, if only a little.
maybe sitting down would help too. something fried and simple to settle his nerves. onion rings, maybe. bars usually had onion rings, right?
he just hopes they won’t look at him strangely when he inevitably orders a soda instead of anything stronger. people in vegas seemed to expect alcohol the way hikers expected water.
“do you come here a lot?” he asks after a moment, voice quieter against the city noise. the question comes partly from curiosity. “my brother usually disappears into places lie this,” he admits, a little sheepish. “but i’m not really… familiar with bars. i usually end up in them looking for him, not… being in them.”
Harsh hadn't registered he'd walked into an Indian place, but of course, he'd probably followed his nose as much as his gut - perhaps more. At the sight of the food, his mouth watered. His father had always made the best chutney, and both his parents had stressed the importance of home-made food. Though, Harsh had always leaned towards the sweets. Ladoo, barfi, jalebi, gulab jamun, and so forth. He reached for the menu automatically and opened the page at the desserts.
Not sure how to react to his offer being declined, Harsh chuckled awkwardly. He was good at acting, but he was horrible at improv. Faced with a situation that was new to him, he felt like he became the blubbering mess hidden underneath the up-and-coming actor.
Something told him that he was unwanted, but the fact that he wasn't recognised and the lassi being pushed his direction said otherwise. He tapped his finger on the sweet box noted on the menu, and gratefully took the lassi. "I do accept the generosity," he countered with a grin that was more like the character he played. Harsh liked to pretend he was Dr. Jay Sivakumar, because Dr. Jay Sivakumar would be charming, sharp, and face any challenge head-on.
"This lassi is good, anything else you'd recommend?" Though he was definitely going to get the sweet box. "Not such a bad place to hide out in."
it’s not that sidd detested company, but he could count the amount of friends, true friends, he had on one hand. he was selective of who he let see him, and who he choose to allow in his very torturous life. he didn’t like drama—didn’t need it and didn’t appreciate the center-of-attention types. he liked to remain lowkey, grounded and like his upbringing, on the outskirts of things.
the menu flips immediately toward the desserts. that, at least, earns the faintest recalibration of sidd’s attention. most people unfamiliar with places like this gravitated toward whatever looked safest—naan, butter chicken or the over-explained combinations softened for tourists and hangovers.
his fork pauses briefly against the plate.
the mango lassi remains surrendered territory now. he reaches instead for his water, attention drifting once toward the counter. the owners move through steam and noise. a sweet old desi family. he hadn't bothered to ask where exactly they were from. they tend to greet him differently here, not like other places. not like he's an outsider. instead with the casual assumption that sidd was someone expected to return. as if he were one of their strays, protecting him with comfort food and the smell of home.
“sharbat’s better,” he says after swallowing. a slight gesture toward the nimbu adrak listed lower on the menu. less sugar. more spice.
his attention drifts down the page of his own menu in loose sequence. he begins his list of recommendations: “rotla if the kitchen hasn’t run out yet. dhokla’s the best i’ve had in the city. khichdi’s good too.” another scoop of chickpeas disappears with little urgency. “the potato curries are what i tend to order.” and obviously the samosa chaat. a beat. “the desserts are all very good too. i just don’t have much use for sweet things.”
finally, his gaze lifts toward the other properly again. not celebrity. not actor. just another person hiding badly. “who exactly are you avoiding?”
Looking over at Sidd when he said he hadn't been avoiding her intentionally, she just shook her head and gave him a small smile. "Hey, no worries--I get it, believe me. Shit has been...wild around here lately." Not with their shops, of course, but rather with the city itself. But then again, it seemed that Las Vegas was always in some state of turmoil. The headlines changed but things remained chaotic, one way or another.
She nodded when he mentioned desperate people coming in and trading their valuables for cash. Everyone did what they needed to do, she supposed. "Yeah, I'm sure of it," she chuckled. "People keep coming in and asking me to predict their future and tell them what they want to hear. I even had a lady demand her money back the other day." Aurelia understood that a lot of her customers that sought out readings were desperate for answers and guidance. There were some shops that took advantage of that vulnerability but she tried her best not to. She reported what the tarot cards told her and if they didn't like it, that was just too damn bad. She didn't want to upset people but if it didn't look good, she wasn't going to lie to them. It wasn't worth it.
Now Relia wasn't surprised by much these days but when he mentioned a jar of human teeth, she looked it him wide-eyed for a moment. "Wait, what? A jar of teeth? Human teeth?..." Now that was either a murderer or someone that raided bio-medical waste sites--either way, not good. "You didn't...give them money for that, did you?..."
She chuckled when he mentioned that the decline in intelligence was to her business' benefit. "I mean, I wouldn't say that every single person who walks through the door is...all there, perhaps. But most people are just looking for advice. And the cards do the work for me, so..." She couldn't tell if Sidd actually believed in that sort of thing or not and whether he did or didn't made no difference to her. She knew what she believed and that's what was important.
it was one of her traits he appreciated most—that she occupied space without demanding constant maintenance of it. no guilt over distance. no scorekeeping disguised as affection. just the quiet understanding that people drift in and out of each other’s orbit when life becomes occupied elsewhere.
he answers her with a single nod. “wild?” a faint exhale through his nose. “feels about accurate, perhaps a smidge of underselling isn’t it?” public executions, wedding crashers, citywide panic—las vegas had long since stopped distinguishing spectacle from normal civic behavior. not his concern to correct.
the story about the refund earns the closest thing to amusement she’s likely to get from him tonight. “what? she didn’t like her future?” the cigarette shifts between his fingers as he speaks. another drag. “should’ve offered in-store credit instead.” his mouth threatens something brief at the corner before flattening again. “make her buy her own deck of cards and disappoint herself independently.”
the jar of teeth receives absolutely no embarrassment from him whatsoever. “it was only ten dollars,” he admits. “and technically well-suited.” a pause. “for decor.” whether that improves the situation remains unclear. though most pawn shops operate partially on intimidation anyway. people behave differently when they think the owner might either know too much or possess an unclear relationship with normal human behavior. a jar of teeth tends to accelerate that impression.
his attention drifts back toward the street for a moment before settling somewhere lower.
“i guess advice is what most people are after anyway.” not answers. never answers. just permission disguised as guidance. “they hand someone else the responsibility for interpretation and hope it hurts less coming back.”
finally, his gaze shifts toward her again. “you do them a service. if they dislike the outcome, that’s between them and whatever they came looking for in the first place.”
In response to the question of her supposed-grandmother's age when she received the ring, she pretended to think back for just a millisecond. "Uh, she was nineteen, I believe. It was her engagement ring. It's crazy to think about getting married at nineteen--it certainly couldn't be me," she chuckled. "But I guess things were just different back then."
She listened as he talked about the appraisal process but honestly, she didn't really care about the finer details. She wanted to collect her cash and get the hell out of there--but of course, she didn't want to raise suspicion either. So instead, she nodded and said "My grandma wore it her whole life and then she gave it to my mom who gave it to me. I guess I could always get it re-sized but honestly, as pretty as it is, it's just not my style..."
Shrugging, she said "I would assume it was commissioned--specially made for my grandmother but I really don't know for sure, sorry... It's from Scotland, if that makes any difference." Of course, it wasn't actually from Scotland but she was so she figured it would track. By now, after spending so many years in the States, her Scottish accent was quite faint but it was still there and it would come out more around her father, even though he himself was Russian. The Pogue-Rogalnikov family dynamic was an interesting one for sure.
the mention of scotland earns little visible reaction, though something minute recalibrates behind his expression. his thumb drags once along the interior of the band before another loupe is retrieved from beneath the counter. stronger magnification this time.
“it can.” the ring turns again beneath the overhead light. not admired. processed. “older british pieces usually carry cleaner history than american ones.” not conversational—observational. “purity marks. maker stamps. sometimes date lettering depending on origin.”
his attention shifts away from the stone itself now, toward the interior edge of the setting. hallmarking. wear distribution. whether the scratches settled naturally through time or arrived too uniformly to trust at all. “commissioned pieces usually leave residue behind.” more to himself than her. “resizing. repair history. engravings.”
a pause. “and family members tend to preserve documentation for objects like this longer than the objects themselves."
the ruby ring settles onto the velvet between them. “you said your grandmother wore it most of her life.” not accusatory. structural. “daily?” his gaze remains lowered while he speaks “because repeated wear creates visible signs.” another slight turn beneath the light. “compression along the underside. thinning near the palm side. stones loosening with age. prongs wearing down.” another pause. “repairs stack over decades. especially engagement rings.”
all clinical language.
“i’ll need identification, yours, and the gemstone certificate from the commisioner if you have it.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes when he said that he couldn't appraise it immediately--which made perfect sense but that didn't make her any less impatient. "Okay, well... What else do you need from me, then?..." she asked. This brooch was rightfully hers so she didn't know why she felt so paranoid, as if her father might magically come swooping in at any moment and take the heirloom back. Like or not, she needed the cash to build up her savings, especially considering that she'd never actually earned anything in her life up until very recently.
Not when something arrives this far outside its usual environment. She wondered if that meant it was a good piece or not--it sure as shit should be. Her grandmother had been a very sophisticated woman after all. "It's from London, if that means anything to you..." Honestly, if it wasn't already entirely obvious, she didn't know shit about jewelry and while she enjoyed the finer things in life--especially the ones that sparkled--it's not like she could argue much with whatever the guy behind the counter told her. She supposed that if she didn't like his answer, there were a million other pawn shops in this town that she could go to and try to get a better offer. She just knew she need at least $1,000. Hopefully $2,000, if she was lucky.
“—history, a name, desired price. selling or pawning.” the cadence is matter-of-fact. not unkind—simply procedural. the kind of intake questions repeated often enough.
people who came in prepared usually arrived with numbers already attached. expectations pre-calculations. negotiation points already rehearsed. her appearance resolves into a slower kind of classification, the sort that happens without permission rather than invitation. the hair first—brown, but not entirely consistent, as though the pigment had been chosen rather than inherited. it does not match the rest of her. not precisely. not the way natural colouring tends to settle into facial structure over time.
then face itself—features that suggest a kind of curated familiarity. bone structure that sits too comfortably within patterns he has seen before without placing itself cleanly into any one of them. the kind of symmetry that usually comes from maintenance and old genes.
something about it registers as recognisable without resolving into memory. his attention remains split between the brooch and her, though neither receives full sentiment. only assessment.
diamond pieces rarely entered his counter without a chain of implications attached. theft was not an accusation—it was a statistical inevitability in environments like this. the strip did not produce heirlooms. it redistributed them. and objects like this did not simply appear in pawn shops. they were carried here. which meant they could be traced. or missed. or reclaimed. thumb brushes once against the counter edge, slow, absent rhythm forming beneath thought.
from london, she claims. though provenance does not clarify intent of sell. only geography. his eyes lift briefly to her again—measuring not her story, but her handling of it. “that explains the cut,” he says after a moment.
a pause. the brooch remains untouched for now.
“though, not the placement.” wealth did not usually descend into this part of the city willingly. when it did, it tended to be either careless or separated from its original supervision.
both were liabilities. and liabilities attracted attention. attention attracted problems. it was recipe for downfall—for someone to come sniffing. his gaze shifts faintly toward the front window, as if recalculating the space outside the glass—distance, visibility, exposure. smash radius. reaction time. how quickly something in here would stop being a transaction and become an incident.
then back. “i’ll need confirmation of ownership,” he says finally, tone unchanged. “and identification.”
Bez never cursed, never used any of the slang they'd grown up around in their grandmother's household, who praised Allah so often it had been the best way for them to inmitate her for laughs.
But now, they found those fond words gripping at their tongue.
"Bismallah." Uttered more in surprise than anything else, but surprise that was joyful at its edges, as Bez' eyes widened.
Their childhood hadn't exactly been happy, but it had been solid. A grandmother to count on, and a friend to trust. The soft spot they had for Siddharth would always be there, they can attest to that now, despite the rumours - and Bez did always listen to the rumours.
But reality came rushing in just as quickly. Bez was on the ground, minor injuries, ones they would've shrugged off if they happened back in the outskirts of London, and that burning mission in the back of their mind: corruption, fighting corruption, being the good cop, the dedicated detective, the---
The familiarity was too much for a moment. When they'd moved here, there had been nothing, everything was different. For as much could be said about the similarities between the UK and the USA, Bez felt none of it. A fish out of water, maybe exactly what their mother had felt when she moved to this country. But the voice, intonation, and words that gripped them now were such vivid remants of the past that Bez was at a loss for words.
And the face. Sidd looked younger than he should, he looked healthy and strong and not as scrawny as they'd both been back home.
But also tired by age, like Bez felt. Youth was no longer on their side, but it seemed to be more on Sidd's than theirs.
It took unintentionally too long before Bez could form any kind of response, started with a gruff snort at the caffeine comment. It had of course, been the ADHD, always the ADHD, but they'd started all together too young with the coffee as well.
"Sidd," they said, just to taste the word, to test it out, to remember that feeling when said between friends. Good friends, best friends. So much history, so much that shaped them both into the people they were now. Bez could follow some of the pillars of their being right back to the years spend with Siddharth. They took a deep breath. A smile despite the slight discomfort of the scrapes. "Being severely caffinated is one of the pillars of my personality, bruv."
his own name does not land cleanly when it leaves bez’s mouth. it’s not as familiar as it once was, but it’s not new either. instead it approaches siddharth as misfiled. he doesn’t know where to put it or where bez belongs in his life or if he does, anymore.
something in him attempts to categorize it the way it used to be—memory arrives anyway. it comes in fragments first. bez’s boisterous laughter. the smell of cardamom and coffee beans. the outskirts of london. earlier years. distances measured in train stops rather than kilometers. shared silences that did not require maintenance. trust. anchor— or maybe tether. it feels less like recollection and more like interference. the familiarity softens his expression. he notices only from within that he more human when he's around bez.
“…of course,” he says after a moment. the words arrive slightly delayed, routed through something slower than speech. steps in before further movement is required, when bez shifts, he adjusts immediately. once they are upright and pulled away from anymore expected or unexpected oncoming traffic, sidd’s hands remain for half a second too long at their shoulders—then they release with controlled precision, smoothing briefly at any creases made from impact. —an attempt to restore the version of them that the world expects to recognize as a detective, rather than the one currently standing in front of him.
“the only substance capable of reliably disrupting your behavior remains...” a beat. “not technically a drug in the operational sense, but the effect is functionally identical.” he exhales once through his nose, laughter. “correction: situational awareness,” he adds. “not any real lasting side effects, I don’t think.”
a pause. his gaze flicks over them—scrapes, posture, breath pattern. the way he can sense they are already preparing to move again, but he stays, feet planted gazing.
“there. you are intact,” he says finally, as though confirming inventory. “and acceptable.” he withdraws his hands fully now. a small recalibration in posture. “let’s see what other damage? brain injury? sprained wrist?”
his attention catches on them for a fraction longer than necessary before. “surprised. i thought vegas would’ve killed you by now.” a beat. his attention shifts over the scrapes again. “good to see your survival instincts remain selectively functional.”
