Oliver had spent most of his time roaming around the crowds — friendly waves to his acquaintances, an ear to lend to his friends, a shared gaze and a smile with strangers. He walked up to Cillian's blanket as if he were next in the rotation, his eyes peering up at the tree he seemed to focus his stare. "Aaah, yeah," he nodded, grinning at the other and then back towards the birds, never once faltering. "No, no, go on — I didn't mean to interrupt." He found it sweet, the solo birdwatching, and maybe it was something he didn't mind himself after so much communicating. "But to answer your question, I'd consider giving up my first born for the pasta salad." He laughs, then gestures towards the ground. "May I?"
cillian shakes his head, “ no, no, i'm here to socialise with people, not ramble about birds like a mad man. ” despite this, he still finds himself watching them for a few moments longer — little bodies darting around a branch before finally taking off. the park isn't short of birds, of course, but he means what he says and diverts his attention to oliver once more. “ it's that good, huh ? i think i may have an inch of room left in my stomach to give it a try. ” the pot luck is one of his favorite events in town, but his eyes are always bigger than his belly and he typically leaves suitably food-comatosed. “ go ahead, ” he nods heartily in response to his question, glad for the company.
Callum huffed a quiet laugh, placing a bun down on the grill. “Patient zero. Brave man.” He handed over a paper cup of lemonade too, cautiously. “If it tastes like childhood and regret, just lie to me. I can’t handle another crisis before sundown.” At the offer to take over grill duty, his brow twitched—barely perceptible, unless you were really looking. Since he’d taken over the café, the biggest lesson had been learning to let go. His obsessive need for control was the exact opposite of what the Everwood demanded: adaptability, surrender, faith that the soufflé might not fall and the espresso machine might not explode. “I mean… sure. If you’re serious. I won’t stop you.” A beat. “Just—everything is labeled for a reason. The relish lives here, the spicy mustard lives there, and if you swap the veggie patty tongs with the meat ones, I will have to burn this entire operation to the ground and start over.”
He softened a little then, with a sheepish tilt of his head and deep breath. “But yeah. I could probably use the break. People keep trying to talk to me about the weather and I panic and start offering them coleslaw. Can’t keep hiding behind buns and patties forever.”
cillian takes what he hopes is a well-disguised, tentative sip of the lemonade -- it requires a strong will not to wince. “ i mean ... it's definitely drinkable. ” he says with a reassuring smile. he's always been taught to be polite, had graciously bared his teeth through questionable meals at his grandmother's house as a kid while simultaneously slipping meat to the dog when possible — the lemonade is gourmet by comparison. he takes another sip for extra measure. callum's little warning brings a grin to his face, palm patting the other's shoulder lightly in encouragement. “ i won't disrupt the order. scout's honor. ” salutes for extra measure. “ not a small talk guy ? ” he can't relate personally, more so the type to be yammering about the weather than on the receiving end. he's certainly done his fair share of rambling already this afternoon. “ i can always whip you a burger up here, that way you don't have to go mingle ? ”
despite having lived in wicklow ridge for just over twenty years now, there was something about events like this that still felt special -- the gentle warmth of the sun against his skin, the sound of chatter and laughter -- it wasn't something you'd find back in the frenzy of inner-city london. he rests back on his elbows where he's sprawled on his picnic blanket, stomach full from one too many muffins, eyes trained on a trio of birds on a nearby tree. “ downy woodpeckers, ” he thinks aloud to the nearest person, “ very similar to the hairy woodpecker, but these guys have smaller beaks ... and black spots in the tail feather, see ? ” he watches for a moment before shaking his head: snap out of it, david attenborough. “ anyway, ” sheepish grin, “ what's the best thing you've eaten so far ? ”
status : open !
location : wicklow ridge summer social
The smoke curls up in lazy ribbons from the grill, catching in the evening light like it’s putting on a show. Callum stands in front of it with a pair of tongs in one hand and a grease-stained dish towel in the other, his brow furrowed with an intensity that seems slightly disproportionate to the task of flipping burgers. The prep table he’s set up beside him is, admittedly, a bit much. Neatly labeled condiment jars, three kinds of buns, a tray of ribs still wrapped in foil, even a small cooler of lemonade he may or may not have sweetened within an inch of its life. He’d told himself it was just to be helpful, but really, it’s easier to focus on perfecting the ketchup-to-mustard ratio than on making small talk.
He catches movement from the corner of his eye and looks up, half-hopeful, half-suspicious. “careful,” he says, a little wry, brushing sweat from his temple with his wrist. “linger too long and i’ll rope you into burger duty. or worse, taste-testing the lemonade. i think i went too heavy on the sugar—again—but i panicked halfway through and now it might be more syrup than drink.” He glances at the jug with visible regret, then back at them, softening. “you hungry? i’ve got ribs, dogs, burgers, veggie patties if you’re into that. just tell me your order and i’ll make it like you’re a regular at the everwood. no judgement. unless you ask for ketchup on ribs, then all bets are off.”
the smell of hot dogs is impossible to resist much longer, the embarrassing grumble echoing in his stomach at the thought of fried onions and mustard leaving him approaching the grill a little too eagerly. he can't help but admire the organisation -- his own barbecues growing up usually consisting of his dad panic-burning his way through the burgers and the distinctly bitter taste of overly charcoaled meat. the annotated jars are a nice touch. “ i don't mind playing patient zero if you want a lemonade taste tester. ” he grins, though secretly hopes it's not as bad as it sounds. “ i'll take a dog, cheers. if you need a break after, i can take over for a few ? i can't promise you won't come back to mayhem though. ”
↷ * STARTER : open to all ╱ LOCATION : great ridge potluck
she'd managed to find the perfect spot — enough of a shade so she wasn't dripping sweat, but rays of sunshine filtering through to keep her nice and toasty. reclined back under the blanket that was, frankly, too large for one person with the sounds of melon crunching on a bone that minty had brought for her, she was content. pilfered treats spread around in one corner, book forgotten and resting on her stomach as she tried to take a quick cat nap before the next round of corn hole or whatever else that may capture her attention, but a shadow falling over her had her creaking an eye open under her glasses. " look, i told you if i got to the double fudge brownies before you, they were mine. i'm not sharing without a good trade. so, what'd you bring for me ? "
“ woah, woah, got to admire the haggle but your brownies are safe. i was just coming over to take advantage of the shade. ” palms lift in playful defence, marked with a glimmer of a smile. “ i burn really easily. i blame my scottish side. ” he glances down at his arms as if betrayed, though the only tell-tale signs of summer beginning are his deepened splattering of freckles. he begins to unravel his own picnic blanket and settles it down a few feet away — just in case the brownie defence actually is that serious. “ you enjoying the afternoon ? your haul is looking ... successful. ” he nods toward her collection of treats.
★ ‧₊˚ ⋆ sam claflin. cis man. he/him … now playing: best day of my life by tom odell — oh , that ? might be cillian sinclair , an thirty six year old high school english teacher who’s been hanging around wicklow ridge for twenty years , just long enough to stir up some trouble if you ask me. they’re a regular at old willow trail , always going on about “difficulties come when you don't pay attention to life's whisper” like it’s gospel. around town , folks say they’re gregarious & curious — but when they think no one’s listening ? it’s more like cautious & indecisive. are the rumors true ? maybe not … but it sure makes life around here a little more interesting.
statistics
full name: cillian oliver sinclair. nickname: cil. date of birth: february 20th, 1989. age: thirty - six. birthplace: london, england. gender: cis man. pronouns: he/him. orientation: bisexual & biromantic. languages spoken: english, minimal french.
height: 5ft 11. hair: mousy brown. eye color: green. scent: bergamot, pepper, amber & vanilla. dominant hand: left. scars: none. facial hair: tends to flit between a full beard & stubble. clothing style: sweater vests thrown over casual tees, linen shirts, glasses worn nowhere near as often as they should be, fisherman beanie hats in the winter, thrifted pieces.
zodiac: pisces. positive traits: creative, empathetic, & (mostly) optimistic. negative traits: easily-distracted, impulsive & conflict avoidant. temperament: sanguine (cheerful disposition, lively, charismatic & imaginative). likes: reading, time outside, bike rides, documentaries, black coffee, good finds at the thrift store, cooking. dislikes: waking up too early or too late (there's a very fine line), insects, long car rides, petty arguments, people who take themselves too seriously. pets: a capricious cat named alice from a previous relationship.
cillian was born following his parents' long struggle with fertility; ultimately doted upon but to a certain degree sheltered -- as if one wrong move, and the thing they'd hoped so hard for would shatter. it's safe to say cillian knew love, but he also knew overbearing. by his early teens, he coped with it through tiny acts of rebellion; shoplifting a packet of sweets to sharing a few cans of cider with his friends in the park. he was never really bad boy material, though, and that's as far as it ever got.
growing up, it was clear he was gifted creatively & extremely passionate over most forms of self-expression; drawing, music, but predominantly writing. if unable to be found, he could most likely be found perched in the same park he had his first early tastes of alcohol -- sketching the ducks in the pond or with his nose buried in a book. although a happy kid, he fantasized about a life less ... london. it was almost as if by fate that his family decided to relocate to vermont, chasing the promise of a small town life after his father was offered the chance to take over the family business (tbd) back in his own hometown. at sixteen years old it was a huge change, but it didn't take long for cillian to feel at home in wicklow ridge.
most who knew him anticipated a career in the arts, a renowned author or at least a successful journalist, so it was a surprise when cillian ultimately settled into a job in teaching. of course there are periods of time where cillian wonders if the former would have come true for him if he had dug his heels in more, tried that little bit harder, but there is a true passion for what he does that leaves him fulfilled. he's the teacher that really loves what he does, is always there to offer a shoulder to lean on or an ear to listen. besides, he still makes sure to schedule time for his writing, though it's more of a hobby these days.
tid-bits
wears his heart on his sleeve. has had his fair share of close-calls and heartbreaks, but is still waiting on the real deal. he nearly made it, nearly put a ring on his ex partner of four years, but ultimately the sanctuary he found in stability and comfort wasn't reciprocated, and they set off in search of something else -- leaving cillian with a heavy heart and a grumpy, now ten year old cat, whom he is sure is slowly planning his demise (though has a penchant for a good lap cuddle every now and again)
still very much fond of sitting in nature, whether its on a long walk or hunching over a sketchpad.
has the goofiest laugh and grin .. chuckles at his own jokes and is the guy that will laugh at yours when nobody else does
kinda has grandpa tendencies at the ripe age of thirty6 .. loves ending the evening with a strong cup of tea and a record playing while he reads, very partial to a knitted sweater vest, turns checkout small talk into in-depth conversations while the queue behind builds up
is more lonely than he would ever let on. he fills his life with meaningful friendships and he feels content but there's definitely a bit of a void .. 👀
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