bold. always / usually applies
italic. only applies situationally / sometimes
𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. arms crossed on chest / hugging oneself. crossing legs. fist-like gestures. pointing index finger. karate chops. stiffening of shoulders. tense posture. curling of lip. baring of teeth.
𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. hand to face gestures. head tilted. stroking chin. peering over glasses. taking glasses off — cleaning. putting earpiece of glasses in mouth. pipe smoker gestures. putting hand to the bridge of nose. pursed lips. knitted brows.
𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗. arms crossed. sideways glance. touching or rubbing nose. rubbing eyes. hands resting on weapon. brows rising. lips pressing into a thin line. strict unwavering eye contact. wrinkling of nose.
𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 & 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. open hands. upper body in sprinters position. sitting on the edge of a chair. hand-to-face gestures. unbuttoned coat. tilted head. slacked shoulders. droopy posture. feet pointed outward. palms flat and facing outward.
𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. hands behind back. hands on lapels of coat. steepled hands. baring teeth in a grin. rolling shoulders. tipping head back but maintaining eye contact. chest puffed up. shoulders back. arms folded just above navel.
𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 & 𝚊𝚗𝚡𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢. chewing pen or pencil. rubbing thumb over opposite thumb. biting fingernails. hands in pockets. elbow bent. closed gestures. clearing throat. “ whew ” sound. picking or pinching flesh. fidgeting in chair. hand covering mouth whilst speaking. poor eye contact. tugging at pants whilst seated. jingling money in pockets. tugging at ear. perspiring hands. playing with hair. swaying. playing with pointer or marker. smacking lips. sighing. rocking on balls of feet. flexing fingers sporadically.
𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. short breaths. “tsk ” sounds. tightly clenched hands .fist-like gestures. pointing index finger. running hand through hair. rubbing back of neck. snarling. revealing teeth. grimacing. sharp-eyed glowers with notable tension in brows. shoulders back , head up - defensive posturing. clenching of jaw. grinding of teeth. nostrils flaring / heavy exhales.
𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 before melinöe realized that the floating lights were connected to a much larger machine, which was charging straight towards her. the queen of ghosts could have easily disappeared in an instant if she saw the need to. perhaps, that’s why she remained fixed in her position, wanting to witness this machine at work and learn who or what was controlling it. like an angry banshee, it screeched to a halt, and soon enough a mortal man stepped out, dissipating panic still emitting from his aura. there was something else there too… but the goddess was not yet so readily attuned to it as she might have been had she encountered the man centuries ago. and so, the mysterious whiff of an invisible soul has filed away to the back of her priorities while the first remained to understand what he was blabbering on about.
she stared at his lips, focusing on every syllable, every inflection that spilled out of them. the few sentences were enough for a goddess to pick up the logistics of this mortal tongue, especially considering that traces of her own ancient language served as the building blocks for it.
“ car ” she echoed, looking back to the metal contraption. it was what the dead latins called a carrum: a wheeled vehicle. “ i do not have a car. ” she walks passed the mortal, circling around the source of the orbs for a closer inspection of what lied inside, absorbing all this new knowledge like a sponge making up for lost time. “ tell me, why is there a… curfew? is that a tool of subjugation used by your authorities? ” eyes as black as a void meet with his, and the slightest curve of a smile threatens to spread across her features,“ … or are you all still afraid of the dark? ”
alec exhales hard, and leans heavily against his car. the weight is steady beneath him, warm and distinctively comforting in comparison to the stark bleakness of the woman before him. she parrots him. then pauses and moves closer, peering around and within his vehicle without questioning words or even a glance for permission. it makes alec pause, the words that were ready to ooze from his throat drawn up and knotted as he blinks and tries to consider her better. maybe she’s sick. or dehydrated and tired from being out in the world for so long.
if she’s been traveling for awhile, alone and not from here -- absolutely not from here -- then who knows how she’s doing. he can’t leave her out this late at night; alec knows that more than anything. it may as well be what he fucking clings to with the more odd she becomes, the more her words drip like ichor from her upturned lips, matching the spark in her ice cold, ice dark eyes.
“it’s supposed to be for safety.” alec answers after an aborted moment of silence. “there have been murders around here and the neighboring towns, grotesque ones. so the cops have been ordering everyone inside around nine pm to lessen the risk.” it’s an ironic thing to talk about when he’s outside with her now, far past that hour and getting only later. or earlier, alec amends with some odd spike of humor, depending on the person.
still he moves to follow her. pausing when she does, looking into her eyes no matter the uncomfortable itch in his stomach, the slow and sluggish stirring as the golden thing spills into his guts.
𝐖𝐇𝐎 : open
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 : 3:03 am
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 : deadwood, just outside the blackwood forest
the awoken goddess wanders the blackwood forest like a phantom of the past, draped in the white sleeping gown she’d been buried in. the last time melinöe had stepped foot on the mortal realm had been the iron age, when the first civilizations were about as young as this foreign country was. what interest the crowned princes had found here was beyond her, but with her worshippers gone and with them her memory, where else was she to go to build strength?
the terrain was different here than it had been in the ancient world, and yet what she came across next was universally recognizable ─ a crossroad … made out of black stone, she notes. she bends down to inspect the strange material, lightly grazing the blacktop with her fingertips. no horse tracks. no tracks at all. it feels unnatural… then again everything else does too ─ especially the white and yellow markings and the four scarlet hexagons branded with this new world’s scripture.
S T O P ── it takes her mind’s eye a few seconds to translate, but by then her attention is already drawn to two floating orbs in the distance. there’s a loud humming sound accompanying them which only grows louder and louder the closer the orbs get. they aren’t spirits, that much she knows, but then what were they? curiosity compels the goddess to confidently remain in the middle of the road, awaiting the floating lights’ approach.
no one is supposed to drive this late, but alec has little care for those things, little interest in them. it helps when he’s made friends with the sheriff on just a comfortable enough level to excuse his way out of a ticket with enough amused words and promises of baked good brought to the office as repentance. it’s a freedom that he takes small joy in, finding it pleasant rather than eerie, as philomene would say, to drive on roads absolutely abandoned of any other vehicles. no one on the sidewalks either, he’s willing to guess. not yet close enough but soon, town and therefore home, a bed all eagerly within alec’s future. he’s not exhausted enough to crave it, just find brightness at the idea of seeing it.
it’s that, he realizes in some part of his brain that does not panic, which saves the young thing’s life. for he’s conscious enough to see the young woman and recognize her as what she is; slamming his foot on the brakes until his car is sliding to a halt, squealing with distaste and anger at the abuse done to hidden machinery and hard working parts. almost deafened behind the thundering blood in his ear and the rapid, hard breathing that bursts from alec’s chest. a meager few feet exist between his vehicle and her. still as anything besides the stop sign -- and what’s that for irony -- with her eyes all but glazed.
or...
no, alec realizes as he works his seatbelt off and forces it to retract. she’s absolutely aware of what’s going on around her, almost too keenly in those bright pupils reflected back in his headlights. he steps out of the car without much hesitation. only pauses before moving around the open door, car still humming and heat leaking from the engine into the cool south dakota air as he walks to stand before it. before her.
inches, now. alec tries to speak and laughs instead, breathless. exhaustion in his voice far more now, after the rise and collapse of adrenaline so quickly through his system. (and the golden thing stirs, slow and sleepy. no comfort there.)
“this is undoubtedly the scariest place you could’ve stopped. for yourself and me, i’d say.” alec says, pushing his hands into his pockets against the chill that nips his fingertips. “are you okay, ma’am? it’s really late out, and... well no, the sheriff might actually check this far out for people resisting curfew. did your car break down? i didn’t see one back there, but...”
she tastes his fear , and it only incites her anger further. years ago , that sent had been her drug. now , it was a lie detector. he was frightened. and that meant he had something to hide. his fear mixes with something sweet and it’s almost overpowering.
it’s the same. why couldn’t he just admit to it ? she wanted to scream. she wanted to tear something apart. but it would do no use to tear him apart.
she could shake him to the truth. let her clothes and skin tear to shreds and remind him what beast lie beneath. baffle him in her winds and show the fire in her belly. but her childrens’ voices enter her mind. it’s not appropriate to transform in the middle of town. she wanted to scream again.
yet she still wanted to pull her own skin off. it was difficult keeping fangs and wings at bay as anger flowed through her body.
then the man sounds like he’s in pain. his voice changes and so does the scent. the sweet is still there , but more of the fear. she wonders if the thing will destroy him. maybe then it’ll tell her the truth.
❝ communicate how ? ❞ she doesn’t nearly yell , but the frustration is still present. there’s almost a beastly snarl to her voice.
she is larger than her body. so she feels, speaks of without words, a wordless chorus of screams and howling from the way she looms over him and expands herself with every breath. even her teeth look sharper, eyes wilder. a catastrophe barely held together by skin and god if that is not familiar, god if that is not how alec feels as well.
god if he isn’t sick and near vomiting at the pressure that becomes rapid pain beating at his chest, a second heartbeat trying to break his ribs outwards to seek freedom in the hole that they would leave behind.
alec’s fingers dig into his shirt and the skin beneath it. teeth grinding, catching upon one another. he struggles to pull air in. forces it back out in a whistling sound as he takes a step away. sways when the golden thing tries to punch itself further, him closer.
and is that not a terror as much as a wonder, what it will do if he lets it get close enough? what will happen to him?
“speak--” alec feels choked. feels dying. dizzy and like the world is swaying before him as he closes his eyes. tries not to fall upon himself. “use your words before something terrible happens to both of us.”
it’s a bluff as much as it isn’t, a truth that is untrue for lack of knowing just what IT will do if she taunts it into action, if alec cannot fathom how to hold it back.
She has always been a very talkative person, the ones who have met her at the beginning of her life would have said she was ahead of her time, maybe a little bit too advanced for the century she was born at, and even though her family tried to prune the branches and leaves that were growing higher than the society expected, Ahreum grew to be a very independent and confident woman — and those details of her personality only increased after she got turned into a vaympire. She has always been strong, always been certain about everything that came out of her mouth and that is a trait she hasn’t gotten rid of in all these centuries on Earth. She knows she has nothing to lose.
And like the man himself has just said, Ahreum has always loved debating about things so unique such as art. Things that aren’t exact, things that can bring all types of interpretation to the mind depending on each person, she adores the conversations that come from those moments, and with a bright smile she lifts her glass of champagne towards the man’s, her eyes almost disappear into small crescents and she lets a low chuckle escape from her red lips.
“D’accord, monsieur!” She says and her voice sounds cheerful and bright, it’s been so long since she last spoke French, it felt nice even though it wasn’t much. “I dare to say we’re lucky to have spotted each other, and not one of those who only agree with anything they hear then. It’s really nice to be having this type of conversation with you, sir.” And after taking another sip from her drink, Ahreum looks up at the man again and tilts her head. “May I ask your name?”
She echoes the French and he laughs, delighted and clear against the humming cacophony of low dialogue that surrounds them. It’s certainly cleaner than his -- proper French, Alec decides, not a hint of Creole in it from accent to tone around the words. But it’s a language of his heart nonetheless and he aches for it, baffled by the endless pieces of herself this young woman displays proudly and effortlessly to him. She’s more interesting than anything. More enjoyable to spend time with than most those around him combined.
What luck, to have settled here with her instead of the hoarders hidden as collectors, or the dismally dull folks in suits too loose and dresses too glitzy for a place like this. “Luck is absolutely the only explanation I can fathom,” Alec replies, “otherwise I’d have found myself exhausted and irritated already, or bored to tears, all of which feel like proper crimes in a place like this.” Perhaps art can irritate, true, or even exhaust, but it should not bore. There’s nothing worse.
“Ah-- well here I’ll admit my embarrassment.” Alec says to her, some color in his face that does not suit, that adds truth to what he says as he resists the urge to turn eyes away from her. “You see, those conversations we both hope to avoid... I find myself trapped in them more often if they know who I am, truly. And my name is better known than my face so it’s just a game of conversation to hide it away. But... well. It’s a bit obvious now. I’m Alec. Gibson. And I’m sorry if you feel upset that I didn’t tell you such, but it’s... better to tell half truths, most of the time.”
Eros has to admit it, the people from the surface surely do know how to have fun. He is so tired and overwhelmed by the music, the colors, the sound of people singing and dancing, all he wants to do it go back to the lake and swim — but there is one thing that stops him. He had noticed during the fest that some people had these beautiful paintings on their bodies and he couldn’t even think of where they were from, but the moment he sees a group of girls giggling in front of a booth, and a man covered in paint standing after them. Eros can’t help but stare, eyes shining bright with curiosity when he steps closer to try to glance at the fresh painting that was just made on the torso of one of the girls.
He is one of the people that grace the group of friends with an ooh and a small smile, totally mesmerized by what he had just seen. ‘Mesmerized’ is a great work to express what the syren has been feeling the entire day, from the moment he heard the music and saw all the colorful outfits, until the very end when he saw people hugging each other goodbye and wishing a safe trip back home, accompanied by a ‘see you tomorrow’. Eros doesn’t know exactly what they mean by that, but he knows he might find out eventually.
But soon his thoughts are interrupted by a voice he’s never heard before, so he turns to where the sound is coming from and blinks when he’s face to face with the man that has his clothes covered in colors. He smiles softly at the man and bows back at him, a bit shy and hesitant once he wasn’t expecting someone would start a conversation with him like that — and the fact that he doesn’t know exactly how to respond only makes it worse.
Plus, once Eros doesn’t know many people in the city or the neighborhood, he can’t help but look at people with suspiciousness boiling inside of him.
You never know when you’re gonna bump into a human.
Eros is a very unlucky guy.
“Ah—- I would like to have something painted on me, maybe… If you’re still doing them, of course. I see most people are leaving already…”
as much as he doesn’t prefer the title, alec knows that virgin makes sense in terms of pride. it’s a long running joke, like those first attending a rocky horror performance, found out by the crew and marked with red lipstick on their bare skin. a red V for their naivety regarding what they’ve stepped into, that they will inevitably be changed when they emerge again. or so the art theory is at least. perhaps at most it’s for fun, a gentle hazing, a way for actors to know who they should grind on in the crowd.
with pride, it’s a little less obvious unless you’re looking at the body language. some people scream it through a megaphone. others whisper under their breath. but what matters is how they want to represent this -- from wild clothing and wilder motions to the gentle sway of bodies dressed in almost black. it’s also in the panic in their eyes, alec thinks. he had it himself, that first pride a constant drug through his system that made the drugs of college that evening before feel like child’s play. nothing compared to the natural rush your own body can make. but when you’re alone--
well. adrenaline is like any high. you shouldn’t be alone for that.
so alec likes to draw pride virgins, so to speak, into his own small pop up tent where they can take a moment to breathe without crowds trying to eat them. philomene had stopped by earler and taken alec’s paints, drawn FREE DAD HUGS on the back of his t-shirt before smearing some of the letters when she threw her arms around him. that helps with the comfort of others more than he thinks he was prepared for. even now alec prepares himself slightly for this young man -- or anyone around him who pauses -- to leap onto alec the moment he turns his back.
as is, he’s content to stay facing the new face. only twisting slightly to set his paint gun down, wiping wet hands over tacky jeans. “i’ll be doing these until the place is fully shut down.” alec assures the young man. “since i’m staying at the lodge it’s not too hard to scurry over there, curfew or not. and it’s not like that’s as easily enforced out here...”
he laughs a little, nodding his head towards large packs still meandering, clustered and boisterous around other stalls. no one there is leaving anytime soon. especially with how gentle the police have been these last few days.
“so i can help you, if you’re still interested. just duck on closer so we’re out of the walkway; the cops would prefer if i kept my paint mess in the space of my stall.” which he isn’t, not really. a halo rainbow and muddled is spilling out of the edges of the stall.
alec can take a comfort in how sore and stiff he is, the dirt that stains his cheeks and has turned his hands a darker color no matter how often he washed them, scrubbed them down first alone and then with dishes when garrett had gone to put his sons to bed. absolutely worthy for the look on his face when emerging -- somewhere between disgruntled and fascinated as he’d taken in alec’s work. bemused by the stains trapped in his calluses as he tossed the damn drying rag in garrett’s direction. said, you offered something to drink? and then headed out towards the backyard that offered them some semblance of privacy. a chance to talk without low voices and glances at a shut bedroom door.
it doesn’t take the sheriff long to join alec out there. barely enough time to settle and stretch his legs out in one of the chairs around the fire pit they cleared out earlier that afternoon, when alec handing old logs over and garrett, softly, showing the charred black patterns to his sons. letting them dip their fingers against it and come back dark, delighted squeals as they took to rubbing the ash upon one another’s faces. messy, joyful creatures. alec can hear them even now like a long lasting echo, laughing as they had ran through the garden. ignoring their father’s stern reminders that alec was working in return for the bright humor from the new, exciting stranger tossing small handfuls of dirt in their direction.
“i’m half sorry for getting your kids filthy.” he says to garrett as the other man comes close enough. they’ve already set out logs, some other things alec doesn’t recognize beyond the lighter and box of matches side by side, new and old technology in very different forms. “showers before dinner are mandatory for anyone that age anyway so it’s not as though i did massive damage to them. just your drains. maybe.”
as alec takes his drink from the other man’s hands, he bumps his boot against garrett’s ankle. nothing hard enough to send him to his knees, but a pressure. a tease that matches his laugh as he leans back again. even without the fire going it’s warm, on the edge of luke warm enough that he does find himself craving that fresh heat. something to scare away mosquitoes as well -- they glisten in the air, like stars when still and something wretched when moving quickly. he’d offered to set it up for garrett. earned a dubious eyebrow, a you know how to start a fire?
the cackle wasn’t trustworthy, apparently. he’s confined to his chair now, watching and silent. considering.
“they’re really good kids though; it’s not like i have experience in that or anything but they’re pretty smart. kind and clever.” alec drinks, and then softer, more gentle than he thought his voice would get this evening, “you’re doing a great job with them.”
SKINSHIP - bonding through the intimacy of touch, especially of closeness between parent and child.
If parenting is a partnership, then that of yours was a dichotomy. That word that would come to mean plenty flew over the head of a small youth, a creature toddling after a mother with bright laughter and callused hands or a father with soft eyes and a gentle line for a mouth. Every argument was a closed door affair, with voices pitched, late hours, music playing like serenity from record players attached to room to room speakers until they were drowned out into a white noise. You grow used to the sounds without connecting them, realizing that Sinatra meant money or Bach referred to the cold edge of parenting disagreements.
You grow older. Bit by bit, and you learn. Cooking, the beginnings of art, the raising of your voice in song from callused hands. Theories and thought and the open palms you offer other children, the tired broken ones big kids leave behind, from a soft line of a mouth. You learn. You learn so much, you learn to hold the world in your hands and to create more beautiful things. From her, you learn a twisting open heart that makes you dream of faraway places, of people and things. You learn to dance, and to put color on your mouth and eyes that make you smile until your face aches.
He tuts. He snaps his teeth. You learn soft fabric rubbing over your face, hands bringing your body to stillness. Instead come tight suits and solemn features, all of which don’t fit the shape of you until, one day, they do. Only sometimes itching when the right song plays. When she paints her mouth bright, glistening red, and your stomach aches so painfully you think it might burst.
ALEATORY - relying on chance or an uncontrolled element in the details of life or in the creation of art.
So much of your veins are poison when she tells you. Years past and gone, both your minds trapped between something small and something massive even with your bodies already grown and gone. You play the game on phone calls, claim duty and brightness in classes that you flip away from whenever you have the chance. Fill yourself with clear liquids and small things that come in baggies at the proper celebrations. It’s here you fell in love, you think; fell in with the beautiful creature that kissed pills from your mouth and undressed you with a tenderness you didn’t recognize as anything but tragic with your broken mind.
It becomes a game of sorts. She folds paper into beautiful flowers, leaves them on your preferred seat in lecture halls to open and read the ink guts hidden within. So you write her letters responses in backgrounds of paintings displayed on college walls. On evenings -- or mornings and afternoons too tedious for the life you choose -- the two of you collide. She tastes like success, like a future underneath all the chalky substances and strawberry alcohol. Her fingers feel like silk. Every breath against your chest makes you want to live for it, consume her until your lungs can mimic that pattern for every future day.
But that is something. This is something else. You see what this is by the plastic in her hands, the tremble in those fingers no matter how steady her voice is. She says keep, says don’t want, says career and future and you’re so fucking proud of her that you want to be sick. Or you’re sick over something else. A thing you don’t want to put words on, you don’t know that you can. Saying it is realizing it, is truing it. Is how you shudder when she says adoption, starts to speak of papers.
You think, I am useless. I am fool sailors on Odysseus’ boat that did not plug their ears and thought something good would come of it, lost to the story for their choice. Picking at your nail beds until blood blossoms, you think, I am in love. I want, I want, I want more than I want to know those old tastes or feel her lungs, I want.
Aloud, you breathe in and rattling sound. Take her hands in your own, slender to large. Cradle them like sacred items. I don’t have anything, you say, I don’t have a future. But I want it. Not to force you into anything, vanish if you so desire. But I want it, even if I don’t know how to keep it safe.
You’ll have to, she says solemnly. Takes her hands from yours to cradle your cheeks. Mouth to mouth. To forehead. To tip of nose, before drawing back. You’ll change your mind.
And you, wild and foolish to a fault, hear only the first part. Call it a light switch flickering, a coin landing on the other side, wind turning over leaves. You take to classes like religions left behind. Skirt old familiar buildings full of music and bodies at night, an illness you cannot fill your body with and survive for much longer. You adjust. Not change, there is something pure about that word, something selfish about what you are doing that doesn’t match it. Even if those phone calls back some states away become more sincere now, it is selfish, and you sink into it deeper for finding pride in that.
Except.
After graduation. Long past family meals and farewells, with the cap left behind and gown lost somewhere on the way, she finds you. Swollen to the touch with the beating of a drum beneath her skin that mesmerizes you, charmer to snake. She invites you with her. Solidarity in sobriety, laughter leaving her as she takes you to one of your old haunts. Hip to hip, arm to arm as you judge the others around you who are lost to sins both your bodies have only recently abandoned. Imagining futures and failures. Successes and joys for anyone that pauses long enough for you both to create their story.
She parts, for a moment.
Is it not funny, how much can happen in a moment?
A beautiful body can crowd your space, the kind you’d like to paint if you had canvas and easel before you, making paints with the make up of attendees or the liquors scattered around. He smiles like you’ve been friends for generations. Offers a drink. Laughs brighter when you decline. There are words in your ears that make up for the alcohol. Fingers on your wrist, and your skin is scalding apart. Fingers on your waist, and your heart is a jack rabbit caught in a trap. You sway. Laugh nervously, laugh until you can pretend you’re not shaking, you’re not following him, that you aren't eager and wild and falling onto a bed you’ve never felt before with a body unfamiliar in so many ways framing your own against the mattress.
You come apart there. Dead and broken pieces left behind in sheets tangled and tossed to the side. Someone else emerges into the morning light, fingers loosely locked into those of a stranger who’s name you choose not to learn, who you will never hold hands with or kiss again after a final one over coffee and bagels.
Only a few more days pass before the final change, the last knot in the noose of who you were before is formed. She is small and delicate, she is everything beautiful about her mother and pieces you don’t recognize as hers, know cannot be yours in their purity. Every cry shakes the hospital room. Could be the sound that made Mount Vesuvius erupt and swallow Pompeii in ashes. And you love her, you love her more than life, more than yourself, more than the selfishness that cleaned you up as quickly as anything. You love her more than art and the people who raised you.
Her name is Philomene, her last name is yours, and her mother is resplendent with sweat on her cheeks and blood between her legs still being bathed away by nurses.
There is nothing to do but kiss her. Even if it feels different than it did before -- or if the feeling is just one you did not recognize until now -- you kiss her, for thanking her for this life in your arms cannot be done through words. Instead, you say, I love you.
And she, to all the things unsaid -- Your life will be very difficult. I love you too.
MUTTERSEELENALLEIN - utterly alone, as of refugees from their home country; alone in the desert.
Into the phone that feels like glass against your ear, sharp and slicing with every shifting motion and cheap word you have to spill, you speak. Croak, maman, I think we need to come home. I can’t do this by myself anymore, I want-- and laugh like the next words weren’t deadly, like they wouldn’t leave your darling alone on the streets if they came true, cold and wailing as she stumbled on unsteady legs. Nothing’s okay, maman, please. Please help me come back.
For a moment, there is silence.
No. There is breathing, and a rhythm beneath it. Faint music that you must be hallucinating, the sweet notes of Bach as though you were already home. Avoiding one more of their arguments to the rise and fall of a piano. Bach, for parental arguments. You flex stiff fingers on the black plastic clutched by your white knuckles and wait. Pretend you cannot hear those murmurs, for you do not dare try to translate them. The minutes creep. Strangers on the street come and go, not even a look to the man and little one crowding into a phone booth.
Then, a more present breathing, a hitching that you catch before it instinctively strikes into your own. Inhale. Hitch. Pause. Exhale. Too light for anyone but your mother. Alec, she says, wavering in the lilt of her voice you’ve grown familiar with from a time you cannot hope to remember. Yet here you are, reaching for it. Struggling to breathe as you lean your head against the dirty glass of the stall around you.
Alec, again, a shattering prayer around you both. We love you very much, but. You see, you’ve... these are your choices. And we can’t support them. So I don’t think you should come back home to us.
You take little time in setting the phone back into place. Staring down at your hands, ten thousand things that could have been spoken explode into your mind like a cacophony. The only person that will be with me when I slit my throats is a little girl, not a man. Brittle. Who is the ‘we,’ maman? Did he teach me to take care of the others on the sides of streets? Brutalized. But I’ll change, I promise, please there is nothing else for me here, please maman I--
But what leaves you is this: a savage sound, an animal one, a fist that hits the glass and then hits it again, and again, and mimics until cracks from the pressure and slices at your knuckles. No. Until she weeps, the sound too much, her ears fragile and her eyes filling with water that spills just like that from your own. Sinking besides her, you pull her into your chest and let her bury her face there. Pretend blood does not stick to the loose strands of hair from her braid that kiss your fingers.
I’m sorry, you say, though a little thing like her cannot understand for what.
Though Killian wasn’t the most experienced wytch, didn’t mean he couldn’t have little tricks of his own. After all the Church of Night has been encouraging him to be apart of their ranks, meant that the longer he got to stall the longer he could sneak a few books out of their collections. If Valentino ever knew…well that would probably become a tragedy than anything; none the less the wytch spent most of the weekend practicing simple love charms until he found one that would suit him the best. Being an empath lent a particular affinity to charms and disillusionment, though this spell was one that just seemed too god not to mess with during the event.
Cromwell’s Third Edition: Rose Colored Fever Spell—it was a spell that uses rose petals to coat the mind and lull anyone into a sense of child like joy. Sadly Killian skill set makes the spell last for a few minutes, but that didn’t stop him from running around the crowd sprinkling roses into people’s drinks, then casting the hand seals. He acted as if he had no consequences, (a side effect of the joint he inhaled an hour before hand) but when he was looking through his bag for more petals his body collided into someone. “Shit I’m sorry I was—” he paused, his smile lifting higher at the missed face. “Alec?” once again his smile bright across his face, “Funny running into you…literally. Are you enjoying the event?” Killian quickly closed his bag, though the amount of rose petals that fell out from it might have reasons to question what he was up to.
Alec knows things -- and yet refuses to let himself know them. Just a sense that has him cautious of some no matter how kind he wants to be to all of them. An awareness around Zahra that keeps him as close to submissive as Alec will ever admit to. And then Killian, who looks the same age as his other odd companion yet has a more childlike love to what about him demands both respect and concern. It’s an odd polarity; that Alec feels he can be more loose around the young man and yet less all at once. He can barely keep himself straight, get a handle on it. Especially with Killian so damn infectious in his joy that when he’s drunk on it, it feels like the entire world must follow his directions.
And they always seem drawn towards each other. But isn’t everyone drawn to Killian? So much so that Alec isn’t surprised when they collide together. The younger man quickly slamming a bag shut, his words sweet and bright as the rose petals falling around his feet. “Funny? I think it suits us.” Alec replies with a laugh, reaching down to pick up one of the petals and rub it between two fingers. “I’m enjoying it; pride is beautiful every year but I’m genuinely impressed by how wild South Dakota is getting.”
Then, raising the petal, Alec gently sets it on top of Killian’s head.
No one is supposed to be out late. Some would argue that even what Alec does is against the current adjustment to laws, the birth of curfew. That sitting upon his front porch is the same as being in public view -- ergo a danger. To himself or others depends on who would be chastising him. Garrett? Himself. That cop worries far too much about everyone instead of his own life, fumbling with anything he sees a citizen do that could cause them risk and then herding them away from it, adjusting their habits like a mother hen. But Alec’s neighbors, well. That would be selfishness. If someone killed him, why wouldn’t they want to kill his fellow neighbors as well?
Funny sort of mental state. It doesn’t cause any ill will in him, but it does lure Alec out later and later, keeps him on the porch longer as he sits upon his chair. Leans on the railing. Or like this evening, half sprawled across the swinging bench installed into the roof over his porch with thin chains and delicate hooks.
It’s peaceful, to be alone outside in the dark. No silhouettes or sound beyond the thrumming of bugs and the faint motion of leaves in near silent wind. Alec drinks it in. Half dozing as he swings. Leans onto his arm, eyes barely slits that close and struggle to open once again under the constant, soothing motion. He thinks he could truly sleep there. And yet --
Pressure. Not on his body but in the air.
And yet --
Motion. Body shaped, sudden enough to jerk Alec out of his half sleep state and upright as he squeezes his eyes with his fingers. Blinks rapidly to take in the wavering figure at the edge of his property, a small slender thing that seems to notice his movement for it stumbles closer. Clean steps that become less steady over the rock path that leads to his porch, where the light bathes over it -- her, her -- splattered and damp with red fluid that Alec recognizes distinctly as blood. A sound breaks out of his throat. Horrified. Unsteady. No nightmare, not with the cold ripping through him at the sight of her being so strong and pure.
“Christ,” Alec chokes out. Takes a single step closer before he stills himself, raises an open palm towards her in silent begging that she stays steady as well. “Okay, you’re going to be okay. Just stay there for a second, okay? I’m going to go grab my phone so I can call the cops, and then we’ll get you inside and clean. Is-- is that your blood, or...”
The other option is unspeakable. Alec swallows it down.
She doubts that THE MISER pays attention to things as benches, not when he has a city full of supernaturals. So many skeletons to hide in the closet or throw to the forest for the wolves to eat during the full moon.
“ That’s called being a perfectionist. Is'a good quality to have and a pity that not everyone seems to know the meaning of it."
So long without getting substance from a worthy source. Humans no longer quench her thirst and vaympire blood only lasts for a while. Wycthes are like a drug that cloud her mind. A mind that is already breaking apart and kept together by sheer willpower. Her eyes follow the veins of his hand and she understands that there a need for personal space For both of them, a need to feed suddenly emerges but it’s pushed back. Taking a step back she glances at the building trying to distract herself.
” My bad?“ Her apology doesn’t feel like one, not when she is smiling with mischief. ” You shouldn’t scare a child like that.“ It´s better not to bring up the fact that she has a bunch of them. Not born from her womb but revived by her blood. Same thing. Artemisia, the youngest, probably witnessed some things considered scary by normal people as she grew up. ” She will probably wonder if you have lost your mind. And I don´t know your name yet…should have started with that. Mine is Astarte.“
“I’ve heard from valid sources that politicians don’t listen to suggestions, especially the ones here.”
He laughs, the irony of insulting a man right outside of where he works not lost on Alec. Small humors and small joys keep life interesting. It would make Garret’s mouth twist upwards in an unbidden, well fought smile if he told the sheriff about casual insults with absolute strangers about his technical employer. One of the things that he won’t allow himself, leading Alec to do it in his place.
Friendship, right? Some sort of shade of it, at least, one they’ve chosen not to define quite yet.
“Perfection is something to aspire to,” Alec allows after a moment, “but art doesn’t really allow for it. I go crazy when I try.”
When she steps back, ,it’s a little easier to breathe. Not for ease but for the peace of it, stretching his lungs without wondering on an instinct if she’s following every twitch of his chest with her eyes. If she can see the very organ beneath it as it expands and deflates with great, deep breaths. Alec’s smile feels a little easier even if the sincerity remains the same, genuine and soft. Tilting his head down towards her as he tucks the book under an arm.
“She already knows I’m mad, the unfortunate truth of parenthood is how difficult it is to hide things from your children.” He sounds half dry as he says this. An odd humor to which he extends his hand to her, callused on fingertips and around some joints where paint brushes would cause pressure for long hours at a time. “Consider it my bad, manners seem to always escape me whenever I talk to another person. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Astarte, and a stunning name to boot. I’m Alec.”
if only he knew the truth he wouldn’t be calling her a blessed being. she’d allured to those she’d harmed in the past , yet he still said such things. those were words she’d never say herself. she knew the monster she was , but would still never trade what it gave her. she couldn’t.
but for a moment , as sit sits here in an oppulent gown as the man before her captures her likeness , she can pretend.
the female breaks her pose and stretches as she crosses the distance and rounds the painting. lips part as she drinks in the art. the colors and brush strokes are unlike anything she’s ever seen before. art from her time was almost blocky and rough. but in this , the hues came together to form something cohesive.
❝ it’s gorgeous. ❞ she speaks and her voice shakes. eyes are wettening and she tries to blink them away , but emotion overtakes her. she can’t help it. soon tears fall down her cheeks and she’s biting her lip. ❝ thank you , i — i’m sorry. ❞
alec steps back and watches her come closer. it’s not like his newest pieces. the lack of cold, sharp gold lines is in a way dizzying for even him to look upon after so many years focused upon the trade. here she sits in front of herself, lounging in a gown made with blotting, skin of soft long strokes and hair that curls over her shoulders in massive swipes and swirls.
above all things, he thinks, is pride. pride in her eyes and therefore a pride in him for having created it. brought some small part of her to life on a piece of permanence. alec swallows. “it’s not done.” he informs her, softly. “but it will be. maybe tonight, and then after it dries i’ll bring it over to you for keeping.”
the still damp paint on his arms itches as he sees the side of zahra’s profile. the wetness on her face, a sudden polarity that in some ways compliments the beautiful indifference upon her painted self’s features. he laughs, aborted and small. runs his fingers through his hair for the sake of touching anything.
“i’m glad you like it, though. don’t apologize, there’s nothing to be sorry for.” god, how his heart hurts. he shifts from foot to foot. “i’d hug you if i wasn’t soaked in paint like this.”
WHERE: pride festival, streets
WHEN: late afternoon - early evening
WHO: open
no matter how busy he gets, the flurry of business and parenting and life conglomerated, alec always tries to make time for this. too much of him can be related back to pride. a first festival, first parade and all the feelings born from it. like machinery finally clicking into the correct rhythm and leaving a young alec, someone who small he barely remembers anymore, reeling at the sensation of being truly known. that feeling is all that lingers through the years. less intense now but ever present when surrounded by the ecstasy of young ones and older folks all finding themselves. isn’t that the point of pride, after all? utter understanding of yourself and the ones around you.
even in south dakota that theory seems to prevail well enough. not the largest pride he’s seen after decades in new york, but far more massive than anticipated. rapid falls is bursting at the seams to contain them all. spilling into sioux falls at night when time to rest, but inevitably the masses return. overtaking even streets not portioned off from traffic and holding up masses of cars. alec can see such things through alleyways away from his booth -- the reason for being here, the homage that he’s maintained every year since taking himself into art as a business as much as a hobby.
painting canvases is easy. painting bodies is harder.
alec offers both, his plain clothing stained by oils as much as latex. different paints mixing together into a picasso mimicry that changes with sweat and time and more creations. this booth is his lifeblood, free beyond donations at the customer’s will. all towards a non profit more deserving of it in the changing climates than some may realize. people enter at all hours, from the first second of pride to the last minutes wanting paint on their bodies or small canvases. sometimes with ideas so specific alec is astounded.
other times giggling, squirming and turning pink when he tries to probe their minds.
the girls leaving with a combination of both, one still red and the other wild eyed as she displays her fully paint slick torso to passing strangers, soaking in their oos and aahhs. alec doesn’t try to hide his grin as he turns to the next approaching person. paintbrush behind his ear, airspray gun hanging loosely from his fingertips as he gives a half joking, quick bow to the being before him.
“canvas, body? or are you here just to talk and watch it happen to other people,” he adds slyly, “so you can talk yourself in or out of whichever one might strike your fancy?”
“people say a lot of shit about small town police departments. and most of it’s right. but i will say i got lucky here. only people who really want to do the work end up out here as deputies. anyone who’s out for power over people doesn’t really have a good time with it. it’s too dangerous.” there’s something rueful in garrett’s voice. he’s had a few deputies like that, and they really do never last. it works in small towns with no real crime. you can get plenty of irresponsible employees. but deadwood has so many issues that it takes willpower to want to stay in the job. in a strange way, he’s grateful. it means he has mostly good employees, even if a few of them can be a little lazy. “lucky for me no one else wants this job, though.”
there’s a good chance he might be unopposed in the next election, just because no one else wants it. that’s a thought that comes off as both comforting and funny.
in some ways, garrett hasn’t really left the campaign mode. he’s gotten rid of most of it, but he still tries to watch what he says around everyday citizens - especially the newer ones. he can get cynical with the veterans of the town. but with the newer ones, he really doesn’t want to scare them off. the goal is to be reassuring. the word _reassuring_ rattles around in his brain in a couple ways as he trails into the house.
it’s nice. a space that is incredibly lived in.
still, though, alec’s insight brings him up short. he blinks. then he laughs. “i think you’re the first person to say that to me,” he admits. “most people just want to know why i’m not working at catching the killer. there’s only so much i can do at one time, though, and with limited evidence… well. then there’s even less.” a killing both messy in its details and clean in what the killer left behind. he’d almost hazard to call it practice, if it wasn’t so new.
he tries to shake himself out of those thoughts to focus on the present. yes. the muffins. they look wonderful. the deputies will definitely love them. he chuckles a little. “thanks for helping ensure i keep my position for the twenty minutes it takes those to disappear.” more than one deputy will probably take two and keep one at their desk to eat in a few hours. win used to say that every single cop she ever met needed to eat more than they did, and pastries seemed to be the best way to make that happened.
the mention of coffee brings him to a halt. he should say no. but he also can’t say no to a cup of coffee, especially one not from the department’s shitty coffeemaker. “i’ve never said no to a cup of coffee from anyone,” he admits. “and i’d really love to avoid whatever the department pretends is in the coffeemaker, because it’s damn well not coffee.”
“i hate to ask, but is that lucky for you? with all your family and your complaints, well -- the pay is probably good. but i can’t imagine the rest is really worth it unless you’re trying to dedicate your entire soul to this town.” he only says it like a half joke, the sincerity that has to be there a cold effect that alec never intended. it’s unfortunate, how much he sees it as true. garrett doesn’t belong to his family as much as he belongs to his job -- not out of original choice he thinks. more out of incident. there was supposed to be someone else there, and now they’re gone.
people do that, alec thinks. leaving when you need them is a natural human instinct that’s left him preferring to be alone throughout philomene’s life. he couldn’t get used to someone to rely on if there was never anyone. neither could she.
cheap, maybe. they’re both alive and happy though, so he considers that a win.
“forensics. or maybe i’m using the wrong word, but. i mean again, new york, we saw so many unsolved murders that it’s hard to bat an eye at now.” alec reaches over to squeeze garrett’s arm. a comfort there, a faint pressure for a few moments before he draws back to himself. “people are awful, but at least you haven’t had a regular series of serial killers. try to remember that the people judging you have never seen real horror until right now.”
with the tupperware taken and his hands free, alec busies himself with coffee. waking up his machine doesn’t take too long, ground beans and water into their sections as he reaches towards the nearest cabinet for mugs. they don’t match -- of course not -- messily hand made and multicolored and likely far too expensive, though alec can only remember his ridiculous joy to see such misshapen creations for sale. suits them, he thinks, grinning a little as he slips them under the coffee machine and hits the right button.
a whirring, grinding sound starts. faint but present enough for alec’s brain to itch. “you can’t say no to coffee from me especially.” alec says with a soft, dry humor to his voice. “what do you want in it? creamer, sugar, vodka, methamphetamine...” when he can’t help it, alec starts laughing. offers up a grin over at garrett as his arms cross loosely, waiting. “i promise only one of those is fake. pity is it’s probably the one you really want, since it’d make even your bad cop coffee taste good.”
