#sedulae

[nectarot]

his hands worry around an old silver chain, the feeling cool to callous. he feels weird and out of place, sitting in clean clothes and a well conditioned house. it's like something pulled straight from a decor magazine his mother would always look at while waiting a turn in the check out. she'd never actually buy them, but he sits with that picture of her, how nice she'd always dress just to go to the store or how she'd say buying a magazine is a waste of hard earned money ─ like the candy that was purposely displayed at his eye level that he only asked for once. when he can't sit with the ache of that picture for long, he watches through the blinds alongside @sedulae as if the quiet will get them, but the houses of alexandria sit quiet and magazine perfect.

the house floor is littered with make shift beds, fresh linens and couch pillows. not the old and torn up sleeping bags they've patched over with duct tape. this quiet is different, sitting peaceful and pretty like life once had. “ could be a nice place, you know? ” his voice is careful, a hum like the air kicking back on. he feels it at the back of his neckline, tickles him like bad feeling that he turns around again. he counts the bodies and recites their names like a prayer. the chain tightening around his forefingers, he unwraps it to repeat again just in the opposite direction. he pauses to linger at the familiar curve of her, how she's the closest to him at the end of the rug before it breaks to hardwood. beside that is judith, carl and michonne. rick's too worried to settle, checking in other houses just given to them as if they have teeth. even he half expects it too. “ don't think we would of made it much longer out there. ”

[nectarot]

“ this is awkward, right? ” the strings of lights hang from jackson's city house, a warmth draped and bouncing against old wood. there's a familiar sound of silver being plucked by the town's only band. it's caught off tune, old strings begging for retirement. there's a moment where she thinks of the music store, a trip gone sour. it's a familiar grip of grief like she has against a cool glass, she inhales as it sits taut in her chest. a second passed and it's breathed out, like she's still trying to find her footing back in jackson, back in 'tommy's house'. miller still painted on the side of the mailbox had faded with how much time has passed. it was stark at one point, joel repainted it sometime before that day. the old can of paint probably sits in the space spot he left it.

it had been the end of winter, spring peeking it's head in forming green fields on their land. the windows of the farm house had been open, letting the fresh air keep the house comfortable. she knows @sedulae's feet must of been cold, usually they're always socked and tucked behind her own legs each night. she'd only noticed because looking at the ache in her eyes made her feel sick in ways that still kept her up. it shares the same wood of grief that sits in a room with an opened window.

she can feel the wood floors beneath their feet carrying the rhythm that the band creates. “ real awkward, actually. ” her tones trails, eyes avoiding just like they had that one night. the admission feels better than the question, how long have you been back in jackson since i left you? how is j.j? how are you? to keep the threat of them she brings the glass to her mouth, it's oddly cool despite the season, but burnt amber still spreads on her tongue. it eases the swelling that had formed just enough to breathe again. ellie shifts against the bar, her forearms set for support. her fingers clench to keep the damage from showing, from what'd been taken. shame seems to burn at the back of her neck by how the room had began to feel a touch too warm.