#and i couldn't help but notice a certain rp blog back and active again......

[two-crabs]

They wake up, not for the first time, face-down on the floor of a stranger’s apartment. Their cheek is pressed into a plush multicolored rug that smells like burnt sage and potting soil. When they lift their head, their vision swims for a moment before steadying on a sliding glass door; outside the Los Angeles dawn paints a small balcony in thick orange light. There’s a cafe table and chair, and a dozen or more pots and boxes full to bursting with strange, thriving plants. 

The sound of shuffling feet startles them, but when they turn to look over their shoulder, their neck is painfully stiff, and the world lurches again. Slowly, they push themself up into a hunched, cross-legged seat, and rub their knuckles into their eyes. They notice, then, the white paper hospital bracelet around their wrist, and their stomach drops. It has a name on it, and a date that was four days in the future the last time they knew, and it’s dug a thin red line into their skin. On the back of the same hand, there’s a cotton ball plastered down with a dusty, peeling bandage, and the sticky residue of IV tape. They yawn, and count their teeth; their mouth tastes like saline. 

When they finally look behind them, the rest of the apartment is decked in luxurious jewel tones and glimmering gold fixtures. From where they’re sitting, they can see three pink salt lamps, and a hanging pot rack full of copper cookware. There are tapestries on the walls, and a foot tall stack of photography books on the coffee table, and a couch with four throw pillows all in different colors. On the other side of the couch there is a record player and an elaborate sound system, but no television, and a marble-top side table with a wooden incense holder. 

There is a click from the kitchen, and then the sound of a coffee machine burbling to life. 

It only takes a few seconds for them to smell the coffee, and they stand, buoyed by it, on wobbly legs. The t-shirt they’re wearing is oversized and unfamiliar, as are the basketball shorts that reveal two badly bruised and scraped knees. Hurriedly, they check the rest of their body for damage. There’s a long scratch on their forearm, and their lips are chapped and splitting, and every time they breathe they’re wracked with a deep all-over ache…but other than that they feel mostly intact.

When they hear more movement from down the hall, they drop to the ground again, hiding behind the couch, and wince as their lower back screams out in protest. They screw their eyes shut and hold their breath, trying to imagine whoever lives in this apartment. An older woman, probably. A hippy who comes by all the witchy shit honestly. No kids of her own, but enough of a maternal instinct to take in an ailing burnout and let them sleep it off at her place. Long grey hair, lots of turquoise jewelry and beaded robes and moccasins.  Retired, perhaps, after a long career teaching art history or ceramics or—

“—A-hem.”  

They open their eyes, and look up. 

The person staring down at them over the back of the couch is not an old hippy woman with eyes full of parental care and concern. It’s…some guy. And he looks annoyed. 

They cringe, and their joints crack and groan as they unfurl themself. Once they’re finally standing, the guy takes a step back and gives them a once over. They blink into the sun over his shoulder and do the same. He’s young, thirty at most, and fashionably skinny, draped in a Halsey t-shirt so large it’s falling off one shoulder, and his blonde hair is sticking straight up from sleep. There are several golden piercings in his nose, lip, brow, and both ears, and the faint, smudgy remains of liner under his eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest, and even though he isn’t very tall, he manages to peer down his nose at them.

“H—” they start, but their voice cracks and scrapes, like they’d been yelling. The guy raises an eyebrow.  They clear their throat and try again. “Hel—wait…” They tilt their head in response, and rasp out, “I know you.” 

“‘Know’”—and he makes lazy air-quotes with one hand without uncrossing his arms—“is an overstatement. But, whatever. Glad you didn’t die on my couch. Coffee?” He wanders off towards the kitchen, bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floors.

A little stunned, they look down at the couch, and at the squished pillows and balled up blanket, and then their heart drops into their stomach. 

“Where’s my stuff?” They vault unthinkingly over the back of the couch, catch their foot on a blanket, and nearly fall on their face. “My guitar—my pipes—what did you do with them?”

“Calm, you! Jesus.” The guy slides a steaming mug across his small kitchen island. He’s got an accent—British, but unplaceably so. “And no putin’ your feet on my fucking couch.” 

“I’m serious…” they say, voice wavering, eyes darting back and forth between the guy and the coffee. 

“So am I. Your shit’s in my trunk. Figured you didn’t want the ER staff nicking your gear.” Behind him, a toaster goes ping, startling them so much they jump. “And god knows I don’t want it in my house.” They watch as he turns, pulls a pumpernickel bagel out of the toaster, and begins smothering it in cream cheese. “My name is Rhys,”—he jabs a finger into his own chest and says it slow, overannunciated, like he’s talking to a kid or a foreigner. Which to him, they suppose, they are. He smirks at his own joke, then, normal again: “What’s yours? Unless you prefer Byrd-comma-Da—”

“Mai,” they say. “I’m, uh…Mai.” And they sit, perching on the edge of one of his kitchen stools, knees drawn up to their chest. “You’re the crystal shop guy. In Lawndale.” 

Rhys takes a bite out of his bagel, and points at the floor. “S’ downstairs.” 

Mai takes a sip of the coffee. It’s good. It’s hot. It makes their stomach ache with hunger. “Um.” They swallow hard, watching the muscle in Rhy’s jaw as he chews. “If…um…okay…” Wordlessly, Rhys slides the other half of the bagel across the counter, and wordlessly, they eat it. A minute later, they take a deep breath and look back at hum. The expression on his face isn’t quite derision, and isn’t quite pity. 

“Out with it, Byrd.” And Rhys rubs the crumbs off his long, elegant fingers. 

“What…happened?”