#my rose tinted glasses were awn

[asteraws]

[mistydeyes]

opposite occupations

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summary: all the 141 boys have different plans while on leave, each having their own idea of how to spend the time. but when they run into a lovely civilian, they realize that all the long hours, deployments, and trainings worth it.

pairing: 141 x civvie!fem!Reader

warnings: swearing, all fluff :)

a/n: I love me a good little meet cute

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price - florist

Everyone knew that the minute Price went home, he would be making the trek to his favorite cigar shop. It had been one he frequented for years, the familiar sign welcoming him home. Most shops on the street stayed the same. He liked the constancy, the familiarity.

As he rounded the street corner, he noticed a new shop had filled the unoccupied next door. The pale pink awning and rose-tinted glass were a new sight to see. "Sentiments of Carnations" he read as he walked past. He could see through the window that the shop had not yet been opened, noting the smell of fresh paint and empty displays. He wondered what grandma had put their retirement money into this florist shop.

He continued, opening the cigar shops store and smelling the musk of smoke and tobacco. "Ah John, I have your regulars set aside," the old shop owner said with a smile. "Back again for long?" he asked upon his return with a dark oak box. "Just waiting for another phone call from his majesty," he joked and slid over the usual bank notes. "I'll be seeing you," Price said as he opened the door and exited with the familiar chime of the bell.

As he embraced the warmth of the summer England weather, he pulled out one of his fresh purchases, excellently wrapped and balanced. He flipped open his lighter from his pocket and sat down to have his first smoke at home. He closed his eyes and savored the notes of espresso and hickory. As he sat in his small nirvana, he heard the florist's doors open.

He turned as he saw you, a flower behind your ear and a pink apron that perfectly matched the outside of the shop. You were not the grandma he had expected and instead were beautiful, the sun catching your lovely features. You had placed an antique table outside, along with a bucket of a colorful array of flowers adorned with a handwritten tag. You hung a small sign on the table that read, "Take one for a friend, family member, or loved one." You smiled at yourself, proud of the little display. You turned your head and noticed the mature man enjoying his smoke only a meter away from you. You picked out a scarlet carnation and walked over to the man, handing it to him.

"Here, you go," you said as his calloused fingers held the flower delicately. "A flower to brighten someone's day," you said with a smile. "Thank you, although I am not a man for flowers," he replied and extinguished his cigar. "Well, flowers can be for a variety of reasons, a friendly gesture, a gift for someone you fancy, or even something to brighten up your flat."

You ended with a sweet smile and he could feel himself melt on the spot. Something about the floral aroma emanating from the flower behind your ear along with your soft voice and pleasantries added to his current state of nirvana. You were so radiant in this light and he appreciated the kind gesture, especially upon his return home.

"No one to give a romantic gesture to, but thank you," he replied. "Well if that ever changes, my shop opens later this week! The shop's number is on the tag" you said before giving him a small wave and wink. He could hear the shop's door close as you began to set up your display and paint a mural on one of the walls. As he twisted the carnation in his hand, he knew he would be adding your shop to his routine becoming your most frequent customer.

soap - tattoo artist

Soap looked at his phone, making sure he was in the right place. His favorite tattoo shop near his Scottish home had closed and he was taking a recommendation from Ghost.

"She's got an attitude but her work is amazing," Ghost had said before Soap's deployment. He couldn't deny the craftsmanship of her work on Ghost's arm. He marveled at the attention to detail as Ghost proudly shoved off his ornate sleeve.

Soap had an appointment for today, previously approving of the artist's rendition of his vision. A black-and-white thistle, a charm his mother had said. It was commonly known to keep its owner away from danger and bad acquaintances. Something Soap needed on the battlefield.

He pushed the maroon door open, admiring the many gold frames with what he assumed were some of the artists' work. He let out a light chuckle as he noticed a framed sketch of Ghost's sleeve. He was just about to snap a picture when a voice called out, "Hey Mohawk, this isn't a museum."

He turned around to see a woman, a gorgeous one at that. You were wearing a tank top that showed off a collage of various tattoos in different styles. You had been taking a break and relaxed, sitting behind a desk, feet propped up.

"Actually, lass, I'm here with an appointment," he said, walking over to you. "Name's John MacTavish." he finished with a cheeky smile.

"Ah MacTavish, one of Riley's military boys I'm guessing. How's that masterpiece of mine doing?" you joked, Soap didn't know what to say. Were you and Ghost a thing?

You laughed at his pause, "My tattoo, Mohawk. There's no way I'd be shagging his Halloween-looking-arse." Soap appreciated the heads up about your attitude and knew this was gonna be a fun session.

"Looks gorgeous, Sweetheart. Just like yourself," he poked back and you let out a loud laugh, almost doubling over. "Don't flatter yourself, you can go make yourself comfortable in my station over there. Looks like you're only getting a bicep tat, so I better not see your shirtless arse back there."

Soap made his way to where you motioned, sitting down in the black velvet chair. You came in a few minutes later with your sketch and supplies. You closed the scarlet curtains behind you before walking over to prep his arm.

As you sat in relative silence, Soap asked, "So what do the tattoos mean, Lass?" You finished your prep work and were working on the correct tattoo placement. "Travels from around the world. I took it upon myself to get a tattoo in every new country."

With that, you offered him a mirror so he could approve of the sketch and placement. The tattoo rested on his right bicep and he made sure to look at it at every angle and made sure to flex for your enjoyment.

"Alright, muscle man, this should only take a few hours as long as you don't pass out on me," you said and began to tattoo your next masterpiece. During the next two hours, you made conversation about the tattoos meaning, his life in Scotland, and you even shared more intimate details about your travels.

The hours flew by like minutes to Soap as you let him know you were finished. He admired the detailed flower and you handed him some care instructions with some cream. "And your buddy paid for you ahead of time, so you're all set, Mohawk" you replied and Soap got off of the chair.

"See you around, my world-class woman," he joked as he exited the door. You slightly cringed, wondering if writing your number on the tube of aftercare cream was a good idea or not.

gaz - primary school teacher

Gaz looked at himself in his flat's mirror. He brushed a hand over his freshly cut hair and evened out his dress shirt. "Just a favor for a friend," he said to himself as he walked to catch the next tram. Two days ago, an old colleague during his days working with the metro police force had reached out to him. They called in a favor, "Kyle c'mon it's just a couple of primary students, all you need to do is give a little talk about stranger danger." Knowing he had nothing else better to do, Gaz agreed.

As he signaled the tram to stop, Gaz looked at the brown brick building reminding him of his younger days. Gaz walked in, checking in with the receptionist who directed him to the classroom where he'd be giving his talk. He was early, the school had not yet opened but he was asked to have the presentation at the beginning of class before the children's lessons. He admired the walls filled with the artwork of the students, silly attempts at drawing their families. He finally reached your classroom, noting the smiling sunflower on your opened door. He knocked softly and he saw you lift your head to greet him. If he had known you would be so beautiful, he would have not needed his friend's encouragement.

"Ah you must be Sgt. Garrick," you said, beginning to get up from your desk to greet him. You smoothed out your skirt and placed your glasses down. "It's just Kyle," he said and returned your friendly smile and warm handshake.

"Well Kyle, the children should be arriving in a few minutes. I'll get them settled and introduce you for your small talk today," you said with a grateful nod. You motioned for him to sit at your desk as you stood at your door to greet your excited second-year students. Gaz played on his phone and smiled as he heard you return the children's happy good mornings with a similar high-energy one. The students began to file in, placing their bags in their cubbies, and sitting with their friends. You heard small whispers from the children, wondering what you were doing at their teacher's desk. He let out a chuckle when he heard one boy whisper, "Is that Miss Y/N's husband? He's sitting in her chair."

Finally, with all the children in their seats, you walked to the front of the classroom and greeted your students warmly. "Good morning everyone, today we have a very special guest with us. This is our friend, Kyle, and he's here today to tell you all a little something before we start our lessons."

Kyle knew this was his cue, he rose from your desk and swapped places with you at the front of the room. "Hi everyone, today I'm going to teach you smart kids about something called 'Stranger Danger'." The children oohed in response as Kyle waved his hands in a fake menacing manner. You smiled as he was a natural. The children were attentive, writing down the information as he spoke and working together with their classmates to fill out the worksheet answers. Kyle ended his talk and asked if anyone had any questions. One child raised her hand and Kyle called on her. "Is Miss Y/N a stranger? I'm confused."

"I'm your teacher, Amelia. Teachers that you know aren't strangers," you responded and Kyle nodded in agreement. Another kid raised their hand and asked, "But you aren't Kyle's teacher, so you're a stranger to him."

Before either one of you could respond, his friend boasted, "It's because they're married, your Mum and Dad aren't strangers to each other." Both you and Kyle shared a look and he saw the soft blush rise to your face. "Ah we're just friends," he said and saved you the embarrassment.

Little did Kyle know, his email would chime that night with a thankful message from you along with your number at the bottom asking him to breakfast that weekend.

ghost - veterinarian

Unlike most people, Ghost loved the quiet ambiance of London's rainfall. The streets were empty and peaceful as people were cozying up in their homes with a blanket. Enjoying the evening air and cold, he walked with an umbrella in one hand and a warm cup in the other. His boots resounded on the cobblestone street as he sipped his Earl Grey tea. His chest was warm from the bold citrus and bergamot liquid. This was, in his opinion, an ideal leave well spent.

The rhythmic rain fell and his walking was interrupted by a soft mewing. Simon hurried down the street to find the source of the noise. In front of a grocer's, he noticed a small cardboard box being drenched by the unrelenting rain. He placed his cup down and gently lifted the box. Underneath was a small grey cat, cuddled into a ball to experience some semblance of warmth. Simon placed his umbrella to shield the box and lifted the tiny meowing animal into his hands.

As he cradled the cat to his chest, he heard a click of heeled boots behind him. He turned his now-drenched head to notice you walking up with a bright orange umbrella adorned with cat paws. "Excuse me, Sir, but is he yours?" you asked gesturing to the ball of grey that laid meowing in his arms. "Uh he's not, I found this little fella underneath this box here."

"Ah a Good Samaritan, I see. Well, I own the veterinarian shop down the way, I can take him off your hands if you'd like and make sure this little lad gets the care he needs," you said and offered a hand to hold the kitten. You noticed his slight hesitation and said, "If you'd like, I'll give you my card so you can take the little one home when he's all better."

"That would be nice," he smiled underneath his black face mask. Simon loved animals, never being permitted to have one as a child. As you held the kitten in your arm, you handed him your umbrella. He initially tried to refuse but you insisted saying, "You're soaked, I'll be alright." You ended with a small giggle which made Ghost warmer than his now cold cup of tea.

"The least I can do is walk you back to your shop," he replied a little too quickly. He instantly realized the surprising force he had said that with and followed up with, "You know, just so you and Earl Grey can make it there in this weather.

"Earl Grey, I like that. That's my favorite order, especially on days like this." Simon moved slightly behind you, holding the umbrella to shield the three of you on your walk. The air was filled with the familiar scent of rain and the notes of your floral perfume. "I'm Dr. L/N by the way, but most people just call me, Y/N," you said as you continued on your way. "I'm Simon, a pleasure to meet you doc."

Three weeks later Simon's house was filled with all the necessities for a new cat father. As he grabbed his coat, he pulled out a water-stained business card with the vet's office address and your number written on the back. He smiled to himself as he traced his fingers over the small handwriting saying, "To Earl Grey's owner, fancy a cup of tea with me?"

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 9: This December

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter

Summary of chapter: It's hard to play the entire piano, end to end 88 keys, with just one set of hands. It's impossible to go through life totally alone, no matter how well you convince yourself otherwise. Itachi, Kisame, and the traveler discuss the little things that set her world apart from that of the shinobi.

Author's Note: The song for this chapter is This December by Ricky Montgomery, lyrics not entirely in order.

CONTENT WARNING: the overall warning for the fic is especially prevalent in this chapter. Allusions to suicide, suicidal behavior and ideation, self harm.

I also now have a playlist with each song in order of appearance :)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It's just a little bit, it's just a little bit

Lonely in this home

It's always colder on your own

My darlin', I

I let the season change my mind

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Kisame keeps an arm’s length about as well as the traveler can ignore how a full size piano could be taken back to the mansion with just a scroll and a puff of smoke. That is to say: it was, for certain, a noble attempt. She’s watching him now, bumblebees idling by as he re-sides the brick wall in humid summer air. Ivy pushes forth from its cracks, poison and otherwise alike, so he had rolled his eyes and pretended like he wasn’t going to be the one working on this chore anyways, having no allergy. As if Itachi would sully his pretty hands.

In this time together, the princess’s knight hasn’t been so bold as to ask...why? He knows she’s lonely. Damn, so is he! But she was told, right? That her first set of bouncers weren’t the exception but the rule for the rest of ‘em. It’ll be her fault, he excuses himself, if anything amiss were to threaten that lovely little neck of hers. He’s still stuck on the stage of denial where it’d just be for the mission if he did- and he should- make the offender pay dearly, direly, desperately.

The woman contemplates, too, but at a different pace, eyelids low and sleepy under the blanket of midday humidity. Contradictions are smothering: guilt for feeling guilty. But she’s an adult, and prolonging the sensation makes her weary. Best she can do is do her best, and in this case, it means to think about other things until that part of her psyche settles down. Ironically, this shift causes another part of her mind ramp up— a rather metaphysical sort about this predicament she finds herself in. Kisame, of course, is a part of it, but he is not the whole: she is unhappy about her happiness. Sadness can survive even in summer air.

Under the shade of the back porch awning, deep in a trance, it takes her a second to recognize a second shadow has layered over her, just a bit darker where she sits.

“Mm…? Oh. Thank you.” A cup of tea passes between the Uchiha’s hand to hers, ceramic hot to the touch, but not too hot as to burn in your grasp. It’s an uncanny skill he has, this perfect steep; a personality like his would be well suited for a cafe, she muses. Steam raises as the cup tilts at her lips, a mist collecting on her rose-pink lenses that sit on top of her head; they aren’t the best at being sunglasses, but they’re cute, and that’s a good enough reason to still have them. Slowly, knowing her as jumpy, the gentleman raises a finger and pokes the object, just enough that she can feel it start to part her hair.

“I haven’t seen these before.”

Despite his efforts, she blushes a little; memory of Kakuzu’s confusion over them have made her a touch bashful. “Glasses. Use them to read.” She points to the sky with a finger of her tea-holding hand, the other cupping her chin while its elbow leans on her knee. “Help with the sun.” There’s only the slightest shift— tilt of his head— as he contemplates the usefulness of tinted reading glasses.

...Strange girl, indeed. His own brew perfectly balanced above his lap, Itachi sits on the stoop beside his ward, his partner’s work and grunts as much of a buzz in the background as the bees in long-untamed rose bushes that line the property. Thoughtfully, he allows a relaxing pause before he prods the traveler further:

“Do many have such glasses where you come from?”

Lazily, a “mm-mm” negative-toned hum and shake of the head answer him. It’s like she’s sucked dry of energy. “Clear or black tinted, just like here. Bought ‘em because they made me happy.”

He takes in the details of her, lax in a noonday breeze. Rosettes— tiny and pink— adorn her white dress in vertical rows, frocked with thin, blue lines that match the powder tone of the sweater she’s tied around her waist. Certainly not attire she chose to travel in, the sort of ground to cover between here and Hoshigakure. This is merely one reason among many that she is not of Hoshigakure, of course, a fact so obvious he sees no point in berating the matter when he can get right to the heart:

“What brought you all this way from the stars, Miss Takara?”

He won’t be able to tell, but she isn’t nearly as eager as she used to be, back at the bar with her job and patrons. “I just… I don’t know... It wasn’t worth it anymore, I guess.” She shrugs, the weight of the matter much lighter upon her shoulders than it should be thanks to many, many hours of reflection. “I just wanted to be done with it all, end it the way I wanted to. On my own terms, you know? As much as I could.”

The man tilts his head even further, closer, as if proximity will assist their connection, and he answers softly. Her own words are tinged with a poison, regardless of her relaxed attitude. “...You speak of severance of an utmost degree…” His gaze is kind. It understands. “It must have been difficult.” But her eyes just look through the trees. For as warm as the cold man is, so is the warm woman being cold in turn.

“Just seemed like the logical thing. That’s all.”

“Miss Takara…” She’s just an inch away, both as he leans in and as he pulls the curtain of her mind away. “...What in particular pushed you so—?”

“Can we talk about something else?!”

It’s the first she’s ever demanded anything of them, let alone in such a tone. The woman bares her teeth and pinches her brow. The change stands out enough to warrant Kisame look over his shoulder in concern. The calm of lazy days is broken, in pieces in her fists. As such, the woman is abruptly too seen.

“I—oh…" Immediately, as if on command, she becomes as small as before. "Sorry. That was out of place. Sorry.” Itachi masks his surprise well, dipping his head in acceptance of her behavior.

“It’s understandable.” And it's no lie. Such emotional affairs...difficult to unwrap without tearing a layer or two. But still, she’s too unsettled to continue this dance around speaking her destruction, and she picks herself up from the steps of the porch.

“Excuse me—”

The cup of tea is set behind in her stead, dappling light washing over and away until she’s walked back into her home. The knight watches in silence, up until the very last bit of her is out of sight. He frowns at his fellow Akatsuki. “Are you going to—?” He won’t admit it’s too good to be true, living like this, and so it’s a relief when Itachi shakes his head. The easy way of the Sharingan is not a necessary one, to accomplish the mission. Persuasion will remain as talk.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I wanna see you with your head wide open

Empty in the ground, gone without a sound

Just another white elm growing at the end of town

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Only in my

No...that’s not right.

Her wrists raise again to press the keys:

Only in my dar

Hm. No. No! This shouldn’t be so difficult. Her silhouette is framed by the wall of the newly dubbed “piano room”, walls blackened with indoor shade while the outside glows with color. Itachi takes it in before stepping further towards the musician, the fuchsia of her glasses becoming clearer as the branches outside fade into bright, blinding light of the sun with his changing position. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t look. The music simply continues:

On

…Or it is trying to.

“What’s wrong?” the raven inquires from the doorway, interloping for his real concern. His eyes need not look at the piano. “Is it not tuned?”

“No…” the woman hums, unhappily. “It’s fine. It’s… It’s me. It’s the song.” There’s such a sharp frustration in her voice that was never present before, in this past week of daydreaming together, playing house. “I’m used to it sounding more full.”

Itachi blinks. “What’s missing?”

“Instruments that don’t exist.”

A rather blunt answer for how the woman typically presents herself, now a bit of a rose like her garden rather than a shrinking violet. Well-versed with thorns, the man draws closer behind the piano bench. As he does, he notes how this woman looks as if she was made to exist in this room, now that it’s been properly attended to; floors rustic but comfortable, a soft shade of brown wood that match her boots; a seat with a blanket and pillow neatly set atop, embroidery flourishing the edges of fabrics; the birds sing hardly some feet away as they do their best to peer inside, past antique curtains and old glass; a kitschy clock with tick tick ticks as a reliable metronome. Her fingers decide to go on their own, lyrics now wayward as she pins her thoughts too sharply onto black and white. Itachi, as always, listens, but he receives more than he anticipated.

It shouldn’t be so easy to catch an Akatsuki off guard.

“You are all...incredible.” Villains live on her tongue with such love. Could anyone but of another world treasure them? But that word has more meaning, here, than just to compliment. She refuses to look up. “You have wonderful abilities. Magic.” The performer has hardly seen anything of this place, but it’s more than enough to witness a man sink into the ground and a piano evaporate in a cloud just to arrive here in the middle of nowhere. She’s eager for more, but she is afraid— afraid, for obvious reasons, reasons like the magician’s red eyes.

“Why?” This question is so rehearsed that there’s no need to focus upon it, no need to stop playing idle music. “Why me? What makes me so special?”

Itachi answers simply. “You know why, Miss Takara.” But she shakes her head to this.

“Kind of. But. I don’t! Not why I’m here. Not what I’m useful for. Itachi, I-- I didn’t come here on purpose. I just woke up. And it had happened.” He furrows his brow, every so minutely.

“No explanation whatsoever…?” It’s hard to believe not even a clue in the laws of her dimension, what can and cannot make sense. “Do you not have higher powers, where you were? Chakra?” Another shake.

“I don’t even know what chakra is! What I had was just...reality.” The word is wistful under her breath. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Perhaps you can try," her confidant offers.

And perhaps that's a wrong move of his in this chess game of feelings and semantics, as now she’s fallen mute. Her hands stray from the piano. They fold on her lap. He’s right behind her, now, but she still won’t shift to see him. A phrase repeats in her head, one of the voices that’s resided like an itchy scar for years, that she’s pushed away into the crowd of the village bar, or the traffic at rush hour, or the meaningless chatter of a TV screen. Those sounds are not here to pacify the voice, to rescue her away. She has no place to hide from it now, as she wonders what color Itachi looks at her with:

What have you done today to deserve your eyes?

“And what if it’s worthless to you?” The voice objects to her worth, to how she can see what's so good about living when she contributes so little. It's a question that logically brings another next, sorrow heavy in the space between them. “What then?”

He pauses, but unlike hers it is done in precision. The performer has her own answer that she wants to hear, and he knows another cannot become until this has its say.

“Itachi... Zetsu told me something." It's hushed, it's vile, it stings the way she speaks of him. It's like how you speak of a disease. "I’ve heard you’ve done something terrible. I’ve heard that you killed people.” It is true, and yet he must pretend he is unbothered, merely allowing she continue her interrogation. “Why not torture me? Hypnotize me again? Get it over with and go back to your lives?”

...

She waits. She waits and waits and waits like each tick of the clock above her head is slowly poisoning her air. There’s nothing she can do about fate; just make it quick. But Itachi sees her as his mirror, aware of what is behind the glass of their window, light shining bright enough to blind. He knows the tactic, the reflection of questions back without answering his.

“Why are you so eager to suffer?"

“Because...—” A justification so quick breaks so easily, and so does her voice, the answer so obvious. “Because…” But can she say it? She can’t catch her breath. As the truth is spoken, it nearly chokes.

“It’s...too good to be true.” She whispers something a sin to even acknowledge. “I still need to wake up."

No more flowery words or vague analogies.

"I still need to die.”

Without her conscious say, the woman's own hands have been fidgeting and rubbing so hard they might become raw, her fingernails pinching at her cuticles to tear skin away shred by shred. Maybe if the woman keeps pulling, she’ll unravel, and this will all be done. Crying shouldn't be so hard, but she’s already shed so many teardrops for her own sake. In the time they're needed most, they do not come. Surely, this is proof that dying would be of no regret. The crow looks with sad eyes, so hurt that he's expected to see her as a vulture does carrion.

“Takara-san…” So this is what she keeps inside. Burning intensity, ice-cold flame, feels intimately familiar. Who would he be to ignore such a plea? A black cloak shuffles like crow feathers around the unoccupied side of the bench and fills her lonely space. Because he knows this suffering so well, so too is there knowledge that this isn’t the core of her being but the veneer, the protection of something precious that you want left alone, lest a glass shatter so fine it becomes diamond dust. “You don’t deserve that.” A hand with a crimson plaque gently grasps her own, pulling bleeding fingers away from their small self-destruction. The player allows it, though her hissing mind does not cease. Please don’t waste your time on pitying me. Her blood will dry on his skin.

“It isn’t about deserving it. I told you. It just...made sense to do.”

He’s getting an idea, now, of how she ended up this way, so frayed and delicate and yet so wide open to whatever comes. It’s the kind of person you are when you meet the end. The raven weaves his fingers between those of the ghost. The muscles in hers tremble with effort, as they refuse to melt into his as they craves to.

“What if you can make it worthwhile?” he proposes. “Is there nothing to enjoy? You told me you liked the rain. That dragonflies shimmer so beautifully in the sun. ...And what of us? Do you not enjoy Kisame? Perhaps even me?” A bold addition, considering his reputation, but it finally makes her flinch. The queen has been captured, a move that paid off. At first her mouth grimaces, but slowly, surely, it’s a bitter smile.

“...The guilt card…” her voice quivers, the tiniest touch of gratitude amid playful seething. “That’s what we call this back home…”

With no worthy reason not to, just for him, she gives in. She lets him hold his hand, soft flesh giving way under his. A killer can comfort she who perhaps is the next prey. The wolf and the lamb need not carry on tradition, not just yet.

“Please promise me something.”

“...Anything.” She’ll never know the weight his vow holds.

“When it’s all about to end...tell me. Whenever that becomes the plan. I have no reason to fuss over it. I don’t have anything to lose.”

But you guys.

He already spoke his seal, his dedication, and so Itachi finds it unnecessary to taint the moment with a mere verbal confirmation. Her smile becomes more genuine, and gratefully, she rubs his knuckles with her thumb. Eyes close again, this time with a closer semblance of peace, and a blind hand raises by its wrist once more. It isn’t trying yet for the melody; she merely...appreciates the notes. She lets them resonate deep in her, its echo up her bent arm and into her heart. The player studies them individually and by their own merit rather than failure to replicate a certain song, returning to the basics of what makes a sound pleasant to the ear.

With two silhouettes side by side, layered into one person with two heads in the dark, maybe there’s a new version of what “complete” means. A rendition. A remastering. A rearrangement. How can one note mean so much? To seep such emotion into cold-hearted murderers...a talent, indeed.

The next step in healing is to try move on.

“Itachi,” she repeats, about to outdo herself. “What do you like?” She beats him to the cop-out: “Besides time with me.”

While a question he’s gotten sarcastically once or twice in the past few years, it has never been one with an answer. You either know him well enough to not need ask, or you do not. And with his own mission, it leaves few worth the time to see firsthand. However...her happiness, however brief, is part of this journey now. To indulge her is to unlock his secrets. It is a risk worth taking, and so he closes the gap until he’s right up to her side and can whisper innocent things from terrible lips.

“My brother,” he begins with the most obvious, the sun his planet revolves around. He hears her murmur of surprise. “I left him when he was small. But everything I do...I do for him.” He’s never...seemed happy before. Placid, yes, perhaps even content but...happiness is what this is. She can hear the smile just underneath his collar. “When he said my name...nothing surpassed that joy. He loved playtime with his big brother. He wanted his shadow to be just as long as mine, if only to keep me safe. He loved being where he didn’t belong, just to stay beside me. ” And Itachi regrets that he cannot do the same.

Itachi’s happiness stings.

The rose leans into him more, and the Uchiha welcomes the intimacy that scratches him with her gentle touch.

“He sounds...incredible,” she repeats, though different in meaning. A cracked eye sees his free hand raise, and a finger that has sent many to hell tries to join her in heaven with a single, harmonic voice.

Ding…

It joins her perfectly, something deep from her on one end and bright from him upon the other.

“He is. He always will be.”

And that’s enough. She needs to return the favor, thinks the crow: “And what of you? What do you like?” With the question, her finger inches just a little closer to his, just a little higher in tone.

“I…” Dumb things make her heart race, as ever. Her cheeks tinge the color of her glasses. “It’s the first thing on my mind, is all. Just the first. That I miss from home. Don’t laugh.” The woman knows he will not, and yet fear necessitates this verbal ritual, this disclaimer. She knows how he would answer, that any little thing that keeps her alive is worthwhile.

“I like...cotton candy. I like how puffy it is.” She pushes back shame for not praising things of grander value to the universe, as her own existence is so very small, and its buds deserve to be nurtured by the only one who can garden for it. “I like that it’s soft. That it can be pink. Or blue. Or yellow. It’s always so pretty. It’s like a cloud from your dreams.”

Itachi’s hushed voice betrays wonder. “...I’ve never heard of such a thing.” His receptiveness puts heavy shoulders a little more at ease, setting her burden a little more upon the ground.

“It isn’t...a sophisticated taste. It’s just sugar. But it’s whipped so, so fast...that it’s like silk. It’s like spiderwebs. And then as soon as it’s in your mouth...it melts so fast that it’s gone.” She holds back an ironic comment on how this could be like other forms of joyousness, but that’d be rude to him.

“I like…” She purposefully selects something alongside her grievances with an infinitely connected world. “...Pictures of cats. Where I come from, it’s so easy to share things. To show things. And so much of it was dedicated to just showing how silly or happy or cute your cat was.” Her smile widens, sweet as the sugar clouds he can only imagine. “I love cats.” Love. That’s progress in his purview; he didn’t even have to press for such emotion. “Do you like cats?” All of a sudden, she’s looking at him, and her eyes are as bright as the morning they searched for the piano standing in front of the pair. “I like all of them, but I really like orange cats.”

And suddenly, something clicks.

He sees it now. A part of her, deep inside, is so very, very small. She sheltered it so much from the suffering in her skin and bones that this piece of her soul will never quite grow all the way up. The magician takes her question very, very seriously.

“...The brown ones. With soft tones and darker points.”

“Siamese!”

And then it happens. She laughs. She laughs unhindered and out loud and without guilt. Itachi sees something familiar, and he remembers that this is what it means to be alive. This is what peace can be...

...Is, before him, for him, now.

This is how the rest of a lazy summer day passes by. Much to the ease of Kisame's mind, he finds the woman enraptured in joy and stories and so many- many- flutters of excited hands. Part of him is so goddamn relieved he didn’t fuck up so badly that rainy night prior that he sucked all the hope out of her precious bleeding heart… But also part of him didn’t know she had this kind of energy in her, that this kind of behavior was beaten out of her with no return. So after brief surprise, it returns to grateful ease. What is it with Itachi and women…?

...No, it isn’t worth framing like this so simply, Kisame surmises, seeing the way black eyes soften with her reflection in them. So even Uchiha can feel love...

Tentatively, with the guide of a red-ringed hand, the traveler gets some help passing barefoot past the road of coals and thorns and on the way to some sort of freedom, as much as can be found in a situation with no choices. The new man is greeted warmly as he enters.

“What’s all this about?” Kisame joins in, pulling up the chair to join one old friend and one new. Bashfully, the woman releases her grasp from Itachi’s— the hold unseen by the swordsman in the first place— and presses her reddened fingertips together. “I’ve been thinking about things that cheer me up. What do you like?” she invites so quickly it takes him off guard.

The taller man looks up to his partner and either receives the permission he is seeking or does not in those dark eyes. With hesitation, as if he could make her cry with just a word, Kisame engages the childish quandary, putting his true, bandaged favorite that's normally strapped to his back in temporary second place.

“Well…” he begins with a scratch of his chin, worried it won’t be up to par with whatever preceded him, “...I quite like seafood.”

“Seafood?!”

At first he’s afraid, she’s so much louder than he’s ever heard her, but those are stars in her eyes as she jumps up.

“I love seafood!”

With slow acceptance, the blue man raises a brow and one side of his mouth. “...Is that so…?” She nods, eagerly, and so it’s impossible to hold back a chuckle. “Then we’ll make a date of it, princess.”

“Oh my gosh!” Two fists pump the air, the woman’s expression as determined as one can be over fish. “Yes! Next time! Next time we’re out!” She turns to Itachi, just a notch quieter. “...Next time we’re out?” As if he’d do anything else, he pauses before giving his own quiet nod. “Yes!”

The shadows change shape over the hours, and the three silhouettes are now in color with it so dark outside. Normally such a figure in triple-headed shape alone would be more akin to a hydra, what with 2/3 being some of the most feared men in all of humankind, but the third makes their picture mean something else entirely. Unknown, what other analogy there could be for something with three faces, but it is remarkably more sweet.

“—And you can use it to watch videos!”

“Hm? Videos?”

“Like movies! Wait, do you have movies? Films?”

“Of course we have films, we aren’t cavemen!” Though Kisame doesn’t know her movies have sound and color.

“Okay, so it’s like a film, but it’s shorter— no, it can be as long. Or longer! But it’s usually pretty short. And you can say whatever you want in them, or do whatever you want!”

“Sounds trite.”

“It is! It was awesome. I liked one channel who talked about his farm—”

“Channel?”

“Yeah, where you would post your videos!”

“Post? Hold on, princess, I thought this wasn’t a physical place. How can you post on anything that’s not, say...a billboard? A pole?”

“That’s just the word for it, Kisame, I didn’t pick it!”

“How unusual…”

Itachi watches the two banter as she tries to paint them a picture, a mere sketch in the corner of a massive masterpiece that is an entirely separate manner of existence. For someone who hated it so much, these details still make her bubble with glee, grin like it’ll all be just fine. But then it grows late, and as the moon rises, so does the dreamer’s hand to suppress a yawn. Kisame offers her a hand, though she takes before understanding his purpose.

“We’ve kept the songbird up for so long that she lost her voice!” he teases, and even though she comprehends this tone, she still shakes her head in refusal.

“No, I haven’t lost it yet. Just one last thing. One more—”

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be complete. But it can be something else.

“Itachi?”

The dying man returns her gaze. She does not flinch at his coal-black eyes.

“Help me with something?” Even as she requests, her hand is already taking his again, and an angel guides two fingers to make one chord on the piano, pressing for him in multiple lengths.

Dmmmm… Dm. Dm. D-d-dm.

“Just like that,” she explains. “Every so often, when it feels right. That’ll be a big help for this song.”

Having slumped onto the floor somewhere in the past couple subjects, she outstretches her fingers for Kisame’s hand again, signifying she’s ready finally for his aid, and she’s lifted off the ground. Once the wrinkles upon the lap of her dress are pressed off, the woman returns one again at the bench, Itachi having not moved from it. Their sides touch again. He’s numb to the thorns. The scent of rose is intoxicating, dizzying in its contrarian, painful innocence, and he notes to be wary of it in the long times to come.

“I’m going to sing for you guys.” Confident as the statement is, the next one makes it waiver: “...If that’s okay.” But she knows it’s okay, so she does not wait. An inhale winds up her nose and an exhale shoves out fear clinging to her throat. Two wrists raise and press the keys, once they pulled down her lenses so she can view her situation with rose-tinted glasses. Unspoken questions ruminate, fuel the engine of her soul:

Can we be friends?

But what if it doesn’t last?

Does it matter?

So she sings:

Only in my darkest moments can I see the light

I think I'm prone to getting blinded when it's bright

She sighs melodically, to her new rhythm, as she tries to describe to them what it’s like to want to hurt, to ache, to die, when things are getting better.

Well, this December, I'll remember

Want you to see it when I do

Oh, oh, oh

God knows I do

Suffering makes you doubt joy, joy makes you doubt that you’ve suffered. Both are veracity of being alive, and yet so easily they can be swayed to the benefit of the negative. Guilt for allowing yourself happiness: it’s something these men know, too. They need little explanation. The passiveness, as if existence is merely erosion of the self instead of the building of your mountain, your accumulation of many, great, little things. It's a form of self-harm. Itachi is perfect in his role; he knows just when to add in his given chord and give her strength.

I'm alright if you're alright

I'm okay if you're okay

It's this state, in this state I'm living in

It's just a little bit, it's just a bit

Maybe, this December, I'll remember

Want you to see it when I do

Oh, oh, oh

God knows I do

The ghost will ride joy out as long as it lasts. Maybe someday, Itachi will see how cotton candy compares to dango. Kisame tries in vain not to have this moment change him forever, for the better. Heaven doesn’t need to pass away just yet. And then as the song fades and it’s time to retire for the evening, single words between the three make each other a promise:

Goodnight.

Goodnight.

Goodnight.

We will all still wake up for each other in the morning.

[nitewrighter]

if you still need an OBAB distraction would you be willing to continue your destiny AU?

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3

Mercy stumbled as they transmatted out of the ship and Genji-3 moved to help her, but she righted herself as McCree transmatted out with his hands on his hips. Mercy had opted for a mostly-white version of her Braytech robes with accents in black, gold, and rusty orange. Maybe to match the solar form her light seemed to lean towards? A poor choice for the EDZ, Genji thought, but then again, Warlocks tended to draw attention to themselves no matter what, so who was he to judge? Trostland was the same as ever–a city square long overtaken by nature with buildings only standing up to the ravages of time, the elements, and Fallen and Cabal squabbles by virtue of their golden age architecture.

“Good ol’ EDZ,” said McCree, taking an exaggerated deep breath despite his face being covered by his helmet.

“It’s beautiful out here–” Mercy started looking out over the woods with the Traveler looming moonlike over the pines tinted bluish by its light. But then she turned her head and her shoulders slumped slightly at the sight of the ruined buildings. “…so the city around the tower really is the last city…”

“I mean there’s still people–” McCree started when a blue energy bolt whipped past them.

“And Fallen,” said Genji, drawing his knife as several vandals crept out from the crumbling remains of one of the buildings framing the square.

“…Good ol’ EDZ,” said McCree with a bit more resignation this time as he drew his hand cannon in a smooth action.

Mercy, seeing both of them had drawn their weapons, went “Oh!” and quickly drew her sidearm.

They stood ready as the first few dregs rushed out into the square, but then there came a crack and the dreg at the forefront of their attackers head apparently exploded on one side. He dropped to the ground, the momentum from his run sending him tumbling. Mercy gave a ‘did you do that’ look at McCree but both McCree and Genji gauged the direction of the shot by its exit wound. Another dreg, bewildered by the sudden shot at his companion from the side, turned in the direction of the shot and the back of his head exploded. The other few Vandals rushed back into the shadows of the ruined buildings, one of them being taken out by another shot before they all disappeared into the ruined building.

Genji moved to pursue them, then stopped at the sound of a short, shrill, whistle. The three of them looked up in the direction of the sound to see a crumbling old church and the barrel of a rifle poking out of one of the topmost windows of the steeple.

“Devrim,” said McCree, “Of course.”

The three of them hurried over to the church and passed under the awning. There was a familiarity in Devrim’s church, and a tension in Genji’s stomach. The scent of earth, greenery and the dampness caught by the pines made Genji all the more aware of how much time he had spent hopping between Mars and the Tangled Shore.

“Wow…” murmured Mercy, phasing her helmet off to get a better look around.

The building was pre-golden age, the floors dense with moss and rubble and what grass could manage to grow in the patches of light shining through the church’s bones. Both Genji and McCree easily leapt up onto the high scaffolding that would lead them up to Devrim’s perch without a second thought. They started moving up the scaffolding, but Zenyatta suddenly nudged Genji’s shoulder, and Genji turned around to see Mercy still on the ground.

“How did you…?” Mercy said a little helplessly, looking up at the scaffolding.

“You’re a warlock, just glide,” said McCree as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Glide?” Mercy repeated.

“Yeah! Glide!” said Engel, materializing out from behind her, “Y’know, like I said earlier? Before you died?”

Mercy made a face and then looked nervously up at the scaffolding.

“Just jump and… uh… keep the jump going?” Engel suggested, its plates whirled with excitement,  “You can do it! You can do anything! You’re a guardian!”

Mercy gave a determined nod.

Genji and McCree watched as Mercy uselessly hopped and landed on the ground several times.

“…wow,” said McCree, with a quiet chuckle, low enough so that Mercy couldn’t hear them as she kept jumping, “She is definitely going to die.”

“You die all the time,” said Genji a bit bitterly, “Every guardian was new, once.”

“I’m just giving her some shit. Look at you all feisty!” said McCree with a smirk.

“I’m not feisty–” Genji started but cut himself off as Mercy managed to get several feet off the ground, letting out a surprised squawk and flailing her arms to try and maintain her balance in the air.

“Now you’re getting it!” said Engel.

“Just don’t overthink it!” McCree called to her.

“Try to feel the light guiding you through the air!” Genji called to her. McCree and Zenyatta both gave Genji an odd look and Genji cleared his throat and said, “But–uh–don’t overthink it?”

Mercy finally managed to push herself off the ground into a slow, graceful arc, not flailing her arms, but her eyes flicking around wildly as she tried to keep her breath under control. A giddy breathless laugh escaped her as she reached her apex and slowly descended. 

“Always thought Warlock glides were good for getting shredded by shank-fire in mid-air,” muttered McCree.

“Don’t be rude,” hissed Echo, materializing next to him.

Genji stepped forward to the edge of the scaffolding and stuck a hand out to her. They grabbed each others’ wrists at the end of her arc and he pulled her onto the scaffolding.

“Um–thank you,” said Mercy, pushing her hair back.

“You should–um… keep practicing,” said Genji. He realized he was still holding her wrist and quickly released it.

“Are you coming up or not?” a warm, rumbling British-accented voice spoke from above.

—

The three of them stood around Devrim Kay in his little perch up near the steeple. McCree was peering out of Devrim’s window, hand hovering over the hand-cannon at his side and hardly listening to Devrim as he spoke. Devrim Kay was a handsome man himself, with sharp blue eyes, squarish features, and no small amount of gray dappling his hair and beard. He had apparently taken more of a likening to Genji’s ghost than Genji himself, and both Devrim and Zenyatta seemed to be dominating the conversation more than anyone else in that little church. Genji’s eyes flicked back to Mercy. Despite all her disorientation in becoming a Guardian, she seemed to be listening to Devrim quite intently as he gave her a brief rundown of the area as her own Ghost eagerly bobbed between them. The light from one of the church’s last-remaining stained glass rose windows cast a rainbow onto her, all pinks and blues and greens splashed against the white of her warlock robes and orange catching in her flaxen hair. He didn’t realize he was staring until Devrim said his name and Zenyatta nudged his ghost shell against Genji’s helmet to get his attention.

“What?”

“The Winding Cove?” said Devrim, “As I recall you had quite the sortie with some pike-mounted Fallen there a few months after we reclaimed the City.”

Genji briefly wondered if being a guardian made all his memories blur together, “More Pikes, then?” said Genji.

“Well, as I was explaining to your lovely recently-awakened Awoken friend here, Lar Spurius, a particularly nasty captain of the Red Legion has shored up in the Weep. He’s causing quite a disruption in supply lines to the Farm.”

Genji gave a glance to Mercy. “Maybe we’d be best off running a few minor patrols before we headed after that kind of target–”

“But, your friends here told me you’ve been spending a healthy amount of time on Mars,” said Devrim, readjusting the scope of his rifle. Genji shot a dirty look at McCree and McCree just gave him a smug nod. “I’m told there are lots of Cabal on Mars,” said Devrim, looking back out the window, “And it would give our mutual friend here a chance to muddy her boots.”

Mercy looked at Genji with an earnest smile and Genji immediately felt self-conscious. As far as what she knew of him, he was a well-seasoned veteran and while, yes, he hadn’t exactly been a slouch in the Red War, pretty much every Guardian was flying by the seat of their pants—especially hunters. McCree was proof enough of that.

“Don’t you worry, Dev. We’ll take out this Larkspur guy,” said McCree, putting his hands on his hips.

“Lar Spurius,” said Mercy.

“Gesundheit,” said McCree.

—

“So…Winding Cove, huh?” said McCree, materializing his sparrow, “Hate getting my boots wet…”

“It’s not too far from here,” said Genji, materializing his own sparrow.

They both looked at Mercy.

“Is this a guardian thing?” said Mercy, “Can I just… make a bike?”

Both Genji and McCree looked at each other, then back at her. “You didn’t get a sparrow from Holliday?”

“Who’s Holliday?” said Mercy.

“Well what ship did you come in on?” said McCree.

“Genji’s?” said Mercy. 

McCree shot Genji a ‘Really?’ look and Genji just glanced off awkwardly.

“Oh I knew I forgot something!” Engel burst out, “I guess I got distracted after I saw you splat on that concrete. Sorry, Guardian.”

“It’s okay,” said Mercy, “I guess we’re both still figuring things out.”

“…we could go on foot,” said Genji, “Take out any fallen patrols on the way…”

“Nah, this Larkspur guy should take priority–” said McCree.

“Lar Spurius,” said Genji.

“Sure is. Y’know Merce, my sparrow’s got room on the back if you don’t mind getting close,” said McCree, gesturing at his own sparrow.

“I won’t slow you down?” said Mercy.

“Not at all,” said McCree.

Genji nearly blurted out ‘My Sparrow has room, too!’ but self-control, the fear of making things weird by making Mercy have to pick between frankly arbitrary options, and the fact that the first priority was getting to the Winding Cove managed to stay his metal tongue. “We’d better get going then,” he said, swinging his own leg over his sparrow.

McCree hopped astride his sparrow and Mercy clambered on after him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Genji took off on his own sparrow with them close behind.

“You know, your sparrow has room in the back too,” said Zenyatta, his voice barely audible over the sparrow’s whirring.

“I know,” muttered Genji before turning his engine up to full blast and blazing ahead.

[ixchel-sketch]

TITLE: Palehuiloca / Ayudar 

GENRE: Crime & Romance

FANDOM: Mayans M.C.

SHIP(S): Coco & Original Female Character 

STATUS: Complete

LENGTH: 5,291 words

Set while Coco is still a prospect. One of his first orders is to help newly full patched members Angel and Gilly locate a corrupt drug dealer at a local music festival. He never expected to meet Maya.

It was early in the evening when the headlights of bikes cut through the light of the setting sun and three members of the local motorcycle club were waved into the festival without so much as a second glance from security. All manner of people were attending, most of them on their way towards inebriation in some form of another. Johnny “Coco” Cruz looked around at the various stages set up in the large canyon, the sounds of whatever concert was currently playing blasted through the state park. Competing for the attention of the crowds of people weaving their way from one set to another. A couple that looked to be barely out of their teens stumbled by and nearly bumped into Coco had he not been hyper focused on his surroundings.

“Jesus, would you look at this place.” Angel’s dark eyes followed after them, noting the way the couple wove and leaned on each other in support. To the average attendee they seemed to be in the depths of young love, laughing and showering displays of affection no matter how inappropriate. To anyone with experience it was obvious they were high off their asses.

“That’s why we’re here isn’t it? Marcus said that we needed to smoke out some dealer. “ Gilberto “Gilly” Lopez adjusted the thick leather vest that all three of them wore, squinting out at the crowd in observation.

“For selling on Mayan terf?”

Coco finally came back to the conversation, a little bit confused on why they would be put on something that seemed to have nothing to do with the club. As a prospect, there weren't many orders that he was in a position to question. It helped that he and Angel had roomed together right before he'd patched in. He trusted him, which was something he hadn't experienced much before.

"There's been an uptick in overdoses. Someones cutting their shit and it makes the M.C. look bad. Since most assume that's where it's coming from." Now it made sense. It would definitely hurt their business and possibly gain unwanted attention from authorities if the main take away from the music festival was the amount of narcan used.

But how the hell were they supposed to find that needle in this shitshow of a haystack? The longer they stood idly by the entrance the worse that he began to feel about this whole thing. There were only three of them there and too many unknowns. They had no idea how serious this guy was or if they had their own crew. Paranoia leeched some of the stoic strength that usually radiated from Coco. No, crowded and booming festivals were definitely not his thing.

"We should split up," Coco scowled at Gilly's suggestion but all of them nodded in agreement nonetheless. "Cover more ground that way. Look for anyone buying or dealing. "

Maya had been attending music festivals since before she knew how to talk. She’d grown up dressed in tie dye onesies and been lulled to sleep by the sound of amature drum circles. It was a lifestyle that she knew like the back of her hand and the road between each destination felt just as much home as the stops between. All she really needed in order to be happy was the RV that she’d inherited from her father and enough gas and savings to keep making her art in comfort. Not many people seemed to understand her need for near constant travel and freedom, much less stick around.

Today had been different though. Slow, and while the general guests were perfectly content with the food vendors and alcohol sales, not too many had stopped through her booth and made actual purchases. Only in the last hour had there been a wave of people walking around and buying different trinkets and goods that she’d made. The increase in sales usually took up all of her attention. Mental energy split between being conversational and likeable as a vendor and keeping an eye out to make sure no one lifted anything. She supposed that was another reason for not wanting to be tied down --- maintaining a fake sociable mask for longer than a couple hours at a time was down right exhausting. With a heavy sigh Maya got up from her chair and stretched as tall as she could. It wasn’t very tall.

Finally she noticed a man standing with his back to the corner of her booth and steeled herself to once again paste on a fake smile. It wasn’t unusual for a potential customer to spend time just staring at a piece… but with a hint of concern she realized that wasn’t what he was doing. Dark eyes were focused intensely out at the crowd and she tried not to flinch when that gaze was turned on her. “Hey, can I help you?”

“What? No, I’m uh- good thanks.” He didn’t look good, warm brown skin having taken on a slightly pallid complexion. The man looked spooked, bordering on shaken and even though she knew better than to reach out something on Maya’s face must have given away her confusion and he rushed to explain. “It was just really loud, I couldn’t even hear myself think.”

“ You want some water?” Before he could answer the brunette was ducking behind a table to grab a metal thermos that was still chilly from her ice run earlier. He accepted it and she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the way his adam apple moved when he took a drink or the stray bead of water that escaped the corner of Coco’s lips. Maya licked her own subtly and subconsciously before adding, “Yeah, festivals can be a lot. I lucked out this year and my booth got placed opposite of the concert field. Shitty for sales though.”

When he handed her back the thermos her fingers brushed against his, releasing butterflies in her stomach and Maya tried her best to brush it off. Coco seemed to finally notice the different posters and jewelry that decorated the tables and his eyebrows rose, fingers ghosting over the designs pressed into leather bracelets. “All this stuff is yours? You made it?”

She nods, a natural grin spreading across full lips. There were few things that she carried a fair amount of pride about, her art being one of them. “Claro que si, Well, except for the bones, those I get from hunters and collectors. Same for the crystals.”

His hand fell away and Coco nodded. Something about the way that he was looking at the merch had Maya relaxing a bit, casting a glance back towards where people were clearing the man made path that separated the music from the vendors to herd themselves into a new performance. There probably wouldn't be anyone else wandering through her booth for a few hours at least.

“ It’s really tight, the detail in the designs is crazy.”

“Thank you. My name’s Maya.” She expected the blink of confusion that followed.

“Sorry, what?”

“Just call me Maya.” Another nod and from the way that Coco’s shoulders sag just a bit she can tell he’s starting to relax too. Whether it's because of the compliment that he’d given her work or just a sudden craving for more substantial human interaction, Maya made up her mind and opened the canopy flap that led to where her RV was parked behind the booth. “I was planning on taking a little break -- para fumar. You wanna join me?”

Finally a genuine smile touches the other’s eyes as Coco replies “I’m always good for a smoke.”

She led Coco back to the small table pulled under the awning and sat down in a rusted lawn chair, motioning for him to do the same. It creaked under his weight and she couldn’t help but offer a slightly embarrassed smile while retrieving the glass jar from a leather satMaya hanging over her shoulder. The inside of the glass was so coated in crystals and weed dust that it was hard to make out the details of the small buds jostled within. “So is this your first festival in awhile?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Probably my first.”

“No shit?” Maya passed Coco the ornately blown glass piece she’d been gifted some time back. It was surprising to find how easy conversation was to have with him as the two began to talk about their interests. Music was the easiest shared denominator, with Maya’s tastes being basically anything that isn’t outright offensive or problematic. But slowly the two started to talk about more personal stuff as well. They came from vastly different backgrounds but somehow nothing seemed to get lost in translation, the time passed faster than either had realized and before she knew it the light was just starting to fade from the sky. Their shadows stretching out in the grass before them and tinting the campsite in a pretty orange.

“So you like to go it alone?” The conversation had circled back to her and Maya rolled her shoulders in a relaxed shrug.

“I’m still only twenty fuckin’ three. And I’m picky as hell, hanging around musicians all the time you know. I’m not just some fuckin’ groupie.”

Coco held up his hands and hissed as if he’d touched something hot, “I got you, my bad.”

She deflated and ran a hand through messy dark waves. As much as she loved the freedom, sometimes loneliness did creep into her life and forced Maya to examine what she really wanted… but she wouldn’t know how to settle down even if she tried. “No it’s on me. My shit. Sorry, dude.”

He nodded, accepting the apology for her snappy response before his cell phone went off and drew Coco’s attention away from the company. With a sinking feeling he realized he’d missed out on the reason they were originally there. All he could do was hope that Angel or Gilly had found something to take back to El Padrino. “Yeah? I’ll be there.”

Maya waited a moment before speaking up, unable to hide the curiosity in her voice. “Those the guys you’re here with? Tus hermanos?”

Coco stood up and fixed the lawn chair, which had sagged so that the seat of it was brushing the ground. She moved to follow him and he offered her a hand to help Maya to her feet. They stood close for a moment while she regained her balance, so close she could smell him and it caused the hair to rise on the back of her neck and heat to coil in her stomach. Shit. Taking a step back, she brushed off her clothes and tried to meet his eyes when Coco replied; “Yeah , sort of. Better than any family I was born with. Even all that shit they say about brothers in arms in the military ain’t nothin like what the M.C. is.”

Dark brows furrowed and Maya pieced together what he meant, not having much experience with bikers outside of slightly unpleasant gas station exchanges. “So you’re here with guys who are also in your...motorcycle club?”

That seemed to make Coco laugh and shake his head while grabbing a cigarette from the box in his vest pocket. Before he could fumble around for his lighter she managed to fish hers out of her pocket, holding it out to him. “Yeah,” He took a drag and made sure to blow it away from where she stood. “We’re actually here trying to pick up. I don’t know if you use anything harder..”

A deep frown creased her face and she gave Coco a subtle once over, as though potentially seeing him in a different light. “Oh...No I uhm, I don’t. That shit’s gotten kind of dangerous.”

He looks equally relieved and she can’t help but be a bit confused. “Good, I mean, I don’t neither. Not like that.”

Coco’s done his share of hard partying and drugs, been addicted and managed to come to terms with his limits. Something in the way that he holds himself lets Maya know that she can believe him, that he’s not just back peddling in order to save face. She nods and goes to untie the opening of her booth to let people know she’s once again open for business --- and to allow Coco to exit into the main crowd.

“Because I’ve seen some people be taken off the grounds for OD’s...it’s depressing shit.” Mostly it was just people who attended but every once and awhile a musician or vendor would end up getting an ambulance called. It was always sad, especially if it was someone that she’d see at a few different venues and become somewhat friendly with.

“See that’s why we’re trying to find the guy selling this shit... stop it from getting into the community.”

Her expression changed to one of surprise before a full bottom lip slipped between her teeth in mild indecision. She was sick of seeing people taken advantage of in her community, at least Coco’s gang was doing something about it. “...I could help, maybe? Talk to the other vendors and see if they’ve seen anything. Are you guys camping out or are you coming back tomorrow?”

She hoped that they were, handing Coco one of the cards that she kept on display so that he might be able to get in contact with her again. Dark eyes tracked the motion of him slipping it into his pocket, her own hands fumbling awkwardly. Coco’s phone buzzed again and she could tell from his reaction it was probably his guys asking where he was.

“We’ll be back. I’ll hit you up.”

He returned to where their bikes were being looked after with a much lighter heart, both from the conversation and finding a potential lead. Gilly was tempted to stay a bit longer and as much as Coco wanted to agree it was obvious to both him and Angel that had much more to do with the actual festival than the club’s interests. Angel was disappointed in the lack of concrete evidence and it showed in his scowl and furrowed brow.

“Damn man. Everyone’s high but it just seems like a bunch of fuckin hippies.” He grumbled, looking either Coco or Gilly in the hopes that they found something of more use.

“I saw someone get carried out but it could have been heat stroke. No one else around.”

Angel turned to Coco, “ What about you? Any luck?”

In no rush to admit that he’d wasted most of his time blowing off their orders to talk to some chick, he kept his answer clipped. “Yeah...maybe.”

The internal conflict caused him to stiffen when Angel’s hand landed on his shoulder in camaraderie. But the other Mayan only seemed encouraged by Coco’s admission, wrinkling his nose before stepping back to mount his ride. “Shit, you smell like skunk.”

The night went by uneventfully despite Maya’s best attempts to find any of her connections that might have an idea what was going on or who was dealing. None of her artisan contacts had any interest in exploring those kinds of narcotics and had a similar reaction to the one that she had earlier. Only after explaining why she was looking for the illicit substance did their judgement lessen. Eventually, after making sure to put the word out that she was interested in trying something different (as a ruse to lure out the dealer) Maya was forced to give up and go to sleep with the hopes that the next day would bring better luck.

And whether it was her own self manifestation or the will of the gods, after spending most of the next day with her attention split between selling her goods and looking out for any nefarious activity her first lead appeared. Half way through the day someone was taken from the medic tent looking half dead but no one seemed to know much about it. Coco messaged her, checking in to see if she had found anything. All of the texts were very...Friendly. They joked back and forth just as much as talking (if not more) than about what was happening at the festival. By the time she did hear back from one of her contacts -- a time and place to meet the person who was selling smack, Maya was too excited about having a legitimate reason to see Coco again than to think through all of the potential consequences of going to the meet.

With her booth closed up and cellphone slipped into the back of her pocket, Maya headed to the spot in the back of the general campsite. It wasn’t too far from her where she was vending but definitely far enough from the security spots and exits to be inconspicuous. The man waiting for her was tall and spindly, the dark cliche hoodie he wore nearly hung off of him with how loose it was. His greeting smile felt lewd, red rimmed eyes focusing on the naked skin of her legs for far longer than she was comfortable with. A sinking feeling started to build in her gut but Maya decided to ignore it.

“So I heard you were looking to pick up ?”

She froze, a small frown working its way onto her face. Even when she wanted so hard to play it cool.“Well, not me, my friend was interested…”

“And where’s your friend?”

The tone of his voice made the hair rise on the back of her neck and Maya looked around to see if there was anyone else nearby. The sound of music playing could be heard even from the distance of the campground and she knew better than to hope there would be anyone loitering there instead of watching a band. “He’s meeting up with me later.”

“Your boyfriend?” The man took a step forward, reaching out to pick up a strand of her long dark hair. At this distance she could make out the details of his pockmarked cheeks and nearly gasped at the memory of his face disappearing into the crowd after the EMT’s had taken away the person hours earlier. Maya’s heart started to race and muscles froze into place with the rise of panic. It was a challenge to take the answering step back, only to find that there was a tent flush behind her back.

“No, just a friend. So can I uhm, can I get the stuff?” Her anxiety to leave was building but Maya didn’t want to take off without at least getting some proof to show Coco that she had found the guy.

“Of course baby, why? You in a hurry?” She watched as his hand made contact with her arm, the other one going to grab her hip almost forcefully to try and drag Maya closer. The grip should have been strong enough to bruise but she couldn’t feel anything beyond the shock. Her dark eyes go wide and it takes a few quick breaths to work past the fear.

“Yeah actually I just need to… can you-- Hey!”

The sun had already set by the time that the Mayans rolled back up to the festival. Coco once again had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach though this time it was for a different reason than being triggered by the crowd. He’d been texting Maya most of the day but in the last hour she had stopped without warning. And when they got to her booth it was closed up and deserted, most of the vendors having shut down by then. Gilly gave a look around before sending Coco a sympathetic shrug. “You sure she was supposed to meet you here bro?”

“It looks pretty empty.” Angel agreed.

“Yeah man this is her spot.” He didn’t like this feeling at all. Like a coil of stress winding tighter and tighter at his core, a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. What he wouldn’t give for it to just be his fucked up mind playing tricks on him again. Just when he was about to finally dismiss it a feminine shout echoed through the space. “ Shit!”

Maya had her eyes pressed tightly closed as the heat of the stranger pressed against her caused sickening chills. Her heart raced so loud that anything that was coming out of his mouth was lost to the rushing noise in her ears. A spell or curse that was caused by paralyzing panic and only when his hand moved from her back to ghost over the curve of Maya’s ass did it break enough for her to scream.

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, ASSHOLE!” Her arms came up to push him away, gasping in surprise when at the same time someone grabbed him by the back of the neck and yanked him back. The motion was too quick, but the line of Coco’s back could be seen as he pinned the dealer to the ground and laid blow after blow to the man’s face. After a few minutes Angel pulled him off, pushing Coco away so that he could catch his breath and pull himself together after unleashing all that rage.

Maya jumped when she realized there was someone standing behind her with their hand on her shoulder, large dark eyes looking up at Gilly and he released her and took a step back to give the shaken woman some space. “You good? “

Her answering nod was a little too quick to be believable but no one called her out on it. “ Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”

“Is this the guy?” Angel nodded towards the bloody heap on man on the ground, still standing between him and Coco though Gilly moved closer to help lift the suspect.

“I don’t know, I know he sells. And he was hanging around someone who OD’d earlier.”

Their expressions went tight and she received a nod, Coco finally walking back over to them and muttering something in Angel’s direction. “ We’ll talk to him.”

While Angel and Gilly dragged the unconscious man back towards their bikes, Maya turned her attention back to Coco, finally noting the way his lips had pulled down into a sour scowl. She had a feeling that a large part of it had to do with her and a knot of guilt formed in her stomach. He started to turn back towards the exit of the festival, about to leave without saying a word and before she realized it Maya was reaching out to gently wrap her hand around his bicep. “ Do you wanna come back to my RV? Get a drink?”

He looked at her hand for a long minute, still not able to meet her eyes even after she let go. “...Okay, sure.”

Neither of them spoke on the way back to where her RV was parked. The tension was nearly palpable and she pulled out a beer from the cooler typically reserved for guests and passed it to Coco. Her eyes lingered on how his fingers were wrapped around the neck of the bottle, knuckles red and bruised from impact. While he opened it she went about unlocking the 1990 Winnebago so that they might be able to talk with some semblance of privacy. The comfort of her mobile home was a soothing balm against all of the excitement and chaos she’d been involved in. Maya deftly opened some cabinets and removed a half finished bottle of tequila and dusty shot glass.

“You know what you did earlier? Was pretty stupid.”

When she looks up from preparing her drink Coco is staring at her intently. “...Excuse me?”

The incredulity in her voice sets him off and Coco pushes away from where he’d been leaning against the narrow counter to loom over her. Now she can tell that she’d seriously misunderstood something earlier as he looks...actually angry. The bottle is forgotten behind him and his chin raises, a defensive posture if she’d ever seen one. “That guy could have pulled a knife, or a gun. Then what?”

She hadn’t thought about if that had happened, but she had a feeling saying that out loud wouldn’t help her case. In an attempt at levity, Maya forced a smirk and tilted her head in faux innocence. “Get shot, I guess?”

It doesn’t help. His brows draw together and his tone raises which causes her to reel back. It only now occurs to her that she doesn’t actually know him that well or what he’s capable of in anger. “What the fuck kind of thinking is that? Eres una pinche idiota?”

Maya’s gaze drops to the floor and her shoulders sag in defeat. She can tell that the reaction is one out of concern for her wellbeing but she doesn’t have a clue on how to fix things. With a heavy sigh she rubs a hand across her face. “I just wanted to help,” Coco continues to look at her, and his expression softens just a bit in acceptance. “ ...You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”

Coco is still standing close enough that if she were to lean forward it wouldn’t take much effort at all to place a kiss on his chin. The thought taunting her almost as much as the way that his voice dips an octave and ridiculously long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. “ Next time just call me, yeah?”

A hopeful smile pulls at full lips and she rocks forward on her heels so that their chests are nearly touching. “Next time?”

“That’s not what I ...shit, I just mean,” His eyes are locked on her lips and the atmosphere of the confined space in the RV has changed with their mood. The air is heavy and she closes the distance between them in an obvious invitation, one of her hands splaying flat on his chest where the patch meets the leather of his vest. Coco’s eyes grow even darker if possible.

“It’s cool. I got you.” There are no expectations as he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls Maya into a hungry kiss. It’s not soft or gentle and she matches his pace eagerly. The hand on his chest snakes around to stroke over the hair at the base of his neck and one of his rakes up the tank top she’s wearing in order to cup her breast. His other arm is pulling her closer still, passion completely unleashed and Maya is forced to break away in a gasp of pleasure when Coco’s leg parted hers and pressed the lines of their bodies against one another until she could feel the tent forming against her hip.

In an act of rare dexterity she managed to turn them so that her back is facing the hallway. It’s far too great a sacrifice to pull away from him or the way that Coco is running his hands along her body. He follows her until the back of her knees press against the mattress and helps to lower her down, wet kisses trailing from her mouth to the column of her throat.

His touch lights her nerves on fire and Maya sighs into the kiss, opening her mouth so that he can take advantage and wind his tongue against hers. Once the heavy leather vest is dropped on the corner of the bed she removes her shirt and pulls Coco back down on top of her. His hands roam and grope her torso while the warm weight of his hips pin her down and roll against her. “Que quieres?”

“Don’t st…keep going.” It’s all the encouragement that he seems to need before Coco is slipping her jean shorts and underwear off her legs and placing nips and kisses along Maya’s hips. It’s a quick tease before her returns to place a kiss on her swollen lips. The fabric of his button up shirt rubs against her chest and she manages to slide her hands beneath it and the thin wife beater under that. They're both in too much of a hurry to really focus on removing each other’s clothes entirely. It’s a \victory just to be able to get a few of the small buttons undone as Coco unfastens his belt to slide his pants down his hips.

“Oh...fuck.” The unbidden whine slips from Maya when he presses two fingers inside of her, whispering a compliment into her ear before replacing his fingers with the head of his cock. It’s been awhile since she’s been with another person, and when he thrusts his entire length in with one quick motion she can’t help but lock her legs around his waist to hold him in place. Coco senses her tense and takes a couple of deep breaths, panting against her shoulder before placing kisses on her chest.

“Relax, mi cariña.” Coco groaned, gripping her ass and pressing Maya closer. He waited until she moaned and rolled her hips against his before picking up the pace of his movements. Once they find a rhythm it doesn’t take long before Maya is coming undone. She cries out in pleasure and tenses around Coco, arms tightly wound around his neck and face pressed against his shoulder. Just a couple of uneven thrusts later and he’s following close behind, groaning and rolling off of Maya so that he’s facing her on the mattress. They both have to catch their breath and she savors the look of pure relaxation on Coco’s face. The lines of stress fall away and he looks years younger.

Maya wants nothing more than to reach out and brush some of the dark hair off of his forehead, but when she does she’s pinned with that same intense stare from earlier as he flinched away from her hand. The connection that was there between them suddenly feels dulled. Coco rolled onto his back, staring up silently at the roof of the RV.

“So… you said something about next time.” She had a sudden sinking feeling in her gut and joined in the direction of his gaze. It was dark out now and the small amount of daylight had charged the old glow in the dark star stickers so that they set off a subtle glow. The longer she looked, the easier it was to pick them out against the faded roof material and ignore the embarrassed burning of her cheeks.

Coco sat up and fixed himself into his pants. From the angle she was at it was nearly impossible to tell exactly what his expression was. “...Yeah. I’ll give you a call.”

That certainly didn’t sound reassuring.

“Right.” Maya’s tone turned flat and cold, earning a glance from the other before she followed suit and sat up to pull her discarded tank top back over her head. Her shorts had been shoved off of the bed in their earlier activities however her underwear lay crumpled near by and she slipped them on to put off meeting his eyes. “Well, I’m only going to be in the area for another couple of days then I do a show up north. If I hear from you it’s cool but if not...it is what it is.”

The warmth of his palm spreads over her cheek and Coco pulls her up so that he can place a gentle kiss on her lips, far softer than she ever would have expected. “ Hey, querida… I’ll call. I got you.”

A soft smile spreads across her face as he slings his kutte over one arm and she pulls him back for one final kiss, happy to get to know him and already excited for the next time they would see each other.

“Ride safe.”

[smallgeneration]

caveu des oubliettes

There was something about that jazz club, a magical quality bordering on the sinister that promised a good time remembered through the haze and headache of next morning’s hangover. Le Caveau Des Oubliettes. Tucked away down a crooked and cobbled pedestrian alley in the upper West corner Paris’s fifth arrondissement, it was the perfect club to lure tourists into thinking they’d discovered a hidden hotspot, an underground local scene on a wandering night out in the City of Lights. The place was dark. The big window in the front of the bar was tinted a deep red, and the black awning that loomed over the door was emblazoned with a medieval font that during the daytime appeared cheap and corny, a nowhere place between Notre Dame and the Panthéon one might pass while getting lost. But come midnight, and the sepia glow of the streetlamps cast jagged shadows over the rough stone walls of that ancient building, silhouettes danced to muffled jazz in the dim glow of the red window, and the place transformed. It became Somewhere.

My first night at Le Caveau was a Friday in mid-September, two or three days after my arrival in Paris. By accident or some cliché fate, I had fallen into friendships with two girls who, like me, were artist-writers taking gap years or time off school to live and work in the historic Shakespeare and Company bookshop, which was located around the corner from Le Caveau. Anneli was a writer and photographer from the farmlands outside of London, and our friendship began my first day in Paris when, within five minutes of us meeting, she declared us kindred spirits on the front stoop the bookstore. She later introduced me to Jess, a poet from New Zealand, who was on fall break from an undergraduate study abroad program in Lyon. At twenty years old, Jess became mine and Anneli’s adopted big sister, for we were only eighteen and had recently finished high school.

That mid-September Friday night began with a shared bottle of cheap wine on a bridge over the Canal Saint-Martin, where I met up with Jess and Anneli at around 8pm. After a small epidemic of bedbugs had forced them out of their free lodgings at Shakespeare and Company indefinitely, they were now crashing at a friend’s apartment in the 11th, a short walk from the Canal in the Folie-Méricourt district of Paris. Lou, the tenant of the apartment, met us briefly on the bridge where Jess and Anneli introduced us, and she expressed her disappointment in being unable to join us on our night out. She had already made plans with her coworkers at the café that ajoined the bookshop, where she had befriended Jess and Anneli weeks earlier. I was immediately blown away by her inherently French beauty and her generosity in offering me a place to stay the night, in case I wound up too drunk to return to my youth hostel. She said explained that though her apartment was small, there would be plenty of room if I didn’t mind sharing a the couch with Anneli or a cot on the floor with Jess, and I happily thanked her for her kindness.

As Jess, Anneli, and I finished our bottle of wine, we discussed our plans for the evening. We were to rendezvous with Harry, a young Australian street musician who often busked in front of Shakespeare and Company and was recent acquaintance of Jess’s, before buying more wine. Then, we would wander into the nearest bar or club providing live music for a night of adventure and dancing. For my first night out in Paris, Jess and Anneli wanted to give me “an authentic experience of the city,” which would only amount to a realized dream we’d read about in books and watched countless times in our favorite movies.

An hour later, Anneli and I were following Jess to our meeting point with Harry. The Oberkampf station let out onto a corner of Boulevard Voltaire, where the Metro Café was nestled beneath a large wall mural of an ostrich that glared down at us as we danced and sang Edith Piaf’s “Non, je ne regrette rien” and waited for Harry to arrive. Anneli and I thought it would be funny to take off our shoes and dance barefoot on the streets of Paris, and though it was chilly, we were warm with adrenaline and cheap wine. Jess was on the phone with Harry, who had gotten lost, and she was too drunk to be giving directions. She kept saying, “Look for the ostrich! We’re dancing under the ostrich!” This sent me and Anneli into a fit of giddy laughter as we spun ourselves dizzy and wound up giggling, sprawled out on the dirty sidewalk.

“What the hell are you lot doing!” came the drunken shout from down the street. Anneli and I sat up, grinning and out of breath, as Harry ran up and greeted Jess with a hug. He turned to us and extended a hand. “Don’t you know the streets of Paris have got to be the the filthiest in all of Europe? What! Not even wearing shoes?”

He helped me and Anneli to our feet. He was already drunk as well, a tall sand-blond boy with red cheeks and an infectious smile, and as Jess introduced us another girl walked up, stunningly gorgeous and smiling expectantly.

“Guys,” Harry said, putting an arm around the girl, “This is Belle, my friend from high school. She’s visiting from Australia for the weekend, so I thought she should come along for the night’s festivities.”

We were more than glad to have another member in our party, and it wasn’t long before introductions gave way to the quick and close kind of friendships that fall into place on drunken Friday nights. It was just after 10pm, and our next step was finding a liquor store.

After discovering I was from Nashville, Harry seemed to forget my name. He bought two six packs of beer to share, and as we drank more and wandered into 11pm, he began referring to me only as Nashville, and the nickname stuck. Soon Jess, Anneli, and Belle were all calling me by my hometown, and I was either too drunk or too happy to have made friends to be bothered by it. I taught Belle racy French phrases, Harry gave Anneli a piggyback ride, and Jess passed around her cigarettes for sharing. In barely an hour, we had become inseparable companions, talking and laughing as if we’d known each other for years.  

The plan to locate the nearest live-music club proved to be futile. We were lost, drunk, and had to retrace our steps once or twice to retrieve a shoe that Anneli kept dropping. Harry resolved to call the five of us a taxi, remembering a flyer for a live jazz bar somewhere near the bookshop. We piled into the cab, the extra beers in my tote bag clinking against my shoes and scores of loose change. I stretched across Harry, Belle, and Anneli in the back, and the driver amiably indulged Jess’s front-seat request to play “La vie en rose” on repeat throughout the drive. He laughed at our attempts to make drunken conversation, and I remember saying something like, “Je parle mieux le français quand je suis bourrée.” The blur of the cab ride dissolved into a series of dizzying sounds and images, saxophones and red lights, kisses and tequila and barefoot dances in the stoney cavern of that magic magnetic jazz club.

Le Caveau des Oubliettes is made up of two floors. The first is where the bodies form a roiling congestion of arms, heads, and torsos, where elbows needle evanescent pathways to the bar. The arms toast overfilled whisky tumblers and splash their contents to the floor. Heads balance cigarettes behind their ears and crane their necks to locate the bathroom door. Torsos rub against strangers and smell of sweat, cologne, and smoke. French, English, German, and Spanish all blend into a cacophony of conversation, punctuated by the wail of a horn section and the crash of drums emanating from the ground below. The room is small and cramped, and in the far left corner is the bar where the tenders take hasty orders and don’t bother saying more than the price of the drinks and merci.

In the far right corner is an arched stone doorway that leads into a steep and narrow set of stone stairs worn slick with age that descend into what was once a medieval dungeon. A set of iron bars line a diamond-shaped window cut from the ancient walls of the stairway, and through it you can see the small stage where large French men in velvet shirts and cowboy boots improvise funk and jazz under psychedelic blue and purple lights. The stairs let out into the middle of the room, and whether the floors were dirt or simply dirty I can’t remember.

We sat in the back, squeezed around the only table in the room. Of the thirty or so people in the dungeon, only a handful were dancing while most sat on small wooden stools, mesmerized by the music. When the waitress came to take our order, she wouldn’t serve us until Anneli and I had put on our shoes. We did, ordered a glass of wine each, and Harry ordered a beer for him and Belle. Jess ordered absinthe, le fée verte, as a testament to the writers and legends of the bygone Paris we secretly hoped we could recreate.

On the wall above her head, I noticed that carved into the stone was the year 1467. America suddenly felt like a dream, a world as lost and unimaginable as it would have been to the men who once were held captive within these walls. The concept of time was now blurred, becoming medieval, Renaissance, Belle Epoch and Roaring Twenties all at once.

While Jess and Anneli chatted with Belle and her history with Harry (they had dated once, in high school, but were just friends now), Harry and I were absorbed in the music. We talked about the colors and the tones of every chord, becoming more deeply entranced by the major-minor shifts and transitions from rock to funk, from funk to classical jazz, and at one moment, the groove was so powerful it sent us leaping to our feet with a shout.

“You get it, Nashville,” he exclaimed, squeezing my hand. “You really get it, don’t you?”

We stayed for an hour or so, laughing and making toasts to Paris, toasts to the cave, toasts to each other, until the music ended and the band packed up to go.

After that night, we became regulars at Le Caveau. I ended up moving in with Jess and Anneli at Lou’s apartment, where I lived for the next three months, and after Belle went home to Australia, Harry remained a member of our small gang. We spent our days writing songs and poems, reading books and frequenting Paris’s many museums, but our nights inevitably culminated at the jazz club. We remember stories from those nights in jumbled drunken vignettes, filling in each other’s blacked-out details where we can, but many of our memories have inevitably been lost to that time vortex cavern. For a while, we believed that “le caveau des oubliettes” meant “cave of the forgotten,” and we thought it perfectly appropriate, like some poetic justice that made our drunken antics somehow more meaningful.

“Le Caveau des oubliettes” actually translates to something more like “vault of the dungeons,” as Lou later informed us, and though we were disappointed in its lack of poetry, the place never lost its magnetism.

Many months later, after our gang of expatriates had since returned to their native countries and Lou moved back to her hometown in the French Alps, I travelled again to Paris, and found myself drifting through those cobbled streets behind Shakespeare and Company in search of our old jazz club. But Le Caveau des Oubliettes was gone, its red window covered with faded flyers and a handwritten note that simply read fermé. Whether it was to be closed forever or indefinitely was unclear, but it left me with an eerie, ominous feeling of loss. I thought that if I could just go inside, dance again within those ancient stone walls, I might remember. Remember what, I didn’t know, but I could hear it echoing somewhere behind those locked doors, somewhere deep in that crypt of all the lost and forgotten details of those nights.

[edb87]

A yellow home sits in the middle of a park and people are losing their goddamn minds.

The home used to belong to a family that still lives and works in this city and a long time ago the family donated the land and the home to the city government to make a park. So the city did. Then the city put their parks department in the home for about a decade until the home became too much to deal with. Too much money for upkeep on the nearly century-old home. Too much to cool in the summer. Too much to warm in the winter. So they moved the department out of the building because of course they did the home sucks and there the home sat for years and years. The asbestos temple became infested with vermin and bats and homeless people slept under the awnings and teen miscreants graffiti'd the building and broke windows and a kid got injured one time and the family sued the city and the home continued to deteriorate and nobody cared about the building because who cares about an old home in the middle of a children's park?

Somewhere during that timeline a committee of well-meaning people formed to try to save the house because they saw the writing on the wall oh god I hate myself for having typed that and received $200,000 in pledged donations to save the house. They wanted to turn it into a children's science center which is something I'm in support of but not particularly fond of that location. When the rubber met the road though the could barely scrounge up a thousand dollars of it.

People who said they wanted to save the house and would pony up the money couldn't even be bothered to put their money up to save it and people are losing their goddamn minds.

So the city says hey we want another playground at this park because 5 aren't enough but this one will be handicap accessible and we probably shouldn't put it near this gigantic hazard that has structural foundational pillars literally crumbling to dust so the city proposed tearing the building down and putting a splash pad thing there because why not.

Then people lost their goddamn minds.

I don't know when or where the term "historic" meant "old" but the home is old while not being historic. Beyond the family that donated the park there weren't very many if any occupants because why would you want to live in a drafty old home in the middle of a children's park? It would just be weird.

They say well old time movers and shakers in the city met here a few times or the community threw Johnny a going away party during World War II at this location and I'm left scratching my head wondering how a bunch of people meeting in a house or having parties justify renovating an eyesore in the community that will cost taxpayers at the bare minimum $500,000 but will probably end up costing them a lot more.

I grew up in a duplex near Lambert-St. Louis Airport in St. Louis County and there was a push pre-9/11 to buy up a bunch of land and expand the airport because nothing bad is ever going to happen, baby. My parents were all on board but the plan never came to fruition and eventually my mom died and my dad lost two of the four duplexes they bought after the bank took them back following a lack of payment because my dad was out of a job for a few years because the airline he worked for laid him off on the sound reasoning of why pay a guy with 40 years experience when we can hire 18-20 year old guys who will work for way less and do a half assed job and I mean we're an airline we have to go half assed or no assed at all.

What I'm getting at here is that I wouldn't put up a fight to save the house I grew up in if they were to bulldoze it so why a bunch of people are ok with paying more in taxes to save a house that the only connection they have with is they pretended it was haunted as kids really astounds me.

The main claim I've seen concerning saving the house is that the city has already torn down so many old homes in the past decade or so and we need to preserve something to remember the history of this town and I would almost buy that excuse but then again the most famous incident in the town's history is a tragedy the city pretends didn't happen and there's no marker to commemorate those lost in the tragedy but a monument was put on the county courthouse lawn in the early 2010s to the confederate soldiers that were killed by Union troops at that location during the civil war so I'm guessing that history isn't their particular strong suit.

Anyway a man in the city full of self importance and what wasn't self importance was a concoction of ego piss and vinegar decided to shove a stick into the city's bicycle spokes and worked on an signature petition to save the home by letting the city residents vote on the issue. He's a very smart man but as I've described him to others he tends to be so smart that he loops back around to being a complete numbskull half the time. Anyway he gets the signatures needed to hold an election on whether or not the home should be saved and the city wasn't having it. They have their plan and their plan was approved by the city council which helped give input on the plan and that was that.

The city is saying we simply don't have that kind of money to renovate a home we have no need for and I can understand that because I'm a journalist and don't make opulent amounts of money but I also have a hard time feeling sorry for the city and their reasoning because among other boneheaded moves made in the decade I've been down here they dumped millions of dollars into a municipal broadband project that has 3 or 4 customers in an effort to stave off big internet service providers from moving in and monopolizing the business with their awful speeds and high prices. That had already happened and another provider from outside of the service area saw the opportunity and moved in to offer high speeds at lower prices because capitalism so then the city and the new company got into it over so the broadband project so company attempted to astroturf the residents of the city in one of the absolute worst attempts of swaying public opinion I've ever seen. The company made a website saying they were concerned citizens who didn't want the city to spend millions of taxpayer dollars creating their own internet service which I get but when you set up your website don't save your site assets and images with file names like "nameofprovider.jpg" or "forthatonesitethatdefinitelyisntus.mov".

I don't like being broke but I'm also not self-flagellating because I have to buy groceries and pay my utilities lest my home because a decrepit century-old home infested with vermin and bats.

I also didn't take my paycheck and buy a Ferrari and lament why my car note and insurance are so high.

So the courts got involved in the battle over this home because of course they did and here we are on election day waiting to get the results. I've got contact information for both parties involved to get comments once the results are in because I'm a good journalist and I just cant understand how and why people are losing friendships over a home that no sane person would want to be in or around.

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug and rose tinted glasses are wonderful unless you're in the basement of a dilapidated old house that could collapse and crush you in any second and you trip on a pile of bricks and break your leg.

[mistydeyes]

tuberose and rose tinted glasses

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summary: A work trip to France lands you in a bar in Grasse. But it's the actions of a masked British man that puts him next to you with brandy in your hands.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader

warnings: swearing, harassment

a/n: literally writing this on my lunch break, pining over the idea of taking a trip to grasse and submerging myself in their fields of jasmine

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Grasse, France the world's capital of perfume. As you walked the late-night streets filled with fragrant, floral air, you couldn't help but feel melancholy that you were here on business and not for pleasure. Your head flooded with the smells of the city as you noted the various notes of tuberose and jasmine as you walked. Despite your frequent trips here, you still fell in love with the rows of flowers in peak bloom.

Your heels clicked on the ground as you saw a red awning with the letterings of a bar on it. You sought refuge after a long day of discussing new fragrances with your colleagues and creating the perfect blend for another company.

You pushed the doors open and sat at one of the velvet cushioned seats in the dimly lit place. As you patted the soft fabric with your fingertips, you admired how the bar was lit with a warm rose light. You noted only a small amount of patrons in the place. It looked to be only you, the bartender, and maybe three other men in this entire pink atmosphere. However, you paid them no mind as the bartender approached you.

"Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?” ("What can I get you?") He said, giving you a moment to comprehend what he was saying. You couldn't blame him, you were far from a stereotypical French woman. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself or just looked so typically American that tipped him off to your presence. However, your years working with your company and traveling from the US to France made you thankfully bilingual in the romantic language.

Just as he was about to ask the answer in English, you responded, "Je prends un un verre d'Armagnac Aristocrat, s’il vous plaît." ("I'll have a glass of Armagnac Aristocrat please.") Your clientele had refined your tastes. Never one for wine, you preferred a strong drink to accompany you.

"Fille chanceuse, je viens d'ouvrir une bouteille pour le monsieur là-bas," ("Lucky girl, I just opened a bottle for the gentleman over there") he replied and signaled to a man also sitting alone on the far side of the bar. Unknowingly, this man had luckily ordered a bottle of the spirit and allowed for your drink to be served immediately, the Armagnac being perfectly oxidized in the French air. The man in question was broad and had his head down. As the rose light illuminated his figure, he seemed more interested in his drink than the atmosphere around him. His eyes looked concentrated on the caramel liquid in his glass. You wondered what his full expression was as, despite his eyes, his face was primarily obstructed by a black mask.

Your eyes left the man as the bartender gently set your drink down on a scarlet napkin. "Merci," you said gently and he left you to enjoy your purchase. As you sipped on your drink, you savored the smokiness of the brandy coupled with the sharp bitterness of the Lillet. You swallowed the liquid, enjoying the subtle sweetness of the ginger ale. This was a drink to be sipped, not greedily drank as you enjoyed how the flavors came together to create a perfect beverage. You gently traced your fingers on the edge of the glass and smeared your reddened lipstick on its rim.

However, your moment of solace would soon be interrupted by a man who took an abrupt seat next to you. You could tell by the way he was swaying and leaning on the counter that he had one too many. He smelled like cheap cologne, probably something he bought as a souvenir and beer.

"Ma chérie, tu es very sexy" ("My darling, you are very sexy") the man leered over you. You couldn't help but roll your eyes. His poor mixing of French and English made you feel embarrassed for him. He acted like this was the epitome of flirtation and almost expected you to throw yourself on him.

You attempted to ignore the man, turning your body away and protectively hovering over your drink. He was determined, grabbing your shoulder to face him. "You smell expensive, tell me do you put your perfume where you want to be kissed?" he spoke sultry in another crude attempt at flirting.

"Not interested," you said, waving your arm in a dismissive motion. You just wanted to enjoy a night with some liquor and the smells of the town. Your gold bracelets clanked as you brushed him away. However, they soon clattered together as he aggressively grabbed your wrist.

"Oh so you speak English, sweetheart," he began, breathing his hot alcohol-laced breath in your face. "Lucky for you, I can speak French between your legs," he finished as you tried to free yourself from his grip. You pushed against his chest and elbowed him but he was relentless. Your eyes looked wildly around as you tried to receive any help, but seemingly the bar had emptied and the bartender was nowhere to be found. "C'mon sweetheart, let me show you a good time," he said and pressed harder on your wrist. Your arm pricked with pain from his grip. Suddenly his hands were pried off of you and he was thrown back.

You turned to see it was the man from across the bar, now standing next to you and glaring at the downed man. "She politely said 'fuck off, asshole', do you understand that?" he barked at him in a deep voice. The drunk man looked ready for a fight as he stood up. But something about the masked man's aura made him rescind. As quick as he came, the drunkard left. He ceremoniously flipped him off and with a string of profanities, exited the bar in a huff.

"Thank you," you said and motioned for the man to take a seat, "I think I owe you a drink." He briefly glanced over to where he sat and you both saw the empty glass. "Looks like you need a refill, anyways," you remarked. It seemed like he agreed as he took a seat to your right.

You signaled to the bartender, who for some reason had not acknowledged the entire fiasco that just occurred. He came over and you asked, "Un autre de ceux-ci pour moi et le monsieur," ("Another one of these for myself and the gentleman") and pointed to your dwindling glass. He nodded and went behind the counter to prepare both your liquid vices.

"So what brings you to Grasse? You don't seem like a Frenchman to me," you asked turning to face your new companion. In the bar's lighting, you could see him slightly better than before. His light eyelashes glistened in the light and contrasted with his amber eyes. You also noticed how his face mask had some kind of skull design painted on it.

"Business," he answered plainly, a man of few words you presumed. Somehow when he spoke, you were comforted by the smell of cigarettes on his lips and hints of brandy as they mixed in the air. "Me as well, but I always love coming here," you sighed. The bartender quietly came back with your drinks and you cheered the mysterious man next to you.

After savoring the liquor for a few moments he sparked up another conversation. "What is this? It's strong but good," he asked. "An Armagnac Aristocrat, bitter orange Lillet Blanc, and smokey Armagnac topped with a refreshing, crisp serving of ginger ale. C'est manifique" ("It's magnificent") you finished and gently placed the chill crystal glass on your bruised wrist.

"Well that is quite a description, I would guess you have these a lot," he joked and you could see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled. "I'm a perfumer, my whole life is based on knowing the key elements to an ingredient and being able to illustrate it for others," you replied, practically telling your life story to this stranger.

After another long string of minutes, he spoke up again. "Makes sense why you're here, beautiful city," he said quietly. "Yes, it is. If you ever get a chance, a perfume tour would be worth your while." With that, he shook his head slightly and you knew this was a way of saying he was on his way out of the town.

"Next time, love, I appreciate the recommendation though." Maybe it was the inclusion of the nickname but you picked up on his British accent. London you thought, maybe Manchester, regardless it was as intoxicating as the liquor that was warming your insides.

As the time waned on, you ordered another drink. This time it was his recommendation, a Brandy Smash. Feeling slightly tipsy you joked, "Mhmm, I can taste the smokiness of the Armagnac with a subtle hint of cooling mint leaves and the sweet tang of sugar and lemon."

"And I would've thought perfumers are only good for the sense of smell," he replied. With his mask pulled up to his nose, you could see how beautiful his smile was. As you talked, his rosy lips formed into a calming curve and you could see some silvery scars dance in the bar's overhead light.

"I'm much more than that-" you stopped short. You realized after two hours of talking about yourself, you had not even asked his name. He noticed your hesitation and replied, "It's Simon."

Simon, meaning 'to listen' you thought to yourself, what a perfect name for a man who let you occupy his time with botanicals and knowledge of scents. "I'm Y/N," you said, "And thank you, Simon. This has been a perfect evening," you smiled gently.

"Yes it has, a perfect evening with perfect drinks," he replied and clinked his glass with yours. As he finished his drink, he slowly prepared to leave. He signaled the bartender over and you both paid your respective tabs. As he adjusted his jacket, something about Simon made you want to see him again. Maybe it was his chiseled features or his attentiveness to your words but whatever it was, it made you gently place a hand on his arm.

"I know this is a little forward but mind if I give you my number? Maybe I'll run into you here again or stateside?" you asked, preparing for rejection. This chance encounter was a plot device in movies, almost too good to be true. "Sure, love. Let's find you a pen," he said and pushed a napkin toward you.

"Puis-je avoir un stylo s'il vous plaît?" ("Can I have a pen, please?") you asked to the bartender who was polishing glasses. He slid one over to you and you wrote on the small red napkin you had been given. As you wrote on the napkin, you could feel Simon's eyes on you. He knew you were writing more than just a number based on the various lines written on the cloth.

You finished writing and leaned forward towards him, gently tucking the red item into his jacket pocket. If you had been any closer, you might have heard his rapid heartbeats and quickened breath. "Au revoir, Simon," you said and saw yourself to your hotel for the night, savoring the smell of jasmine and lavender in the air.

Simon took the napkin out of his pocket, the color reminding him of your sanguine cheeks and burgundy lipstick. His calloused fingers gently held the note as he read, "Pleasure to meet you, Simon. Thank you for listening and sharing a drink. Just a recommendation but a refined man like you should try, Gentleman by Givenchy. Until we meet again," followed by your number. He too walked out of the bar to embrace the late-night air. But as he walked the quiet streets, he now had a new appreciation for the intoxicating scents of Grasse.