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@ofmourningdoves
ofmourningdoves :: a mumu blog for bleedingheartsfm, written by eve.
marisa "missy" crane :: about || connections
franklin "frankie" buchanan :: about || connections
wendy apple :: about || connections
ezekiel "zeke" rivera :: about || connections
location: town square
with: wendy ( @ofmourningdoves )
Sunlight streams down in full force without the reprieve of a single cloud in the sky, warming the back of his neck. A single bead of sweat licks down the side of his face and leaves a wet spot on the ground. He tucks his shoulder and drags the fabric of his top across his upper lip to wipe away the sweat.
It's unbearably hot but he's humming.
Bright blue chalk arcs against the sidewalk, fingers dusty with all the other colors he's used for this drawing: a giant beetle made of rainbows, body iridescent, as iridescent as chalk can get anyway. He smudges his fingers against the coarse ground to blend in the colors and then leaves his smudgy signature at the bottom right corner of his creation like he always does. It's just a blue wiggle and doesn't even remotely look like a name but it doesn't have to. Then he leans back, appraises his work with a grin, picks up his chalk, dusts off his hands against his jean shorts and then moves on.
These little pieces of art don't really serve a purpose anymore. He'd started doing this when his siblings first started walking to school, leaving a little trail of colorful pictures every few paces away so they'd know the path to take. It became a fun game for them and they'd excitedly return home and tell their parents all about what they'd seen. A butterfly on the side of Thistle & Thread! A dragon on the ground by the library! A unicorn just outside town hall! Pond had been with them of course, every step of the way, waiting to see their reactions, pretending he hadn't been the one to draw them up, letting them marvel in the magic of fantastic creatures that popped up overnight.
His siblings don't need help navigating the way to school anymore but it's become such a fun hobby that Pond can't bear to stop.
He crosses the square, heading away from the Happy Apple and toward the library and drops back down to a squat to the stone pathway in front of the sign. He's in the shade this time and it makes the heat of summer more bearable.
The heat of summer burns at her neck, between the beginning of her dress and the strap of her camera, her skin nearly on fire. Wendy feels a thin layer of sweat cover her skin, beading along her back and surely leaving an unsightly ring on her out she had just pulled off the sewing machine. Already ruined to the horrors of Bleeding Hearts' dastardly, classic heat waves. She feels disgusting, absolutely disgusting, and the worst part?
She only just stepped out of the Happy Apple.
How can she possibly stand this? Moving away from The Big City was a mistake. Well, it was necessary, but it can still be a mistake, right? Sorrow and regret, and perhaps a little indigestion from that lemon tart she housed in lieu of a real breakfast, are just about to flood her system, making her daily trot to Featherdown Farm completely miserable, but she spots it.
A drawing of a beetle. Something in her chest swells, akin to butterflies when she checks for that little wave in the corner and, yep, there it is.
Pond's back.
Suddenly any negative emotions -- save for the indigestion and sweat -- are pushed aside for something she hadn't felt in an awful long time. It should be totally embarrassing, the way she carefully steps aside from the drawing as to not mess up the colorful lines, the ways her head whips around as she walks, just to catch a shock of that dark hair. He has to be around here somewhere, right?
Turning a corner, Wendy spots him. Squatting by the library, and she can practically see the look of sheer artistic drive across his face, that perfect swoop of his hair falling away from his features. She can't stop the smile that spreads across her face, quickly pushing her dreads off her shoulder as she walks closer, something...just a little giddy bubbling up in the back of her throat. Well, that might just be said indigestion. But, she likes to think giddy. It's cuter.
God, does she look cute sweaty?
"I heard the library's doing a story time for the Very Hungry Caterpillar," she drawls, her head tilting down and to the side as she gazes at him. "Maybe you could do an homage."
He’s right. Lord, he’s always right. She doesn’t have to defend herself to him. She doesn’t have to defend herself to anybody, even though she sure knows how. Maybe everyone’s accepted that Montana Buchanan is fated to live in Bleeding Hearts Springs for the rest of her life. It wouldn’t be so bad, right?
But maybe she isn’t.
The painting still needs a moment to dry on its newest layer, so she waves a hand in front of it absentmindedly as she thinks. “Dream scenario?” she echoes, not knowing where to begin. There’s the dream where she finished her intended degree – but there’s no use telling Frankie about that when it’ll never happen.
“Maybe archaeology,” she says, with a little giggle escaping her lips and shaking her shoulders. She can still remember learning the word in secondary school and being fascinated by a career of exploring all day.“Don’t laugh.” A hand reaches out to gently smack Frankie’s arm. “I’d never run outta things t’paint.”
Maybe there’s a Tanny who studied archaeology, and a Tanny who studied art, and a Tanny who studied mathematics or even a writer. She remembers reading a poem or a story about that once – something about all the possible lives in front of you and a fig tree.
None of those Tannys are sitting on the porch of the Buchanan house tonight, talking about make-believe futures with her brother. The Tanny here had a dream scenario, one that could’ve changed all of their lives.
“What about you?” she asks, dipping the brush into the wetted color Frankie had chosen before. Her hand swipes and drags the color across the paper with a practiced ease, leaving slight shimmer on the petals.
Archaeology. The thought doesn't make Frankie laugh, but the corners of his lips curl into a soft smile. Never out of jest, but simply because he could see it. Little Miss Montana Buchanan, in her most Indiana Jones-esque outfit, bullwhip at her hip, as she carefully excavates some ancient skull out of a ditch. Maybe his vision of it skews a little more dreamy than real life, but maybe that's because his sister is larger than life in his eyes.
"I think you'd be great at that," he says, in that earnest tone that colors his voice all too often. "It'd be kinda perfect for you. Travelin' the world, sending back pretty paintings for us to hang up," he drawls, that little smile stretching wide at the thought. "And, you'd be caked in mud, which you usually always are."
Maybe Frankie has a tendency to romanticize just about anyone in his life.
Well, with the exception of himself.
When the question is turned back onto him, something in his stomach twists, sour and sick. A dream scenario for him? He prefers to try to keep his dreams rooted in reality. It's different for Tanny, who can actually achieve her dreams, but the Buchanan boys? They're on the farm for good, Huck doing the actual, hard work and Frankie's future leading him to the paperwork to help keep Pure Valley running once their ma...he doesn't want to finish the thought.
How can he picture a dream scenario for himself when he knows it'll never happen? Why bother aiming for the stars?
Instead, Frankie keeps that little grin on his lips, blue eyes focused on Tanny's hand as she gracefully adds on to the painting.
"I dunno," he replies with a scrunch of a nose, keeping his gaze on her hand, the paint sticking her to knuckles, the dirt underneath her finger nails. "I like workin' at the library, maybe I could do it full time." A chuckle leaves his lips, maybe twinged with a feeling he'd rather not think about. "Or, I could be a writer. I've read enough books, I probably got one in me now."
location: old mill status: closed @ofmourningdoves , @alainapricity
The night is thick with heat and hush, with summer dark that presses against his skin heavily, a coat he can't shrug off. Crickets sing somewhere out in the hollows, and the distant rustle of crispy, browning grass carries the old hymn of the land, the melody soft and endless.
And Azariah stands just outside the old mill.
A single suitcase rests by his feet, scuffed at the corners, overfilled and trembling at the latch. Inside it is barely anything: some shirts, a silver cross, a photograph from childhood, a book of sermons he marked and wept over before leaving behind his collar. The rest of what he carries is tucked inside him. The years. The ache. The decision.
He’s left a letter on his pillow. It wasn't long. Nor cruel. Just... enough to let them all know he’s gone by choice.
The moon hangs low over the tree line, sallow and watchful, her eye gleaming down at him with the weight of every action she's ever seen him do. Everything around him feels like it’s holding its breath, like the whole damn county knows something is ending. Or beginning.
He presses a hand to the wood of the mill door to steady himself, and when he breathes in, his heart is a fist. In his throat, a prayer is strangled back into a cough that he hides in his arm. And Missy, God, Missy, her name rings through him like a bell struck from bone. He has sworn himself to her, reverent, devoted with undeserving hands that held her face after all those years. He beheld her, right here, fingers trembling with the holy of it.
Alaina will be here soon. He can already feel her near, spectral and sure, the only soul besides Missy who has ever truly known him. The three of them, pulled toward something none of them thought existed for the likes of them. Something none of them thought they'd ever reach.
Azariah glances up the road. Waiting.
Missy packed a mouse.
Taxidermy, with clown paint gracing its features. It stands in a pose, furry arms extended upward, sticking the landing of an acrobatic trick. The rest of the troupe sits in a box instead of their usual perch on her mantlepiece, her belongings pre-packed to make it easier for her father. No, it's not an essential in her already filled-to-the-brim suitcase, but it's...sentimental. A memory of a circus that rolled into Grampleton when she was a little girl, where she swore she saw people with pumpkins for heads bumbling around. More importantly, it's her first memory, wonder and adventure that she thought she would never experience again.
And, for the first time in who knows how many years, that feeling tickles at her skin. She can only hope her father understands. The letter she left for him explains it all, possibly far longer than it needed to be. But...she couldn't just leave him. That's what her mother had done. He had to understand why, had to understand that once she's where she needs to be, he'll know. She'll call, they'll talk every day if he wishes.
That suitcase packed with that little mouse bumps against her thigh with each hurried step, her fingers gripping the handle until her knuckles are bone-white. A gold band, a small, modest diamond inlaid in the center, on her left ring finger glints in the moonlight. It's a beacon, guiding her to her future.
The light reflects up to the mill as she approaches, clear on Azariah's chest. It's quick, the way her arms wrap around her; the roots that trap her to Bleeding Hearts Springs loosen, and start to form around him. "I'm here," she breathes out, as if she had been holding it for all too long. And, perhaps she has been, waiting for this exact moment to finally be able to be with Azariah. But, they're not ready yet. Not until Laney is with them.
She can't leave until the rest of her heart is with them.
Slowly, Missy unfurls herself from Azariah, keeping her free hand curled against his bicep. Solid and warm. Her gaze drifts towards the far away tree line, the moon watching the pair with her all knowing eyes. But, she's not watching back. No, she's simply waiting.
"She's coming."
And, it's said with love.
@alainapricity @vespcrtines
Hiro looks but he’s not sure what he’s looking at. It looks like something that belongs in Rustic Relics. Some kind of handmade atrocity of a mer-being that’s entirely upside down; a fish head and human legs. “Wow,” for a moment all he can do is stare at it. Not because it’s beautiful but because it’s, “Terrifying.” If something like that emerged from the sea and started rushing him with high knees and glassy blank fish eye stare he would immediately punch it in the gills and then run away. No attempt at friendship. No attempt to communicate. A punch hello and then a swift goodbye.
But, Frankie wants it.
And he’s looking at him. With his eyes. With those eyes. Those eyes that swim in starlight and spring time. Those eyes that are dragonfly wings.
Hiro’s mouth twitches, his tongue presses against the inside of his lower lip against the space where a piercing used to be and then removes his arm from where it’s slung around thin shoulders and wordlessly reaches for a ball. Oh, those bottles are gonna get it. Prepare yourself, mer-creature, his determined eyes declare. He's gonna get that shit.
“And kettle corn,” Hiro bargains, lightly tossing a ball in his palm first just to test the weight and how it feels in his hand.
Hiro is the best, isn't he?
Now, Frankie knows that maybe the town isn't in Hiro's favor as of late -- that message in gold certainly was threatening -- but, he'll always have a soft spot for him. Call it years of summer friendship, or maybe something more. Frankie doesn't try to think too hard on it. It's simple, he just likes his friend. That doesn't sound weird, right?
But, as soon as he sees that look in Hiro's eyes, sheer determination and grit, Frankie knows he's going to get this mer-creature. A silent fist pump to himself, expertly turning away from his friend for it remain unseen, and he turns back, something practically giddy at the back of his throat -- he's positively giggling.
"Kettle corn, obviously," he agrees just a touch too fast, head bobbing up and down as he watches his friend fiddle with the ball. Deft hands will be sure to strike, Frankie can feel it. "I'll even throw in a hot dog if you get it in under three hits."
Lydia ambles behind Wendy like a muppet, nearly jumping with every step. She still has half a mind to keep herself from skipping like a stone, because she knows by now that's a one-way ticket to running right into someone else and staining another sleeve. Besides, she’s better off doing everything she can to contain herself, anyway. She knows Wendy’s probably just being nice to her because of her mama. But it’s an invitation she doesn’t have to think twice about before taking, despite checking first.
She doesn't actually know how to answer Wendy's question. Papaw Fred is the kind of guy who'd gleefully put on the frilliest crown at the entire festival just because she handed it to him, but there’s an opportunity to have fun, here. “Definitely a delicate flower,” she chortles, eyes already moseying over the various options. Anything with clover is automatically out; it obviously can’t withstand more than an hour or two in her mane. “Oh, look at this one,” she gasps, almost forgetting they’re not friends who are willingly hanging out as she lifts a rather ostentatious crown of marigolds. However, though she’s as gentle as she can possibly be, a blossom falls and, right before her eyes, it deflates into a sad, decorative string almost immediately. "I... T-That wasn't me, it just..."
Is it just Wendy's imagination, but is a sad trombone playing with each step the pair takes? She swears she can hear a desolate womp-womp accentuate every little step Lydia trollops behind her like some kind of cartoon character with a storm cloud following at their heels. Maybe it's just in the other girl's nature, something innately...pathetic that resides in her soul. Is that rude to say? Perhaps, but she is a believer that if it's the truth, it's not that rude, southern pleasantries be damned.
The stall is beautiful, filled with little blooms that definitely could not withstand whatever is happening with Lydia's hair -- really, she could bike out to Grampleton for a curl cream, or something -- and Wendy can't stop the defeated sigh that already threatens to leave her lips. What would sit in that mane of hair? Before she could even start to think of the impossible, she glances over to Lydia...only to see that sad, sad crown fall apart nearly the instant it touches the girl's hands. Womp-womp. There goes that damned trombone again. "Okay, so I'll be the one doing the touching," she states, only a mild irritation lacing her words. The patience of a saint, she has, and it's being tested by the Fish herself. Wendy picks up a crown, a base of hearty sunflowers with bright zinnias, and holds it out. Looks sturdy, but there's only one way to truly find out.
"Tilt your head towards me, Herring?"
When a voice sounds behind Finch, he doesn't even have to turn around to know who it is. "Hey Little Bit!" he drawls through the last bite of the apple fritter he's just inhaled. (Alright, two apple fritters really, but who's counting? They're good, dangit.) And turns around, grinning straight down. Finch would know Missy Crane's voice anyplace; the Cranes have lived in the Springs since -- well, just about as long as the Finches have; Finch has has known Missy since he was a boy. And he'd know her scent, too -- mostly yummy vanilla, with a whiff of cigarettes mixed in. "Whatchoo got there?" he asks, lowering his shades and leaning down a little to peer into her cupped hands. And then -- "Oh, c'mere, you little shit. Uh -- not you," he adds quickly, blue eyes round and apologetic and aimed at Misty. "Him." The him in question is Henry, fuzzy and yellow and about the size of a real actual peach. And an escape artist -- always turning up outside the fence, where he's not supposed to be. (Which is how he earned his name -- Henry, after Henry Houdini, a famous magic escaper guy Finch saw one time on the History Channel.) "You're gonna get yourself squished one day, doin' like this," Finch lectures the duckling, and holds his hand out. "It's kinda hard to be mad at him, though," he admits to Misty, as she deposits the duckling in his big work-worn palm. He tucks Henry away in his shirt pocket, fuzzy yellow head poking out, black eyes bright as buttons. "He's still cute," Finch confides, a little grumpy. "They stay cute for a little while at least; until they get big and turn into actual ducks." And become pains in Finch's sizeable backside; he hasn't met a duck yet that wasn't at least a little bit dickish. "Thanks for saving his ornery little butt," he tells Misty. "You sure look pretty today," he notices belatedly. And she does - hair all braided up nice, little flowers stuck in it here and there. "Where you headin' next?" Finch has no particular place to be -- he's already spent an hour helpin' Miss Apple out in exchange for some goodies, and Q's busy taking Miss Cherry for a twirl over by the bandstand. And Meemaw -- well, Meemaw's over gossiping with Miss Loretta. Once they get going they can jaw for hours; usually do.
The Good Lord blessed Gregory Finch with many things. A certain kind of kindness that goes beyond the typical pleasantries of Good Ol' Southern Folk. A good family interwoven in the fabric of the town. Good looks that happen to be a hit with the older women 'round -- oh, if I was twenty years younger, with a bat of mascara clumped lashes. As for things that perhaps he was less blessed with?
Well, Missy is far too kind to actually say.
Regardless, Missy likes Greg, even if standing next to him makes her feel about the size of a pea. She hands off the duckling, watching as the little guy reaches up, up, up to the sky until landing inside the man's shirt pocket. "Henry's very cute," she agrees, neck craned upwards to take a look at its little, fuzzy, head. Really cute. "I had half a mind to keep him if he wound up not bein' from your place." And, well? That half of mind is still lingering even as Greg rattles on, her eyes filled with...something close to mild delight as the duckling whistles once from his flannel prison. Surely, all ducks can't be that bad, right?
Well, she'll at least live in the fantasy of a little duck waddling around the cemetery with no issues even if it won't come true.
"Thank you, Peach." At the compliment, Missy can't help but feel the corners of her lips curl into a half grin, a dainty hand lifting up to preen. Her finger tug out one of the blooms, a little bluebell once tucked into one of her braids, before extending it out for Greg. "Now you can look pretty, too." And, she hums, her head tilting just a touch to the side as he asks his question.
"Not sure, actually," she muses with a shrug of her shoulders. "I was actually thinkin' of headin' to some of the games if you're willin' to join me. I bet we can win somethin' real pretty."
event: rain of petals parade status: closed, @ofmourningdoves (wendy)
The morning had been a whirlwind of new connections and old, of delicious treats and even more delicious gossip, and of welcoming the first embrace of the summer.
There’s still plenty of merriment to be had, but the initial flurry of excitement has settled into a steady hum, children coming down from their sugar highs and adults having made the rounds to all the booths thrice over, making sure they didn’t miss anything. And Patty has settled too, resting on a bench and taking a short breather.
She’d been keeping an eye out for exactly two people seemingly all morning—Greg and Wendy. It’s unsurprising that she can’t find Greg; despite his towering frame, which should make him simple to spot, it’s expected that he’ll be pulled this way and the other, attention being grabbed by another tasty treat or another friend to greet. But she’d arrived with Wendy, bright and early, and quickly lost track of her in the throngs of people.
But just as she has started to get comfortable, sinking back into the warmed wood, she spots Wendy rounding the corner. The universe has a way of bringing them together at the perfect moment.
“Wendy!” She waves a hand high in the air, boasting a smile like the sun. “I’ve been lookin’ for ya all morning! We gotta stop by Miss Fortune now that the early crowd has cleared out.”
Now, where the fuck is Patty?
There's no tact, even in Wendy's thoughts as she meanders around the festival, the sugar rush victims slowly crashing the crowd one by one. The red, crusted mouths of children dressed as various bugs and flowers are now yawning instead of yapping out loud to the ether about the gilded costumes around the square -- she caught a glimpse of a decked out dragonfly of a girl curling up against the lemonade stand as she grabbed her nth cup. No couth to be found at her feet, one grubby hand pawing at some stuffed monstrosity, but Wendy can't blame the kid; she remembers how crazy she'd go initially on Spirit's Eve and the summer carnival, only to fall asleep in her dad's arms halfway through.
She's getting sidetracked, but it's okay; as she's turning on her heel, she spots the flurry of red hair that makes her heart nearly swell out of happiness. Her favorite little bird, Miss Patty Finch, perched atop a bench as if it was her throne. Wendy nearly skips towards the sunshine that is her friend, butterfly wings bouncing at her back with each step. If anyone can skyrocket her mood, it's Patty.
"It is the perfect time to go," she replies with a wide grin -- never as bright as her friends, but glimmering like moonlight. Her hand takes her friend's in hers as it's known to do and starts to tug her off the bench. "If we wait any longer, the weirdos will take over the tent. Where have you been, anyway? I lost you too quick."
She isn’t. She isn’t ready. How could she be?
She looks at him with sunshine in her eyes, and he looks at her like she’s a wildflower by the roadside. She looks at him like he’s everywhere, all warmth and sweet things and summers spent cooling in the springs or splashing in the lake, and he looks at her like something to smile at in passing, a thing you forget about by the next turn.
Lord, why couldn’t he just take that turn already?
“As I’ll ever be, Finn.”
Her smile wobbles, but he won’t notice. Her step closer falters, but he won’t notice. And when he leads her toward the whirling skirts and glittering lights, she knows he won’t notice if she’s still looking at him like that, like he hung the sun, like every step of her life had Buchanan scribbled in the corner. Her hand finds his, fingers slipping into place so easy it aches, the way they always did when she was little, before it ever hurt to hold on too tight. The other curls against his arm, the fabric warm beneath her palm. The music swells, signaling the start, and she hopes he won’t feel the flush rising in her cheeks, the flutter of her pulse where it presses up against his skin.
But truth is… she doesn’t have to hope too hard.
“Let’s dance, Frankie.”
She really does look radiant. Well, that's always a given with Josie -- there's a certain kind of glow that emanates from her very being, even if she's covered in a layer of honey and dirt. It's something special that very few have, and she happens to be one of the special few to feel like sunshine hitting your skin when they're looking at you.
Maybe that's too poetic of a way to describe a friend. Maybe there's a reason it feels that way when she looks at him, like he's someone who deserves the sun on his freckled skin. And, maybe one day? Frankie will realize what exactly that reason is, even if it's just a little too late.
That moment is not now.
Instead, he leads her straight into the center of the dancers. What? She has to be in the center; it's only right for the future Marigold Queen. Hands go into position, one against her waist, the fabric soft against his palm, and the other clasping hers. If he notices any nerves or something...negative, he hasn't commented on it.
Frankie's there to dance with Josie.
And, the music swells, the pair taking off in the dance they've done since they were small, Frankie pulling Josie onto the floor with a wide grin and flowers surrounding the pair. Or, was it the other way around, Josie tugging him onto the cobblestone despite his two left feet? Huh. He's never given it much thought.
But, nevermind that.
His attention on the girl he's holding, a content little grin on his lips as he takes her in. Breathtaking, that little grin growing just a touch wider. And, he leans in, lips closer to her ear, loud enough for her to hear over the music.
"You really do look lovely today, Josie. I hope you know that."
Wendy’s always been cool to Tanny – ears pierced, clothes masterfully fitted, a best friend attached at the hip just like hers. If she’s real honest with herself, Wendy probably planted the first seed in her that wanted more. She’d been told all her life that she was smart, talented, but the random pairing of the two determined girls was life-changing for the blonde. She saw herself in Wendy: at least, who she wanted to be.
Funny how they both ended up back here.
Pixie brings a grin to her face, eyes crinkling at the edges. Some old habits never die. “I don’t think so,” she answers, shaking her head. It’s not a complete lie – Josie’s note won’t actually be addressed to her, and she doubts that Laurie will stick one up there for the whole town to see. Besides, they aren’t even—
“Did y’make those?” She gestures to the wings, cutting herself off from her own thoughts. They’re gorgeous and dainty, and they bring a genuine appreciative smile to Tanny’s features. “I love ‘em. Y’want me to snap a picture?” she offers, feeling just a sliver more confident after Laurie’s lesson out in the woods last week. She may not be as skilled as either of her favorite photographers, but she can at least point and shoot.
In all honesty, Wendy's always a touch shocked that Tanny wound back up in the springs. There's a good head underneath that pretty mop of blonde hair, but more importantly? She's got that little fire in her eyes, the one that craves the kindling. She knows it, as the fire flickers behind hers, too. Call it a twin flame of sorts. So, to see her stuck on that farm with her brothers makes something in her chest do a sad little twang.
But, maybe Tanny feels that way, too. Not that she'd ask.
"Well, the day's still shinin', I'm sure you'll get something extra sweet." Does she know that to be true? No, but she's certain it'll happen. Firecrackers like Tanny get attention, even in a town where everyone already knows everyone. "Probably a secret admirer, or two."
A hand flies to her wings on her back, gently rubbing the iridescent fabric between her fingers. Silky, smooth, and worth the forty-five minute drive to Grampleton to get the materials. A smile curls up on her lips at the compliment, nodding her head as she says, "I did, yeah! I'm happy with them." She's proud of her work, and it's not often she can work on something actually fun with the new business. And, and Tanny's question, she lights up -- the person behind the camera is never asked that. Wendy lets out a little chuckle. "Only if you're able to get my good side. Think you can manage that?"
She calls him rabbit. There's no hint of mockery there and comes out weightless and smooth as if she were simply calling him by name but his name would have been far more preferential.
His mouth twitches and presses into a fine line. It had been years since someone called him rabbit. It's been so long that he's forgotten the anticipation of the taunt. Not to mention the lasting effects. Habit born from youth and become near instinctual lures his mouth to shut too quickly when he speaks, often clipping his words, making him sound indignant where it wasn’t intended. Muscle memory tugs his mouth to a slant when he smiles, anything, just to cover up his teeth as much as possible. He still shields his laugh.
The kids he grew up around in the city were harsh critics who did not care to filter their mockery with country politeness.
Hearing it stings. Singing an old wound.
He sniffs, shoulders squaring as he turns a cold eye to her, glancing up and then down before addressing her with an entirely unaffected tilt of his head, “And who're you?”
Hiro knows exactly who she is.
A cold eyes doesn't hide the truth that lies beneath.
Well, maybe that's a touch too poetic for the pair and their decade long beef that started the moment he waltzed through her mother's shop. Buck teeth and a bowl cut, trying to scam the shop out of something sweet, and all her momma did was coo at just how cute he is. Which, of course she did. Misty Apple is good natured soul who gets dressed in the morning by small birds and chittering mice, of course she'd try to take in a small rabbit that annoyed her to no end. Is it childish to fight with a ten year old at the big age of fourteen? Absolutely, but the summers were the only time she saw her mother. On top of dealing with the many hurricanes of chaos her mother left in her wake, she had to deal with some little twerp trying to weasel his way through the Happy Apple's doors every damn day?
She's going off tangent. What she means to say is that he might be trying to play it cool, pretend he has no clue who exactly she is, but she knows he's just fucking with her. An attempt to get under her skin. And, honestly? It's working a little.
How. Fucking. Annoying.
She meets his gaze, her head tilting just a touch to the side, trying to hide the fact that steam's about to blow out her ears. "You really don't know who I am?" She asks, the same, all-too-cool tone that weaved through his voice coloring her own. "I don't believe you."
Wendy’s staring at her like she just grew an extra nose, and for a second she’s expecting the other to excuse herself away without a second thought. But instead of that well-worn sting of rejection, she’s perking up at Wendy’s unanticipated offer, a hearty dose of excitement rearing up within her as she clasps her hands together. “Really? Wow, thanks!” She’s mystified, truly, and it shows in the way she doesn’t even know what to say.
It’s hard to live that princess fantasy when she can’t even keep a crown longer than half an hour, but for Wendy it seems effortless, even with a newfound lemonade stain on her sleeve. With her help, Lydia should have no trouble finding the perfect one, right? Wendy’s the kind of girl who’s good at everything she’s not, which probably includes finding some flowers suitable enough to stay on her frizzy head. “I think this festival’s one of my very favorites, but I can never seem to end the day with the same crown I started with…” Might have something to do with the sheer amount of frizz, but she digresses. “Y’think you can help me pick one out for my Papaw, too?” She tacks on, immediately cracking herself up.
God, it's kind of sad to see just how...excited Lydia is at the prospect of Wendy helping her out. She's practically shaking like a puppy without any control of its bladder, about to go hog wild seeing its owner for the fourth time in its short life. Wendy's half concerned she'll need to put down newspaper around the girl, lest she makes a matching stain on the hem of her dress. Which is the last thing she needs. "Don't mention it."
There's regret sitting heavy in her heart already at exactly what she's agreed to, but it's too late to back out now. Well...it isn't, but despite the smell of Swan Lake wafting off the girl in thick, green lines, Wendy is a woman of her word. She agreed to this, so she must follow through. She motions for Lydia to follow as she's still talking, her eyes on the prize at hand -- her favorite flower crown stand. Almost as beloved as her lemonade man. "I usually end up with a different one at the end of the day, too," she replies with, weaving through the crowd. Granted, hers is because she buys herself a new one, not because she loses them. How does Lydia lose so many? One would think with that amount of frizz, everything from twigs to loose coins would get tangled in. Wendy pauses for a moment at Lydia's attempt at a joke, her brow arching up. "Is he a marigold kinda guy, or is he a more delicate flower type?"
The whistle does indeed catch the attention of one Hiro Uehara, not because he’s anticipating being whistled at, but simply because it’s a sharp piercing sound that happens to draw the gaze of a many other people in the general vicinity. Heads whip to the side either quickly or languidly. Hiro’s head is one of the languid ones. Passive unfeeling eyes glance by swiftly, disinterested until recognition brightens his vision. The rest of the heads look away once they realize the whistle was not for them and Hiro passes through the crowd to join Frankie at the game stall.
“What’s that?” He asks, easily and casually slinging an arm around Frankie’s slimmer shoulders while the other hovers a finger near the curve of a freckled cheek. “Bees?” Personal space isn't something Hiro cares much for, not when it's in regards to people he considers close friends.
Personal space isn't something Frankie cares much about, especially with his friends. His own arm wraps around his friend's waist, glancing to Hiro with his usual, happy smile. "Bees," he echoes with a scrunch of his nose. "They always remind of the spring, so it felt fitting." Which, for the record, is true; he always knows when spring time has finally arrived not at the absent shadow of a gopher or the melting of snow, but when the bees at Healing Hive remove from their winter clusters and get back to buzzing along the apiary.
But, right; the task at hand. His free hand lifts up and points at the mermaid (kind of). "Look at her, Hiro." His eyes fill with a sense of wonder and joy the longer he stares into the stuffed animal's button eyes, slick black. It's almost revolting in certain lights. "She's beautiful." Frankie sighs, wistful, his gaze drifting back to Hiro. "But, I'm really bad at knocking over some bottles. Can you help? I'll buy you one of those lemonades after."
Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh—
Her brain floods with the image of the Sutton kitchen: all three of them huddled on the tile floor, Kenny’s fingers absently winding through her curls while Laurie eased the floral mug to her lips, coaxing a sip of tea so it might settle the ache blooming behind her ribs. She can hear Kenny say his name—Frankie—in that knowing, sigh and Josie, ever the fool, surrendering another piece of herself to a boy she knew wasn’t about to offer anything in return.
Had it really been that long since she saw him?
Her eyes flick up, just in time to catch the way he’s looking at her—really looking. At the hennin, the tulle, the dizzy shimmer of her dress. She stares at his face, lit with surprise, delight spreading across his features like sunshine and soda pop and the inside cover of a journal where someone’s written his name over and over and over again.
Man. Oh, man. She spent all of the Bleeding Hearts Festival waiting for him to ask her to dance. She spent all of the Bleeding Hearts Festival waiting for him to give her a dance! She spent all of the Bleeding Hearts Festival waiting for him to give her a dance! She spent all of the Bleeding Hearts Festival—
“Let’s dance!”
The words leap out before she can trap them behind her teeth, her eyes flying wide with shock at her own voice. Her freckles disappear under the tidal wave of pink that floods her cheeks, and something deep in her bones—some ancestral rabbit instinct—screams run before she makes a fool of herself all over again. But his hands are still warm on her arms, and she needs to hear it. Needs him to say no. Say no, please.
So she can finally take a pair of scissors to the thread that keeps tugging her back to him.
“Let’s… let’s dance, Finn.”
Look, Frankie meant to get a dance with Josie at the Bleeding Hearts Festival. Honest! Time was sand slipping through his fingers that night, and the last grains fell away before he even realized it. It's not an excuse to his broken promise, however, and he's been feeling the weight of grief on his shoulders since. It's something he's been meaning to apologize for, give her a jar of loquat jam that is currently sitting in his fridge, yellow bow tacked to the top.
Her words fizzle and pop, a soda can cracking on an approaching Summer's day. If he's confused about her words, Frankie doesn't show it. In fact, his smile only grows larger, ear to ear. His hands give her arms a delicate squeeze before they drop -- only to promptly move up to fix his hair. What? Royalty just asked him to dance. He can't be seen looking anything less than well-groomed on the cobblestone floor with her.
Then, that hand extends back out, before taking her hand into his. Josie's less sticky than usual. Is it weird to say he kind of misses the feeling? "You beat me to the punch, Princess," Frankie replies with a chuckle, glancing over to the dance floor. Glittering figures twirl away in flurry of flowers of colors, and he can only hope he can keep up. "You ready, Jojo?"
Sage’s eyes crinkled softly at the corners as Frankie dipped his head. There was a brightness to him today, a certain golden flicker that danced at the edge of his energy: sugar-fueled, yes, but warm and unguarded in a way that made her heart soften just a little more. The kind of joy that felt like morning light through a curtain, or the thrum of bees waking up in the garden. She stepped closer, crown of marigolds and dandelion fluff in her hands. “Of course it’s for you,” she said gently, voice low but lilting, like a hymn you half-remember. “You shine in orange.”
There was a small pause, not of hesitation but reverence, as she looked up at him. Her fingers held the crown delicately, its petals a patchwork of color and intention. Then: “Can I give you a blessing first?” she asked, quiet but not unsure. Her tone invited rather than pressed. “It’s tradition, but only if your heart’s open to it.”
The space between them felt sacred, for a moment. Laughter and music swirled around them in a blur of color and motion, but Sage’s gaze remained steady on Frankie: curious, present, wholly tender. She could smell the sugar on his breath, see the faint glisten of sweat on his brow from the heat, the bees on his cheeks smiling back at her. Her voice dropped to a near whisper, as if afraid to break the spell. “I’ll keep it simple. Just a few words. Something to tuck in your pocket for later.” She waited, calm and patient, fingers curled gently around the crown like she was holding something more fragile than it looked. A hope. A prayer. Something blooming.
There's something just a touch unknowable about Sage. Not there's anything wrong with that, and of course Frankie doesn't think it in a negative water. She's light reflecting off rippling water, wind whistling through tree branches -- untouchable might be a more apt word for the girl, but unknowable simply feels...right. He'll never fully get Sage and the quiet mysticism that surrounds, but it's different than the way Laney Birchwood's haunted gaze tightens his chest. With his friend, it's far less foreboding.
Frankie pauses for a moment at her question, not out of hesitance, but curiosity, a little glint in his eye. The bustling crowd feels just a touch less so, the scent of flowers filling his senses; whether its the crown in her hands or simply just what permeates on her skin, it's all he can focus on. And, he grins. "My heart's wide open," He says, a soft chuckle punctuating his words. "Bless away, Sage." With his head bowed towards her, he slowly shuts his eyes, akin to a child waiting for something magical to happen. Because, isn't that the case here?
location: Town Square (Rain of Petals Parade) status: closed, for Greg (@duck-duck-chicken)
Now, how did this damn duck get here?
Okay, duckling, but the sentiment remains the same, his-- hers? Missy doesn't know their life story, but there's a masculine energy emanating from him, so she'll go from there -- little body waddling through the cobblestone walkways. He pauses at her boot, pecking its beak against the dark leather. A furrow of her brow, and she bends down, head tilting to the side to take him in. It's a feat of bravery, she'll give him that. The amount of people he had to narrowly dodge is impressive -- how has he not gotten squashed or, more likely, taken by Miss Josephine Sutton and hidden underneath the Healing Hive Stall? A question for another day, and maybe a future present for the girl.
The walk from Swan Lake is certainly too long for this little duckling to make, so it's a fair assumption, in Missy's eyes, where exactly he came from. With a hum, she scoops the little guy up, his fuzzy body soft against the skin of her palms, and she's off. A side quest, but not necessarily an unwanted one.
And, she's off, her skirt swishing around her ankles as she's on the hunt for Big Peach himself, little apologies spilling from her lips when she almost shoulder checks people. Sorry, she has precious cargo in her hands, the yellow fella whistling in her hands. At least Greg's not a hard man to miss, about a head and shoulders taller than your average bear, and Missy makes her way over to him, seemingly no Quentin attached to his hip.
"Finch - is this fella yours?" She asks, her neck craning up, up, up to look at Greg, her palms unfurling to reveal the yellow, fuzzied head. "Saw him on a death run in the center of Town Square. Figured he waddled off your farm, or somethin'."
location: town square (rain of petals parade) status: closed for @ofmourningdoves
Her whole year had been leading up to this. Every spare evening hunched over the dress that now swishes deliciously around her legs, the same one she’d threatened to set on fire more than once when a stitch wouldn’t land right. Fingers pricked raw, whispered curses floating through the Sutton house, ghostly bumps in the night. All of it pointed here. To a rosy-cheeked princess stepping into a town that, honest to God, had never looked this beautiful. The air hums with the kiss of summer heat, the pull of sugar, the bright perfume of flowers and sunscreen and for once, Josie doesn’t feel too much for a town in the midst of blooming.
Barefoot—she learned that lesson the hard way, goodbye forever to those sad little slippers—Josie gathers her shimmery skirts in both hands and twirls herself straight into the middle of the cobblestone path. The Rain of Petals waltz drifts through the square in easy, lilting waves, and she follows it without thinking, petals catching in her hair, her cheeks pink and warm.
She spins again, a little too fast this time.
BAM.
“Shoot—!”
She lurches back with a yelp, skirts flying up around her shins as she scrambles for balance, arms flailing until—thank God—her hands land on someone. Warm. Solid. Definitely a person.
“I am so sorry—I didn’t see you—I swear I was just—there was music and—”
She stops. Looks up. And stares.
“…Finn.”
Of course. Of course it’s Frankie, standing there with his little bee face paint and his very real, very holdable arms. God help her. The universe has a twisted little sense of humor and apparently, she hasn’t maxed out her quota of embarrassing moments in front of him yet. And in her stupid hennin.
Frankie wishes he dressed up more. Curse him and his boring wardrobe that consists exclusively of button ups, long sleeves for the cooler weather and shorter when the sun breaks through the cloud. The little yellow number he's currently sporting isn't the most festive, so he's hoping that the bee's buzzing along his cheeks are doing the Lord's work in making him looking Rain of Petals.
Not that he's trying to impress anyone. Besides, he had told Big Brother he was going to help out at their stall soon so him and Logan Berry can roam around, which he should get to. There's a radish he had discreetly hid with his name on it, beckoning him to eat it like a strawberry like how he saw that Herring Girl do. Gosh, she's so cool.
But, right. The stall. He's about to turn on his heel when something -- no, someone -- extravagant and shimmering nearly falling into him, his hands quick to grab on arms to steady themselves. Easy does it. He blinks, about to open his mouth to apologize, when he hears Josie's voice.
Wow, he hardly recognized her. His eyes widen, a wide smile breaking across his features.
"Jojo!" Frankie exclaims, blue eyes shifting up at her hennin. "Oh, my gosh -- you look so great! Regal, I mean." He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in his mirth. "Is the princess alright?"
