“You know, nothing makes me quite as crazy when you’re quiet like that, Wrenbird.” Sebastian reaches out and drags two gentle fingers along the younger man’s collarbone. “Something on your mind? You can tell me. Violet’s in Ibiza with her new ‘personal assistant’ although I’ve got a strong suspicion he’s doing more than ‘assisting’ her. And Reaghan is… god only knows.” A tired guilt flashes across his sharp features before he waves it away.
He cups Wren’s face in his hands and stares tenderly at his eyes, then his lips. “You can tell me anything, you know?”
It’s not fair in the slightest that another person can have this much sway over Wren's emotions, every soft and well-spoken word a physical tug at closeness. His eyelids flutter shut at the touch of Sebastian's fingers but the sensation is short lived at the mention of the other man’s absent wife and daughter.
He wishes he could control this part of himself as stringently as every other aspect of his life; carefully constructed and moderated for minimum impact. In fact, he’s well aware there is no excuse for what he's doing, what they're doing but something happens when those dark, liquid eyes lock on his own. There is a heat and a heaviness like Wren has never felt before; a drunken, syrupy feeling.
He’s in love with this man. In love with the musical tone of his voice, and his wild, beautiful theories about literature and his dry, self-deprecating humor. He’s in love with the way he holds his face when they tangle hopelessly in cotton sheets (with a thread count higher than Wren’s monthly salary), demanding his attention and gaze with an authority that makes Wren feel like melting.
Sebastian is comfort and desire, a mind to engage, a kindred spirit in a world that Wren can barely tolerate sometimes. And though he very much belongs to Sebastian, Sebastian does not belong to him.
“…We-“ Wren turns away from his professor because he can hardly stand the intensity of his eyes right now. He swallows thickly, forces himself to disengage by taking a step backwards. “I can’t do this anymore.”
He barked a small noise of warning that came too late as his hands as Wren stumbled backwards into a stack of dining chairs. On instinct his hands moved in preparation to catch the male though Wren was quick to straighten himself without help. Despite himself the corners of his mouth quirked with a hint of humor. Barring serious injuries he could appreciate the sweetness of the flustered behavior. His mouth opened to speak, but before he could question the fumbling chef Wren rushed another round of gratitude. Arthur tried not to smile too wide. At this rate he was going to look like a lunatic. He waited patient for a pause in his tangled words. “I’m looking forward to it.” Even he didn’t know whether he was talking about the tart or seeing Wren again next week.
“I’ll see you next week.” He raised a hand in farewell as Wren retreated before walking back to his table where his friend sat. Much like Veata herself her smile was subtle, but it spoke volumes alone. Arthur didn’t doubt that she could spot his aching grin even if he stood across the street from her. “How did it go?” she questioned. He noticed as he seated himself that there was a generous tip next to her tea. Arthur made a mental note to not leave her alone before he’d paid next week. “It went great. He loved them. You were right about it not being too much.” He looked across the table, and realized then that her smile matched his unknowing one as he said with a hint of pleasure, “I’m coming back to see him again next week. He’s doing a tart.”
Sweet Alyssum. He considered the delicate flowers laid on the table next to his half-finished tart. The florist had promised him these were the perfect non-traditional choice of flower for showcasing his affections, but he couldn’t help speculating that he would have felt more confident about the decision had Veata been there to offer her two cents. Not that he didn’t trust the florist’s professional opinion. His muted brooding was interrupted when his waitress came bustling to the table with a pitcher of water. “Thanks.” He smiled at her on a reflex as she took his glass then before she could leave he continued, “Could you do me a favor? If you could let Wren know that an Arthur is here to see him when he has the chance I would appreciate it.”
He nodded towards the three white flowers. She would want to know the reason for the request. “I brought him flowers, and I was hoping to give them to him before I had to head out for work again. If he doesn’t have the time though it’s fine. I can come again another time.” Did that sound too persistent of him? That was the concern he’d questioned about himself at least ten other times in the past week. He was starting to feel like a self-made broken record. The waitress nodded in understanding, and Arthur would have sworn as she turned to leave his table that there was an almost smug satisfaction in her smile. Why? He wouldn’t know. It didn’t occur to him that gossip had been making the rounds after his visit last week.
When Reaghan finally finds her boss in the office, he’s almost completely obscured by stacks of recipe books and an open laptop computer. She’d forgotten that he was quite involved in planning the menu for one of the patron’s retirement parties and had strongly advised his staff from disturbing him during this process. Reaghan however, is seventeen, blunt as a hammer, and seems to derive great pleasure from making those her senior uncomfortable. She breezes into the room without pretense of knocking and announces in the most saccharine, chipper way, “Wrenny, your dreamboat future husband is here to see you again.”
There is a sharp inhale from amidst the reference material, then the slow letting out of breath that signifies a prayer for patience. “What did I say about---“
“He looks extra yummy today, so you might want to prepare yourself.” She interrupts, peeking around the laptop screen to beam evilly at Wren. It’s just as she suspected – the chef has high color in his cheeks, and he’s glaring back at her with lips parted and a scandalized expression, as though he isn’t sure what part of her speech he should address first.
“I--- You--- You need to get back to your section. Don’t you have open tables?” Wren stands, hiding his embarrassment with indignation as he fusses with the sleeves of his button-up shirt and avoids eye contact.
“Don’t worry Boss, I’m totally on it!“ She hustles her manager out of the cramped confines of the office, and adds under her breath, “Like that dude’s gonna be on you.”
“Reaghan! You’re behaving so inappropriately---”
“I’m kidding, Jesus, take it down a notch.” And before Wren can chastise her further, she’s running up the wooden staircase that leads to the loft level of the restaurant. Several moments pass in which the chef composes himself, smoothing down his clothing and taking deep breaths through his nose until he’s certain that the nervous heat in his face has subsided.
Arthur has his back to Wren when he enters the dining room, but Wren can already picture his smile, as wide and blindingly earnest as the previous times that he’s frequented the restaurant. As he nears the familiar table (closest to the back garden, with a radiant view in the springtime – the scent of fresh produce and earth as heavy as the boughs of the lemon trees), he almost turns on his heel to retreat to the socially safe haven of his office, but as if on cue--- Arthur turns and notices him.
There’s uncertainty in his expression, but also the whispers of pure, unfettered joy, because yes, the other man came back, and yes, he looks comfortable, sun-warmed and sated from the food as he sits in his restaurant.
“…Hello Arthur.” A tentative, shy smile passes over Wren’s lips as he awkwardly places his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and fusses with his inhaler. “Was everything to your liking?”
The letter arrives on a cloudy Thursday afternoon, the sky looking bruised, and clouds pregnant with rain. Riloh’s home early, not for any reason other than the fact that he’s just been fired from his second job in six months. There is a satisfying tingle of pain along the crest of his knuckles, the skin split and violently red from having put a fist through the thin mirror behind the bar at his work, right into the drywall.
He expects he’s going to be getting a visit from the cops sometime today for the property damage, and the general terrorizing of his co-workers, and it really should phase him more than it actually does, but he can’t be bothered to give half a fuck at the moment.
As he enters his wreck of an apartment building, he’s hit with a wave of warm, stagnant air (the A/C having lost it’s will to function around the same time as the majority of the building’s tenants), and he fumbles with an injured hand to retrieve his mail, more out of habit than actual concern.
There are coupons for pizza, a Thai take-out menu, phone bill, more pizza coupons, and then… a letter.
The envelope is cool and smooth, but it feels strangely damp, as though it were left in the rain. The edges look dirty, the yellowing paper smudged with gray. He flips it over to get a look at the sender’s info, and drops every other piece of junk mail – papers falling to the ground erratically.
M. Harmon
12 Bachman Rd
Silent Hill, VA
24599
Keep reading
With each kilometer closer to their destination and each minute concluded on the hands of his watch, Wren had begun to experience a sense of inexplicable dread. It was not the klaxon alarm of his regular panic – all shorted breathes and rapid heartbeat - but the syrupy, slow crawling of something haunted that has invaded your normally rational mind, darkening it’s corners.
Three times over, the darker-haired twin had bid Riloh to pull over and turn around, convinced that their endeavor was better left forgotten, his stomach in knots. Three times over his brother had accused him of being a coward (an assertion he sadly doesn’t disagree with), and continued to drive doggedly - eyes bright and feverish, despite their lack of rest.
A map of West Virginia lays open against the dashboard and Wren studies it, if only to relieve himself of the curse of an overactive neurosis, the inability to look out the window and be swallowed in by the unnerving nightfall of the countryside, and his aversion to the possibility of communication with a brother he is yet to forgive. In fact, when he had first received his mother’s letter in his mailbox, he was certain it had something to do with Riloh’s monstrous capacity for cruelty.
Even now, he would not put it past the other man to suddenly stop the vehicle, pull out a party horn and document Wren’s reaction on his mobile at such an elaborate guise. His sight strays to Riloh, knuckles tight and ghostly looking against the steering wheel, face strained in a way that he’s never seen, and his previous thought loses some credibility.
[This is killing him as much as it’s killing me.]
The insight brings no comfort, and his vision tracks back onto the road – headlights cutting a minimal distance in the oppressive fog and nighttime. They round a corner, and the twins catch a glimpse of something metallic on the blacktop, before the radio unleashes an unbearably loud torrent of sound and dies. Riloh slams on the brakes, and they exchange wide-eyed gazes, breathing cacophonous in the enclosed cab of Wren’s hatchback.
Wren leans forward to the resistance of his seat belt, squints to make out the obstruction.
[Is that a---?]
“It’s a fucking motorcycle.” Riloh spits, already unbuckling his seatbelt to search and destroy. “Right in the middle of the goddamn road.”
“Wait-“ Wren hovers a hand over his brother’s arm, careful not to touch as if the volatility might very well burn his fingers. He’s frightened, of what he doesn’t know, but every facet of his being is pleading him to remain in the safety of the car.
“You’d think if the guy was going to take a spill, they’d at least move the wreck off the road, Jesus fucking Christ—“
[What if we’re the first ones to discover the crash?]
Shame floods into every nerve ending in Wren’s body, the possibility that the cyclist might be lying out there, injured, making him grit his teeth behind his lips. He unbuckles his own seatbelt, flips the hood of his jacket up, and then grabs his flashlight to follow.
If possible, the night seems blacker outside than inside, the forest that hugs the road closing in around them with it’s inky branches. The temperature has a bite to it, the kind of cold that plunges it’s fingers into one’s lungs and stays there, and their exhalations are visible in the air, brief interruptions to the fog. Wren closes the distance between his twin and himself, fear and bile rising in his throat, the proximity providing only a slight reprieve.
Upon closer inspection, the blacktop looks burnt with skid marks (as if the cyclist had had only seconds to brake and had lost control) leading up to a motorcycle on it’s side. Broken glass and debris sparkle in the glow of the headlights and Riloh kneels down next to it. Wren’s torch illuminates the back of his head (blond hair already wet and clinging) before passing the beam around them for the rider.
“Shit, look at this-“ Riloh’s voice is dampened by the patter of rain, as he shifts the bike to reveal a dark handprint, kept intact under the safety of the motorcycle’s body. It looks like dried black paint, two fingers and a thumb making the heaviest impression—
“Is that blood?” Wren asks, syllables trembling, hands tightening around the barrel of the flashlight.
“There’s more.”
The two men follow the fading tracks past the illumination of the vehicle’s headlights, and by now Wren is sick with worry, not even bothering to conceal how closely he’s shadowing Riloh.
[There!]
Two boot-clad feet [hopefully attached to a complete body, the chef thinks somewhat hysterically] peak out from the thick shrubs and the twins rush towards them.
[Oh God, please be okay, please be okay---]
There’s a person lying on their back amidst the brambles and thick grass, face obscured by a helmet, arms crossed eerily over their chest like a corpse in a funeral parlor, rust stained hands at rest above their sternum in a partial prayer position. The image is enough to trigger the beginnings of an asthma attack in Wren, throat constricting, and chest tight.
“Is he---?”
“Hey, you alright?” Riloh yells (sounding more annoyed than concerned), and before Wren can stop him, plods at the man’s shin with his foot. The figure doesn’t budge, it’s limbs looking heavy.
“Riloh, don’t do that, he could have broken bo---“ Wren hisses, then recoils when the figure sits up abruptly as if electrocuted, terrified gasp escaping from behind the visor.
“You’re not kidding.” Théo muses. “There was some local rich guy that the Higher Up’s were entertaining the other day. Said the Jaeger Bay was “too noisy” and “too cold”. Had to stop working for twenty minutes so he could enjoy his experience.”
Of course, they couldn’t change the temperature in the hangar for him, and he’s almost sure that Katie had commented that she hoped the guy froze his balls off.
The mechanic doesn’t hold grudges, they take too much time and effort, but he remembers agreeing and the annoyance he felt that day hanging up in a harness by Kodiak’s knee joints, unable to do his job. He watched Big Money strut around like he owned the place and it’s people. “Sometime we gotta dance for funding though, I get it.”
The next question throws him a little bit, makes him think that Wren is always on duty, even when he’s not. It makes him respect him and worry about him at the same time. “I got something at the place where I got your Americano. Thanks. Etez-vous?”
Not uncommonly, Wren habitually contemplates what types of cuisines and tastes that the people he encounters are partial to, Théo not being an exception of any kind.
His appearance suggests he’s very much the “meat, potatoes and bread” kind, but the younger man knows better than to judge on appearances alone (his chef de garde-manger has one of the most defined palettes that he has ever encountered, yet also a mullet, a pick-up truck named Betsy, and a tattoo of Animal from the Muppets).
He leans forward, the movement a minor one, even if his curiosity is not. “What did you end up choosing to eat?”
The use of French is almost entirely missed, the mechanic’s incorporation of it into his gruff speech so smooth and liquid, it was as though he had not switched languages midway through at all.
[Was I just spoken to in French?]
[It’s possible those words are the extent of his knowledge.]
[His accent was impeccable, don’t fool yourself.]
[Perhaps instead of gaping at him like a fish, you can respond in French as well, frumpy Montréal accent and all.]
“…Je n’ai plus faim, merci.” The chef’s words are subliminally soft, a literal testing of waters – but all the same clear and concise. He also takes the opportunity to glance at the massive analog flip-clock above the Mess Hall entrance, and adds this time in English with a terse smile, “I’ve only five minutes remaining in my break, anyway.”
Tagged By;; @thebrokenmarionette, @harakiriheartbeat
Tagging;; No one, apparently you’ve already all done it. Haha.
bold = always / often ; italic = sometimes
1. smoking: the action or habit of inhaling and exhaling the smoke of tobacco or a drug.
2. binge drinking: the consumption of an excessive amount of alcohol in a short period of time.
3. drug abuse: the habitual taking of illegal drugs.
4. nail biting: a common body language sign of anxiety/tension.
5. lip biting: a common body language sign of anxiety/tension.
6. night owl: a person who is habitually active or wakeful at night.
7. early bird: a person who rises, arrives, or acts before the usual or expected time.
8. negative attitudes: a philosophy of approaching life with criticism & pessimism.
9. positive attitudes: a philosophy of approaching life with optimism & confidence.
10. swearing: the use of offensive language.
11. superstitious: an irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.
12. inspecting fingernails: a common body language sign of boredom.
13. scratching your neck: a common body language sign of uncertainty.
14. foot and finger tapping: a common body language sign of stress/impatience.
15. nose touch: a subtle body language sign of deceit.
16. flipping hair: a common body language sign of craving attention.
17. twirling hair: a common body language sign of flirtation.
18. cracking knuckles: a common body language sign of readiness.
19. hands behind back: a common body language sign of confidence.
20. finger pointing: a common body language sign of authority.
21. hands on hips: a common body language sign of readiness.
22. hands in pockets: a common body language sign of mistrust/reluctance.
23. frequent touch: a common body language sign of warmth/familiarity.
24. throat - clearing: a common body language sign of rejection/doubt.
25. jaw - clenching: a common body language sign of hostility.
26. eye - rolling: a common body language sign of irritation.
27. head - tilt: a common body language sign of interest.
28. whistling: to emit high - pitched sound by forcing breakthrough a small hole between one’s lips or teeth; usually to a tune.
29. humming: make a low, steady continuous sound like that of a bee; usually to a tune.
30. perfectionism: refusal to accept any standard short of perfection.
31. photographic memory: the ability to remember information or visual images in great detail.
32. paranoia: a mental condition characterised by delusions of persecution, unwarranted jealousy, or exaggerated self - importance, typically worked into an organised system.
33. exaggeration: a statement that represents something as better or worse than it really is.
34. intuitive: using or based on what one feels to be true even without conscious reasoning; instinctive.
35. quick - witted: showing or characterised by an ability to think or respond quickly & effectively.
36. interrupting: breaking the continuity of a conversation with one’s own statements.
37. doodling: to scribble or make rough drawings, absentmindedly.
38. irritable: having or showing a tendency to be easily annoyed.
39. gambling: to play games of chance for money; bet.
40. travel - sick: suffering from nausea caused by the motion of a moving vehicle, boat, or aircraft.
41. sensitive: having or displaying a quick & delicate appreciation of others’ feelings.
42. melancholy: a feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause.
43. chewing gum: the exercise of chewing flavoured gum which is not intended for swallowing.
44. fidgeting: to make small movements, especially of the hands & feet, through nervousness or impatience.
45. skeptical: not easily convinced; having doubts or reservations.
46. neat - freak: compulsively obsessed with cleanliness.
47. gossiping: divulging personal information about others.
48. prim: feeling or showing disapproval of anything regarded as improper; stiffly correct.
49. abbreviating: giving others nicknames/shortening names/giving pet names.
50. having a catchphrase: having a sentence or phrase typically associated with a specific person.
Arthur could not help how his heart sank deeper into the mirth of budding affection. He liked how passion looked on Wren – liked how it flushed his cheeks and brightened the blues of his eyes with bashful cheer. His smile was more cautious than it was radiant, but Arthur found that it caused an uproar of butterflies in his stomach. It felt honest. Here was a look he would like to see last. “I did.” It wasn’t a white lie. Arthur meant it. He would have felt a pang of guilt otherwise if he hadn’t. Most white lies were harmless – an attempt of common ground that happened at the start of relationships – but Wren was so genuine in his reaction that even the subtle differences in his demeanor were impossible for Arthur to miss.
The focus of his attention had become lost in Wren, and it was not until the woman brushed past them with a cute imitation of a car horn that he realized she had been speaking to them. On a reflex his head turned over his shoulder after the woman as she marched with another in tow. Piper. He chuckled in good nature as she deflated at the authoritative snap then winked when his eyes met hers. It was apparent that she felt comfortable around Wren even in a professional setting. Arthur turned back to face the head chef. “I’m sorry.” The cheerfulness in the tone of his voice the crinkled corners of his eyes told a different story. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you while you were working. It’s just that I’m only ever in this area when I’m on lunch.”
“Would you – “ He wanted to ask him to dinner, but Veata’s warning reminded him that he needed to take his time echoed in his head. Too much at once might turn Wren off of him. “Would you mind if I brought flowers again next week?” This piece in particular Veata had helped him with. He’d seen himself horror stories of how she was too polite to outright reject some of the men that imposed themselves on her. To him her discomfort had been clear as day, but somehow those men had never taken notice of it. Arthur didn’t want to be that person or to put Wren in the awkward position of a straightforward rejection; Veata had crafted for him the question that could tell him whether or not he was on the right track without the pressure on Wren to be blunt.
The moment is fleeting; his emotions buoyed up by having someone genuinely appreciate his dessert (the products of more than a great deal of love, practice and research), before the sharp reality of the looming dinnertime prep pushes him off that particular cloud.
“I--- Yes, of course.” He’s remiss to what he’s referring to in response to Arthur, eyes drawn toward his kitchen, mentally compiling checklists, reviewing reservations (a 12-top at seven p.m. tonight), the new line cook coming in for five this evening, how many of the staff have completed their mise en place-
Distraction twists his features now, a crease of concern appearing between heavy brows, hands unconsciously seeking the comfort and smoothness of the inhaler that is a permanent fixture in the front pocket of his apron, while the other brings the asters gently against his chest.
[The asters that he brought for you-]
Wren somehow finds the social decency to duck his head apologetically, a minute down-turning of the corners of his lips. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I really should be returning to work.”
The chef makes an awkward escape backwards, bumps against a stack of spare dining chairs that the wait staff have apparently forgotten to move [someone’s going to get their hide tanned for that], then almost as an afterthought (or more accurately a mental slapping of oneself) blurts out: “Thank you again, for these. They really are very beautiful and---“
“I’m doing a Normande style apple tart next week, so hopefully-“
[Hopefully, what, Wren?]
“I mean, it, it-it would be lovely for-“
[Good Lord, stop talking before you irreparably embarrass yourself.]
“Goodbye, Arthur.” A flustered smile here, then a hasty retreat to the safety of the hot and chaotic gallery.
“No. Not for the restaurant. I brought them for you.” Unlike Wren he would have found it more difficult to look away from his face than to not. He found himself drawn in by the blush that crept across his cheeks as realization dawned upon him, and felt his heart leap forward with the stirring of hesitant but eager hope. People thought confidence excused him from the pains of nervousness. That was not true. Arthur felt that same bashful anxiousness that anyone that had ever taken a chance did. His eyes softened as Wren began to stumble over his words. It was a small comfort – a tiny seed of hope that opened in his chest. “You’re welcome.“ He tried not to grin too hard, but knew he was failing at it. “I’m happy to hear that you like them.”
Arthur wondered if Wren ever paid him any mind, or if to him he was a stranger. The same could not be said for him. He’d taken notice of Wren within weeks of Veata introducing him to the bistro. The spark of attraction had come one afternoon when she’d requested to speak with Wren to pass on her compliments. There had been something about his eyes as he spoke, and in the month after Arthur had tried to find reasons for those blue eyes to look to him, but he was just one face out of countless others. No reason to remember him. He plied Wren with a gentle attempt to continue the conversation, “The Lemon-Berry Savarin that you served last weekend was amazing.” He breathed a soft chuckle. “I’m not usually a fan of sweets, but yours was perfect.”
Even as the other man confirms that the flowers are indeed, really for him, Wren finds himself glancing at his face suspiciously for any trace of jesting, nervousness replaced by caution. The instinct is so ingrained and second nature, that he could not stop it if he tried. (Anyone who believes that they can arrive unscathed out of years of bullying is unfortunately and sadly, delusional. If being on the receiving end of some rather unpleasant jokes has taught Wren anything, it is that cruelty will often outpace kindness in human beings.)
But either Arthur is a masterful actor, or he is as genuine as his features suggest. (He is also impossibly handsome when he smiles, and Wren’s careful heart hates him for taking note of this detail.)
The compliment to his baking punches a hole in his prudently laid defenses.
“…You enjoyed my Savarin?” A flush of happiness accompanies the tentative smile on his face, and for the first time he looks at Arthur levelly. “It’s a variation of my grand-mère’s recipe. I tried to find a balance between the tart and the sweet ratio. ”
“Yeah, we’re all complete sluts for Boss’ Savarin.” A voice quips from behind Arthur, followed by one of the restaurant’s line cooks, a tall and gangly redhead. “Beep beep, coming through. Oh hey, nice flowers! Want me to get you a vase for those, Boss?”
“No. What I want is for you to get back to your prep station, and for it to be spotless in fifteen, Piper.” The authority in Wren’s tone is conscious, but the accompanying bite is not.
Piper deflates comically, but manages to give Arthur a wink and a nudge before escaping back to his duties, much to Wren’s chagrin.
