#zach001

[unfilteredmus1ngs]

— Ruff around the edges || Reza & Zach —

Location: Grant Park

@mischicvous (Zach Quinn)

Reza leaned against the bench he was sitting, one arm resting on the back of the bench while the other holding his half-lit cigarette between index and middle finger, resting on his thigh as his leg cross on top of another. The weather was surprisingly warm and sunny, considering that more often than not the sky would be wet and dreary. Other townsfolks took advantage of the warm weather too, and he watched as families and friends gather under the sun with picnic baskets in hand. It was as if the deaths and vigil were a thing of long past and not something that happened just a few days ago.

He supposed it was another way of people dealing with what happened. Irreverence and a lack of holding the past as sacred is a hopeful sign of progress. Nature would find a way to heal. Sometimes it healed a little stupid, but it would heal nevertheless, and people had no other way than to move forward.

“Argh, what the fuck?!” Reza jumped onto the bench when some random dog approached him.  “Shoo. Go to your owner. The fuck you want with me?” Eyes wildly searching before his gaze landed on a tall blond trotting behind. “Oi, this your dog?” he pointed at the dog, wagging its tail as if waiting for Reza to pet it or something.

[deathmaycome]

@zachariaswinchester location: the ritz date: 22nd december, 2020

The annual Warden Christmas party was considered by some to be the event of the season, even the year, to those who had less going on in their lives. Each year, the festivities grew wilder and more extravagant, and each year on the morning after, the tabloids had their fun. Pictures blasted across the front pages of magazines and news sites showing drunk trust fund babies and their celebrity friends staggering out onto the streets; the occasional morsel of information about drug use in bathrooms; sometimes a champagne fuelled argument, if they were lucky. It was all very boring, really, standard gossip fare that lined bins a day later and was forgotten just as quickly. Real journalists were invited, of course, but they were the ones paid off by the rich to take pretty pictures and write nice things about the family and their choice of caterers. May was never invited. But she had long suspected that the introduction of a more objective reporter might unearth some news that would last longer than the hangovers.

She had been circling The Ritz for nearly twenty minutes, trying to con or sweet-talk her way in. After the doormen asked her to spell her surname four times and refused her entry, and her flirtatious nature didn’t extend to the very obviously straight dishwasher lurking by the kitchen door, she was half-considering chancing it through an open window when she spotted him. The Warden who wasn’t a Warden. Winchester. Most hadn’t known he existed until one day he was dragged out of a flower shop and into the spotlight by his cousins, though whether it was willingly or unwillingly was yet to be determined. As she approached, she noted that he had the open, youthful face of someone who looked like they trusted fairly easily. And stuck for other options, May was going to have to exploit that, or at least get a quote out of him.

“Hey,” she called, hoping not to startle him too much. “You’re Zacharias, right? Winchester?” She came to a halt in front of him, her best warm smile spread across her face. “Aren’t you enjoying the party? I heard it was supposed to be a good one.”