@theartofmadeline
The Bowery Presents
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
ojovivo
Noah Kahan
occasionally subtle
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Misplaced Lens Cap
roma★
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Sade Olutola
The Stonewall Inn
Xuebing Du
sheepfilms
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KIROKAZE
Origami Around
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
seen from Japan
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@pastghcsts
✦ ・ PASTGHCSTS.
private multimuse roleplay blog for 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪 𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗞. penned by 𝗖𝗘𝗘𝗖𝗘𝗘.
LIAM BAKER. 36. veterinarian. [ glen powell ] interactions / musings / visage
ELIANA "ELLIE" AYALA. 34. high school art teacher. [ melissa barrera ] interactions / musings / visage
EVERETT GRAY. 40. canceled retired tv ghost hunter. [ chris evans ] interactions / musings / visage
DAMIAN ESCOBEDO. 29. chicago cubs shortstop. [ taylor zakhar perez ] interactions / musings / visage
MO: Just imagine what I would've done if I was a Whiskerinos Winner. MO: Think I know what I'm doing. But thanks for the warning.
ELIANA: I cannot imagine ELIANA: I mean that literally. Mostly because IDK what a step above "writing in the steam" is? What do you MEAN? ELIANA: Would you have hired a skywriter every morning
HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER —1x05, Okay Awesome
@pcstlives | mo & ellie
✦ ・ EXT. LAPINOU — EVENING. ( closed starter for @matthew-petracca )
Ah, Christ. He’s definitely underdressed. He should’ve Googled the place before showing up all willy-nilly — but Liam hadn’t had the chance. Between the clinic and the animal hospital, he feels like he’s lucky he’s even running on fumes right now. He’s lucky he’s remembered to buy a flight to Texas, for his brother’s birthday. Though that was also a close call.
He stands outside the restaurant, watches as much sharper-dressed people than him walk in and out, clearly in their element. And he — is not. He scratches at his stubble uncomfortably, glancing down at his jeans and worn coat; he should probably cancel. Or pretend he’s going to be late. Or something. It’s a group dinner with the non-profit board and some of the other on-call vets; gonna be a lot of business, which is something Liam’s not in the headspace for, anyway. It takes him a couple of seconds to decide, but when he finally does, he turns abruptly on his heel to walk back to his car—
—only to bump into someone who’d just been walking behind him.
“Ah, crap,” he holds out his hands to steady the man he’d just accidentally assaulted, grimacing in sympathy. “I’m sorry, pal. Shouldn’t be charging like a bull,” he huffs. “Football playin’ habits die hard.” He offers him a sheepish grin, taking his hands back and stepping back to give him room. “You okay?”
"I mean, you might have a point there." Elliot signed back with an amused expression on his face. It would do them no good if he was the one injured. "I was going to suggest pretending I had the head of a dog but I guess a monkey would in fact be the better option." He teased, though had enough confidence in the both of them that they wouldn't end up injured. Besides, he was pretty sure they had went for runs in worse weather than this. If anything, this was probably mild to most they had ran through.
Watching Liam's hands, Elliot gave a roll of his eyes and huff in response, no matter how right Liam might be. And Elliot knew better than to run without stretching first. Had made that mistake in his first marathon ever, something he surely didn't want to repeat. Falling right into step with Liam as the two of them headed over to the bench, propping one of his legs up on it, stretching out his muscles that very much needed it. Making sure to keep his eyes on Liam the entire time though in case his friend signed anything to him. And the moment he did, Elliot couldn't help but let out a laugh. "Minus the fact she' has decided to party from two in the morning until four?" Raising his eyebrows as he paused for a moment, switching over to his other leg. "And not wanting a bottle or needing a diaper change- literally wanting to just hangout. But besides that, perfect as always." Shaking his head with amusement, taking a moment longer to keep stretching his left leg, already feeling too many knots and tension there. Finally satisfied a second later. "Better?" He signed, a shit eating grin on his face as he looked over at Liam.
It takes a second for Liam to keep up with Elliot’s signs — he catches most of them, or the gist of them, anyway. He’s much better at reading them than he is signing them, he thinks. Feels like his hands might be a little too large or stiff or something — good for being a vet. Maybe not so great for sign language, though. He laughs at Elliot’s tale about Sawyer; he thinks there’s nothing he’d love more than to be woken up in the middle of the night to hang out with his kid, if he had one. Thinks it’s the same for Elliot, no matter how many times he pretends it’s not. “None of what you just told me disproves what I assumed,” he tells his friend, signing clumsily along. “Perfect. You’re tellin’ me your little girl wants to just hang out with you in the middle of the night?” He grins broadly. “You’ll be missin’ those days when she’s twelve and embarrassed by you.”
When they finish stretching, Liam snorts and signs back, “Better.” He takes another look at the path ahead of them and hums thoughtfully, hands momentarily on his waist, then looks back over at Elliot and says while signing, as best as he can, “What do you think about taking a detour this time?” He nods down the path. “If we take the right path we’ll head straight for Starlight. My receptionist’s been buggin’ me about getting a new couch for the break room.”
[ OUTGOING SMS 📲 MO ⚾️ ]
ELIANA: [ Attachment: 1 Image ] ELIANA: Ok shut up this is cute ELIANA: Top tier Whiskerinos runner-up behavior ELIANA: Though I do hope you know you've now set a very dangerous precedent ❤️ @mosespersaud
"oops ," cherry giggled manically. "my b." she wasn't at all sorry , more amused at the mistake they'd made. her drink sloshed once more , dripping over her hand and onto the floor. "but you partake in the sacred arts of toys , then ? you look like a freaky one." cherry squinted in the dim light and leaned in close. "you can't lie to me. i know these things." they might not remember what their customers looked like , but cherry felt like she'd worked long enough at the pleasure nook to sense the vibes of people around them. "no , no , i do it old school ," cherry mumbled loudly. "you can fi — i'm over at wicker park selling sex toys to soccer mums and bachelorette parties." phrasing it like that probably made it sound really sad , but cherry was past caring. her eyebrows waggled dramatically. "why ? you think i'd look good in your doorway ?"
Eliana can’t help the way she barks a surprised laugh at Cherry’s forthrightness — a freaky one. She wishes. In between the time she spends trying to exact revenge on the people who fucked her over and being a teacher, she barely has time to do more than get straight to the point when she allots herself some alone time. And it’s always tricky, trying to get to it — she has to make sure Moses isn’t home, because she can’t do it when he is home, and they find themselves home together more often than not, so—“I don’t have the time to be freaky,” she laughs. “But I don’t hate that I give off that vibe.”
Her eyebrows rise as Cherry explains where they work — that makes more sense than a door-to-door sex toy salesperson, honestly, though perhaps not as exciting. “Cool,” she grins. “Kind of wild that you’re practically, like,” she gestures aimlessly, trying to find the right words. “You know, privy to the kind of intimate information about people they probably try to hide.” She raises an eyebrow. “Bet you could blackmail so many soccer moms.” Not that she approves of blackmail, considering what’s been done to her, but, well — they’re soccer moms. At least they aren’t death threats.
She huffs at Cherry’s comment. “I think you’d look good anywhere,” she admits with a smirk, leaning forward slightly. “But you’d probably give my roommate an aneurysm, if you showed up with like, a barrage of sex toys.” The thought of Moses’s face at the thought further serves to fuel her amusement, coercing a snort from her. “And I kinda like him alive, y’know.”
It’s cold, but it’s not enough to detour Mimi from running a ‘sweet treat’ errand, deciding to grab a couple of scoops to celebrate surviving yet another long week at work. She loves the spa — she does — but the post-Valentine workload is a lot to digest, and she feels like she needs to book an appointment and be the one laying on the massage table soon. But for now, ice cream is a pretty good substitute.
When she enters, the man who’s last in line whips round, meeting her eyes briefly before turning away as quickly. It takes Mimi a moment to recognise him as Everett — one of her regulars — and pauses on whether or not she should say ‘hi’ to him. He clearly is trying to make it seem like he didn’t see her, and it’s not like she’s in the most social mood anyway; onned in raggy yoga pants and an old hoodie that belonged to a college fling that mysteriously stayed in her possession, not exactly making the effort she would if she was going to see people. It’s very clear he just wants to get ice cream for his — daughter? Niece? Extremely young sister? — and to be on their way, so she respects his wishes and leaves it. For now.
Truthfully, it’s also probably because Mimi is slightly nervous around Everett. He had come storming into the spa one day like someone was holding him at gunpoint to do so, and everyone else weirdly backed out and claimed other priorities, leaving Mimi — the newest staff member at Driftwood at the time — to see to him. He had a glower on his face, so intense she couldn’t flash her usual bright smile for customers, instead just kept hers perfectly neutral as she quietly led him into the treatment room. And then, her throat closed up when he undressed for his massage. Everett Gray might have been a miserable bastard, but he clearly looked after himself. Granted, Mimi had plenty of fit, attractive clients walk in before (and since!) but that combined with his prickly personality had her terrified. She remembered that she spent the entire session with shaky hands and unable to say anything the whole time, sprinting away the minute she could do so, and panicking that the spa would get a bad review because she was uncharacteristically unprofessional that day.
What did surprise her, however, was when he returned — still looking like he’d rather not be there at all — and asked for her specifically.
They’ve reached some sort of unspoken understanding, or so Mimi likes to think. He comes in, they don’t speak unless it’s her brandishing him for the knots in his shoulders that she just kneaded out last time, then he pays and leaves. They’re not friends, they don’t even have that type of client-worker relationship with some friendly banter, so she really has no reason to acknowledge him here in Sweet Peaks. But she stares at the back of his head, eyes falling to how he’s standing and holding his shoulders, and sighs. Against her better judgment, gently taps on such a shoulder for his attention, smiling rather sardonically as she does so. There’s something about not being in the treatment room, with the dulcet tones of the white noise and singing bowls, and the smell of essential oils in the air. Something that, ironically, makes Mimi feel more calm in his presence.
“Y’know, you can spend less time getting massages at the spa if you watch your posture, let go of the tension of the shoulders. It really helps me out, if I’m not spending a chunk of the hour kneading out those damn knots.” She hopes she sounds like she’s joking, even if she isn’t, because it’s sound advice. Even unsolicited, and definitely ensuring that not only is she going to lose a regular, she’s probably going to get chewed out in the middle of an ice cream shop. But it’s the spa therapist in her, she just can’t help it. Not even to miserable bastards who keep her hackles raised.
He supposes it was too much to ask, Mimi not acknowledging him. Too close proximity. Too bright a venue. It’s probably encouraging of shit like that, if one’s susceptible to color theory.
Everett glances back over his shoulder, then realizes that doesn’t do him much good — at Mimi’s height, he has to at the very least turn his body a couple of degrees in order to get a good look at her. Once he does this, however, he makes sure his expression is just as unamused as he feels after hearing her unsolicited advice. He knows she’s probably joking — though why anyone would feel comfortable joking around Everett when he’s made it his life mission to be as off-putting as possible is beyond him — but he still feels like he has an obligation to make sure she knows he didn’t find it funny.
“I don’t go to the spa because of my posture,” he points out monotonously. That much, at least, is true. “I don’t feel the need to fix it.” He doesn’t think he needs to explain to Mimi that he’s forced to go to the spa at least once a month by an overbearing sister who holds contact with his niece over his head if he even tries to refuse. That feels like the kind of thing you tell someone you know, and not someone that once in a while puts their hands on your bare back to relieve the tension, or the knots, or whatever the fuck she calls them every time he goes back in. It’s not his fault he’s made up of eighty-percent stress on a good day.
Though she probably makes a good point, he also doesn’t feel the need to point out that the tension in his shoulders happens naturally every time he steps outside of his house. Not like he can fix it, unless he wants to take his ex-best friend’s advice and go to therapy about it. At least he and Evangeline agree that therapy is something they’d rather not touch with a ten foot pole — better to keep the childhood trauma buried and repressed like the responsible adults they are.
Speaking of therapy—“Isn’t there some unspoken agreement about acknowledging your clients outside of the massage room?” he asks, raising an incredulous eyebrow at her. He knows that’s true of therapists. Maybe he’ll convince her to implement it for spa therapists, as well. “Considering our state of undress when we’re in there.”
Santiago didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the water run, watching the way it spiraled down the drain, the way the light caught on the droplets clinging to the porcelain before they slipped away. It gave him a moment to think. Or maybe just a moment to simmer.
Homophobic. Christ. The accusation seemed to shoot out of Everett’s mouth so easily, so casually, like he hadn’t just said something downright ludicrous. If he knew the company Santi kept, the lips he’d tasted, the hands he’d let map the expanse of his body with heat and hunger, he’d choke on his own assumption. It almost made him want to laugh, too, sharp and incredulous, but he swallowed it down, let it settle into something quieter, something dry and unimpressed.
“Interesting theory, real compelling stuff. But can you explain to me, Everett - " He let the name settle on his tongue, roll off it smooth, deliberate, just to see how it felt. “- how it makes sense when I don’t even know which way you swing? Shit, you think I got a third-eye or something?"
Santiago turned to face Everett, inky hues flicking over him, assessing, considering, before he finally tipped his head. “I think your theory’s a bust. But I’ve got one of my own.” There was a pause - just long enough to feel intentional, just long enough to let Everett (hopefully) wonder. “I think this is you telling me you’re down to fuck. I’m flattered, really.” A beat, a flicker of consideration, before he tacked on, “But you’re not my type. Too confrontational.” Santi mused as if he were appraising a less-than-stellar investment. “I ain’t qualified to handle ticking timebombs.”
Everett feels his expression clear as the other man speaks — right. Any sort of intrigue he might have had, even momentarily, suddenly dissipates; turns out there isn’t anything more to this man. No, he’s as surface-level as Everett had clocked him as in the beginning. Just an asshole. Somehow managed to turn this entire thing on him, like he’s the one that’d barged into the kitchen after him, like he’s the one that asked for his name, admitted to thinking about him.
And all of that for — what? An opportunity to reject him, the same way Everett had rejected him at the Snow Frolic? To gain some sort of sick satisfaction from it — get back at him the way an elementary school kid would? You don’t like me? I don’t like you more.
Christ. He’s almost embarrassed he fell for the chase, even for a second. Almost. Mostly, he’s disappointed — in himself, for not being more attuned to his gut. Sometimes assholes are just assholes are just — assholes. He offers the guy a nod, terse and almost mocking, as he pushes himself off the sink. “Got it,” he says. “You were angry that I said I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth, so all of this”—he gestures aimlessly around them, as if to indicate whatever situation they’ve found themselves in—“was just a ploy to fix your ego.”
He rakes his gaze slowly over the other man, as if contemplating his very existence, before snapping it back to the stranger’s. He feels his expression harden — no longer hinting at interest, or intrigue, or teasing. It’s devoid of any emotion — even callousness. It simply is. Because suddenly he’s faced with yet one more person who’s decided Everett can only be one thing, and despite the familiarity of said territory, there’s a part of him that almost feels let down by the turn of events. He’s almost surprised, to learn that at least a very small part of him had wondered if maybe the man had seen something in him worth chasing.
Less surprised to find that’s not the case.
“Well, if that’s all,” he begins walking toward the bathroom’s exit, pausing at the door for a second before glancing back at the other. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Just wanna make sure you’re off the list for any of my future galas. That way we make sure we don’t run into each other again,” he offers the man a mirthless smile. “Wouldn’t want you near any ticking time bombs.”
✦ ・ INT. LEVEL UP — LATE AFTERNOON. ( closed starter for @augustserotonin )
Damian’s not sure how or why Lena hasn’t dropped him. Were it anyone else, he thinks, surely someone who was once his girlfriend-slash-beard and turned into his closest, bestest friend would be angry enough at him for pointedly ignoring any sage advice they might have had about the man who started love-bombing him from the get-go to start dating him, anyway.
Surely anyone else would have been angry enough at him for allowing himself to end up in a relationship so reminiscent of the prison he’d been a part of in his childhood after refusing to see the signs. Surely anyone else in her position would have dropped Damian, the idiot so desperate to be loved that he’d somehow convinced himself whatever Jason Plymouth was doing to him was love. All out of love. Or whatever crumbs of it he deserved.
Lena hasn’t dropped him, though. She’d been there, after Jason. She’d been there, meticulously picking up the pieces that were left of him, stacking them one by one until they resembled some version of him before that relationship. She hadn’t even been angry, though Damian thinks she had every right to be — hadn’t shoved how right she’d been in his face, hasn’t uttered a single deserved I told you so to date. All she’s done is seen Damian through his recovery — six months newly sober, and he feels like he’s taken a single step in the right direction, despite having a couple hundred thousand more to go.
There are parts of him that wonder about Jason — he’s blocked his number recently, but Damian’s heard through the grapevine that he’s been telling people Damian broke his heart, that Damian won’t talk to him, that he misses him, wants him back, promises to be better. These are the parts of him that are the weakest — the ones that shove the good memories to the forefront, paint his lenses pink and rosy and show him a supercut of Jason buying him flowers, kissing him softly, holding his hand through his tears. Never mind the story behind each of these moments almost always involved Jason apologizing for another outburst, another incident, another rage-fueled tirade.
These are the parts of him that are easier to ignore, when Lena’s around. Her presence, real, steady, genuine, reminds him of what love actually looks like. Not perfect, not by a longshot, but unconditional, no restraints, no punishments. Even through their core differences, Damian and Lena have found in each other what he’s sure most people search for for ages — and maybe some part of him had been so desperate to replicate that love into something romantic he clung to the first man who’d offered him anything remotely similar. Who made him feel — even in small increments — like he was worth something.
The arcade buzzes around him, a cacophony of beeping machines, laughter, and the occasional dramatic squeal of a winning child. Damian picks at the slice of pizza in front of him, the cheese congealing under the fluorescent lights. He hasn’t been here in years, even before Jason, and the nostalgia hits him like a punch to the gut. He remembers coming here as a kid, scraping together enough change for a game or two, and later, as a teenager, sneaking in with Sofia and Pilar after school. It feels like a lifetime ago — like he’s watching someone else’s memories through a foggy window.
He glances up and meets Lena’s gaze, offering her a sheepish smile. “I don’t know why I suggested this place,” he admits to her, because he doesn’t. They could have just as easily ordered a pizza at his place, watched a movie, spared their ears from this racket. But he’d been walking by the place, and it’d hit him out of nowhere how long it’s been since he’d stepped inside, and before he knew it he was calling Lena and asking her to join him for lunch. At an arcade. He tilts his head and feels his smile turn into something more like a smirk as he eyes Lena’s expression carefully. “Are you secretly trying to explode my head with your brain?” he asks her. “You’re secretly trying to explode my head with your brain, aren’t you?”
✦ ・ INT. EXTRA MILE — AFTERNOON. ( closed starter for @alecflynn )
Auto shops are weird, for Damian. They’re somehow both an exhilarating environment for him and a triggering one — the sounds remind him of his dad’s shop, which in turn reminds him of his dad. The shop wasn’t the issue — his dad would never falter, at the shop. Damian would watch him get lost in an engine, in a mechanical puzzle, catch a glimpse of the father he knew before his mother’s passing. He learned a lot there — more from the guys working for his dad than his dad himself, but that doesn’t negate that it’s the only thing to date he and his father have ever had in common.
He loves cars. He loves tinkering with the engines and he loves the click of a problem solved — the way a stubborn bolt finally twists free, the purr of an engine roaring back to life after hours of meticulous work. For Damian, cars are puzzles with purpose, a language of logic in a world that’s rarely made sense to him. Beneath the hood, there’s no ambiguity, no ghosts of his father’s rage or his own self-doubt. There’s only cause and effect: fix this, and it runs.
Cars, to Damian, are both a rebellion and a reconciliation. A way to reclaim the skill his father taught him without the sting of his name. He’ll never admit it, but there’s pride in how teammates bring their cars to him instead of a dealership. And when he’s elbow-deep in an engine, the world narrows to the hum of possibility — a rare, quiet space where he’s not a brother, a survivor, an alcoholic, or a shortstop. Just a man who knows how to make broken things run again.
(To date, he is, perhaps, the one broken thing he’s been unable to get running again.)
The owner here lets him come in and help out once in a while — he’s a Cubs fan, and he’s happy to have Damian around tinkering on some of the old cars he keeps in the garage. Says he does good work, and is even happier that Damian never asks for a cent — he’s got enough of those from his baseball contract, after all, and the guy’s doing Damian a favor more than it’s the other way around, whether or not he realizes it. Sure, the guy gets bragging rights — an unbelievable story, like, The Southside Ghost comes into my shop sometimes to work — but Damian gets a moment’s peace, gets to just be some guy working in an auto shop for a couple of hours, and that? That’s far more priceless than anything else on offer.
It’s maybe why seeing him — Alec — show up sends the shockwave through his system that it does. Like he’s walked in and dismantled this small fantasy world Damian’s meticulously built for himself and he’s suddenly crushed under the weight of everything that’s wrong with him, of everything he’s done wrong. Alec was — is — was someone who’d cared enough to notice there was something wrong with Damian, when Jason sucked him into his orbit. Had shown up and demanded answers Damian had been unprepared to give him. Maybe too scared to give him. He’d avoided Alec like the plague, after that — worried that he’d see the truth, find out and hate him for it. He’d never considered himself weak before — or maybe not as often as he has since Jason, and it kind of drives him a little insane that Alec might see him and think that about him, too.
Plus, Jason didn’t like the way Damian would ‘look at Alec sometimes’. He’s still not sure what he’d meant by that — thinks Jason just made up issues to stay mad at him — but it certainly didn’t help matters.
He thinks about dropping to the floor like he’s been set on fire and rolling under the car he’s currently tinkering on, but it’s too late — he meets Alec’s gaze across the way and feels himself freeze where he stands, hand tightening around the wrench that’s stopped doing anything since Alec walked in. Damian’s grease-stained and sweaty, some of his curls stuck tightly to his forehead through sweat, and he can’t imagine he looks anything but dumbstruck. He’s been meaning to get to Alec — make amends, as it were, like he’s been taught to, like he’s done before. Talk to him about the year-long period he’d been someone else, stuck in a never-ending loop of fear and self-hatred.
He hasn’t been able to talk himself into it yet. Thinks it’s a little unfair that he has no time to talk himself into it now. Though maybe Alec’s angry enough with him that he’ll avoid Damian — maybe he’ll turn around and leave the second Damian acknowledges him. And so, he decides to test out this theory — by stupidly raising his left, wrench-free hand and waving lamely at his friend, as if this were a casual run-in and not the first time they’ve seen each other post-Jason fucking Plymouth.
✦ ・ EXT. WILLOW WELLNESS CENTER — EARLY EVENING. ( closed starter for @li0nh3arted )
Starting over is — weird. Damian feels like he’s won a participation trophy every time he shows up and gets praised for it. He’s here almost as much as he’s at practice — you’d think they’d start looking a little less pleasantly surprised every time they see him walk through the door. And, yes, he knows that’s a little unfair — he gets it, he’s someone who’d been seven, eight years sober for as long as they’d known him and suddenly he wasn’t and it was probably gossip-of-the-day for many, many days, but he got his six-month chip today. His second six-month chip, that is. He thinks he should get a little normalcy for that, as a reward.
The meeting’s been over for about an hour now, but he’d been cornered outside by Bertha, who’s been talking his ear off about the perils of meditation and why she stopped doing it (according to her, it left her open to body snatching and/or swapping, which Damian supposes is a valid concern, if he’s to follow Bertha’s logic) so he hasn’t had a chance to dip and go home quite yet. It’s partly his own fault — he shouldn’t be asking so many follow-up questions, probably, but he can’t help it, it’s like they pour out of him without his permission, all politeness and no self-preservation. Tell me more about how the soul swapping would work, Bertha. And you said you read this on the ‘no sleep’ subreddit? No, that’s not judgement in my tone, just surprise!
It’s only when he spots Charlie that he thinks of an easy way out — reaches out to squeeze Bertha’s arm apologetically and tells her he’ll catch her next meeting, but he’s just seen an old friend he needs to say hello to urgently. He’s probably here for the meeting after Damian’s — maybe, maybe not. He can’t immediately tell that’s why he’s here, but he can’t imagine he’s at the behavioral wellness center for something else. Then again, what does he know? He’d all but cut him out of his life for a year — and so many things can change in a year.
The familiar churning of guilt plagues at his stomach as he approaches his friend, suddenly regretting his decision. Maybe listening to Bertha for another half hour would’ve been preferable to having to once again smile brightly at Charlie and pretend nothing’s weird and nothing’s changed when they both know two things for sure: things are weird, and things have changed.
Also, it’s Damian’s fault.
He’s skipped over Charlie’s name twice now, in his ‘making amends’ list. He’s not sure how to approach that conversation. Sorry I pushed you away and ignored you for about a year. My boyfriend at the time convinced me you hated me and I was better off without you. Why did I believe him? Oh, I don’t know. I kind of think I haven’t stopped believing him, if I’m being totally honest.
“Charlie,” he calls out instead, finding no other way out now that he’s quite literally gone out of his way to stand in front of him. Plasters that easy smile on his face again, waves at him like it’s one year ago and things are fine. “Hey. You here for a meeting?” He glances behind him toward the entrance — Bertha’s now cornered some other poor soul, somehow, which at the very least bodes well for him. Turning back to face Charlie again, he’s suddenly hyper aware of the six-month chip in between his fingers — squeezes it so tightly he thinks he somehow might bend it, though he knows it’s impossible. Suddenly he’s less proud and more embarrassed about it. “Just got out of one myself,” he pockets the chip quickly, hoping Charlie didn’t catch sight of it. “Bad donuts, though. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
♡ TAYLOR ZAKHAR PEREZ lacoste
✦ ・ STATS.
FULL NAME — Damian Escobedo. NICKNAMES — Dames, D, Escobedo, ‘The Southside Ghost’ (by Cubs fans). FACECLAIM — Taylor Zakhar Perez. GENDER & PRONOUNS — Cis man, he/him/his. SEXUALITY — Homosexual. RELATIONSHIP STATUS — Single. AGE — 29. BIRTHDAY — July 31 ( Leo ) OCCUPATION — Chicago Cubs shortstop. RESIDENCE — Skyline Lofts #1227 (The Loft District).
Naomi watched as Ellie took a sip of what was lukewarm hot chocolate at best, and fought a wince. “That’s absolutely tragic,” she commented, lowering her head in a playful bow. “You’re a stronger woman than I am. I would just call it a wash and toss the thing.” She didn’t think she had it in her to keep chugging the drink down if it was as cold as she assumed it to be. At her friend’s question, Naomi nodded once. “I came with him and Sawyer, but he’s gone home now. Baby girl can’t stay out too long in this weather, plus he’s on call tonight.” She reached out and rubbed her friend’s arm twice. “Je-sus, and I thought I was cold,” Naomi muttered, removing her arm. “I don’t think you were disassociating, El. I think you were just freezing where you stood. Do you wanna go find one of those heat lamps to stand under?”
Ellie can’t even imagine working the way Elliot does and having to take care of a baby. She admires it, of course, and admires how well he does it, but having all of that plus having to take on-call shifts? No, thanks. “He’s like fucking Superman, isn’t he?” she huffs, but she sounds more fond than anything else. “Baby Sawyer’s a lucky girl.” Could’ve been worse, anyway. Could’ve ended up with a deadbeat for a dad. She only half-feels Naomi’s hands rubbing at her arms, which could be because of the thickness of her coat (unlikely, as it’s not so thick to begin with) or because the cold has officially numbed her skin to any feeling.
“Well, if I do freeze, I’d at least get to keep my eternal youth,” she points out with a large grin, which quickly dissipates when the poignant wind hisses once again, hitting her face like a bunch of tiny little wind-swords. “Ah, fuck, alright,” she relents, as if she’s talking to the wind. She wraps an arm around Naomi’s, securing the now-cold hot chocolate in her other hand as she glares up at the night sky. “I’m not made for this weather,” she admits, glancing back down to look at her friend with a sheepish smile. “I was made to frolic under the sun on a beach in my bikini, Naomi,” she tells her seriously. “Not to bundle myself up and march through the snow like I’m one of those mount Everest crazies.”
Amara just wanted to go home. That wasn’t asking for much, was it? After spending the evening juggling conversations with her brothers —one of whom was still fuming over their stepmother’s latest antics— while keeping an eye on business operations at Blue Rhapsody, all she wanted was to curl up on her couch with Cleo. Maybe pour herself a glass of wine, maybe pass out before she could even take a sip. Between the constant calls, the never-ending to-do list, and the fact that she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in —God, how long had it been now?— she was running on fumes. But, apparently, even getting home was too much to ask for, because the damn elevator had stopped. Again.
Her lips pressed into a tight line as she exhaled through her nose, irritation prickling at her already frayed patience. Twice in one week. And yet, management had sworn up and down that the problem had been fixed. Clearly, that had been a lie. She pulled out her phone and, with practiced efficiency, fired off a text to Matthew from building management: Elevator’s stuck again. Second time this week. Fix it —properly—before I start looking into other service contracts. She hit send before glancing over at her unfortunate companion, taking him in for the first time. Tall, sharp-featured, clearly irritated, though whether it was at the situation or at her, the brunette wasn’t sure.
"You might as well sit down," the brunette sighed, leaning back against the mirror with a resigned tilt of her head. "Last time this happened, it took over an hour to get it moving again." She let her eyes drift shut for a moment, the cool glass pressing against the back of her skull offering the barest relief to her headache. With a heavy breath, Amara let silence settle between them, though not comfortably. The elevator wasn’t that small, but it suddenly felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken frustration. Of all the ways her day could’ve ended, this was not the one she’d envisioned. Not only was she stuck, but she was stuck with someone else because apparently, the universe wasn’t done making her life difficult.
Despite his newly-designated companion in this elevator and her words, Everett doesn’t stop slamming the call button until he’s annoyed enough by the lack of response — feels a little irresponsible, for an elevator’s call button not to work. With one last, frustrated grunt, he turns on his heel and meets the woman’s gaze. She looks about as frustrated as Everett feels — might be a good sign. Not because of the circumstances, but because it’s easier to navigate silence when both parties are frustrated. Maybe she won’t feel like conversing.
Still. An hour sounds like his own personal hell. Better to be safe than sorry. With zero thought whatsoever, he points to his ears mutely and then signs, in the ASL Elliot’s helped him perfect these last two years: “Can’t hear you.”
Figures that’ll be enough to keep her off his back. He’ll pay his penance for pretending to be deaf later. Maybe he’ll Zelle Elliot a couple of hundred bucks to offset the shittiness of his decision. Hardly the worst thing he’s ever done to get out of a conversation, anyway — and he’s no doubt looking at shittier things to be done yet. He can’t help himself; if he’s stuck between a rock and a halted elevator, he’s always going to pick sit in silence as his solution. Even if it means lying in the process.
He leans back against the mirror, but doesn’t make to sit down. It’s probably solid advice — but it feels like sitting down is immediately giving up, and he’s not ready to accept his fate just yet. He pulls out his phone and texts Evangeline — Stuck in the elevator. I hate you. — and it takes quite literally ten seconds for her to text him back a simple: LOL.
Always a nurturer, his sister.
He pockets his phone and crosses his arms over his chest, pointedly avoiding the stranger’s gaze. At least there’s no music. He’s sure he’d go insane if there was music.
Right, right, it was, in fact, the middle of the week. "Fuckin' school," he muttered, even though he'd been a proper nerd, back in the day. It was hard not to be enthusiastic about English class when the alternative was his childhood house of horrors. Still, he found himself momentarily irritated with the institution as a whole. "What are they teaching these days, history of dubstep?" Though this was undoubtedly the sort of cultural reference one of his younger employees would call him 'cheugy' for, it accurately reflected the little faith Jae had in Willow Peak's yuppie-dominated school district.
He signed the little drawing your friend Jae, and sealed the bag with one of the custom-ordered Valentine's stickers he had only ordered under extreme duress. He slid them across the counter with no intention to charge, even though Everett could almost certainly afford it. "There," he said decisively. Hopefully, the next time they crossed paths, Lily would give him her honest review on both the art and his selections. "What can I get you? Assuming you have no interest in me reading off our syrupy, pun-forward specials menu."
Everett blinks blankly at Jae’s quip about the dubstep thing. Funny, objectively, but it takes a lot for Everett to crack a smile at anything. “The alphabet,” he replies dryly. “She’s five.” Though he’s sure once she gets older he’ll be muttering complaints about what they’re teaching, and how underfunded public schools are nowadays. He’s been trying to get Evangeline to let him send her to a private school, but she’s refused — says public schools are just as good as private schools, and she’s not raising a snob.
The fuck is all the money he inherited good for, then?
He takes the cookies gingerly from where Jae slides them across the counter — already knowing he’s going to have to drop a big bill inside the tip jar to mitigate the lack of charge. Everett has the money to pay for things — he’s going to pay for things. Especially when they’re for Lily, and especially when they’re purchased from small businesses. “Your blackest coffee,” he replies swiftly, pulling out a twenty from his wallet and dropping it into the tip jar. “And if you’ve still got any croissants left, I’ll take one of those, too.”
