save the beez

kenny sutton / 27 / they

[wldngmn]

God fucking damn it.

Of course Ken walks in and the first thing they make eye contact with is the stupid fucking lighter. Of course. Naturally luck has never been on Hiro's side so why did he expect it to be any different today. The antique store gets a lot of window shoppers, people who are just bored and want to look at old interesting things rather than the same old new things they always look at so they often just casually meander through the aisles looking at everything with their hands behind their back and all Hiro has to do is nod at them when they enter and nod at them when they exit empty handed. It's no skin off his back. This place is basically a museum.

On the occasional rare occasion someone will buy something. A random nick-knack. A trinket. Some art piece. Fucking forks. Why are people always buying fucking forks. There's a whole bucket of just forks and other mismatched silverware and the locals eat that shit up like brownies at a bake sale.

Whatever their reasons, it's definitely not the same reason Ken has for bringing up the lighter and the ashtray. Not the ashtray too. Hiro wasn't even that interested in the ashtray, he has his own, how many more various receptacles for ash does he need? But the fact stands that he wants the lighter and now they're holding the lighter and the stupid ashtray and asking how much they cost.

Hiro gives them his best disinterested look. Obviously he can't let them know how much he wants this shit. He has to look like he doesn't care whether it gets bought or not. So he just glances up casually from the log book he'd been working in, light, breezy, nothing giving away the fact he's cursing them out in his brain right now.

He extends a hand out to take the items so he can look them over, pretending like he's seen them thousands of times and couldn't care less. Flipping the ashtray over one way then the other before setting it down. Same to the lighter, turning it over in his hands like he hadn't spent hours trying to get it to work, then setting it down. "They don't have a price tag," he says lamely. Stating the obvious just to buy time and be obnoxious.

"Miles isn't here to price them so..." he shrugs, "...I don't know."

[spanglehoney]

Hiro’s eyes glint with a momentary, inexplicable fire that has Kenny raising an eyebrow. They have half a mind to attribute it to nothing more than customer service lassitude, but then he’s checking for a fucking price tag, as if them walking their ass up here and asking about it didn’t already indicate that the (beautiful, beautiful) items were so flagrantly displayed without one. The longer he examines it, the more time they're given to slink their arms over their chest, crossed and cross— and in their head, he’s cursed and cussed.

The actual fuck is this guy’s problem? For all of Josie’s audible heartache and Frankie’s damn near idolization of the twerp, which is vexatious in and of itself, it’s currently being eclipsed by the childish irritation they’re trying very hard not to exhibit. (Not hard enough, because it clearly shows, but it's not their fault he's decided to swerve directly into acrimony.)

Briefly, Ken holds a memory in their mind’s eye: swiping a second blank card from a festival table, stoned as a rock and chuckling to themself as they scrawled it out, messy and quick: Hiro Uehara, count your days… Had he seen them? Possibly even recognized the handwriting? No way. So why is he the one giving them attitude? They have all the reason to be displeased with him. Anyone else in his situation might even yearn for armistice or understanding in the face of any of the Suttons. Not Hiro, who instead gives up on any semblance of congeniality when he finds no point in it.

Stop gritting your teeth. Honestly, they're really not trying to make it seem obvious that they're not fond of him, but it doesn't keep their next question from coming out staccato and bitter.

"...Do you know when he'll be back?"

[wldngmn]

location: rustic relics

with: kenny sutton ( @spanglehoney )

It's another typically uneventful day at the antique store. A fresh box of assorted somethings was opened this morning that he finished sorting through, now developing a better eye for these things so when he fished out a dingy looking green rectangle from the bottom of the box, he did not immediately chuck it into the garbage. It was so caked in dust that it just looked like a wonky ass metal belt buckle and not at all worth something, until he started messing with it. Gotta hand it to Hiro and his penchant for fiddling otherwise it might have gone unnoticed, but as he was flipping that rectangle between his fingers, something metal clicked. It took him the better half of an hour to clean all the grit and dust out of the crevices of the little green rectangle, enough to reveal it was not at all a belt buckle and was in fact a very nifty looking lighter.

Google and a shallow dive through Reddit later and he discovered it was a German Sarastro 1001 from 1938 and worth at least a hundred smackers. In Hiro's eyes, this lighter is solid gold. He wants it. He wants it bad. He spends the rest of his morning trying to get it to work, hunched over the cluttered work bench that Miles has with his tongue stuck between his teeth.

Hiro has his own experience on lighter maintenance with his trusty zippo and is a proficient tinkerer in general. He built his whole van himself right down to the electrical work. It's a bit different and far more delicate work on a vintage lighter like this one but Hiro does it. He squeezes the side and the trap door at the top opens and out flickers a flame. Weak and wavering but growing stronger.

Unfortunately, he can't just take the lighter. He's still on the clock and so must wait and while he's fairly sure Miles wouldn't mind if he just keeps it in the back until he's off to buy it, something in Hiro just feels compelled to put it out. Maybe he wants to show it off a little bit, a little secret prideful moment that no one will likely notice or acknowledge, but maybe someone walking by could look at it and think what a fine piece of work that must be and then he could inwardly smile at himself as they walk away from it and he could relish in the sensation that he'd restored something awesome all by himself.

Now it's only the matter of where to place it. A couple of days ago, Hiro had sorted a different box and in there was an ashtray. He distinctly remembers it because when he pulled it out he made a face and regarded the ashtray as being a disgusting green color. It had been the dust on it that turned the once vibrant green into a murky swamp but after cleaning it up, it polished up nicely and now that Hiro is looking at the ashtray again, he's a little cheesed to find out the two shades of green match. The ashtray even has a similar zigzag pattern in its center. Like they were made for each other. He drops the lighter onto the table beside the ashtray, gives it a little nudge so it's angled prettily and then nods once, content with his attempt at discrete presentation and goes back up to the front to sit behind the counter to finish off his shift.

[spanglehoney]

Between the last festival's spoils and many long weekends of not giving into that consistent and irritating shopper's itch, there's a fairly hefty wad of money burning a hole in Ken's pocket. And there's always an obvious first choice of where to go. Miraculously, they spent the morning feeling well-rested with very little work to finish, and everything about today is begging for a trip. Could be worth it, could just end up as a glorified skate about town; they've rolled into Rustic Relics with more impressive amounts of cash and still walked out with nothing. It all comes down to what the light happens to reflect off of, or what's been moved around recently... There's a different atmosphere nearly every time the place is open.

Today, the air is rife with lemony disinfectant and oxidized metal (as it tends to be). The chime of the door, whatever might be playing on the crappy radio in the corner, the buzz of electric signage— it's all drowned by their bulky headphones, plugged into a Sony Discman lodged into their bag's front pocket. Even to a potential passerby, the sharp riffs of the Cure's Fire in Cairo can be heard amongst the muffle. Unfortunately, it doesn't keep them from assessing who's behind the counter.

None other than public enemy number one. They'd almost forgotten he works here, and immediately pretend they never looked his way in the first place, turning away and beginning their tried-and-true method of moseying that typically earns them a new trinket or two. Who knows, maybe it won't this time, and they won't even have to—

Well, shit, scratch that. It's mere minutes until their eyes fall on it: their most favorite color, glinting against the edge of a cluttered table: a vintage lighter and ashtray, superbly matching and restored to a near-glorious degree. They don't wanna speak too soon, but it's... pretty fucking perfect. Almost like it was put there specifically for them to find. Careful hands examine both items for a price sticker, but there's nothing to be found. Robert Smith's vocals shift from their typical whet to straight up prophetic. Burn like a... Fire! Fire! Fire!

Goddamn it. They have to talk to him, now, and it makes their stomach turn. But then they think about walking in here next week and not being able to find it, and... well, that thought is worse. Well, here goes nothin'. They gather the items and ruefully saunter over to the counter, tugging their headphones down around their neck as they approach and skipping over the niceties that they might've considered, had Tanny or Miles been behind the counter instead. "Hey, uh... you able to tell me how much this is?"

[calicoegg]

The simple, human gesture of a gentle hand on her knee does not go unnoticed. In truth, it’s what she needs to remain tethered to earth, to keep from being whisked off to where the spirits reside, or left in an empty-eyed stupor. There were childhood nights spent clutching patchwork quilts in balled fists, frozen in fear, quiet cries for her parents going ignored. All she really needs is a warm touch to bring her back around—to keep the fear from taking her under.

She places her own free hand atop Ken’s, although her eyes remain glued on the spot. It’s a touch to say thank you for being here, thank you for always being here. And that brief contact—that connection, that warmth—is enough to bring the figure fully into focus.

And what she sees… well, she wouldn’t quite call it romantic. His face is a mess of gore, centralized around a massive gash on his jaw. In her absolute state the last time she’d seen him, she’d failed to notice the near dent in his chest, outlined by a smattering of blood on his white linen shirt. And with the safety blanket of Ken’s presence—alongside the bravery that comes with a few more years on the planet—she feels confident enough to meet his eyes.

What she finds is something soft, sincere. Maybe a little scared.

Her body deflates, shoulders falling and a long-held breath escaping between tight lips. She meets Ken’s eyes for a moment—a look to say that this is OK, that maybe they should try and see for themselves—before looking back toward who she now recognizes as nothing but a boy.

“Do you, um,” she clears the slight catch in her throat, “d’ya want a brownie?” She nods her head toward the pile of snacks. “We got regular and uh… special?” Did they have weed back then? “Did you guys, um, have weed back then?”

[spanglehoney]

Relief. Enough to make the candles waver, but Ken doesn’t notice. They most definitely had weed back then, right? Probably weren’t calling it weed, though. This guy, whoever he is, could be thinking he’s in for some sort of hellish dandelion-laced brownie. “Marijuana,” they clarify, brows raising ever so slightly, sitting on a nervous chuckle. “Or maybe tobacco, for the more discerning spirit…” they pull their hand away only to rummage through their bag, tugging out their case of hand-rolled cigarettes and gingerly setting it atop the brownie box.

It’s then that they decide to turn and face what Freddie is allegedly staring at. It’s no surprise that they see jack shit, but oddly enough, there’s a brisk whoosh that settles down their spine and has the hairs on their arms standing on end despite the house’s stuffy warmth. Yeah, it could just be the placebo of playing along, but then again…

That’s usually how these things go, with Ken walking out feeling half-convinced and just weird. It always washes back away into their facetious skepticism eventually, but it’s nowhere to be found in the face of this brand new stranger. Why are you here? They wonder, but asking it aloud is likely fruitless— it’s probable he doesn’t exactly know, either. Based on what they know from Freddie, being a ghost can be some pretty complicated business. It's best just to wait it out before making any real moves.

“Can he talk?” They whisper as they look back to her, hand resuming its position on her leg.

[calicoegg]

Freddie tries to keep her cool. Really, she does, especially in front of Ken. Yeah, they've seen each other at their most vulnerable—late-night, tearful vent sessions, or the time she got a little too high and really started wigging out, begging Ken to take her to the clinic—but it's still a little embarrassing to go full bug-eyed and slack-jawed in front of the person she's trying to court.

Honestly, she's not sure if she'd ever come back here if Ken wasn't with her, setting up the candles and holding her damp hands and providing reassurances. As much as Freddie finds a sense of purpose in honing these skills, in discovering these long-lost people and unearthing their stories, it's still, frankly, terrifying. (And Ken's not wrong about people following her—there's a ghost in her bedroom that was not there before she left town—so there's always the worry that she'll tug someone out of the house and into the world, let loose in the Springs.)

All that to say, this is still mostly an excuse to sit, knees knocking in the dark, and enjoy the closeness that's harder in the daylight.

Then there's the crrrreeeeaaaakkkkk, and the hairs on her arms are popping up, seemingly one by one, trailing up toward her head. There's a feeling of cold, almost liquid, traveling up her spine. She meets Ken's eyes for a moment, reading that look of recognition—someone is here. When she looks at the candles that surround them, the flames are bobbing gently, up and down, but none have gone out.

And her eyes are most certainly bugging.

There's a figure, vague and misty, hovering by the doorway past Ken's shoulder. It hasn't fully materialized—just the outline of a body—but it's broad enough that she knows it's a man. But she's got faith in Ken's sonar. It can't be Leland. So either George or the farrier or, she guesses, someone new.

Almost unconsciously, she squeezes Ken's hands tighter. Comforting. Grounding.

"It's definitely a guy," she says, hushed, because he can hear her. "But I'm with you. Leland isn't a romantic. That man's got no love in his heart." Her voice is wavering, and she's keeping her eyes glued on the figure, although everything in her is telling her to look away. "Can't tell who it is yet, though. Hasn't fully formed." She's narrowing her eyes, then opening them wide, but the figure remains blurry. God, why can't she focus?

[spanglehoney]

What Freddie deems embarrassing, her reaction full-bodied and fierce, Ken soaks up with easy delight. It’s hard not to, especially when they’re given the opportunity to study her in the fuzzy candlelight; her shoulders are locked up high and her expression is goofy and there very well might be some poltergeist behind them, and yet all they can think is you’re so cute it hurts. Freddie’s hands lock tight around their own and they feel a rush that most certainly has nothing to do with any lingering spirits.

Still, though, they picked this place for a reason. They haven’t been here since before Fred essentially disappeared for five whole years, and knew it would be a hit not just for the nostalgia factor but for the potential of a sighting or two— which, though frightening, they know she secretly enjoys.

“So maybe that means this guy is a romantic,” they reply with a shrug, a little tense themself as they sit there refusing to turn around. It’s not like they’ll be able to see what Freddie’s seeing, anyway, even though they’re the one who found the stupid grimoire and dragged the chalk along the boards. Romantic. Is that what this is? They sure hope so, because they’re a little clueless on how to get any closer.

“Maybe he just wants a brownie,” they whisper after a few dawdling seconds, keeping one hand locked within Freddie’s as the other moves to rest against her knee, biting back a smile. It’s casual, perhaps even unnoticeable in the grand distraction of this spectral stranger, but their comfort is hers to keep anyway.

[moonlitmontana]

"Sure," Tanny says automatically, nodding like a bobblehead. She can see it now – carefully cradling the cracked case, turning the player's volume down so she can see the details of her paintings clearly, of course. "Thanks, Ken."

Suddenly, she's very aware of the pattern of her heart beating in her chest. Not too fast, thank the Lord, but so strong she wonders if they can hear it from where they sit. "Yeah, so stupid." Her voice is a little louder than she intends, and she clears her throat in a lame attempt to play it off. "I just – y'don't think Jo takes it seriously, do 'ya? Or–" before she can even get 'Laurie' from her lips, they're interrupting her, leaning in to fix her rookie error.

And time is standing completely still, and Tanny must've smoked that entire joint by herself, because did they just say Frankie? Her eyes blow open to the size of saucers, bloodshot red staring them down like they've just revealed the secret of life. Makes sense, if she thinks about it, though she did expect Huck to be the most likely of the three of them to partake.

"Woah," she says, zoning out for a second, trying to conjure up every time Frankie moseyed up the steps of the front porch after sundown with red-rimmed eyes. Every special package, even the brownie he shoved entirely into his mouth that time she asked to try it. "He rolls?" she asks, leaning back a little with a content smile as she watches them tend to the canoeing.

[spanglehoney]

There's a few seconds too long before Tanny speaks again, and that's just long enough for Ken to steal a look at her expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Oh, no. They've said something they shouldn't have, that much is apparent. There's no way she doesn't know Frankie smokes by now, right? His two best friends are the biggest skunks in town, not to mention it's so very obvious when he's too stoned off his gourd to do anything besides jam out and smile his stupid smile. And yet, everything about her reaction says otherwise.

And they're thankful they clocked it, too, because now Tanny's expression is melting into something more smirky as she attempts to sneak past it. A little too pleased with herself— meanwhile Ken is mentally kicking themself, taking note that they'll have to call him up as soon as she heads out with a fair warning. Hey, so, uh, I accidentally told your sister you roll a real crappy joint. Please say no biggie.

Whatever; they're all adults. And honestly, she should've known by now. Inconspicuous is not a word they'd choose to describe their beloved Frankfurt. "Not very well," they note with a smirk of their own, knowing they won't be able to stop it from morphing into a grimace the longer they think about it. They sigh, canoe be gone, and take a long drag, free hand rubbing one of their eyes. "Shit." Voice tight with a held inhale, they pass it back, flopping back against the couch cushions as the smoke puffs out of them. "Don't think I was supposed to say that, was I?"

[alainapricity]

Laney catches the lettering on the jar – Tea Time, all neat and tidy – until every hair on her arms stands up when she hears Jane’s voice. Shit. Ken’s mother is warm, proud, strong, in places where her own mother is cold, quiet, meek. Faintly, she recalls some past conversation with Ken, no doubt under the influence of one of earth’s gifts. Something about them being a few degrees off from their moms.

There’s no time to remember, because Jane Sutton is speaking her name; she’s saying that it’s good to see her. Pride inflates her shoulders for a breath before she relaxes, steady. “Nice to see you, Missus Sutton. I don’t mean to interrupt,” she replies, feeling Ken slip from the booth and up next to her, offering a jar of the stuff to her.

She takes it in both hands, a smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Next one’s mine,” she says – an old line they’d throw back and forth at each other, back when they knew each other a bit better. It was always coupled with Laney’s hands accepting a sweatshirt, Ken’s fingers narrowly missing the check at Granny’s, either of them landing a surprise gesture of kindness on the other. Of love.

It doesn’t hurt so much to think of that word now.

With a wave over her shoulder to Jane, Laney follows after Ken, sneaking behind them in a half-rusty manner. Like riding a bike.

You look happy. Her nose crinkles just a tad, eyes washing over Ken’s face and down to their feet. “I think you’re right,” she answers with a little shrug. She doesn’t really think about whether or not she’s happy or not these days – much easier just to be.

“Now I am,” she says, lifting the little jar of honey in acknowledgment. “What about you, busy bee?” Her head cocks to the side slightly, turning so she can see back over their shoulders towards the heart of the festivities. There’s a teeny smile on her face as she looks back at them. For a moment, she hates that she knows this is a moment one of them would kiss the other, if they were still together. But she loves that she can be in this moment with them now, still wearing a smile.

“It’s really good to see you,” she says earnestly.

[spanglehoney]

Ken's hands slide down their sides, like they're trying to shove them into their pockets but forgot they're wearing some cheesy costume, and now they're just leaning awkwardly, squinting in the sunny breeze. Looking at Laney full-on for the first time in years, simply because they're allowed to. They've gotten every other angle; a focused side-profile as she passes by a window, or the soft tilt of her head from behind, dark hair swept over one shoulder.

Truth is, even with the size of town and all the opportunities to reconnect, they never knew what to say. When love is fractured, it doesn't just disappear. You're forced to hold onto it, even when you no longer have someone to funnel it into. They've carried it with them for so long now that it feels silly, unable to even place when it stopped feeling like the weight of the world and more like something small— a cool rock, or a locket without a chain. Something they maybe should've gotten rid of by now, but it looks pretty cute on the shelf. A reminder of another time, vastly separate but equally complicated.

"I think I am, too." It had actually been a long morning; Ken had gone over to the house early with the intention of helping out with booth transport and setup, but Dad and Shan had already set off to take care of the hard part. So they'd arrived only to be faced with Mom's usual last-minute, caffeine-fueled chaos, Josie damn near having a panic attack over her outfit ("you sure this doesn't look stupid?" about 45 consecutive times), and Laurie's typical inertia, as infuriating as it is enviable.

But, really, there's not been much to complain about lately. Not when they reach past these minor annoyances they're so used to, grasping onto something more genuine. The annoyances of this morning won't matter tomorrow, but a real conversation with Laney will. "I've actually been having this weird gut feeling lately, I guess about the festival, maybe. But about Summer in general, too, I think. Just that somethin' important's gonna happen." Are you getting that feeling too? Is what their eyes are asking. Or are you the reason that feeling exists at all?

[alainapricity]

No specials, they say, even though every jar lined up before her looks exactly that. She can still remember the whole honey-making process in her mind clear as day, as she was lucky enough to live it many times with them before – in a spring, hot like this one, where they spent more time outside than in.

Her eyes watch Ken, careful and caring, waiting for any sign of discomfort. They’ve barely even spoken a full sentence to each other, but she’d scatter like dust if she thought for a moment that they didn’t want to see her. She swallows, presses her lips together.

For once, Alaina Birchwood is scared. She’s always been honest, and more times than not, it’s pushed people away. When she met Ken, though? They liked her honesty – it brought them together. And in the end, after all was said and done, it drove them apart, too.

But not entirely. That much is clear as they hold the spoon out for her, offer up something she already knows she’ll love, even load the spoon up a little extra as they know she likes. Humming shortly, she reaches a hand out to grab the sample, fingers just briefly brushing against theirs. “Thank you,” she says, voice hushed.

As soon as the honey hits her tongue, her eyes glow in a way that can only be recognized by someone like Ken. Her father would scold her for staring, she knows it. But where else is she supposed to look, if not at someone her gaze lived comfortably with for so long? She pulls the spoon from her mouth, clean, and lets the honey begin to melt on her tongue. Delicious. But she doesn’t need to say it aloud.

Laney hums warmly once more before she speaks. “Do you have a jar?” she asks, already reaching to her pockets for her money, neatly clipped and folded somewhere in her skirt.

[spanglehoney]

“For sure.” There’s still a smile to be found in Ken’s voice, but their expression has since softened into something else— calm and measured, with an unsaid how are you doing buzzing around the edges. As they grasp for a jar labeled ‘tea time’, there’s a delighted gasp as a golden-wrapped, flower-crowned Jane enters the booth, and Ken’s freezing up before they have a chance to say anything else out loud.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Alaina Birchwood in the flesh?” Mom says, and Ken is rubbing the back of their neck, trying their best not to fully turn away as their cheeks start simmering. “It’s so good to see you! Honey, why don’t you take a break?” She says, giving Ken a gentle nudge in the ribs as another customer approaches behind Laney. What Mom lacks in subtlety, at least she makes up for with reading the room. Or, in this case, the square.

Ken slips out of the booth, their steps slowing the closer they get to her, suddenly feeling like a kid in this stupid bee costume they wear every year. They hold out the jar, tension deflating from their shoulders. “On the house.” They tilt their head. Follow me.

Years gone by, and the two of them are still as telepathic as ever. If you spend so much of a short amount of time with anyone, it gets hard to unstick your brains from one another. Laney is as nostalgic of a comfort as the smell of the Summer rain, sure to be looming in the distance soon enough.

Sneaking across the park next to the square, Ken chimes, “it is good to see you.” They look over at her. She’s exactly the same. But so different. They feel a pang of regret for not reaching out more; maybe they should’ve. Though, she’s not exactly made herself easy to find. “You look good.” Shit. “Uh… You look happy, I mean.” Is that worse? Jeez, they kinda wish Mom hadn’t shown up. Not because they don’t wanna talk to her, but because they are clearly having to find their footing all over again. “Havin’ fun?”

[vespcrtines]

Thank Christ. When Huck rounds the corner, peeling himself out of the human tide for a sliver of air not thick with marigold musk, the sight of someone already claiming the shade makes his gut twitch. But it’s Ken. And Ken ain’t so bad to catch a breather with.

He lets out a slow breath, dragging his boots slow across the grass-stained walk as he settles in beside them—shoulder to shoulder, spine to old brick. The wall’s warm from the sun, or maybe he is, and he slides down until he’s sitting proper, knees cocked, elbows slung lazy over them. “Christ,” he mutters, wiping the back of his hand across one sunburned cheek, catching on a smear of gold paint.

“Oh, naturally,” he says, dry as the dust in his throat, despite the snort that leaves him. “Been rehearsin’ it all morning, in fact. Planned on stormin’ the square to shake down every last voter—startin’ with you. You look like someone who could be bribed with a light."

The cigarette’s out and lit with a flick of his mermaid lighter, which only sputters once before the flame catches. Festival miracle.

[spanglehoney]

"Nah, man," they sigh, unable to even finish the joke after the collective hours of hearing about their beloved sister's outfit alone. "If Josie's not taking it, I might actually have to just rig the drawing next year," they exhale to the side, tugging off their dinky little antenna hat to swipe at their forehead with the back of their hand, leaning a shoulder against the wall. There’s still a few bright, robust hours left in the day, but Ken is about ready to take a nap.

Ken prefers the in-between seasons, the Spring and Fall, the inherent refusal of extremes as nature seems to take a breather along with everyone else. This Spring had been notably good, but the beaming sun feels like a threatening preview of what's to come. They cross their arms, taking another drag. "I can't wait for Spirit's Eve," they sigh, already mentally skipping over the season completely. "This one's a little too... I don't know." Immature almost seems like the right word, but then again, so is Spirit's Eve. "You havin' a good time?"

[alainapricity]

closed starter / laney & ken

location: town square (rain of petals parade)

Little orange flowers dot her dark hair like raindrops, seemingly holding on with their own free will. When she returns to the inn, she’ll take the seeds and plant them, maybe even try to propagate the strong ones. If they don’t live, she’ll just return them to the earth. She’s never questioned the will of the world that way – it’s not like she cut the flowers, anyway.

Laney doesn’t think she should be Marigold Queen – why would someone who doesn’t want something deserve it (even if someone did tell her once that she could win)? The festivities are nice, but they aren’t why she attends. She’s just happy to welcome in a new season, with warmer nights and cozy mornings. The summer brings Laney out to the forest more and more often. Closer to her father, she thinks. No, she knows.

Deciding to make the annual walk over to Miss Fortune, she’s just within a few paces of the booth when a sickly sweet familiar scent hits her nostrils. It smells like gentle hands handling honeycomb, long nights under starlight and thick duvets, temples pressed together to listen to music through one ear of a pair of shared headphones.

Her head whips over. Then, somehow, her feet carry her to the Healing Hive booth, close enough to where she can see the setup Ken is boasting. She shouldn’t feel strange. This shouldn’t feel strange – but even though their final words, real words, to each other were kind, they didn’t erase all the tension that released them in the first place.

“Hi,” she says, like greeting a friend. Because she is, isn’t she? A friend is what you would call someone who can see the smile in your eyes even though your lips barely move a muscle. Someone who can tell by the way you breathe whether you’ll speak or stay silent. Laney wonders if Ken can still tell, if their brain falls into old habits and recognitions the way that hers does.

“Any specials?” she asks, gaze falling down to the honey sticks.

@spanglehoney

[spanglehoney]

Ken is fiddling with the tape player, currently trying to switch an old ‘rain of petals mix’ tape onto its B-side. Though, for some reason, the tape that was just in there is suddenly not fitting back in. Should have nothing to do with the half a joint they snuck during their last break. Nope, definitely not that.

Well, fuck the tape. Because now, there’s an achingly familiar voice peeping up behind them, and their red-rimmed eyes are finding her before their brain does. She’s standing there, floral and mousy and tall, playing the role of the customer, and everything seems so normal. And then, accompanying her presence like a slow wave, there’s all the weight behind it, pulling a smile to Ken’s face despite all the reasons it should be otherwise.

There’s a lingering conversation lost to the silence, too far gone by now and both of them know it, and neither of them know what to do now that they’ve been demoted back to strangers. They could never really be strangers, especially not in this town. Not with the way Ken’s parents still ask about her every so often, as if she’s still there just slightly out of reach at any moment. I don’t know would always be Ken’s typical response, chipped thumbnail between teeth.

“No specials, just samples...” Their voice cracks immediately, and they clear their throat, gaze falling over the flowers in Laney’s hair before they’re ducking away, grasping for the cup of tester spoons. The row of sample honeys is lined up from sweet to spicy, starting with the dreamsicle edition Ken’s been trying to pioneer and ending with Shannon’s beloved reaper madness. Ken thinks for a moment before popping open one of their newest creations— an earthy ginger lemon flavor, with a hint of green cardamom and poppyseed— and scrapes out a sizable spoonful for someone they thought they’d only see in passing tonight, handing it forward. “I think this one’s for you.”

[spanglehoney]

location: rain of petals parade status: closed @vespcrtines

Finally taking advantage of a break from the Healing Hive booth for a sec means that Ken is immediately tracking down the nearest area sans people, hooking around the town square and through the park over by a row of shops. Their outfit is the same as it is every year: a fraying, vintage bee costume, complete with a pair of dinky wings and a flower crown touched by an angel (Josie), and they're leaning against the weathered brick of the florist when steps approach.

Tensing up, they halfway expect it to be Mom or Dad, or worse, some random kid, picking their nose and donning a what the hell sorta look and ruining Ken's beloved and meager break. These people love their honey sticks, damn it. "Oh, hey." Their relief is palpable when they see it's just a wayward Huck with the exact same idea as them. "You, uh, got your acceptance speech prepared for if they draw your name?"

[calicoegg]

A pleased grin spreads across her face as Ken opens the box, takes a bite. Freddie has never been the best at giving gifts. Everyone gets some variety of weed goodie—usually brownies, because Granny’s recipe has been embedded in her memory since youth. But she’d tried to add a special flair to Ken’s, hence the heart shapes, all done by hand with a blunt kitchen knife. (The threat of injury makes it all the sweeter.)

“Definitely the horse guy.” She doesn’t even have to think about it; a lingering mystery will always be more interesting than visits from the ghosts she already knows. He’s nameless, with the only real piece of information being that he got his head bashed in by a working horse, likely in the burgeoning days of Bleeding Hearts. More than his name, though, she’s wondering why he still lingers.

There’s a lot of talk in the ghost-hunting world about “unfinished business.” Spirits hang around because there’s something they have yet to do—some cause or mission they must undertake before they can leave the mortal coil. Freddie has always thought that was bullshit. George was old as balls when he kicked the bucket; what kind of unfinished business could he possibly have? Making sure there aren’t any kids on his lawn?

But being back in this town after so many years … well, she thinks she gets it a bit more now. She has unfinished business of her own. (… Hopefully she doesn’t ascend to the heavens after she’s made things right. Although that would be pretty romantic in its own way.)

“You remember him, right?” She takes Ken’s hands into her own, gives a small squeeze, unsure if she’s feeling her own sweat or Ken’s. Or some intermingling of sweat, which is kinda sweet. “Tall, young … all legs and arms and then that massive gash in his head." There’s a slight grimace at the thought. She’s seen some rough stuff, but that was particularly gnarly. "I’d like to figure out why he’s still hangin’ around.”

“Or maybe ... someone new?” She furrows her brows, gaze shifting to the crumbling architecture, the collapsed staircase. “...I dunno if there’s anyone else to see, honestly, but I think that’d be a pretty sick Heart Day memory.”

[spanglehoney]

"Yeah, I remember." Or, more rather, they remember her in-depth description of him back when he first made his appearance, her hair basically going vertical with how truly freaked out she was. There's always a Scooby-Doo-esque charm that goes hand in hand with Freddie's fear, cartoonish and wide-eyed and typically very funny. "Pro'lly thinks his name is Holy Fuck after last time."

They’ve never actually seen the horse guy. But there’s a distinct, impish quality to the air in this busted old house that has them hesitant to call it anything other than haunted. Freddie’s grasp is as playful as it is necessary. "Been a long while," Ken notes, the quirk of their brows hardly shielded through the candlelight, the clasp of their hands gentle but firm, like they're tethering each other to earth. “Never know who might show up… Or maybe someone even followed you back here.”

As if on cue, there’s a crrrreeeeaaaakkkkk of a distant door, and they scoot in just an inch or two closer, mentally blaming it on the wind even though their eyes are meeting Freddie’s with a twinkle of who was that lingering in their gaze. She hasn’t noted any presence yet, at least not out loud. Do you see me? They wonder, brief and almost lugubrious, sitting on the floor of this rotting shell like a fool for you?

"It's not Leland. I'm serious about the sonar." They've been trying to meditate more, or whatever. Manifesting and all that. If they really, truly think about it hard enough, with honesty in their heart and empathy in their soul, they can keep him away with the sheer power of their mind. "I don't think he'd come around on Heart Day, anyway. More of a Spirit's Eve guy."

[moonlitmontana]

Tanny follows Ken’s instructions, tongue pressed to her upper lip and nostrils flared as she concentrates. Luckily, her years of painting have gifted her with steady hands – but that doesn’t stop the joint from coming out slightly banana-esque. Then Ken gives their nod of approval, hands her a lighter, and she relaxes a little bit.

“I like the colors,” she points towards the CD case, joint dangled lazily between her fingers. Red, a cool violet, some sort of whimsical strokes jumping from the red to lick up above. Maybe she’ll try to paint it later. She ignites the lighter on her second try and lights the joint for a moment before bringing it to her lips to inhale (a trick she learned from someone on her floor back in school).

A weak cough escapes her after the long drag – she knows how to inhale, thank you very much – and she hands it over to Ken with lidded eyes. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was imagining the dreamy music emitting from the player, a mental soundtrack to the absolutely wacky fever-induced-dream-like night she was having. Smoking with Kenny Sutton? It wasn’t exactly on her bingo card.

“Heart Day Buns?” Her head snaps over to them, eyes widening in shock then narrowing in suspicion. “I knew it. I knew y’wouldn’t’ve forgotten! He certainly did not give us those buns, Ken.” A million scenarios flash through her head – namely, Frankie devouring all the buns for himself, or in typical Frankie fashion, eating absolute shit and sending the pastries flying.

Probably the latter, since he hasn’t owned up to it yet.

“Ken,” she says, all quiet and thoughtful, the joint beginning to take over. “Can I ask ‘ya somethin’ real dumb? Do y’read that stupid journal?”

[spanglehoney]

“You wanna borrow it?” Laurie and Jos don’t care much for their music recommendations anymore (at least half of them are parroted from Mom anyway), and even if Tanny’s only ambition is some inspiration for her next painting, they’re willing to part with it for however long. These are the sorts of things worth sharing. “Case is kinda busted, but just remind me ‘fore you go.”

They take the joint with an appreciative nod, dragging out a couple hits and allowing their brows to slowly knit together at Tanny's reaction. Didn't give them the buns? "Fuckin' A," they roll their eyes despite the smile easing across their features. Whether Frankie scarfed them all down standing in the doorway or involuntarily found them scattered across the porch, they knew they'd need these extras for a reason. "There were five, dude. One for Frankfurt, you, Huck... Two for Logan, pro'lly," they snort, leaning their head back against the cushion as they pass the joint back over.

Tanny's question doesn't catch them off guard, necessarily, but they fail at masking the almost incredulous look on their face. "Nope," they reply flatly. The Journal's kind of always been a waste of time, doling out rumors so that the likes of Patricia Finch can go around repeating and investigating it. "It is stupid. What, they mention you?" They snort. "Think the last thing I read was somethin' about Doc being a ghost, so I wouldn't exactly call it credible."

So worrisome. A Buchanan inevitability. Not to mention— "Shit. You're canoeing," Ken scoots in and reaches out to fix it, letting out a low chuckle. "Swear, Frank can't roll shit without this happening, either."

[calicoegg]

True, Adeline enjoyed the oranges, but Freddie suspects she won't be happy that they didn't bring more. But any further argument at the tip of her tongue fades away with the outstretched white box, the soft apology. As she takes the gift, she's also feeling grateful for the darkness—great for pranks and hiding the embarrassing warmth creeping up her neck. She moves away quickly, under the guise of setting the box gingerly by her strewn backpack, of sitting in her spot so Ken can get the candles set up proper.

The floor creaks loudly underneath her weight as she lowers herself, but the sounds aren’t any bother to her now. Any threat this house presents fades away when she's here with Ken. The ghosts are real; there's no question about that. Miss Adeline, farmer George, creepy Leland, and that farrier who'd been taken out by a swift kick to the head. (Still nameless, unfortunately.) And the stink of mildew is certainly real, sticking to her clothes long after she's left. But the rotting rafters and the lingering spirits can’t touch her when she’s got Ken by her side.

Of course, she knows Ken might not fully believe her stories—she knows them well enough to see the slightest glint of skepticism behind their eyes when Freddie mentions a new addition to the cast of paranormal characters. It doesn’t bother her much, though, because at least when they’re around, it doesn’t feel like the spirits will whisk her away.

Ken is really the only person she feels that way with.

Fuck. The heat prickling at her skin has only intensified. At least now she can blame it on the candles.

“Nice, but grumpy.” She nods, eyes flitting around for any sign of him. “But in that typical old man way, so not really threatening. Just…” There’s a moment, lip pulled between teeth, and then she finds the word, finger pointing up. “Crotchety.” Another nod. “He got real mad when we accidentally broke that china cup, remember?”

As Ken continues setting up the candles, she leans back on her hands, peering up at the way the candlelight dances on the ceiling, making even this rotted building look strangely beautiful.

She snaps out of the daze once Ken has plopped down across from her, releasing a small puff of dust. “I’m just hopin’ we don’t see Leland tonight. That guy sucks.” Massive understatement—he was toeing the line of legitimate threat. Luckily, she’s only seen him once, and he was not about to ruin her Heart Day—

“Oh, yeah!” She digs into her bag, extracting a cardboard box decorated with supremely shitty but intricate drawings of bees, rollerskates, music notes, and a smattering of colorful hearts. Inside are the aforementioned weed brownies. “Don’t go thinkin’ I forgot you.”

[spanglehoney]

Ken digs around in their bag for the chalk, swiftly easing lines across the floor between each candle until there's somewhat of a star between them all. There are seven candles now, so tonight's star is a heptagram— in Pioneer some fifteen years ago, they'd discovered a brown-leather-bound book, old in appearance with even older script throughout, the front page donning a supremely faded Woodland Volant Essais & Grimoire. It's lodged in the front pocket of their bag just in case, but it's been flipped though so many times that there's hardly any point anymore. If there be a ſup'rnatural bond to be found, do not fear ſucceſſ~ guide thy light together with limeſtone and hook hand or limb~ and one may find connection and protection under cover of darkneſſ.

"Hm... Nope, I banished Leland with my brain waves. Reverse sonar," Ken says as they finally take a seat, a hand lazily shooing the dust away from their face with a soft "pfffft" before Freddie's all but tossing the box into their hands, and Ken can already sniff out that they're not just any ol' brownie before they've even fully opened the lid. "Shit, man. Thank you," they chuckle softly, taking a moderate bite out of one of them before closing up the box dutifully and with quickness. "Mmm. Save the rest for tomorrow," they mumble, mouth full. How they're not chocolate'd out by now, they have no idea.

Maybe it's just because there hasn't been a Heart Day that really hit in a while. Ken had almost been convinced they'd lost their taste for sweets altogether (besides honey, of course, which is essentially part of their bloodstream and vital to live). But as their fingers momentarily run over the cute little drawings on the box, the brownie just tastes even better, as if it's the sweetness they've been seeking out all along.

Now, is this just an excuse to sit close to Freddie, clammy hands clasped together under the dim and romantic candlelight? Maybe so, but her excitement is always energizing to witness, sparkling blues dancing around the room, offering weight and names and personalities to those who might've otherwise been forgotten. Ken doesn't care as much about all them; they had their time, once. They care about the girl sitting in front of her: solid, tangible, breath close enough to swallow if they lean in close enough. But they're still licking brownie remnants out from between teeth. "Anyone you do wanna see?"

[calicoegg]

She’s been here since a clean 8:45—her sheer excitement almost compelled her to show up even earlier, but fifteen minutes already felt a bit too eager. But she’d wanted a little time to set up, to get in position, to look pretty.

Her list has always been snacks, drinks, and weed, to round out the essentials. Everything has already been pulled out of her ratty plaid backpack and arranged neatly on the floor. Today, however, she also comes toting heart-shaped weed brownies, made with hearty dollops of Ken’s autumn honey infusion, lending them a spicy, earthy flavor.

And, yeah, maybe she’d snuck a little bite… or two… before she headed over, and it was starting to hit as she sprawls out on the dusty wooden floors. And, yeah, maybe she’s already seen Miss Adeline out of the corner of her eye, floating through the foyer and up the stairs. It doesn’t take long to start seeing the residents—this house reverberates with spiritual energy. That’s why so many late teenage nights were spent surrounded by candles, seeking information from the long-dead occupants of Briar End. (But, mostly, stealing quick, longing glances in the dim of candlelight.)

The flutter in her stomach begins to become more about the incorporeal company when she hears a rustle outside. Thank the goddess. And so she assumes position, settling in the darkest part of the room and making a spooky face—which leans less scary and more constipated.

The light flashes on her and she gets the exact response she wanted—a flurry of giggles, accompanied by, although she can’t see it in the darkness of the room, a small scrunch of their nose.

“Well, duh, you’re late,” there’s a mock-accusatory tone, a pointed finger. “I’ve been sittin’ in the dark—ALONE! Adeline coulda snatched me up!” She pulls herself onto her feet, wiping the dust off her pants. “Don’t even know if I should give you your gift now…”

[spanglehoney]

"What? I thought we established Adeline was cool! Y'know, after leaving all those oranges that one time. They were gone the next day," they shrug, still slightly breathless as they ease their backpack onto the floor. For a few seconds, they stand there just staring, a good six feet apart, and then their shoulders fall, holding out the small white box clutched in their hand. "I'm sorry I'm late." Happy Heart Day goes unsaid, and so goes the visible burning of their cheeks under cover of darkness. "Um— should probably get the candles out before, uhh—" they mumble distractedly. Freddie's got them all flustered and nothing's even fucking happened yet. All they're doing is sharing a space that hasn't been shared since they were entirely different versions of themselves.

The house, however, is the same. To Ken, it's really more gross than scary. It's clearly been flooded a few too many times, as the wood is all crusty with lichens and, in certain parts of the floor, still a bit damp. Not to mention the bugs, but that's nothing. Ken thinks they could ward off a whole scorpion with a gentle pat and some kind words, at this point. It's really the raccoons they're worried about. One: they're evil. And two: their clattering and chattering often makes Freddie think the ghosts are really coming for her.

It's not that they don't believe her when she talks about the ghosts she knows, but Ken has known Freddie far too long not to note her very broad imagination. But sometimes, they get it. There'll be a glint in Fred's eye that's different than the dopey act she might put on if it weren't legit. And they like to think they're in tune with their senses and surroundings. Occasionally, it does get a bit hard to justify certain drafts or noises. "Maybe George'll show up, too," they add, lighting up all the candles in a circle just big enough for the two of them to sit in. "That's the nice one, right?"

[spanglehoney]

location: house on briar end status: closed @calicoegg

The bulkiness of Ken's fraying backpack is apparent the second they begin their trek across town towards the infamous, dilapidated house on Briar End. The night's slow breeze washes away the sweet stickiness of the day, dusk easing into nothing but moonlight the longer their busted ass, decade-old vans pad against the dirt road. It's almost weird not just skating around, but they're sure they'll prefer shoes once they're inside that beloved old piece of shit house.

Besides, they're stuck carrying Fred's Heart Day present and definitely don't wanna be caught dropping it. Hers is a little extra special, with more chocolate on the inside than all the others, and a subtle glaze of the dreamsicle honey she'd enjoyed so much. No way it's getting crushed between everything else that had been quickly and unceremoniously stuffed into the main pocket of their bag. Chalk, candles, lighter, tape player, tapes. The essentials.

It’s an easy list. One they came equipped with every time the two of them used to spend sprawling afternoons after school here. And this certainly won’t be their first late night excursion. But it’s been a few good long years. Ken’s anxiety is familiar, hopeful, and stomach-flipping, and it’s nothing to do with the property.

The near distant headstones dotting the graveyard are just barely visible at this hour— almost ten minutes after nine, shit— and they're climbing through the semi-detached sheet of old screen on one of the back windows with a grunt straight from the soul. Clicking on the flashlight as their feet land against the creaky wood, the beam immediately lands on Freddie, and Ken jolts. “Gah! I knew you were gonna be in here already,” their words vibrate with laughter, the light momentarily dancing across the ceiling. “Damn, it’s dusty.”

[moonlitmontana]

“An apple?” Tanny feels like she might be losing her mind for a moment, but Ken most definitely said apple. They said biodegradable, too – so clearly there’s no eating involved. God, does Tanny have a lot to learn. She almost regrets coming so late, wondering if an afternoon masterclass would’ve been better. But she’ll take what she can get.

Oh, God. Oh fuck. Ken’s getting in the zone, and Tanny’s never been to an interview, but she’s nearly certain this is what one would feel like. No, she’s positive, because all of a sudden they’re asking her to show them what she’s got.

“Uh–yeah.” Duh. Why wouldn’t I wanna do that? Her hand reaches into her sweatshirt, into that inner pocket, and produces a little cellophane bag. Across the front, in permanent marker, is a neat ‘SEASONING MIX’.

It’s dumb. Possibly one of the most laughable things Montana has ever done. But she’d already ground up the stuff when she realized she didn’t have anything to put it in (part of the reason why she desperately hauled ass to Ken), and she wasn’t about to be stopped on her way without some kind of half-assed explanation.

“It’s—y’know, safe,” she mutters as she hands it off to them. “N’ not seasonin’.” Her fingers grab one of the papers from the pack Ken pulled earlier, staring at the thing like a blank canvas.

[spanglehoney]

Tanny’s incredulity almost brings forth an oh, boy… but Ken bites their tongue, reminding themself that they too reacted this way once upon a time. They're probably not gonna be as good at explaining things, though. "Made that mistake before." Ken takes the bag and squints at it through the lamplight. Looks legit; can't fathom her getting it from anyone but Freddie, anyway. "Okay, so you'll, uhhh... Kinda want to use your pinky to balance it..."

The explanation that follows is full of plenty more 'uhhh's, but it doesn't take more than a few minutes of adjustments and encouragement for Tanny to produce a slightly lopsided, but perfectly smokable joint. Ken digs a lighter out from the seat cushions, handing it over before exhaling an "ope" and rushing their happy ass over to the CD player in the corner, scanning down the tall rack with a hum. Towards the bottom, there's a semi-cracked case, bright red and pale indigo, that they slide out and dust off with a harsh blow. Heaven or Las Vegas. Two places they'll likely never go.

Adjusting the volume to something low and talk-able, they then crack a window and locate the nearest ashtray (this one, an old and beloved find from Rustic Relics, is shaped like a claw-foot bathtub and might've had something reminiscent of some southern state painted onto it at one point, eons ago). "Sorry. Can't just smoke in silence, 'specially with company. And I have some, uh, leftover Heart Day buns, if you get munchy... Frankie gave y'all yours, right?"

[vespcrtines]

Her hand curls tighter around Kenny’s shoulder, pulling herself in as close as she can get, like if she could just fold herself small enough, maybe she could disappear into their chest and stay there. It’s a place she’s always fit too easy, and for the stretch of a breath—long and shaky, her face buried in the scent of them, mead and something smoky clinging to the fabric, a trace of lavender at the collar—her boiling blood starts to settle. Not all the way. But enough for the ache in her chest to stop trying to claw its way out.

The balloon string tugged back down, her head heavy, her heart still pounding but... not so loud now.

At the mention of Frankie, a fresh flush stings her cheeks, burning hotter through the tears. God. Frankie Buchanan. The sunniest boy in all of Bleeding Heart Springs, and wasn’t it pathetic how the mere sound of his name lights something so dumb and hopeful in her chest? How for years she denied the way her stomach flipped every time he laughed too loud at her jokes or lingered just a little too long in the doorway? He’s just nice. Just sweet. Just funny. But, she’s too tired to lie tonight. Too tired for pretense or pride. Embarrassment has made itself a crown on her head.

A weak, crooked smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she scrubs a hand over her face, her skin sticky and warm with dried tears. “Please,” she mumbles, her voice rough around the edges. “Like Frankie’d ever look down and see my stupid hands out for him.”

She lets her head fall back against Kenny’s shoulder, eyes drifting toward Laurie’s back. There he is—the one she’s always built her storm shelter out of. The one who hadn’t flinched, not even when she came undone like a live wire in his hands. Who called for backup because she asked him to. Because she thought she was sparing him. And there he is now, turned away from her, from them, from this.

It hurts in a new, sharp way.

“Laurie,” she says, and it comes out softer than she means, a crack around the edges. She clears her throat and tries again. “Hey… I wasn’t—I’m not… tryin’ to push you out.”

Her voice wobbles. She presses her thumb hard against the pulse in her wrist, a grounding trick she’s too old to still need. “I just… I’m sorry, okay? I don’t want you thinkin’ you’re not wanted here. Or that I don’t—” her words catch, and she swallows them before they can get messy again. Her eyes fall to her lap, to her hands finding a new way to ground the shake in her fingers, picking at the edge of Kenny’s sleeve. “I’m not askin’ you to stay,” she adds, breathy and small, the same way she had when they were kids and she’d skinned her knee, when the power went out, when the dark felt too big. “I just don’t want you thinkin’ you gotta leave.”

@wildmead

[wildmead]

He has his back turned and two mugs in hand when she says his name, and his head swivels in surprise. There is an expectation here—of him quietly helping where he can and otherwise not being involved in the conversation. Taking in the information, silently storing it, and leaving Ken to offer the comforting words and good advice.

Of course, he has opinions on this idiot, as Ken so accurately put it, but he typically only offers his input if expressly asked. His tendency toward bluntness does not suit situations that require a softer, more nuanced touch—a lesson learned the hard way. He doesn't know how to pick the perfect words like Ken; to speak from experience and help people leave the conversation feeling good, feeling heard.

And of course, he knows his sister well enough to recognize that despite her sadness around this, despite the swearing and self-deprecation, despite the hot tears leaving marks down her cheeks, she wouldn’t want to hear his honest thoughts about the rotten kid who left her heartbroken time and time again. Ken's right; she doesn't hate him. So what good would it do to say he's never trusted that guy? Just rubbing salt in the wound. Besides, he's never cared for any of the boys that Josie's liked.

...Okay, well maybe Frankie? That’s news to him. Hm. He will have to keep an eye on that.

“It’s okay, Jos. You don't hafta apologize.” It’s tender and genuine, soft around the edges. He hears how her words catch, so quiet they nearly fall away. It brings a gentleness out of him—a brotherly instinct like when she'd crawl into his bed during a storm with ice-cold feet or ask for a walk home in the pitch dark when he was already settled into bed. The typical annoyance falls away, leaving room for the quiet understanding that comes with being a good brother.

He steps over to the living area carefully, a mug in each hand. There’s a glance toward Ken as he holds their favorite mug out to them like a peace offering—an extended bit of eye contact to hopefully convey I’m sorry as best as he can, just for now.

“I just… well…” Hm. What’s the best way to word this? He moves in front of Josie, floral mug held out to her. “…Well, I wasn’t intendin’ on leaving.” There’s a shrug of the shoulder before arms move to cross over his chest. “And I knew what you meant. It’s okay.”

There’s a pause, a bit of discomfort before he decides to throw an opinion in the ring. “…And, I, uh… I think Ken’s right, y’know. You’re good. There aren't many people like you, and it's easy to take that for granted.” His eyes move away, to the colorful knitted blanket hanging over the armchair. “But anyone who would treat you like that doesn’t deserve to know you.”

@spanglehoney

[spanglehoney]

"Like Frankie would ever look down and see anyone's stupid anything," Ken mumbles, a soft scoff of a laugh puffing out of them like steam from a train, chugging along into a part of their night they never would've expected about half an hour ago. It's harder than it looks, being the quiet one who also notices everything. Always knowing what needs to be said but never wanting to be the one to bring it up. It's objectively easier in this current moment, where the world spins when they blink for too long and the ones they're speaking to actually listen. Family.

Frankie is just about as close to family as Laurie or Jos, at this point. They know he'll be around whether he catches onto anything or not. They can't say the same for Hiro, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't keep them from understanding. It's just difficult to bask in. Even when Josie is snot-nosed and weepy over it all, she emits a warmth that is so prevalent and precious that it nearly burns. Always exploding into something spectacular as all the words rush out into open air. Ken is always imploding, going ice cold any opportunity they can get. Silence is often peace, even if it masks contention.

And then there's Laurie, reentering with tea in his hands and agreement on his tongue. Laur knows how to utilize silence, too, but it's never cold. It's expected, often serene. It's his words that often hold the frost, always given brusquely and without fanfare, enough to sting if you're not used to it. And sometimes, even if you are. Ken thinks Laur might be the most like a honeybee out of the lot of them, because other than that, he does what he can and enjoys being left alone.

They take the mug from him, a corner of their mouth lifting just enough for it to classify as a half-smile. Because, along with it, he's not silent. He knows well enough at this point that he mustn't be. Not when it's Josie. And he knows this isn't a situation worth stinging about. They don't have to say thanks or it's okay or I forgive you. He already knows.

"Yeah, man. No more sorry," they say to Jos with a gentle nudge, thumb absentmindedly running along the edge of their mug. The ceramic is tingly and warm against their fingers, contrasting the leisurely wind against their cheek that isn't still pressed into Josie's hair. "Can't control who you care about." They inhale slowly, letting it out as a hefty, thorough sigh. "But... Sometimes the universe just... Kinda shows you who you need to prioritize, I guess." They swallow thickly, looking back down again.