tonibeltran

[tonibeltran]

ANTONIO: I certainly didn't. Remember when he tried dancing on The Bachelor? The secondhand embarrassment was enough for me to shut the whole season off. ANTONIO: They would HAVE to assume I'm obsessed with a man named Joey and begging for his attention. ANTONIO: Oh, Rachel, be real right now. No one actually votes based on the DANCING. At this point in the competition you're voting for your favorites whether they do well or not. ANTONIO: I have a simple life. Not that I'm complaining, but it does give me pause to know I have this much time on my hands, you know?

RACHEL: Okay but he can DANCE he's got star quality who knew?! RACHEL: I feel like I want someone to see your phone and wonder what in the world is happening if they don't have the context. RACHEL: I still stand by the fact it's not fair that you get 10 votes like what if the people cast them before they see a really good dance at the end? RACHEL: you have a life what do you mean?!

[tonibeltran]

ANTONIO: I have. Great show. Very heartwarming. ANTONIO: Oh, sure. Sounds fun. ANTONIO: Been a while since I've seen the kid, anyway. ANTONIO: Nah, demonic content tends to just find me. I don't actively go looking for it.

LEA: Con razón es que tu estas tan positivo todo el tiempo LEA: Esí es bueno vivir. De veras LEA: Of course, I'll add it onto the list 😁 LEA: I do love a good game of futbol. Have you watched it already? LEA: Should we watch it to LEA: I know Daniel might like it too, we can grab some beers and binge it one of these days? LEA: I was beginning to think you only know demonic content jajaja

[tonibeltran]

Antonio raises an eyebrow at Phoebe’s initial outburst, a small smirk forming as he leans his forearms on the counter, his posture easy. “Never took you for someone who makes assumptions,” he teases lightly, though there’s no bite in his tone. He waves off her apology with a chuckle, letting her awkward laugh fade into the quiet hum of the store. “Nah, I get it. Austen and Plath for the girls, Orwell and Salinger for the boys — it’s the kind of thinking that still makes me lie to people about my favorite book,” he confesses, nodding seriously. “Anyone else asks, they usually get The Great Gatsby. God forbid they know I’m a romantic,” he holds a hand up to his heart dramatically, eyes widening in mock-scandal. “I’d never live it down.” 

Her question gives him pause, though, and his expression softens as he considers his answer. “Good question,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “The story is fantastic, obviously, but I think what draws me back again and again are the characters.” A pause. “Maybe it’s just that Austen doesn’t try to excuse their flaws, you know?” He meets Phoebe’s gaze with a small grin. “They exist. They’re a part of them. It’s never so black and white with her. Like a lesson on loving people for their complexities, not despite them.” He shrugs, though there’s a glimmer of sincerity in his eyes. “And, yeah, it is the blueprint, isn’t it? All the best love stories have a little bit of Austen in their DNA.”

At her reaction to the cost of a first edition, Antonio laughs outright, shaking his head. “I know, right? Ridiculous. That’s why it’s still just a daydream for now.” He leans back slightly, glancing around the store as Phoebe talks about her job. The idea of staying here, even after achieving whatever her dreams may be, makes him smile. There’s something grounding about it, something he doesn’t quite have himself. “I don’t blame you for wanting to stay. This place seems like it’d be good for a writer — surrounded by stories, little moments of inspiration on every shelf. Seems like it suits you.”

He pauses for a beat, tilting his head slightly. “So, what is it you want to happen, exactly? If you don’t mind me asking.” His tone is casual, but there’s a genuine curiosity in his voice, his interest in her ambitions clear.

Phoebe had always scoffed at the idea of frivolous spending, always declaring that the value of money was wasted on those who never had to stretch to make ends meet. That the idea of these super mansions celebrities paraded around in on MTV Cribs or the amount of overconsumption on her TikTok feed made Phoebe's eyes roll with contempt, glad that she had some financial sense. But when Antonio mentioned his Pride and Prejudice collection, she felt a flare of jealousy only ever reserved to when she bumped into the women of Foster's past.

"I'd never take you for a P&P guy," She blurts out, "Sorry! That's so presumptous! Um, I just mean, I guess I just grew up being told Austen and Plath were for girls, Orwell and Sallinger were for the boys. Obviously not a healthy mindset to have in this day and age!" The clerk couldn't help but laugh awkwardly. "Um, but what is it about it? The themes? The fact it's the basis of the modern love story? I just...never really heard a man's opinion on it." She had tried to get Seb to read it before — her beat up copy stolen from the Blue Harbor High library — but he hadn't expressed much interest. And sadly never got to that point with Foster, who she had seen only read memoirs by different chefs.

"Two hundred grand is...wow. Yeah." To Phoebe that was life-changing money, that was at least the price of a small house in a less-than-decent neighborhood. "But yeah, this place is great. It's quiet, and the owner is nice, and I get discounts on whatever books I want! And I'm allowed to choose the displays." Though she hadn't really had a chance to express her creative vision in that regard yet, jumping straight from Halloween to the holidays. "I think, even if like...all I want to happen happens, I might stay here. Why not?" It got her out of the apartment, after all.

[tonibeltran]

Antonio snorts softly at Nathan’s quip about Linda’s husband, shaking his head with an amused grin. “God, but could you imagine being married to Linda? Don’t think you’d be able to find peace in your own house.” He casts a glance across the street, watching Linda gesticulating wildly at the workers, and feels a twinge of sympathy — for them, not her. He might be able to extend some sympathy toward her, if she weren’t such a raging, racist, ridiculous bitch. Though he’s sure not to voice those opinions out loud anywhere near Roman, mind you — he’d have a field day, knowing there’s someone on this earth Antonio can’t muster up a single kind word about.

As Nathan lights his cigarette, Antonio leans casually against the mailbox, crossing his arms. The faint curl of smoke drifts between them, and he shrugs at the question. “Before this? Texas, originally,” he says, skipping over the first five years of his life in Mexico, because he doubts Nathan’s intention was to get a full lore drop. “Then I lived at the uni for a couple years here when I turned eighteen. But the last place I lived was in LA,” he makes a face, as though the mere initials of such a large, unforgiving city are enough to sour the taste of his tongue. The only good memories he has of LA are whatever he’d managed to make living with Roman and Kaya, but other than that, he holds that city with the same contempt one would a scorned lover. “And now I’m here.” He skips over the five years in between, as well, because he’s not a fucking radio soap. “In Oak Gardens.”

He glances at Nathan with a raised eyebrow as he trails off, gesturing vaguely to the neighborhood. “I’m not exactly the target demographic here,” he points out. “But the house was an impulse buy.” As was the move. His last-ditch effort not to kill himself, which worked out in his favor, he guesses. He hadn’t killed himself. Moreover, hasn’t wanted to in a hot minute. Did gain a gnarly alcohol addiction, though, which’ll be fun to unpack when he gets to it. Eventually.

Antonio’s gaze shifts back to Nathan, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What about you? Can’t imagine you woke up one day and thought, ‘You know what I need? A picket fence and a clipboard brigade breathing down my neck.’” He raises an eyebrow, leaning into the familiar rhythm of their banter. “What brought you to the land of gourd quotas and scarecrow fascism?”

“Hm. Perhaps if her husband wasn't so busy browsing for newer models she'd have less time to bother the rest of us.” It doesn't matter that two thirds of his life have been spent steeped in luxury and privilege, the ghost of a youthful Nathan rises up defiant and resentful all the same. A smirk creeps onto his face, Antonio's words conjuring a satisfying image of the look on Linda's face in the aftermath of Halloween revenge. The concept of HOAs has never been anything short of bizarre to him and having a committee of control freaks policing what he does with his own property only inspires a deeply immature desire to see how far over the line he can toe. “Pity the poor sod who had to deal with her. Who on earth cared about scarecrows that much?”

It's a small blessing that his house sits between the only two neighbours that actually appear to be sane on the street. With Antonio on one side and Roman on the other he's been left in relative peace the past few months. No rousing arguments, no drama, or none that he's noticed at least. And if the two of them wander between houses on a slightly more regular basis than he'd expect, well. None of his business, is it?

Linda's grating voice inspires an eye roll and as they watch her tear a set of bat-shaped lights from a worker's hand he can't help but think of his younger brothers, both of whom would see this kind of behaviour as a challenge to cause as many problems for the woman as possible. His fingers itch to take out his phone and text them. He pushes them further into his pockets.

“I never understood the point of those groups anyway. Fascists.” He huffs, searching for a cigarette to replace the urge to reach out. Nathan considers Antonio appraisingly as he slips it between his lips and lights it. “Where did you live before, then?” It makes sense to him that he's not an Oak Gardens native, if only for the fact that the man doesn't walk around with the air of someone who has a stick rammed up their arse.

[tonibeltran]

Antonio blinks, processing the sharp pivot in their conversation as Terry nonchalantly drops their confession. A brief flicker of surprise crosses his face before he smooths it over with a small, amused grin, well-practiced in the art of keeping up with unexpected tangents. Even if they do make him feel a tad bit wrongfooted, suddenly. “Okay,” he nods slowly, as if processing the information. “Should I be congratulating you or offering condolences?” He teases lightly, though the comment is less about the subject matter and more about Terry’s blunt delivery. Antonio doesn’t mind the overshare — hell, he’s overshared plenty himself in dimly lit bars with half-strangers who became fast friends. Terry’s confidence, though — or what appears to be confidence, anyway — has a strange charm, and one he can respect. 

But the moment is fleeting. Their hand grips his sleeve, attention diverted, and Antonio follows their gaze toward the undergrowth where Terry directs him. His fingers adjust the binoculars — no, the bins (he’s trying, really) — raising them to his eyes. The flutelike whistle lingers in the air, faint but distinct, as Antonio squints to spot the movement among the shadows. For a few heartbeats, there’s nothing, and then, there it is: the varied thrush. Black markings across its breast, the orange of its body muted in the filtered light of the forest floor. Antonio exhales, almost a laugh, though it’s more in awe than amusement.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he mutters. “That’s — actually kind of beautiful.” He keeps the binoculars steady, watching the bird hop along the forest floor, pecking at the ground with quick, deliberate movements. He’s never understood the fascination with birding, not really, but at this moment, he thinks he can see the appeal. A stillness settles over him as he lowers the binoculars, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you for pointing it out,” he says, glancing over at Terry, his tone warm. He lets the moment sit between them for a beat, then another, then a third, then figures that’s long enough as he swivels his body entirely to face them. “I do want to circle back your previous comment, though,” he adds, unable to help the smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips. “One, was he hot, two, what don’t you remember sleeping with a man being, and three, why did you bring it up so abruptly?” He pauses, taking inventory of the curiosities in his brain, before he nods once, resolutely. “Alright, yeah, I think that was all of it.”

Antonio’s whistle prompted a small smile to break through their usual stoic features. “It is impressive, isn’t it?” Here, their cadence was transformed into something like pride. In truth, Terry couldn’t recall just how much they had shared about their interests during their and Antonio’s nocturnal excursions in the pubs of Weaver Ridge. In the absence of clarity, only the more pronounced memories remained—the most morbid of their conversations, his stories about Roman and a life on the road, their own recounting of favorite birds and knives and buildings. They recalled talking to him proudly about the favorite building they’d ever designed—how the firm had made use of earth-like materials so that, when it hit the golden hour just right, the slant of light impressed upon the structure would render it almost indistinguishable to the mountain ridges directly behind it. Architecture as a disappearing act. Through it all, of course, was Antonio’s company. Warm, solid, and grounding.

What had they said, then? Fire in the hearth.

Now that they were both sober, Terry wasn’t sure whether the compliment would hold true. So far, though, they had not felt the need to correct their opinion—for however warped their vision had become when inebriated, their mind, when set, was rarely flexible. The notion that they would hold his lack of expertise over his head was rather obtuse, though not unfounded; they could be quite a tough critic.

“I don’t think it’s sad,” they said, lifting their shoulders. “We wield completely different instruments, have different interests.” Should they have begun underscoring their differences now? In the absence of anything familiar, was it prudent to draw focus on the unfamiliar? “If I held a guitar for the first time, you wouldn’t find that sad, would you?” An attempt at an analogy, then, hoping to bridge the many gaps between their experiences. “It might be hilarious. It could even be endearing. But never sad.” 

Terry walked forward through their favored trail path—a bit more uphill, but had offered a better vantage point, especially when time came to look for birds foraging in the undergrowth. They were aware of the severity of their words, but Terry wasn’t quite casting judgment toward him. If anything, they appreciated his resolve at pushing through with the exercise. Very few ever entertained their interests, let alone pushed through with the excursion where he would have to be the one that needed to be led. That should count for something. Severine was the person most understanding of the way their mind worked, but even she had lapses in her patience.

In times like these Terry wished they could offer more than the quiet of their company. Some words of consolation, maybe. But what had Antonio said? We don’t have to talk unless you want to—and most times, Terry did not want to.

So they don’t talk. Not for a while—a whole three minutes—until a flash of blue flitted through the trees above them. Terry swatted his arm, just as they normally would under the warm lights of the pub. “Blue jay, above you, to your three o’clock.” Not the best find, and not their favorite bird, either, but a good sign overall. At once, their heart leaped. “There—another. An indigo bunting.”

However, Antonio caught their attention again and posed another question. They followed his line of sight, “Birding groups? Yes.” The din of voices carried through the forest, the thoughtfulness of the exercise uniting them. “I have several friends in the community. I join them sometimes. Although, I’m not looking to add to my life list right now. Birding groups can get fairly competitive. I’m just looking to relax right now. With you.” 

Almost as if to say, Terry wasn’t at all friendless. Just that friends, for them, emerged in the strangest of places, or when they needed them most. By that logic, Terry mused, then Antonio was no different from any friend they’d made after all. And what did friends talk about? Beyond interests, there was the matter of personal life. More stories to be shared. Far too reminiscent of stepping like glass.

“Antonio, I slept with someone,” they punctured through the silence. “Funny. I hadn’t had sex with a man in a long time. I don’t remember it being so—”

Below them, there came a series of long whistles, flutelike, but not quite melodic. Haunting. Gripping the edge of Toni’s sleeve, they pointed to the undergrowth, searching for the whiff of its telltale orange markings, its black breast. “Okay. Look through the undergrowth. A varied thrush.”

[tonibeltran]

Antonio holds Roman’s gaze steadily as he speaks — he knows this is probably hard for him, so he tries to ease his discomfort as much as possible by pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his friend’s mouth. “I don’t think that,” he assures Roman. “I get it. I get why we’re going at the pace we’re going. And even if you told me we’d never get anywhere else — I wouldn’t care,” he assures Rome softly. “I like being with you. Whatever stage we’re at.” He brings a hand to run through the other man’s hair, smiling slightly. But there’s something else that keeps tugging at his brain, a little incessantly.

“Arrangements,” he huffs out the word, tone a little teasing, but mostly just disbelieving. “Is that what we’re in? An arrangement?” His gaze is fixed on where his hands are now playing anxiously with Roman’s shirt, unable to find it in himself to look into Rome’s eyes until he knows exactly what he wants to say. The words are all in his head, of course — have been, for the entire month they’ve been doing this — but he’s having a hard time putting them in order and making them into something coherent.

Eventually, he meets Roman’s gaze again, searching. “I’m not — and you’re not — neither of us are seeing other people,” he starts unnecessarily. “And we both already know neither of us want to see other people, for that matter. And I know — the word boyfriend sounds a little juvenile, I get that.” He pauses for a beat. “But I don’t think I’d mind calling you that,” he adds slowly, feeling his cheeks pink slightly. “And I don’t think I’d mind being yours, either.” He huffs, embarrassed. “It’s been a minute since I’ve done this,” he admits. “The relationship talk. A relationship at all. But,” he licks his lips. “I want that. With you.” A pause. “Only if you do, though,” he adds quickly. “We don’t — have to. Not if this is working for you as it is.”

He can't help but huff in annoyance — putting the blame on Toni for not immediately understanding his line of questioning rather than his own reluctance to communicate about this topic properly — but even the irritation is short-lived at how fucking adorable (and it's not a word he uses lightly) the other man is, wanting to kiss away the frown and continue without clarifying, when he seems to get it, at least. Roman resists the urge to pull away, refusing to let the embarrassment consume him. He's an adult, they both are, and this is important. It had to be discussed at some point.

To Toni's credit, he helps immensely in soothing Roman's humiliation, like aloe gel on a sunburn, the kiss at his cheek having them redden for much different reasons for now. "In your old age? Your memory must be starting to fog here and there." He murmurs, though the element of teasing is lost to the desperation coating his words.

He gazes up at the other man, and despite being tangled up in each other's limbs, from a distance it's all fairly innocuous, but there's a tension between the two that's anything but, just bubbling there beneath the surface. Roman Daniels has never felt more vulnerable in his life, and for the first time in forty-one years, isn't frightened of it. "I like the pace we're going." He assures, because any slower would drive him mad, even though it's completely up to him to set the speed. "I just...I'm aware that in most..." Relationships is the apt word, but because they never discussed it, he doesn't know if he's allowed to say it, "Arrangements, especially between adults of our age, things have just developed more, is all. I don't want you to think I'm holding out on you." Fucking hell, it's amazing he's able to keep eye contact saying that, not melting into a puddle of shame. "I just...I know it's not a race, I know we're not to compare to others. I just want you to know that I want to be at that stage, one day."

[tonibeltran]

Antonio leans back against the counter, his posture relaxing as Dahlia's curiosity takes center stage. There’s something grounding about it — about her excitement, her genuine interest. It’s easier to focus on that than on the echoes of the past that had briefly pulled him under. He lets out a soft chuckle, tilting his head as he considers her question with a low hum.

“Magical. Hm. Yeah, I think that’s a fair word for it,” he says, a hint of nostalgia threading through his voice. “It’s got this — energy to it, you know? Like the city’s alive in a way that’s hard to describe until you’re there.” His lips twitch slightly at the memories, conveniently blurring the man who’d explored the city beside him for an entire night. “Canals lit up at night, little cafes on every corner, the kind of vibe that makes you want to stay up and see what happens next.”

He pauses, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “For me, Amsterdam was — complicated,” he admits slowly, though he doesn’t elaborate further. “I think it’s one of those places that gives you back what you bring to it. You’ve got an open heart, a sense of adventure?” He gestures loosely, as if casting a spell. “The place’ll feel like magic. But if you’re carrying too much weight on your shoulders, it’ll remind you of that too.” Antonio’s eyes flicker back to hers, the soft spark of her curiosity disarming in its sincerity. “You should go someday. I mean it. I bet you’d find all kinds of inspiration there.”

There’s a beat before he adds, more lightly, “And hey, maybe by the time you go, I’ll have some tips for you on the best places to eat or whatever. Save you the trouble of tourist traps.” The smile he offers is easy now, free of the weight that had briefly settled over him, as if her excitement alone had been enough to pull him out of his head. 

Dahlia’s fingers pause as they fidgeted with the edge of her flannel, Antonio’s reassurances making her hesitate. His warmth and understanding felt a bit sudden, but resulted in her heart tightening in a way that was both comforting and a little painful. Most of her tattoos were incredibly personal, but her Amethyst tattoo was among the most significant. His words settled over her, and she returned his smile, her head tilting to glance at her shoulder where the tattoo lay hidden beneath the fabric of her shirt. 

“It’s special,” Dahlia began, glancing at Toni hesitantly before continuing her explanation. “When I heard it for the first time, it was like someone pulled out words from my heart that I’d never been able to vocalize. Like someone out there understood something I hadn’t even wrapped my brain around.” Dahlia laughed a little, feeling embarrassed by the intensity of her own words, but if there was anyone who would understand it’d be Antonio. He’d helped create those words, after all. 

Antonio’s smile grew more genuine, and the tension between them gradually eased. She exhaled, feeling her shoulders relax as the topic of conversation shifted ever so slightly. “Amsterdam? God, I wish. I’ve never been out of the country.” Dahlia’s eyes lit up at the thought, curiosity sparking in her eyes and overtaking her initial shyness. “It’s on my bucket list, though. I’ve always wanted to go.” She hesitated, debating asking a question before it tumbled out of her. “What was it like for you? Is it as magical as I’ve imagined or am I overhyping it?”

Dahlia hoped she wasn’t overstepping with the question, but she genuinely wanted to know. She’d gotten to learn a lot about Toni as a musician, but she was just as curious about him as a person.

[tonibeltran]

Antonio looks at Emir with a mock scandalous expression. “You don’t TikTok?” He tuts, shaking his head in faux-disappointment. “Sorry, how else do you keep up with The Youths?” In all honesty, Antonio uses his TikTok mostly to chortle at stupid humor — less to keep up with whatever twenty-somethings and below are doing. Sometimes he’ll have to close it abruptly, when he finds something his fingers almost automatically want to send to Elijah. Before all the bullshit between them, he’d been Toni’s best friend — he’d send that man countless of stupid shit that suited both their humor, and now he has to resist the urge to think about him at all when he comes across a TikTok video he’s sure would make Elijah cackle.

He’s broken out of that stupor as Emir holds open his front door, and he makes his way inside gratefully. “Tea sounds nice,” he agrees, because it does — though he’s gotten used to the British way of making tea by now, what with his London native, ah, romantic entanglement, and all, so he thinks he may have to drink it more out of politeness than actual want. Looking around, he whistles, impressed. “I always forget your place is ten times the size of mine,” he grins lazily back at Emir. “How do you not lose Emi every ten minutes?”

"I got you." Emir nodded his head, chuckling lightly. Emira would get her way every single time. Who could say no to her sweet face? Even he had a hard time doing it. And the little girl knew it, too. She used it to her advantage all the time. Being an only child, she knew that her father would cave in to make her happy. "I do have very interesting things to say! Thank you, Toni. Dad doesn't know because he's not hip to things like us. You know he don't even Tik Tok?" the tween pointed out, as if it was the ungodliest thing!

"Don't you have homework to do or something?" he glanced at his daughter, mostly teasing as he never had to worry or be on top of her when it came to school work. Although the man always took time to sit down with her and help her if she needed. Being a father suited him well. Emir led the other into the house, holding the door open for him and his daughter to head in first. "Do you want something to drink? I was about to have some tea. Would you like to join me for some?"

[tonibeltran]

Date idea: You simply spend the rest of your life with me.

[tonibeltran]

[ OUTGOING SMS 📲 RACHEL HAN 🍊 ]

ANTONIO: If Joey goes home tonight, we're throwing a pity party. ANTONIO: Side note, is it pathetic for a forty-one-year-old man to be texting "JOEY" so much every week? ANTONIO: Maybe I need a life. @rachelxhan

[tonibeltran]

ANTONIO: Será que no me ha fallado hasta ahora? ANTONIO: Pues que más te llamo cuando te portas tan dramático, amigo? ;) ANTONIO: Yet more to discuss the next time we see each other, yes? ANTONIO: It is the plot of a show, yes. Ted Lasso. No demons, no vampires. You might enjoy it.

LEA: Tu ‘ta como que muy creyente en la manifestación. LEA: Y entonces, por encima me llamas dramático! No, no, no pero no se puede contigo. LEA: E’to ta fuerte, Antonio. LEA: Jajajaja por favor LEA: As is most of the scripture as well. We are only humans after all. LEA: I'm not sure that I follow LEA: Is that the plot of a new show?

[tonibeltran]

ANTONIO: Todo se puede creer si uno se lo propone, no? ANTONIO: No seas dramatico! Una lloradera puede ser catartica. ANTONIO: You're sweet. Thanks for that. It's a lie, the guy still sounds like a dick, but thanks for that. ANTONIO: Sounds like she was misunderstood to me. ANTONIO: How do you feel about European football and an American football coach with a dream?

LEA: Eso ni tú te lo crees Antonio jajaja

LEA: Lo único? 👀

LEA: No se porque me quieres poner a llorar. Nunca te e hecho nada malo. Me estás hiriendo los sentimientos.

LEA: He has

LEA: jajaj no hables de mi hamistad así

LEA: Es muy buena gente, y no lo merece

LEA: […]

LEA: Lilith was not a demon in that sense no

LEA: but she is vilanized for not submitting to Adam which led to Eve’s creation

LEA: According to Jewish scriptures of course

LEA: I’m not watching either then it seems

[tonibeltran]

JONATHAN BAILEY and MATT BOMER in Fellow Travelers: episode 2

[tonibeltran]

Jesus, if there was a way for Antonio to bottle up the sounds Roman sometimes makes when they kiss, he thinks he’d have fuel for years. He’s still thinking about it when Roman presses his lips softly to his temple, asking him about what stupid scenarios imagines often, or something. It takes his brain a second to catch up, content to turn to pure static when it’s in close proximity to Roman, but eventually it works enough for Antonio to reply, “What, scenarios like us dressing up as elves?” He frowns, thrown by the question. “Not really? That’s a very specific—” 

His face clears, then, as if the question clicks into place a second too late. Smiling up at Roman crookedly, he raises an eyebrow as he trails his hand downward, fingers eventually snaking underneath Rome’s shirt and brushing gently against the skin of his abdomen. For all intents and purposes, it’s a fairly innocent touch, but it mostly serves as supporting evidence to what he says next: “I don’t have to make shit up in my head like that very often.” He pauses, leaning in to press a kiss to Roman’s cheekbone. “I can work off memory just fine,” he mutters teasingly, trailing kisses down his friend’s jaw, fingers still tracing aimless patterns on Roman’s skin beneath his shirt. 

He hesitates only briefly before pressing a kiss to Roman’s neck, gentle, exploratory. “Think I could be happy getting to kiss you just like this for the rest of our lives,” he mutters the words as though they’re a secret, then drops a kiss to Rome’s collarbone before pulling back to meet his gaze curiously. “You don’t — do you need to take this slower?” He asks seriously. Antonio’s not sure how far Roman’s willing to take what they do, but he’s been working off Roman’s pace for over a month now. Happy to do it — but now he’s nervous he’s crossed some sort of line before Roman was ready to cross it with him. “Because we can.”

As nice and pleasurable as Toni’s idea of convincing Roman to do anything is, it also pulls a chuckle from him; one that quickly shifts into a moan as the kiss deepens, reminding him that despite the joke, there’s not much Roman Daniels wouldn’t do for Antonio Beltran, including fucking Christmas elf costumes. He doesn’t dwell on that in the moment though, focusing instead on the delicate pressure of their lips against each other, the feather-light, ticklish sensation of Toni’s thumb on his neck. His own palm splays out on Toni’s calf less hesitantly than times previously, and he wonders what things would be like if they progressed to the next level. If hands explored other places, if less clothing were to be involved…

But too soon (it’s always too soon) Toni breaks away, and Roman is staring at him with a starstruck gaze, pupils blown, soaking in the sight of the way the other man wipes his mouth, letting out a huff that’s half frustration, half lust. “Hm?” The costume talk brings him back to reality, and he shakes his head. “Not in a million years, mate. I’d rather get nerve damage in my left hand than wear tights.” Or whatever it is festive mythological creatures wear. Still, he places a kiss on Toni’s temple, to show he isn’t being completely serious in his claim, fingers of his still-working hand idling brushing through the guitarist’s locks. “Do you imagine stupid scenarios like that often?” He asks, mainly to continue to jest, but to also gauge Toni’s thoughts and feelings on the tempo that they were taking things, without actually having to ask him.

[tonibeltran]

He’s a little flattered and, frankly, touched, that Abel cares enough about him to feel sorry for him. Antonio’s never been one to believe he’s deserving of any sort of affection — Izzy gets a pass because they’ve known each other for ages, since before Antonio could speak English, even, and because she knew him pre-Elijah Falvey. Post Elijah Falvey, well. It’s not his ex-friend’s fault, either, not really. No one should be forced to feel any sort of way for someone — he’d accepted, for a long time, he’d never be enough for Elijah to love in any sort of romantic way. Somehow, he’d missed all the signs that maybe he’d never been enough for Elijah as a friend, either, not really. He doesn’t think, anyway. Hindsight’s usually 20/20, except for when he twists memories and feelings so often he’s not sure what’s true and what he made up in the haze of longing.

The point is, it’s hard for him to find himself worthy of anyone’s time, affection — even friendship, at times. It’s why sex has always been easier. Less commitment, less scrutiny. Easier to let someone like him for what he looks like, what he can offer in bed, than be disappointed in him as a person. It is, frankly, a miracle Roman feels any sort of way about him — still thinks, sometimes, that he’s making it up, despite how many times they’ve spent the night wrapped up in each other now — and he thinks the same about most of the friends he’s managed to make and keep throughout his life during and after Amethyst. Abel seems genuine in his affection for Antonio, in any case, for which he’s appreciative. More than Abel’ll ever know, he thinks. 

“It was a learning experience, yes,” he says, because maybe if he pretends they’re talking about Elijah instead of Roman, it’ll feel less like he’s lying, and he’ll feel a little less guilty about it. “I don’t know if — I wouldn’t call it — hm,” he tries to find the right words to express how real he thinks the whole experience might have been, in any case. Comparing what he feels for Roman now to what he felt for Elijah, then — it almost feels like apples and oranges. He wonders if that means he didn’t ever love Elijah, or if the love had just been so tainted by resentment and heartbreak it’d soured, even in its purest form. “I don’t know, actually. I just know it happened,” he shrugs. “Maybe that’s all that counts, right? It happened. And some things just need to happen to us, lesson or not.” He’s not sure he’s making any sense, but it’s about all he’s got for Abel at the moment.

I’m not good at that, Abel admits, and Antonio’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Less over the admission, and more over the intensity of the words that follow. He listens carefully as Abel continues to confess most of his life is lived off the opinion of others, and Antonio huffs a little in amusement when his friend finishes. “Yeah, no, no one’s good at that,” he points out. After a pause in which he takes in Abel’s words thoughtfully, he continues, his tone gentle but steady. “You know, Abel, not caring isn’t something you just wake up one day and decide to do. I think it's more about learning how to place people's opinions in their corresponding place, y’know?” He picks at the corner of the menu in front of him as he elaborates, “It's not about — shutting everything out, it’s — it’s choosing which voices matter. Letting others motivate you can be powerful, sure, I get that, but it’s easy to get lost if you don’t know what’s driving you deep down.”

He smiles, a little soft and knowing. “There’s always going to be noise, right, people who want to shape you, intentionally or not. But I promise — and like I said, I know this from experience — their approval can’t do the work for you.” A pause, in which he takes another sip of his coffee. Then: “And if it’s all you rely on, it might feel a bit empty after a while.” Antonio leans forward, his gaze intent. “So maybe it’s worth asking yourself: what do you actually want? If you can figure out a few things that are yours and yours alone, all the other voices, well. They might start to matter a little less.”

He reaches across the table to give Abel’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Besides, you’re allowed to be a work in progress,” he leans back with a small smirk. “It doesn’t make you any less capable. You’re one of the smartest guys I know, Abel — and that’s got nothing to do with what anyone else thinks.”

Visibly, Abel deflates when Antonio admits that nothing serious is going on, that whatever he had going on didn’t actually work. Somewhere along the line, Antonio had graciously adopted Abel - though looking back, he wasn’t sure he’d given the other a choice. Abel was likeable enough, had several friends growing up, and had several now - but whenever he stopped to think about the fact that he’d never let anyone in enough to actually become best friends with anyone, it left him feeling empty. Toni, at least, was kind enough to humour everything Abel was, and he eventually grew to idolise him. It was hard not to - they didn’t usually get too deep with each other, so it was a surface level observation, but Abel viewed Toni as incredibly put together. It was shocking to find out that he couldn’t find a person to settle down with, all things considered.

Abel knew he was awkward, but he could be comforting when need be. It came with his job, grown used to keeping it together for others until he had the luxury of being alone to either deliberate over a situation or just break down altogether. This wasn’t the same as sharing horrible news with a child far too young to understand their life was about to change forever, but he still felt for Antonio all the same - and most of the time, Abel still felt far too young to deal with half the stuff adults had to, anyway. Heartbreak was all in the same category. “His loss.” He said in solidarity, a gentle half-grin appearing. “Was it a learning experience at least? Or… not even worth it? I have to admit, I’m surprised. You are glowing and all still - you’re a very handsome man, Toni. Makes me a bit nervous for the rest of us, actually.” A joke, but as Abel said it, his face visibly changed as he took in the meaning of his words. Should he be concerned? Probably - the dating scene was terrible nowadays, and he was already terrible at it to begin with.

The last thing on Abel’s mind then is food. He’d been hungry moments before, but he can’t help but feed into Antonio’s advice. Which is common for them - leaning forward in his seat and everything. Toni delivers his words kindly, being more than patient with Abel as he tries to placate him - though he knows his company doesn’t view it that way. Abel can’t help but feel a bit juvenile sometimes when they’re together. “I’m not good at that.” He blurts out, though he doesn’t mean to. It feels like a crack at his chest, whenever Abel admits to something that would make him seem… lesser, for a lack of a better word. He’d been raised to be perfection, and had fought for that title his whole life, always falling slightly flat - it stuck with him his whole life. How could he not care what people think? “Handsome and smart. Jesus - my complex is coming back.” He teased, rolling his eyes with an easy smile to show that he meant no harm by it. It was a nice moment between the two of them, before Abel was word vomiting onto Antonio’s lap without realising it. “I’ve never learned how to not care, I guess. It feels like if I don’t have someone’s opinion goading me on, I have nothing to work towards, that’s all.” It sounded a lot sadder when he worded it like that - blinking in shock at his own confession, cheeks flushing of his own accord afterwards. “Sorry. Bit much, that - it’s a work in progress.”

[tonibeltran]

Antonio’s lips twitch a little in amusement at her question. “Best thing to do when I get high,” he jokes. “And my bookshelves are starting to look a little bare to me.” Mostly because he’s just added two more to finish aligning the walls of the rec room, so that one’s really on him. Besides, his Pride and Prejudice collection sits in its own special bookcase, tucked behind other innocuous decor, so no one finds out what his actual favorite book is. Not that he has anything against Jane Austen — clearly — but he learned a while back that being a hopeless romantic gets him nothing but heartbreak and disappointment, so he’d rather people didn’t know that about him, if he can help it. Even if he is more hopelessly romantic nowadays than not.

“It’s mine too,” he admits about the book, because Phoebe doesn’t know all the people in his life, anyway, so who’s she going to tell? “I’ve got several copies of it. All different cover iterations,” he grins slightly. “Still trying to convince myself spending two hundred grand on a first edition is a stupid idea,” he admits, because it is, despite how badly he wants to say fuck it and do it anyway. He doesn’t come from money — so despite how frivolously he spends it on the people he loves, he still has a hard time spending that egregiously on himself, even while having the means to. 

He hums noncommittally at Phoebe’s explanation of where she’s been — hell, maybe they had met at Caffélicious, and he’s just making up false memories — and nods, impressed. “Seems like you’ve got a lot on your plate,” he tells her. “Can’t think of a better place to work when you’re a writer, though, right?” He gestures around them, surrounded by shelves and shelves of all kinds of books. “You like it here?” 

Counting down the days until Halloween is over, Phoebe’s boss at the bookstore already has the boxes of Christmas decorations out in the storeroom, prepared for the sudden switch-over once it hits November First. Not that she cares either way, not feeling festive in either the spooky or the cheery way. But at least after the rave on Thursday — her Dorothy dress nicely hung up in her closet — she has no other plans than to curl up on the sofa with some beloved classics.

It’s like her thoughts are being read when she catches Pride and Prejudice placed on the counter, and her head snaps up to enthusiastically chat about one of her favorite novels of all time. She is slightly taken aback when her eyes meet Antonio’s, but then again, in her opinion, Jane Austen is for everyone. 

“Hi! Doing some light reading?” She nods towards the pile of books on the counter as she begins to ring them up. “This is my favorite.” She mentions as she picks up the classic novel as she begins to ring it up. “Oh, was that where we met? I don’t go there much, normally it’s Caffélicious where I’m killing time. But yeah, I have a couple of ‘school hours’ left for my creative writing seminar, and a few other things…” No point putting it out in the universe, in case she jinxes it, “And here just for some extra income, y’know? What about you?” 

[tonibeltran]

Raising an eyebrow in amusement, Antonio watches as a cacophony of emotions make their way past Lea’s expression — he can’t pin down every single one of them, but somewhere in between absolute panic and confusion, there’s something like a spark of heat when he acknowledges Antonio’s deliberate-not-deliberate touch, which he can definitely work with. Whether something happens or it doesn’t, he supposes he’ll at least be able to go home knowing he tried, and he’s just deep enough in the throes of longing when it comes to his best friend that he’s willing to count that as a win. 

He takes another sip of his drink, humming contemplatively at Lea’s reply about being called picky. “I did say only a little picky,” he points out teasingly. “And I only said it to be able to call you attractive, by the way,” he tilts his head and offers Lea a small smirk, making sure his voice is low, filled with intent that leaves little room for interpretation. He’s about to follow that thread through — maybe make another stupid innuendo to get this conversation moving in the right direction (that being the direction Antonio wants it to move toward, of course) — when Lea suddenly switches from English to Spanish almost as easily as if he’d been speaking it the entire time, and Antonio can’t help the jolt of excitement that rushes through him.

It’s been a while since he’s had someone to speak Spanish to. He used to speak it every single day, on account of his daily phone calls to his parents. Misses the way it rolls off his tongue, the way it reminds him of a little piece of home, of who he was before all of this. Before the fame, before Elijah, before Harrison — before something inside him twisted itself into a shape that no longer fits in there, not really, but still manages to exist uncomfortably, anyway. It’s his own fault, really, the fact that it’s been so long without him speaking it — has been ignoring his father and the rest of his family back in Mexico since his mother’s death, for reasons that only make sense to him when he’s drunk. The blatant hypocrisy of such a thing doesn’t hinder his ache for it, however, so he’s all but thrilled when Lea decides to speak to him in his mother tongue. 

The accent’s different — would be, considering their Spanish originates from different parts of Latin America — but it’s still Spanish, and Antonio still leans into it excitedly, like a kid on Christmas morning. He’s sure it shows blatantly on his face, too — but he’s not too preoccupied about that. “Nada interesante. He estado trabajando — escribiendo y componiendo, igual que en Tejas, igual que en California,” he shrugs easily at the information divulged, then snorts a little at the next implication. “Raro es ciertamente una manera de ponerlo. A veces siento que este lugar es exactamente el mismo, y otras veces siento que es completamente diferente.” A pause. “Y a ti, ¿si te gusta vivir aquí? ¿Y a tus hijos? Es que se me hace tan pequeño, ¿no?” Or maybe he’s just outgrown Blue Harbor, since the last time he’d been here. Maybe a place is only as big as you allow it to be.

For all the strength he claimed to hold a second prior, the moment Antonio’s tongue emerged to coat his lips Leandro’s gaze fell to them. His own lips absentmindedly emulating the other man. It was a split of a second - a minuscule moment not many would pay attention to - yet he felt watched. There was something about Antonio that made every strand of Lea’s hair stand on the edge. Like a drug placed before a recovering man. It - no he - was incredibly intoxicating without effort. Flushed as he was, it took another moment for Leandro to process the words Antonio spoke, missing all intent behind their purpose, “Huh?” he uttered almost stupidly, the tease easily went over his head but he chuckled just the same. Leandro had never questioned his own sexuality. It seemed absurd to do so when he had everything he needed and wanted at his side. Throughout the years he noticed things though, his own wandering eyes when he was lost in thoughts, for example. Never something to alarm himself with, his thoughts never went beyond acknowledging different things. A side effect of being human he used to tell himself. Their mortal bodies and minds were weak and easily susceptible to the devil’s temptation. It happened to the best of them, which is why not all those who follow Jesus are considered prophets. Leandro never claimed to be holy, but he did his best to live life as close to biblically appropriate as he could devotedly follow. Leandro wondered if he was allowing the place to take hold of his thoughts. He wasn’t ignorant enough to believe the club itself was the culprit for his sinister thoughts - there was certainly an entire male figure besides him to blame for that - but the longer they remained in their seats the harder it became to clear the fog. There was also the quick familiarity despite the years gone by, and the ever present taunt in Antonio’s voice. Lea found himself loosening the planks that held him up. He leaned an elbow against the bar top, doing his best to ignore the jolt that traveled up his leg - certainly, he was too on edge? Mistaking innocent movements and losing all sense or thoughts. Get a grip. Intoxicating wasn’t sufficient enough for the demon beside him. Allowing his eyes to part from Antonio for a brief moment, Lea signaled for the bartender, finding himself rather parched.  “I don’t know.” he said, attempting to sound nonchalant and at ease as he gave a lazy shrug, “My life right now is very much running with the flow. Lo que sera, sera, and all that.” Which wasn’t exactly a bad thing, he didn’t think. It was easier this way. He had lived most of his life following a specific set of rules, being in places he was told to be in, talking about things he was trained to talk about. But while that all seemed suffocating now, at one point it had been the very thing that made his days worthwhile. He just hasn’t known how much of his devotion was attached to the woman that he loved.  “Picky?” he asked incredulously, shaking his head as he chuckled, “I think you must have mistaken me for someone else, there, Toni. I am but a simple man with simple wants.” Or so he tried to be at least. There was no need to mention all the troubling thoughts that haunted him. Times like then and there. “Pero, gracias,” he continued, the compliment despite its teasing nature, made him grin. In an attempt to change the subject for some much needed buffering, he asked, “En que te has ocupado desde volver? Debe sentirse raro, ¿no? Regresar aquí después de tanto tiempo?”