runaway.

rowan moon kim - 26 - wanderer

[isnotgold-blog1]

loganncrowe‌:

Logan had a feeling that whatever he said, Rowan wouldn’t take to it kindly. Something about the man, about how he sat glaring at the rest of the room, gave him a pretty good idea of how he felt about their situation. He was never one to judge, but the newcomer wasn’t making it easy.

Even with all of these observations, he still wasn’t prepared for the other man’s response. The words came out biting, much quicker than he had expected. Though he wasn’t sure what he should have expected from the man; this had been the first time they had properly talked since the beginning of the lockdown. Letting out a small sigh, his eyes travelled down the hallway towards the bathroom. He didn’t need to look at the man to feel the burning hatred radiating from him.

“I don’t want to be here, Rowan. None of us do. But we have a sign-out for a reason, and all of this is going to start looking suspicious,” he said, his words sounding tired. They were what, a few days in, and he was already bored with his job as glorified babysitter? Of course, there was no precedent for what this lockdown would look like, he didn’t expect to have to confront nearly every resident he came in contact with. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” he asked, his words softening as finally looking at the man’s fidgety frame.

Logan could have said anything in that moment and Rowan still would have been annoyed. But those kind eyes, the platitudes, the whole goody two-shoes schtick—Rowan hated him for it. Everyone who acted that way wanted something. Most of them would deny it, but he had learned to see through that long ago. Maybe Logan wanted authority, or respect, or simply something to do. Whatever his motivation, Rowan was all too happy to be an obstruction.

“You mean it does look suspicious,” he snapped, crossing his arms. “How ‘bout we save ourselves some time and cut the bullshit. If you have something to say to me, let’s fucking hear it. Otherwise, I’m gonna go take a leak—if that’s okay with the potty police.”

[isnotgold-blog1]

tonydelia‌:

No part of Tony was expecting to get dragged into the alley, and he felt his cheeks turn pink as they disappeared from view. There was no denying that Rowan kept him on his toes, though he couldn’t deny he liked it. He felt his back hit the brick wall, felt the man’s warm breath on his cheek. Maybe his assumption was made bit too fast, but Tony never really learned. Who was he if he wasn’t rushing into things? “I’d never call you easy,” he whispered back, a chuckle escaping his lips. A single finger hooked onto the man’s belt loop for just a moment as he tugged Rowan closer.

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said, his voice still low as his free hand travelled up the other’s man’s side and landed on his chin so he could pull the man’s face back into view. Gazing into his eyes for another moment, he tried to find what he had seen on the beach. A spark, something different than the need he saw now. He let his eyes trail down to his lips before closing the gap. A kiss hungrier than the ones shared on the beach, cemented by his hand grabbing the front of Rowan’s shirt to keep him close. Maybe this was what Rowan had wanted, maybe it was a moment of weakness on Tony’s part.

Whatever the case, he kept the kiss short, let quick kisses trail up his jaw until he could whisper in the man’s ear once more. “So where are we headed again?” he asked, his hand still curled in a fist around the front of the man’s shirt.

Moments like these were what he lived for: the breathlessness, the need. Some small part of him wondered if it was a good idea to end his second night in Sallybrook the same way he’d ended his first, but he was in too deep now to stop, much less to care. What was one more fling against a backdrop of many? In a few months, this would be just another fond memory to pull out on nights when the moon was full and his bed a little too empty.

He wanted to keep the kiss light, but Tony’s fingers tangling in his shirt didn’t help things. Rowan could only hold back his hunger for so long, and Tony was tempting fate with his teasing, no matter how gratifying it was to know he wanted it as bad as Rowan did. He could almost laugh at the absurdity of it; only he could make a hookup out of a car problem.

“You know where,” Rowan said, voice thick with promise. He’d wandered around the area this morning before taking the fateful drive that led him to meet Tony, and he was pretty sure the motel was only a few blocks due west. Some playful part of him that had long lay dormant came to life then, crackling in his eyes and twisting his smile. As he worked to loosen Tony’s hand from his shirt, he leaned in, in, in, so close they might as well be one, and allowed himself a whisper:

“I’ll race you.”

With that he snatched the pastry box and took off as fast as his legs could carry him, surprising himself more than he had Tony, he was sure. In the distance the motel sign glowed, the promise of a vacancy fueling his steps. Somehow, he didn’t doubt that Tony could keep up with him—down the street and elsewhere, too.

[isnotgold-blog1]

moral support [flashback]

[isnotgold-blog1]

peterxfrancis‌:

He watched his tears bubble and build, Peter’s heart breaking at how far away he looked. He wondered who had hurt him, who had done this to him. All he could think about were names, lists of people he would have to find to get any type of revenge. Though a thought did come to him, one he wished hadn’t crossed his mind. Sallybrook seemed to know how to take with no remorse, and all he could wonder now, all he could think, was of how it had learned to take from him too. He should have gotten out while he had a chance, he shouldn’t still be here. Peter ran his fingers through his hair as soon as he collapsed into him, holding him as tight as he could to his body, his eyes closing as he rocked slowly back and forth, leaning forward to kiss the top of his head. “You’re okay,” he said, his voice low so only he could hear him. “You’re okay now. You’re safe.” His heart broke for Rowan, and while he didn’t have a story for this breakdown, he didn’t need one. All he knew was right there in front of him. His friend was broken, needed comfort, needed safety, and he would supply that for him. 

Peter’s words were all Rowan needed to let loose. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried in someone else’s presence; his tears had always been his alone, his sorrows safe from prying eyes. When others cried in front of him, it was hard not to see them as pathetic, diminutive. For someone else to see him that way was antithetical to who he was.

Yet in this moment he could do nothing else. The vortex of pain that ripped round his mind gave him no choice but to let it loose in ragged sobs and gasps. Feeling the strength of Peter’s embrace, it was impossible for him not to melt into it, until it was hard to tell where he ended and his friend began.

As the sobs subsided, however, he slowly returned to himself. His mind painted his own image cruelly behind his eyelids: snot-nosed and sniveling, cheeks flushed, hair every which way. Disgusting. The thought pricked him into motion, led him to pull away.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled. He tried to stand, but the world swayed around him, and he fell back onto the bed. “Peter…” Rowan said, clutching his arm, unable to meet his gaze for fear of what he might find there. “I have to go. You shouldn’t see me like this. It’s not your problem. I’m not your problem,” he rambled, and the more he spoke, the wetter his eyes became. “I don’t want you to remember me this way.”

[basileuspalaiologos]

WITH: @isnotgold

WHERE: Indigo Point Cove

WHEN: Mid-November 2018

For Will, Indigo Point Cove had turned into something that was almost like a sanctuary. In the days after their return, they found themself getting drawn to that same spot time and time again, until they finally settled into a rhythm of going to the beach with their dog—who, for utter lack of imagination, Will had started calling Dog. The dog, it turned out, was supposed to have been a gift for them, and Will could remember it now: them begging for a dog, any dog at all (though, of course, preferably a golden retriever), and them promising to their parents that of course they’d take care of it, they’ll be the best dog owner ever.

Will’s efforts, it turned out, had come to fruition: the dog finally did come, some few years later, although it acted more as a replacement for them, something to remember them by for their parents. Upon their return, the dog had become superfluous and so had been passed on to Will, who now had something to care for when they thought they couldn’t care about anything anymore, too divorced from much of anything else to put in an effort; but here was a fresh start, something that connected them to their past, yes, but also something that didn’t hold a memory at all of Will, who had no expectations, who could allow them to discover themself because Will wasn’t that twelve-year-old anymore, really, but they didn’t have the chance to grow into anything else, stuck as they were in that liminality of being and not-being.

(There had been a name before Dog, but Will had discarded it, the consonants and the vowels almost forgotten. Together, Will thought, and only together will a fresh start come.)

Spending time with Dog, at least, was peaceful. There was nothing but the quiet rolling of the waves and the crying of the gulls. While there was that uneasy feeling that pervaded the beach, making them feel unwelcome, Will treated the feeling almost as something normal now. They, after all, should not really be here, so what was one place more where they didn’t belong? Besides, the unwelcoming aura of the beach provided them another source of comfort: at least here, they were alone, not the recipient of stares and whispers and looks. Perhaps that’s why coming here had been a routine: the soft sand, the vast expanse before them, the win ruffling through their hair and Dog’s fur, and nobody to bother them.

(It also happened that the beach was where it happened. It being… everything: the bonfire, the raging inferno, the Haunt’s dark whispers creeping into the residents’ ears, their return.)

Well, there was usually nobody else. Today, however, there was very much a somebody—someone who Will was certain they didn’t recognise, and it wasn’t because of age obscuring the features that they once were familiar with, but because this was genuinely a new face they hadn’t yet met. Perhaps it was this with this knowledge that pushed them to make the first move, instead of lazing around as they usually do. “You’re new in town,” they said bluntly, nary a greeting to soften its blow. The irony of their words didn’t escape them, but they paid it little mind. “Haven’t seen you around before,” they added, as if in explanation when, really, their only before was fourteen years ago. 

[isnotgold-blog1]

Rowan found himself returning to the shore more and more these days.

The sea had always drawn him in. On days when the noise of life grew too loud to bear, he’d venture out to the beach, letting the crashing waves drown out the cacophony of his thoughts. Once, the salt of the Pacific had tousled his hair and stung his eyes; today, the cool breeze of the briny Atlantic greeted him.

Yet his intentions were hardly so pure as they had once been. Ever since the night of the bonfire, he had been driven to return to this place. He retraced his steps like a ghost, walking the long, winding route he’d taken to meet Elodie by the fireside. He saw himself sat in the sand beside Sophie, their faces alight with the joy of their unexpected connection. He felt Peter’s gentle presence at the fire beside him, a quiet word, a stolen smile.

Those moments that had once warmed his heart and brightened his eyes had long since soured. Even when he woke up in the hospital following that fateful night, he still clung to those memories as a way to block out the imprint those flames had left on his retinas. Every time he blinked he could still see them flare, roaring with malice and… and something else. Intent?

But intent implied will, and will implied sentience, and a sentient fire was not something he could accept. Even so, his thoughts returned again and again to what Peter had said that morning, that there was something more to what had gone down that night. That he could dismiss as the ramblings of a man suffering from smoke inhalation. But the cop that came by not long after, asking her peculiar questions? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

And then there was them. Rowan saw their face in the newspaper during his hospital stay, desperate for any way to pass the time. He’d studied that face in great detail, pouring over the strange story of their return. He dismissed them immediately as the victim of some crazy kidnapper, but doubt had wriggled beneath his skin and made a home there. No amount of fact-checking or soul searching could shake it loose.

It was that very same face he saw when he came at last upon the beach, cresting the same berm he had the night of the bonfire. He couldn’t forget it, had long memorized that troubled moue, those eyes which at once held a vast universe and an endless void within them. Now that piercing gaze fixed on him, and the words he might have spoken escaped him as quickly as the waves receded from the shore.

“So are you,” he said dryly, halting his advance partway through that twilight between intimacy and acquaintanceship. “I’ve seen you. Everyone has. But I’m sure you knew that already. Doubt they’d let you forget it.”

As he recalled, Will had been found near the water that night. Perhaps they, too, had been driven to this place. Another thing they had in common.

“So you come here to reminisce, or what? Can’t imagine the memories are pleasant.”

[loganncrowe]

@isnotgold

The days dragged on and on during the lockdown, which didn’t surprise Logan. Even with all of his optimism, he knew that there was little hope the Haunt would pass without great event. Growing up in Sallybrook gave even the happiest of residents a gloomy mood this time of year, and it rang true in the halls of the church. He had been given little time to get ready to be being a room leader, though he wasn’t exactly sure what could have prepared him for bickering roommates and a general sense of displeasure at being confined in the halls of the church.

One resident that caught his eye was Rowan. A relatively new face in town, Logan hadn’t interacted with him much past a few hellos in the bakery and the same kind greeting he gave to each member of his room when they arrived. However, Logan couldn’t help but notice the man’s frequent trips out of the room. The sign out clipboard was covered in his name, and it was beginning to appear worrisome. Logan couldn’t help but hear Alice’s worried voice ringing in his ear, reminding him to be wary of unusual activity. As the man approached once more, Logan offered a gentle smile and handed him the clipboard. “Hey, Rowan, can we…talk outside for a moment?” he asked, already feeling too much like a schoolteacher about to scold a student. As soon as they made it out of the room and the door had slammed shut, he took a deep breath and spoke in barely a whisper. “Are you feeling alright? You know we have medicine if you need anything,” he said, hoping the man wouldn’t take offense. 

[isnotgold-blog1]

The itch climbed beneath his skin in taloned strides, pricking and poking him out of his vantage point crammed in the furthest possible corner of the room. Rowan had held off as long as he could, but he could ignore it no longer. He swept like a thundercloud across the room, avoiding the eyes of the unwilling roommates he’d been saddled with.

Logan was the worst of them all. His smile was oppressive, his good-natured approach infuriating. Sometimes Rowan felt as if Logan were mocking him, dangling his kindness before Rowan like a carrot he’d run after endlessly, knowing all too well that it could never be his. At least the guy was a pushover.

This notion was shattered, however, when Logan asked him to step outside. As they stood out in the hallway, Rowan bristled, already defensive before Logan even had a chance to speak. At the mention of medicine, however, he softened slightly—he’d kill for some cough syrup. He imagined himself floating down a lazy river of codeine, and the vision alone was nearly enough to scratch his itch. Nearly.

“What are you, the piss police?” he said at last. “I drink a lot of coffee, alright? That’s it. I get that you’re supposed to be our chaperone or whatever, but it’s never too late to start minding your own fucking business.” His words came a little too quick, his posture fidgety. Sweat beaded at his brow. He really needed to get to that damn bathroom.

[isnotgold-blog1]

text: noah

noah: tell me about it im stuck in a room with a sister who hates my guts more than anyone has ever hated spiderman3

noah: aka im having the Most Fun obviously

noah: wtf why am i always trapped away from the booze why is my life like this

noah: u realize ur going straight to hell right

noah: like there's just no salvation for u

noah: i'll bet he folds after midnight tho, what brand u got??

rowan: praying 4 u

rowan: not like i can do much else in this hell hole

rowan: heaven hole? w/e

rowan: eh i was doomed to hell years ago so like yolo

rowan: the question is... what DONT i got

rowan: grey goose for me, a lil jack for the devil

rowan: so i guess u and sis are gonna have to uh. talk.

[valid-bastard]

me: *experiences one (1) minor inconvenience* 

me, instantly:

[isnotgold-blog1]

tonydelia‌:

As they walked along in silence, Tony found himself surprised that the man still hadn’t dropped his hand. Maybe this was what Rowan had in mind as they left his shop earlier that day, but Tony honestly had no idea where this day would take them. He tried not to read too much into it, tried just to savor the moments they still had, but he couldn’t help but be worried about the aftermath. There was a reason he didn’t let himself get too entangled in his other partners. Sometimes he didn’t know their names or even where they came from. It hadn’t mattered too much in his past, but he found himself wanting to know more about the mysterious man who was visiting. A part of Tony wanted to know what really drew him here, where he had materialized from.

Shaking off the thoughts, a small smile grew on his lips as they entered the shop. He didn’t exactly frequent the bakery, but just the scent inside could win over just about anyone. “You act like I come here for the pastries,” he said, a mere whisper in the other man’s ear before approaching the counter. There had been a thought in the back of his mind about what others in the town might think, about how he had never been one for any sort of date beyond sharing drinks at a bar. As he looked at the pastries, however, he found he didn’t care. He knew the man behind the counter, knew that he wasn’t one for town gossip, and felt a little safer as he ordered a box full of cookies and pastries. If they didn’t finish it, well, they could save it for later. He was becoming more and more confident that there would be a later, their shared time extending past this night. He was in town for almost a whole week, wasn’t he?

With the box of pastries tucked safely in his arm, he nodded his goodbye to the baker and took Rowan’s hand once more. Might as well test his luck and see how long this could last, right? As the bakery door slammed shut behind him, he turned to the other man with a smirk. “So, guess the last stop on the tour should be the motel, right?” There was no use in being subtle anymore, unless Rowan really had wanted a full tour of the town. Hell, there was always tomorrow.

Rowan watched with satisfaction as Tony bought the pastries; no input was necessary. It wasn’t that he trusted Tony’s opinion so much as the pastries were such a tiny detail in that night’s escapades, whatever form they might take. Though there were certain forms he’d imagined—naked, and in great detail—he couldn’t truly be sure where the night would go.

That was a rarity for him. Despite the rich tapestry he wove for others when he spoke of his life, the grooves of habit were well-worn upon his fingertips, the very same ones that had thumbed a hundred hems, traced a thousand collarbones. It would be all too easy to fall back into that particular rhythm. A sidelong glance at Tony, however, told him he wouldn’t regret it.

His eyebrows jumped at Tony’s suggestion. It seemed he wasn’t the only one with questionable habits. Still, part of him felt indignant at Tony’s proposition, plain as it was. Rowan wasn’t quite ready to give up the chase.

“That’s presumptuous of you.” He took advantage of their linked hands then, tugging Tony into the little alley beside the bakery with a sly smile.

“Do you think I’m easy?” he purred, pushing Tony toward the wall with a finger. He traced it down the front of Tony’s shirt until it reached the hem, low enough to slip his hand beneath at any time. The fact that he didn’t was a game of restraint he knew he couldn’t play for long.

“Do you think you can take me on some bullshit tour one moment and have me begging the next?” His eyes flashed with fire and lust, gaze locked on Tony’s. He drew in close, eyes flicking to the pastry box for a moment, careful not to disturb it. He didn’t care much for them now, but he’d be thankful for them at two a.m. after a round or three.

He leaned in past that waiting mouth, hovered right by Tony’s ear, and let loose a murmur:

“I’m not the one who’ll be begging tonight.”

[isnotgold-blog1]

I know that you like dancing I know that you want to be seen I know that you want the queen Everybody wants to be king And the fire's burning The devil's dancing in your head All the wolves are howling Begging to be fed

[happiness365]

Hong Jong Hyun for KWAVE EXPO 2017

[isnotgold-blog1]

txt: peter.rowan

peter: my best friend from when i was a kid is my roommate

peter: im pretty excited about it i

peter: missed him a lot. i think he's good for me

peter: i dont think hes thrilled about rooming with me though. which is fine.

peter: ugh i hate this time of year

rowan: oh shit

rowan: that's big. hope u guys get along. or at least don't, like, kill eachother

rowan: i do too

rowan: let's just say the lovelight didn't exactly gleam at my house

rowan: but also... uh... the haunt stuff blows too

rowan: is this lockdown thing really necessary?

[thiccachuwrites]

Sophia sat on one of the pews, staring up at the stained glass behind the podium, her mind trapped in a trance since the lockdown began. The Uris household weren’t too close to the church. It just never felt right. In Sallybrook, with all the annual devastation- it was easy to look for a miracle from god - or Father Reilly for that matter. But Soph and her family for once agreed on something. Praying couldn’t stop the haunt from coming. Nothing could.

Sophie tucked her feet under her, the small creme colored rabbit resting in her lap. She ran her fingers through the soft fur, getting lost in the monotony of the task. So lost, the presence behind her wasn’t even on her radar. So when they spoke up, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Oh fuck me!” She shrieked in utter fear, her hand going up to her heart. “You scared me.” Probably not the best place to cuss.

[isnotgold-blog1]

Stuck in the church, Rowan felt like shaken soda, bubbling up in his confinement, ready to overflow. Though it was better than the motel, he got the distinct feeling of being watched—by God, by “the Haunt”, who fucking knew? It made him itchy deep within a place he couldn’t scratch. A wrongness, sliding beneath his skin, thick in his throat.

If he couldn’t shake the feeling, maybe he could outrun it. That’s what drove him to pace the halls of the church that day, shoulders stiff, mouth set in a thin line. As he turned around near the vestibule, he spotted a familiar head of brown hair.

Sophie. They had been unlikely allies on a strange and ultimately terrifying night, and he’d never forget that. He recalled the photo he’d taken of her—the calm before the storm. Oh, it had stormed alright.

He approached on lighter feet now, pleased to at last find a friend in this godawful place. Just as he was about to call her name, however, she noticed him.

He blurted a laugh at her reaction, which echoed back to him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you and your, uh, friend. Can I sit?”

[isnotgold-blog1]

alicesolak‌:

Her eyes widened at how quickly he drank the water she had offered him, her mind trying to piece together the previous evening for him. She knew, that in doing that, she was placing unfair judgement on him, but it was difficult not to think about. Quickly reaching over to grab the cup of water he put back down on the table, she refilled it in a moment and then set it back down in front of him. If there was anything everyone knew about Alice, it was how quickly she would jump at the opportunity to take care of someone who needed her. She pointed in the direction of the bathroom. “Down that hall, the stairs are on the right, and the bathrooms are at the end of that hallway.” It was where they had their CCD classes. No other use for a public bathroom in a church really. “Do you need me to show you?” 

Feeling queasy, Rowan grabbed the glass of water and stood. “I’m fine,” he said abruptly and turned on his heel, repeating her directions endlessly in his brain so they wouldn’t slip away like last night’s memories had.

Down the hall… stairs on the right… down, down, down the hallway, and—there, on the right, the restroom. He couldn’t have reached it any sooner. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, heart threatening to beat straight out of his chest, lungs heaving. Sweat beaded his forehead as he chugged the glass of water. Then he stilled, listening to hear if the woman had come after him, but he couldn’t hear over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

That was when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His hair was matted to his forehead, sticking out on one side, and his ashen face shone with grease, red-rimmed eyes sunken and lifeless. Streaks of red and purple and blue paint traveled down his neck, disappearing below his rumpled collar. It seemed flaked in places, and suddenly he was in Peter’s bedroom, those piercing eyes soft with worry, gentle hands doing their best to scrub him clean.

Rowan touched a hand to the paint, pulled back as if he’d been burned. How long had it been there? Where had he gone after Peter’s place? What day was it?

Dizzy with questions, Rowan closed his eyes and prayed that the woman who’d taken him in hadn’t followed. In his state, there was no way he could keep it together long enough to have a conversation.

[isnotgold-blog1]

[isnotgold-blog1]

txt: peter.rowan

peter: how you holdin' up church boy?

peter: anyone try to run out screaming yet?

rowan: yes. me

rowan: a million times

rowan: in my mind

rowan: tbh tho i'd rather be here than in that fucking motel. 2 months was long enough

rowan: ur turn. gimme the deets before i die of boredom

[isnotgold-blog1]

dominikblair‌:

One of the most offensive sights one could find at a bar would be a young John-Wayne wanna-be drinking a good bottle of whiskey straight from the bottle. Something less distasteful, but just as worse, would be slamming the nectar down the gullet from a tiny glass. This was a sentiment his father always voiced over his own tumbler of honeyed gold, and Dom was unsurprised to find himself sharing it at the stranger now holding an empty glass. 

As the words continued to spill from the other’s lips, along with a laugh that nearly filled the space of the dreary bar, Dom remained as unmoved as stone. Even as he came to stand by him, though his curiosity seeped back into him again. He seemed to be a peculiar character after all. 

Dom didn’t respond just yet at the other’s questions, taking his sweet time as he slowly took a sip from his drink, letting the warm liquid wash across his palate and warm his stomach before placing the cigar between his lips as the flavours mixed in harmony.  

“Do you usually overthink trivial gestures?” He finally responded, and took another inhale from his cigar before speaking again. “Is this a… Californian thing?” 

A faint smirk curled along his lips. “Figured this would earn myself two more questions.” He brought his glass up to his chest, pausing to settle his gaze on the other’s. “Five, does everyone call each other dude?” This time he couldn’t help the small, humourless chuckle that escaped him as he looked into his glass. “Six, does everyone surf?” 

Dom then turned to fully face the stranger, a hint of amusement lingering in the corners of his lips. Perhaps because he was equally as, if not more, paranoid but wasn’t used to it being expressed in such a manner. “That whiskey is nice with this cigar.” He took another sip of his drink. The pairing was one of his father’s favourites, but he didn’t feel the need to share that piece of information with the stranger. “It’s calming. That’s all.” 

Rowan felt like a petulant child in the face of this man who remained cool and collected despite his outburst. It made him want to go off again, but he knew that would only dig the hole deeper, so for once he managed to bite his tongue.

Not long after, however, he was prompted to speak again by a question that caught him off-guard. It wasn’t the first time that someone in Sallybrook had brought up such a thing: as he’d quickly realized, not everyone had ulterior motives the way they did back home. Rowan was so used to looking for manipulation that, when it wasn’t present, his mind invented it. He knew that, but it took a long time to stifle one’s impulses, and even longer to change them.

“I guess it is,” he said at last, conceding the point. He peered at the man as he continued his questioning, still on edge, but relaxing a little. The alcohol made it too exhausting to maintain his ire, the former blaze dulling to a smolder.

A laugh escaped his lips at the man’s continued line of questioning. This conversation was going in an entirely different direction than he’d expected, and he didn’t really know what to make of it.

“Can you really imagine the word ‘dude’ coming out of this mouth?” he deadpanned, but his lip quivered into a grin as he realized he’d just said it. “As for the surfing, well, everyone tries. Far fewer succeed.” The camp he fell into was implied.

Rowan observed the man for a long moment, the way he enjoyed his vices with practiced poise. Rowan just drank to get drunk—he didn’t give much thought to flavor or pairings. Part of him was a little envious of people, like this man, who did.

“It’s never all,” he said at last, setting his glass down. If he kept drinking, things were bound to get messier than they already had. “Listen, when you live a life like mine, you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop. You expect it. Prepare for it. That way you’re not shocked when it finally happens.”

At that he clammed up, having revealed a little more about himself than he’d intended. “So is it my turn yet? First question: does everybody really know everyone else around here? Wherever I go they stare like I’ve grown a second head.”

[isnotgold-blog1]

Seems so long I've been waiting Still, I don't know what for There's no point escaping I don't worry anymore