wild mountain thyme

laurence “laurie” sutton writing blog for bleedingheartsfm.

[wildmead]

LAURENCE "LAURIE" SUTTON, 25, HEALING HIVE APIARY

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[wldngmn]

location: swan lake

with: open starter (1/3)

It's starting to look like this toy car is done for.

It's motor is just making whirring sounds but the wheels have stopped turning so it just grinds itself into the dirt. "Awe, come off it," he throws his head back and releases a sigh into the sky then redirects a disgruntled expression to the bright red toy car before stomping over toward it. He picks it up, gives it a good hearty shake, because that fixes most things, and then drops it back onto the dirt.

Seems to have done the trick cuz that car is off to the races. Literally. It's somehow doubled it's speed and goes haywire even without him pressing any buttons on the remote control in his hands. "Wait, wait, wait," Pond presses the buttons frantically, trying to make it stop, trying to make it turn around, trying to make it do anything but the damned machine is fixing to ignore everything. Garbage toy! No wonder it was in the actual garbage. Or beside the garbage. It had clearly been intended to be thrown out when Pond found it and stuck in some batteries. It drove around town just fine but apparently dirt roads and uneven terrain were not for this toy car made!

He starts booking it after the car, flipflops flying off his feet as he runs. It's whizzing directly toward the lake! Pond shouts ahead of him to someone in their direct path, "Stop that car!" He throws the remote control trying to knock the car off course but it just clatters and breaks apart as it hits the ground, batteries scattering.

[wildmead]

He’s on a mission, eyes straight forward and long legs moving with purpose. Nestled carefully in his arms is a full crate of mead for the Herrings—a special order of the strong and spicy variety, being traded off for a summer’s worth of fresh fish. (A very worthwhile trade; fish jerky is ideal for camping.)

It’s unfortunate timing, really, that he ends up in the path of a tiny, out-of-control vehicle, about to blast straight in front of him and careen directly into the water. He doesn’t even have a free hand to work with, and he’s certainly not about to sacrifice perfectly crafted bottles of mead for a toy.

But he will stick out his foot. Y’know, to just see if he can stop it, and return this presumably beloved toy to the town child it belongs to. A good deed. A kind, neighborly act.

It’s simple enough—his foot slides out with one swift movement, the car slamming against an outstretched shoe (thank the Goddess he didn’t wear his sandals today)—although the sheer speed of the car does almost throw him off kilter, especially with no hands to steady himself.

But he recovers, crate still carefully cradled, and it’s then that he’s able to get a look at the source of the shout, eyes narrowing almost immediately when they meet their target.

Pond has a reputation. They are similar in age, too. So he’s had to hear for a full year now—from his mom and from Misty and from whoever else feels the need to get in their two cents—that he better make smarter choices than that. (Of course, there was no world in which Laurie would pursue a life of crime. The only criminal act he has ever committed is camping in undesignated areas.)

But right now, he doesn’t really care about all that. No, he’s upset that Pond threw him off schedule for a toy. And he’s notably alone—not a child in sight.

Well. At least Laurie prevented trash from falling into the lake.

“Be more careful.” He says, straight and stern, as Pond trots up to the scene. His foot is still holding the car in place, invisible driver uselessly revving against the immovable object of his sneaker. “Why do you even have this?” Spoken like a man who doesn’t currently have a shelf of detailed bug toys sitting on a bedroom shelf.

[moonlitmontana]

For a brief moment in time, she’s looking up at him, crease between her brows as she watches him gulp down a few swigs of his mead, and she’s fourteen again. All Ken, did I offend Laurie? and them laughing right in her face. Dude, he doesn’t mind.

Maybe he doesn’t mind. But he does care – and thank the Lord, because Tanny was just starting to regret her little innocent hip-bump. And then his arm is out for her to take, but not in the safety of the forest, hidden behind the thick of the trees and under warmth of sleeping bags.

This is for everyone to see.

“Let’s!” she echoes, stupid grin plastered across her face. She doesn’t hesitate to loop her arm in his, wrist curled around his bicep and fingertips resting gently on his arm.

“I did, too,” she admits, watching her brother’s horse loop back through the square, polite and diligent even with a squirming child on her back. “She’s real sweet, and wicked fast when she wants t’be. Huck used t’–”

Her breath escapes her in a sharp exhale as she looks just beyond Pandora into the crowd, catching a twirl of familiar reddish-brown and another of black, together and – kissing?

No. There’s just no way in hell Josie is kissing Hiro, and there is no fucking way she just looked right at Tanny.

She doesn’t let herself check if she’s right. Instead, she looks at Laurie, who is right next to her and warm and offered his arm (even after watching her choke on the Mead of Doom). And past him, where Pandora is sauntering up, passenger-free and headed straight to nudge Tanny’s shoulder.

“Manners,” she whispers with a breathy laugh, redirecting her head so they can both pet her. “Say hi to Laur,” she urges, like a firm direction given to a shy sibling. It’s just dawned on her that Laurie has spent very little time around the farm itself – she’ll have to do something about that. Though he’s definitely seen the animals before, she doesn’t know how much of a first-name basis he’s on. “She never forgets a face,” she explains, patting Pandora’s back.

[wildmead]

What Laurie lacks in social awareness, he makes up for in situational awareness. While alone in the woods, any rustle in the bushes or notable shift in the weather could mark impending danger. And although the throngs of people filling the square hinder this awareness (too much noise, both visual and auditory), and although he’s not looking directly at her, eyes darting here there and everywhere but her face, he still catches when Tanny stops mid-thought, bright blue eyes momentarily stormy, aiming right past the horses.

There’s a brief moment of concern—Is it something I said?—before he follows where her gaze is pointed, catches the distant figures of Josie and Hiro locked in a passionate embrace he was most certainly not meant to see.

Really, the only feeling here is disappointment.

Tanny moves on quickly, although as her eyes shift back to warmth and move to meet his, her fingers press down ever so slightly into his forearm. He figures he shouldn’t be surprised that Josie’s best friend would also be unhappy with this development, unless there’s some other element here he’s missing.

…He did hear Josie going on and on about the Journal, about some piece of unfounded gossip regarding Tanny and Hiro… but there’s no way he’s read all these signs that incorrectly, right? He’s bad with this kind of stuff, but not that bad.

No. She’s here next to him, all light and laughter, arm looped through his, and they are going to enjoy this time together. He’s going to enjoy this time with her.

And with Pandora, of course.

“She’s smart, huh.” He reaches out a slow, measured hand, letting her get a good look at it first. “Better than me, at least. I forget faces all the time.” After he feels a sense of horse approval, he settles in for a few soft nose rubs.

“I do remember her, though. I've taken pictures when she’s out in the pasture.” He turns to Tanny then, eyes a bit wide. “I shoulda given those ones to you. They’re buried in a drawer, so no surprise you didn’t see ‘em. You’ll have to come by again.” This time, the invite warrants no embarrassment. "Maybe later today. Don't wanna forget."

And then he's unlooping his arm from hers, preparing to board their noble steed, who is standing still and patient. But he's mostly just standing, unsure what to do with himself.

[vespcrtines]

"Honey, there's no thievin' here and you know it," Misty laughs, her hand darting out to shoo a nosy little bee from his hair. Lord above, leave it to the Suttons to drag their honey-loving entourage with them wherever they roam. The bee hums off, none too fussed, and Misty lets out a fond little breath through her nose.

And bless him, Laurie Sutton, sweet as peach preserves, taking up a paper plate to fan her like some gallant storybook prince. She always did wonder how he and Wendy might’ve got on, or maybe Vernon, truth be told. Both of them stubborn as a rootbound rosebush, with their heads on straight and shoulders up straighter. Mm... Similar hearts, maybe, but that doesn’t mean they’d march to the same tune.

Well. That was neither here nor there.

"Oh, don’t you fret, baby," she grins, sighing as that blessedly cool air stirs the heat off her skin, "you weren’t walkin’ outta here without a stack for your honeybees to buzz over. I’d be run outta town if word got ‘round I let you leave empty-handed." She gives him a wink, a flour-dusted hand propping on her hip. Then, with a little tilt of her head, she catches his gaze, something playful and sharp glinting behind the warmth. Leaning in just enough to drop her voice, she teases, "But you ain't gettin’ off that easy, sugar. You go on and tell me now... who you got your eye on over by that board for a waltz? Hmm?"

She hums, feigning a thoughtful glance toward the square. "I swear I saw Miss Patty hoverin’ round one of them stalls like she was waitin’ for somebody tall and handsome to come spin her ‘cross the cobblestone. Could be your lucky day, huh?"

And Lord, if he so much as blushed, she’d be sure to tuck that away for later.

[wildmead]

Panic flashes behind his eyes—just a glint, almost too quick to notice. Does she know about Tanny? Everything until now had been fairly innocuous, he thought. Not enough to raise any eyebrows, at least. But if Misty knows, it’s bound to have already spread to every corner of this tiny town.

As much as he adores Misty, he does not understand her penchant for gossip. He finds other people’s affairs wholly uninteresting. Hearing about how the Callaghan kid cheated on his math test or Mrs. Singh’s latest haggling session at Rustic Relics brings him zero joy—in fact, he finds it actively tiresome, as his brain has the bad habit of storing all that useless info away, neatly tucked in a box that he has no desire to open.

And because he lacks much contribution to any and all conversations, he’s bound to get an earful of the latest news whenever he stops by the Happy Apple.

But if she knows about Tanny… it wouldn’t be the worst thing, he guesses, but he wanted to keep this just for them, just for a little longer, before their families find out and it becomes a whole spectacle.

And then she says Patty’s name, and he feels his body deflate.

“Ah, no, no—wasn’t plannin’ on dancin’ today.” He shakes his head, still waving the plate rhythmically, up and down. He's never been much of a dancer—that's more his sister's thing. But then he hears his Mom’s voice in his head, saying something about being polite and taking cues and… is that what this is? Does she want to dance? “Unless, uh… you wanted to?”

[moonlitmontana]

Tanny's light laugh picks up a little, genuinely amused by how amused Laurie is. Her lips feel like they're on fire, and she's sure there's a nice healthy flush in her cheeks, but she doesn't care. She's standing across from Laurie, and he's smiling and laughing, a sight as rare as a shooting star (though it seems to be his state around her more often than not these days).

For once, she's the one unable to hold eye contact, her bright blue eyes meeting his for a moment before she's staring into her (his) cup of mead. "I understand the vision," she admits, swirling the ice in the lavender before taking another soothing swig.

Her hands hold the cup on both sides, trying to soak up the cold from the ice, all the while trying not to think about the fact that their lips have now touched the same exact spot. When he asks his question, she glances up, following his gaze to the festivities beyond them.

And then, for the first time in 22 years, she realizes it's not about the activities themselves, but the company. At least, that's what's keeping her spirits high enough to not become an eyesore.

"Yeah?" Lower lip between her teeth, she shades her eyes as she scans their surroundings. "How 'bout the horses?" she asks, turning to look up at Laurie. "Huck brought Pandora, and she looked real excited..." Gently, she nudges his hip with hers, head nodding toward the horse rides.

[wildmead]

Laurie loves bugs. Really, he does—he can point at any old bug hanging out on a rotten stump or underneath a overturned stone and rattle off facts for days. And so he loves working at the apiary, surrounded by the comforting buzz of honeybees.

But, secretly? He's always wished his family also had some of the more traditional farm animals. Cows, chickens, pigs... oft the subject of his photography, and also the subject of much fondness. But of course, the stars in his heart are the horses—as a kid, fantasy nerd that he was, he'd always longed for his own Shadowfax.

He follows her gaze toward the horse rides, where children and only children are currently gathered, waiting in line for their turn to amble around town square. The click of hooves against cobblestone can be heard even from the Healing Hive booth, and he spots Pandora among the lineup, a multicolored crown of seasonal flowers standing stark against her black and white coat.

There's a brief moment of hesitation—he doesn't even really partake in the festival games, believing the prizes should be left to the kids. But there's no harm in a grown man taking a ride on a horse, right?

The rides are advertised for couples too, after all.

Is that what they are? ...Is that why she suggested it? With a playful little bump of the hip, no less.

His cheeks flush—easy enough to blame on the heat, but still obvious. He takes a quick sip of his fresh cup of mead; he's not usually one to rely on liquid courage, but he's also never been in the company of someone he liked quite this much. And then he offers his arm to her, trying to keep it as nonchalant as possible. (It's not.) "Yeah, let's do it."

And then they're walking toward the horses, getting in position behind the lineup of overeager, sugar-filled children. Her arm is still linked with his, hand resting on his bare skin. He's trying not to think about it too hard.

"So, uh... tell me more. About Pandora, I mean." He's back to struggling with the eye contact, looking at a lollipop that has tragically fallen into the dirt in front of them. "I always wanted a horse when I was a kid."

[vespcrtines]

If there was one thing Laurie Sutton has, it's timing.

Misty spots him just as the tail end of the lunch crowd trickles off, leaving her a precious sliver of quiet and a chance to breathe. She beams, a sunbright smile that reaches all the way up to her eyes. “Hiya, sugar!” she calls, one flour-dusted hand shooting up in a wave, even though he's already two steps from the stall.

Laurie is practically family at this point, honorary Apple without needing the last name, and she doesn't mind fussing over him one bit. Not even with the tired ache of busywork blooming between her shoulders.

Her hands moves on instinct, already fixing him a little sampler plate before his hello was out of his mouth. “You know me, honey—I’d send you off with the whole stall if I thought you had arms enough to carry it.” She slides a napkin under the edge of the plate, fingers tapping it into place without letting it slip on some honey. “I’m mighty proud of how the marigold apple fritters turned out today, though.” Said fritter is tucked into the center like a crown jewel, as glittery as gold. “Used a touch of orange blossom. Just to show off a little. Don’t tell Mama—she always said that kind of showboatin’ invites rain.”

She passes the tray over and fans herself with a dishtowel, half a joke, half a genuine attempt at survival. The oven has been pushing heat since before the sun came up, and Misty was just about scorched.

“Lord, I didn’t even ask—how’s your mama holdin’ up in that booth? I told her I’d send one of y’all back with a little pick-me-up once the line died down. Figured I could trust you not to let it go missin' on the way.”

[wildmead]

Part of living in a small town is this feeling of family wherever you go. The neighboring farms help each other out when a tractor breaks down or a batch of seeds don't take, the shop owners toss in a little extra just before you walk out the door, and the older ladies rocking on the porch at sundown give you a wave as you trod back home.

But no one feels as much like family as Misty Apple.

She always greets him with a sunny smile and a pet name, no matter how frazzled she is, no matter how many batches of treats she's juggling. And he always finds himself lingering longer than he would with most other people—less keen to just get in and out as fast as possible. He doesn't talk much, of course, but he enjoys listening, maybe even helping out where he can.

He takes the tray with a small smile, eyeing each sample closely. They are all near-perfect, fragrant and sugar-dusted. Despite the chaos of ingredients and mixing bowls and finicky ovens, the output always turns out delicious. He lifts the marigold fritter, biting into the golden crust, feeling each flavor pop on his tongue as he chews. She's got a way with flavors that is inspiring, especially now that he's on his mead venture. "Can I steal that combo for a batch of mead?" He asks after swallowing—his version of that was really delicious, thank you. "First bottle is yours."

Then there's a beat as he watches her fruitlessly wave the dishtowel, before he picks up a paper plate from the stack, nonchalantly fanning her as he replies. "She's doin' good—got us all takin' turns helpin' out." Luckily, the Suttons have it pretty easy at their booth. Handing out samples is certainly more relaxed than preparing heaps of fresh pastry. "She'd love one of these," he nods toward the partially eaten fritter on the tray, "but she also loves anythin' you make."

[moonlitmontana]

Hey Tan, he says, the most casual thing in the world, and it nearly makes her stomach leap through her throat. And he’s…smiling? Not that she hasn’t seen it before; in fact, now that she thinks about it, he’s smiled a lot around her. Only now does she realize it, under a relentless sun and a thin layer of sweat apiece.

He looks cute.

Her eyes squint a little as she studies the label – Tongue Twister – and her nose crinkles a bit in anticipation. Still, she’ll try anything once. “Don’t mind if I do,” she says, half-reluctant, albeit with that stupid smile still plastered on her face. The one she doesn’t even realize she’s doing, that comes out around Josie or Clem or Laurie, it seems.

“No chaser,” she insists, chest puffed in confidence as she takes the little cup from him, fingers lingering perhaps just a beat too long. It looks positively lethal, and she doesn’t let herself smell it until she’s taken a full sip. It sits heavy and syrupy in her mouth for longer than she’d like, burning on its way down. “Oh.”

It’s not even bad – the flavor is actually pretty good – but something about it is just plain wrong. Her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunches up as she reaches half-blindly for the closest thing that can save her: Laurie’s lavender mead. In a flash, she brings the cup to her lips, barely even letting it touch her as she takes a hurried swig of iced floral goodness. Then she sets it back on the booth, hand covering her mouth in disbelief.

“Sorry,” she says through her palm, glancing down at his drink. She can’t even bring herself to feel embarrassed yet about snatching his mead – she’s still trying to figure out if her tongue will ever function normally again. “That’s, uh—”

Tanny clears her throat, a slight chuckle escaping her. “That,” she points to the lavender cup, “is amazing.” And actually soothing her tongue back to normalcy. “Could I get a servin’?”

[wildmead]

Her cute puff of confidence and the brief contact of hands would've gotten more of a response if he wasn't braced for impact, eyes widened with anticipation.

Of course, he knows exactly what reaction to expect. Ken's grimace was downright reserved compared to his mother's face journey and his father's very straightforward declaration of "This is awful." And he hadn't even bothered asking for Josie's input—she likely would've taken one sip and started tearing up.

But still, he can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him as Tanny's whole face scrunches up, as she reaches desperately for his half-full cup, sweating from the sun. It's not even all that funny, really, but it's a beautiful day and she's a beautiful girl and he's continuing this trend of letting loose, letting the shield fall and allowing the light in.

"Sorry, sorry," he's waving away the laugh with one hand, "it's bad, I know. Just take that one," he gestures to the cup in front of her—his cup—before reaching underneath the tablecloth spread over the booth, grabbing a mead bottle nestled in one of many crates. He pops it open, topping off her cup and pouring himself a fresh one. All the while, he can't wipe the smile off his face. "You're brave for tryin' that, really."

And then he's stopping, and he's really looking at her, face a little red and lips a little puffy, and despite the heat and the crowds, he doesn't want this to just be a quick stop by the stand. If there is anyone who can pull him out from the comfort of the shade and the solitude, it's her.

"How 'bout I make it up to you?" His eyes move from hers, toward the swathes of people beyond the booth, toward the colorful tents set up with all sorts of entertainment he has not taken part in. "What haven't you done yet?"

[moonlitmontana]

closed starter / tanny & laurie

location: town square (rain of petals parade)

Tanny’s on her way to inconspicuously pin her secret message in gold to the bulletin board. She has a plan – as long as she can sneak by the Healing Hive booth, she’s in the clear. Her recipient will obviously know who she is, but she can’t go spoiling the timing. Slowly, slowly, she inches past the Sunlit Blooms stall, and – oh? Maybe there’s no need for her to sneak past at all.

There’s still a nervous pitter-patter in her chest, but her heart beats steady and strong, more confident after her camping trip with Laurie. Just a night with them out in the woods, a camera and some watercolors, a fire, equally comfortable silence and sound.

“Hey there,” she greets Laurie with a grin as she approaches, tucking the note under her homemade shield. Tanny knows there’s a slim-to-none chance that Laurie doesn’t know about her annual tradition with Josie, but she doesn’t exactly need him reading the paper and having more questions than answers. Plus, he’s got his own coming later.

She ditched her homemade gorget after about an hour in the heat, but she’s still sporting her billowy linen shirt and shorts to match Josie’s renaissance vibe. Her eyes, warm around the edges, finally drop to the setup before her. It seems like he’s got dozens of flavors of mead, though she knows it’s likely only a few. “Which is your least favorite?”

@wildmead

[wildmead]

Laurie is back on booth duty after making the rounds to all the stalls in the square—having picked up some goodies and gotten his fill of small talk for the time being. With a stomach full of pastry samples and a torso radiating heat from the beating midday sun, he's happy to be tucked underneath the protective shade of the Healing Hive booth, sipping on a small cup of iced lavender mead.

The mead sales have been a bit meager. In part due to the time of day—business usually picks up later, when the adults start overheating and needing a break from their screeching children—but also due to his flat, unapproachable expression. RBF, but he doesn't know that meme.

But then, his knight in shining armor (literally) approaches the booth, and his face immediately warms, smile bringing the slightest crinkle to his eyes. "Hey, Tan." Her skin glistens in the spring sunshine, clear skies bringing out the bright blue of her eyes.

And the question is a welcome surprise. He normally gets "What's your favorite?" or "What's your bestseller?" or, more than anything, "Which one is the sweetest?" He hasn't given it much thought until this moment—it's like picking a least favorite child, he reckons—but the answer does come to him immediately. (Just like every parent most certainly has a least favorite.)

"Oh, this one." He lifts the bottle—green Sichuan peppercorns and lime syrup, lovingly dubbed "Tongue Twister" by Ken, through gritted teeth after sipping it for the first time. Unfortunately, Uncle Shannon had goaded him into including far too much peppercorn, making for an overwhelming, numbing experience. (As expected, Shannon loves it.)

"Want to try it? It's uh... it's unique. You might need a chaser."

[wildmead]

event: rain of petals festival status: closed, @vespcrtines (misty)

As per usual, Laurie finds enjoyment at festivals by hanging off to the side, observing rather than engaging. Although this one in particular has always been a bit more interactive, with the whole Sutton family taking shifts at the Healing Hive booth, doling out samples of infused honeys and wildflower meads. (And although he’s not the best salesperson in the bunch—that honor goes to his father or Josie—he can talk anyone’s ear off about mead making.)

But now his mom has shooed him off, forcing him to take a break and enjoy the festivities. And as he ambles down the cobblestone, spring sunshine beaming down on bare shoulders, he’s actually… enjoying himself? He’s donning a Josie-crafted crown of mixed wildflowers, prominently featuring bluebells—his favorite. The air is bright with laughter, the smells of late spring wafting from all directions. And as an only occasional enjoyer of sweets, he’s a bit surprised when his wandering nose leads him directly to the Happy Apple booth.

“Hey, Misty.” There’s a soft smile, a gentle wave of greeting, before his eyes land on the array of colorful pastries spread on the table. The craftsmanship is truly impressive. How does she manage such delicate details? “Couldn’t help but stop by—smells great over here. Got any recommendations?”

[moonlitmontana]

Tanny watches him, eyes locked on the photographer even though he's partially hidden behind his tool. There's a kind of reverence about it, like the camera is an extension of himself – sacred and steady like a limb. There's no fumbling, no second-guessing, not even an ounce of hesitation as he snaps the picture. It nearly knocks the wind right out of her. She forgets to breathe until she hears the click. The firefly departs her hand, and she watches it go before turning to face Laurie sans-camera.

When he calls her photogenic, her smile slips out before she can stop it. It’s slow, soft, and far too pleased for someone trying to play it cool. "I know y'don't normally take photos of people, but–" Lord, there's absolutely no way for her to say it without sounding vain, so she just does. "If y'ever need someone...a subject–" she leaves it a that, giving a half-embarrassed, half-appreciative shrug. At least he'd get a two-for-one special taking photos of her; she's always being trailed by or trailing some animal. "Thanks, Laur," she accepts the compliment humbly.

And then he’s holding the camera out to her.

Her eyebrows fly to the sky as emotions run across her features – surprise first, then a hint of panic, then something else entirely. Something warm. A kind of honored disbelief. "Me?" she asks, as if there could possibly be anyone else he's talking about. Slowly, she reaches out, afraid the camera might vanish before she even reaches it. "Y'sure?"

But she takes it anyway, careful, cradling it the way one might hold a bird with a broken wing. It’s heavier than she expected. Or maybe that’s just the weight of what it means, being offered this piece of him to hold in her own hands.

Her eye finds the viewfinder, adjusting her gaze to the rectangular tunnel vision. And – shit. Now she actually has to find something to take a picture of. She scans her surroundings through the camera, looking not unlike a robot, until her eyes land on their belongings next to the little table, bags leaning on each other.

She motions for Laurie to join her side, as if he's seeing the tiny square for himself, too. For all she knows, maybe he is. Carefully, with steady hands, she frames their bags in the shot, the campfire's embers peeking out from just a few feet behind. "Do I just click now?" she whispers, like she might scare the fire away if she speaks too loud.

She feels him step closer to her, their shoulders brushing briefly, and the contact jolts her finger into pressing the button. "Shit," she exhales, lowering the camera once the 'click' has stopped ringing through the air. "I hope I got it."

[wildmead]

Outside of the rare times he's taken the yearly family photo or documented a town event, he's never considered humans as good subjects for his photography. The payoff of capturing something entirely out of his control has always been more tempting than telling someone where to stand, how to pose, how to hold their face. He barely even knows how to carry his own body—always a flat face and crossed arms, physical barriers against the outside world. So the idea of telling another person how to act natural has always felt a bit wrong.

But with Tanny, he didn't even have to give direction. She was in the moment, effortless and natural. And so this offer—of her as a future subject—well, it's sounding like something he intends to take up. (For the sake of experimenting with this new avenue of photography, of course. But also, more selfishly, because it's an easy excuse to spend more time together.)

And then she's taking the camera from his hands—subject becoming the artist. He's surprised at her surprise, at the reverence with which she holds the camera like it is a living, breathing being. "Yeah, I'm sure." Honestly, there are few people he would trust more with what is essentially his extra appendage.

He watches closely as she scans the area, his own eyes darting between her and the subjects she's considering. It's not often that he's curious about what other people are thinking, but this small glimpse into her process, into what she finds valuable, carries deep intrigue. He can only assume she treats her paintings similarly.

When she lands on their bags, his curiosity only grows. It's a much more symbolic choice than what he would normally photograph. Much more... sentimental, which brings a warm feeling to his chest. (Of course, he thinks photos of beetles on rotting logs are sentimental in their own way.)

At her motion, he moves a few steps closer. So close that he can feel the heat from her body. And at her question, he leans forward slightly, feeling the shock of contact as his shoulder brushes hers. Before he can answer, she's already clicked down.

"...Well, uh," he takes a half-step back, just enough so they aren't touching. They are still standing close, but he still feels no desire to create distance. "We can't know for sure until it's developed, but I think you got it."

There's a moment of silence as she gently passes the camera back to him, as he tucks it away, but it no longer feels like something he has to fill. When he does, it's because he wants to. "You brought your watercolors, right? I, uh... think it'd be neat to see how you do 'em now. Your paintings."

[ofmourningdoves]

Impolite.

Missy knows Laurie's momma raised him better than for every word to sound like a shot straight to the heart -- Josie's the town's little sister and Missy's only grievance with Kenny is the time they took from Laney back in the day, but outside of that, she's never found them to be particularly rude in the way the middle Sutton is.

But...she can't really fault him for that now, can she? The good Lord knows her penchant for a certain kind of dry cadence that most can construe as impolite herself. A memory of her momma hissing at her to not be so rude at church when she was a little girl, donning her Sunday best and a scowl only a small child hating the world can muster plastered against her lips.

....Huh. Maybe they're just a little too similar. She doesn't like that twist in her gut, scolding her for holding a grudge this long.

A dainty hand extends and exchanges the bulb in his hands with one brand new, straight out of the box. It's...eerily efficient, the way the pair works in tandem, with Laurie scaling up the ladder, handing off the busted bulb to Missy who immediately hands over an undamaged one, only to repeat it once again. A half hour passes and half of them are fitted with a fresh bulb, Missy glancing up at their handiwork.

They make a good team, she thinks to herself. Not that she'd say it out loud. Nor, does she think Laurie would say it out loud.

"....do you want a blondie?" She asks after a beat, brown eyes blinking once before settling back on Laurie. "I have some other treats in here too, they're just not as fresh as those."

[wildmead]

The work moved even quicker than he anticipated. Even with Missy’s help, he expected this to take twice as long—especially when he moved further back in the building, which is deceptively small from the outside. But she was the picture of efficiency, supplying a fresh bulb before he even had to ask, and quickly disposing of the broken ones.

He supposes there was a real reason why they were both up for the same award.

After the last bulb is twisted in place, he climbs down from the ladder, pausing at the bottom to take in a deep, meditative breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth. A solid day’s work, made all the simpler by an unlikely helper. A good helper. If she’d just had a ladder, she certainly could’ve handled this on her own and avoided that unfortunate incident.

Hm. Hmm. Maybe they are quite alike. Not that he would ever say it out loud.

“Sure.” He’s not sure if he’s ever had a blondie, honestly. He’s not one for sweets to begin with, and the ones he does eat are typically honey-centric. But, hey, although he would’ve done it for nothing, the blondies are the reward for this task. And they do smell divine—even he can’t deny that.

In a move of sheer generosity, he’s not even going to ask if they are organic.

“Can I sit somewhere?"

[moonlitmontana]

Tanny waited the entire morning after receiving Laurie’s note to write her response. One, she needed to get her early morning chores done. Two, she needed to conjure up some perfectly nonchalant-yet-interested reply to his letter. And three, she needed to figure out what she was going to tell Huck.

After a hurried tail-between-her-legs explanation of the evening’s plans, she packed a bag with only the essentials: her battered water bottle, Phony the phone (only to appease her brothers), a travel tin of watercolors and a pad of paper, some extra wool socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a sweater.

It all happens so fast, with time seeming to stretch and bend in an odd way when she’s alone with Laurie. The walk, the campsite, setting everything up for their evening among the trees and under a blanket of stars. And then suddenly they’re left with nothing they have to do, in the best kind of way.

She’s not out of breath once they’re done setting up, but there’s an unmistakable glint of sweat shimmering on her forehead in the late light. Most of the effort has been mental, trying to do as Laurie does to have the most authentic camping experience possible. She’ll never admit to part of her perspiration being pure nerves.

Liking Laurie, though? She might be able to admit that to a couple folks.

Her eyes flicker up when he speaks, meeting his gaze right as he looks over. Shit. She’s an intruder to his usual routine. Weirdly enough, sitting by the fire sounds like a perfect plan of action to her. “Y’know I can’t turn down a fireside chat,” she shrugs, hands on her hips.

What in the hell, Montana? Fireside chat? She’s sure that talking in front of a fire is one of the most general activities she’s ever suggested. Not that she’d ever force him to talk – in fact, there’s a strange sense of comfort within the silence they often share. Not awkward or the result of a dying comment, but spent mutually appreciating the other’s company.

But then his words catch her attention again, and she looks at him once more. “Actually, before that–” the words almost run back down her throat, but she spits them out. “–could y’show me?” A ghost of a smile flickers on her lips as she studies him.

“Sorry, I mean—” she gestures with her head towards Laurie’s belongings. “The pictures. I wanna see how you do ‘em.” The request feels rawer than anything she’s said to him, even more personal than her handmade muffins and note she delivered him last week. She means it, though – all she’s wanted since laying eyes on his photographs was to see the photographer himself in action.

“Maybe…” Her head lowers as she searches their immediate surroundings for something worthy and photogenic. Hmm. And then a little light shines in front of her. Another above them, and one a few feet behind Laurie. Slowly, carefully, she reaches a closed fist up, letting the little firefly in front of her land safely on the back of her hand.

“…This?” she glances up to Laurie, hoping her cheeks don’t look as pink as they feel.

[wildmead]

A fireside chat. Something hot travels through him at the thought—the two of them, shoulder to shoulder on the picnic blanket, until there is only the glow of firelight illuminating them, the privacy of the forest enveloping. He's almost grateful when she starts suggesting something else, until she finishes her thought.

More emotions cross his face in a quick flash than have this entire month. Intrigue turns to fondness turns to sheer nervousness, expressed in warmth prickling across his cheeks, in the ghost of panic behind his eyes. It's not like he hasn't taken photos in front of other people before—he regularly shoots while on camping excursions with his family or wandering the town's dirt roads. (The local cows are especially beloved subjects.) But something about her watching the process, seeing him doing what he loves most—seeing him, period? It's different. The way she's talking about it, it's clear it's less about witnessing the process and more about witnessing him.

He's about to respond when she holds her hand out, light and delicate, allowing a small firefly to gently land. And any self-consciousness floats away on the breeze, as he takes in this beautiful woman, honest and vulnerable in the dying light, wanting him to open up to her in the only way he knows how.

He moves to his bag, propped against the folding table, pulls out his camera case, and extracts his vintage Nikon, purchased from Rustic Relics nearly a decade ago. Film has already been loaded, as he expected to be taking plenty of photos today—of birds flitting by the campsite, of campfire smoke delicately curling through the treetops, and of Tanny; the main intention, really, although he hadn't quite admitted that to himself yet.

He's quickly positioned in front of her, close enough to see the blush across her cheeks, carefully framing the shot through the viewfinder. Nature photography is fickle—the perfect shot can come and go before you even have a chance to try. But this feels especially important to get right. Bottom lip is pulled between teeth as he tilts the camera ever so slightly, then there's a soft click as he presses down, capturing the moment.

With film, there's no immediate confirmation of whether the shot came out as intended. In the early days of learning this craft, he'd developed photos only to find blurry motion or poor framing. And still, now, he only selects the best of the best. But here, snapping her surrounded by the faint lights of fireflies, it doesn't seem to matter as much. Less about the quality, more about the subject. And through the comfort of the viewfinder, he can really look at her, without the typical unease of eye contact.

And then the firefly on her hand is up and away, bobbing off toward the overhang of leaves. He moves his camera down, and with it, his eyes move too. "I, uh..." Without the shield of the lens, the vulnerability comes racing back in. They are standing close, but he doesn't feel any inclination to move away. "I think those will turn out really well. You're, uh... you're a good subject. Photogenic." Laurie-speak for beautiful.

"Do, uh... do you want to try?" He holds out the camera toward her. "You've got a good eye. I'd like to see what you capture."

[wildmead]

location: the forest status: closed, @moonlitmontana

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him.

There was an invitation, written and rewritten and rewritten again, penned onto bee-printed stationery and gingerly placed into the Buchanan mailbox. There was a response, pulled from the Sutton mailbox and carried up to his room like contraband.

And there was an uncharacteristic fondness in his eyes as they danced over the words, landed on the Yes, I'd love to.

And now he's here, in the midst of setting up a second tent, fire already roaring in the center of the clearing. Various amenities are positioned around the site—two compact camping chairs, a tiny foldable table stacked with containers of food, a green picnic blanket spread across the dirt.

He knows he's being too quiet, silently setting up camp with only the occasional gesture of direction, word of approval. Just nothing, really. The walk over had been a bit more lively, as he'd pointed out the occasional interesting tree or unique bird, enough to spark a bit of easy conversation. But now, he's quiet, and not due to the usual stoicism—he wants to say something, but cannot find the words. And so he's been occupying himself with gathering firewood, setting up camp, figuring it's a good excuse.

But then the tent is up, and there's nothing left to do. And she's there, dappled sunlight on golden hair, bright blue eyes and a soft smile, equally unsure, so he has to say something.

"Uh..." he's facing her now, although there's a carefully maintained distance. His eyes are looking anywhere but her face—to the leaves of the oak canopy, to the boulder at the edge of the clearing. "I, uh... I usually just sit by the fire for a bit, but... well..." He meets her eyes, only for a moment, enough to feel that strange tug in his chest. "S'there anythin' in particular you want to do? I've got my camera, a deck of cards, some books..."

[wildmead]

Inside the Sutton mailbox, just next to the newly-straightened Healing Hive sign, rests a small cardboard box wrapped in twine, boasting a tiny note hole-punched and looped through the bunny ears.

Inside the box are two carefully padded chocolate banana muffins, hugged by thin pieces of crumpled tissue paper. Each muffin has chocolate shavings painstakingly and artfully arranged in a design on its top; one is a bumblebee, and the other is a camera.

‘Thx again for the photos. Hope you like these - they’re organic. Happy HoC, Laurie.’ Reads the note. The border of the lined notebook paper, though frayed at the edges, is expertly decorated with a floral design adorned with little hummingbirds.

As soon as she drops the package, she bolts.

He pops open the mailbox after making his two deliveries of the day, expecting to see an assortment of goodies for his siblings, maybe even for his parents.

Instead, there’s a single cardboard box sitting inside, boasting a note with his name, clear as day.

Warmth spreads from his cheeks to his ears and down his neck, red hot and uncomfortable. The package is snatched and taken inside with long strides, up the stairs, into his room. Fortuitous that everyone is busy with their own Heart of Confections activities—he couldn’t handle running into them right now.

The box is untied and opened with deft fingers, revealing two muffins serving as canvases for delicate chocolate art. He briefly pictures her leaned against the countertop, nostrils flaring as each shaving is meticulously placed. He almost hates to eat them—he can’t imagine the time they must’ve taken.

The time that must’ve gone into this gift for him.

As he bites into the bumblebee muffin, savors the flavor of (organic!) banana, he finally begins to sift through the jumble of feelings in his head, settling into something real, something tangible. The intricately decorated note is pinned to the board on his desk as a reminder of this revelation.

[wildmead]

On the kitchen table, there's two separate gifts: one for Josie, one for Laurie, both small boxes with cards that say 'from Ken'. Inside each box, there's a chocolate-filled sweet crust bun. Laurie's card reads: I remember you liked these back when Mom made them, though they're prob not as good. I hate writing these but love you lots :P

He's stepping into the kitchen to make lunch when he sees the box sitting neatly on the table, awaiting his arrival. Naturally, Ken elected to leave his gift where he could find it rather than hand-delivering it—no desire to pull him away from what he's doing to see his reaction.

This is how they have always functioned. The sentimentalities are saved for Josie, with their relationship being a bit more... awkward, in that regard. Of course, it's never a question that they love each other. Just a bit weirder to say it.

He flips the card open, eyes scanning the words, a smile slowly spreading. In typical Laurie fashion, he'd only mentioned how good those buns were in a few offhand comments. And, in typical Ken fashion, they'd remembered.

He pops open the box, pulls out the golden brown bun, and takes a bite. It's even more delicious than the last time.

[wildmead]

Josie knows Laurie’s rhythms like clockwork. She knows when to knock and when to leave him to his quiet, and today, she times it down to the minute. Thirteen and a half, to be exact. Just enough for him to finish a chapter, or finish marveling at the delicate wings of whatever butterfly or beetle has his attention this week.

So when she finally lifts her hand to knock, she’s already bouncing on her toes, a little tin clutched in both hands. Inside: her best batch yet of honeycomb chocolates. Or at least… the best since the last disaster.

“Happy Heart Day, Laurie!” she chirps as soon as the door opens, all sunshine and giddy nerves. She pushes the tin into his hands, and her grin only grows. “I tested them this time. On me! So you and Ken shouldn’t—uh—y’know.” She makes a face and taps her forehead with her palm, tongue poking out. “No disaster this year, pinky promise.”

He has just closed his well-worn copy of Brewmaster's Guide when there's a light-but-rapid knock on his door—Josie, clearly—and he rises from his leather desk chair to answer.

And there she is, hopping like a little bunny, smiling like the radiant sun, sticky hands outstretched with a small tin. He takes it gratefully, despite last year's... incident. (It's the thought that counts, right?)

He pops open the tin, peering down at the chocolates nestled inside. There's an exploratory sniff. Hm. Smells pretty nice. He gingerly lifts one up, takes a small, careful bite. Tastes...... good? ...Yeah, it tastes good. He offers up a small nod of approval as he chews, swallows.

"These are good, Jos. Huge improvement." He pops the rest of the chocolate in his mouth. He's never been much for sweets, but hey. Even a guy like him can get into the holiday spirit, especially when she seems so excited. After another hearty chew and a gulp, he closes the lid on the tin. "...Well... I'm gonna get back to it." He turns on heel and goes back into his room, closing the door behind him.

[ofmourningdoves]

Oh, God. Laurie's assessing the scene of the crime. Her soul makes up the very foundation of these walls, and Missy can feel the way his eyes take in each, little bump in her foiled plan that led to her falling; that damned stack of chairs she should have taken the time to put away should have practically has a heartbeat, thumping, arteries made up of wood and nails, drawing attention dead center of the room. It's a good thing candles can only provide so much light; the heat of embarrassment colors her cheeks red.

Of course it had to be Laurie. She's the unlucky rabbit, limping away after someone had lopped off its foot.

A hand -- her right, as its the only one that's free -- reaches up to press her hand against her cheek, her face scrunching up in mild annoyance. The tone of his voice is matter-of-fact, blunt, but that doesn't make it any less rude.

She knows she doesn't have to be there, and in fact? She'd rather not be. She'd rather be sitting against one of the cemetery stones, eyes shut as she takes in the sun, pretending to turn to the ivy that covers the older of the graves. Less poetic, she'd rather watch paint dry and eat the dried chips that flake off the paint can. But, her daddy told her to be kind and hospitable to whoever showed up, seeing as he wouldn't be stopping by until later to chat them up.

So no; she doesn't have to be there, but she's going to be.

Missy hums in response, feet careful to not to step onto any of the floorboards that would creak underneath her weight as she walks further into the room...and into the morgue. A beat passes and she's back onto the main floor, holding up a box of bulbs in her hand.

"It'd get done quicker if I hand you the bulbs instead of having to go up and down the ladder to grab them." She tilts her head up to look at Laurie, expression fully neutral. "Might not be too difficult for you, but I can help, at least."

[wildmead]

Hm. Well, he can’t argue with that. More than he is a man of grudges, he’s a man of efficiency, and it is obviously more logical to have her be his gofer.

Why didn’t he think of that? Was he really too blinded by the sins of a ten-year-old? How do people hold on to pettiness like this? Seems like it only comes at the expense of reason. It has been many years since he last revisited this childhood spat, and it seems a bit… well, naturally, it seems a bit childish.

“Okay.” There’s only the slightest hint of displeasure in the word—it’s mostly just genuine agreement. And then he silently heads back outside, around the corner, heaving the propped ladder in on his shoulders. It is brought inside, set up under the first busted light, and climbed without so much as a single word spoken. The missing bulb is removed with the deft hands of someone who has done this about twenty times in the past week.

This is all intended to demonstrate a desire to get this over and done, to not let it drag out longer than necessary, to avoid any of the lingering unpleasantness of a now 15-year-old feud, but in typical Laurie fashion, it still just comes off as impolite.

“Okay.” Another classic “okay,” except this time it comes with an outstretched hand, holding out the broken bulb. “Ready for the replacement.”