vespcrtines

[vespcrtines]

location: the velvet stag status: open (1/4 cap) // storm event

Azariah should’ve known better than to trust the weather forecast. The Skies sisters, Sunni and Stormee, meant well, bless them, but the skies themselves rarely shared their enthusiasm for accuracy. And more often than not, it seemed like the clouds took it as a personal challenge to prove the Skies wrong. Still, when he stepped out for a walk through the town square this evening, just something to stretch his legs, to distract from the itch of nicotine, he hadn’t thought to second-guess them. Not when the sun was shining so kindly, not when the breeze was merely brushing his cheeks. Sure, it felt a little... sharper than usual. And yes, maybe there was a suspicious weight to the air. But hindsight, as always, was cruelly precise.

CRRRACK!

Fuc-- Shoot. Shoot. No, y'know what? Shit.

The rain came down like it had been waiting for him specifically. His spring coat, better suited for polite breezes than actual weather, was no match for the ire of the storm. Water soaked through to his sweater in seconds, and by the time he found a doorknob and half-fell through it, he was panting, dripping, and completely blind behind rain-plastered hair. It took him a second to catch his breath. Another to take in the warmth, blessed warmth, that instantly hits his cheeks, helping that breath steady. And a final to take a look around and--

The Velvet Stag.

He’d never been here before.

The air was thick with little uproars of laughter and mellow lighting, with soft music curling through from unseen sources and the faint clink of glass against glass. Everything gleamed under a film of time and use-- well-loved tables, worn leather stools, shelves of spirits glinting like stained glass behind the bar. It smelled like spice and oak and stories he had never been part of. It was the kind of place that welcomed you in with one arm and handed you a drink with the other. Which, under different circumstances, might have been a welcome sight.

But Azariah was currently frozen in the entryway, still leaking onto the floor.

Wonderful. Now he was that guy. Sopping wet, disoriented, and bringing all manner of puddles into a space he had no business occupying. Trying to play it cool, which had never in his life come naturally, he peeled off his coat with care. The thing was more sponge than fabric at this point, but he folded it neatly over one arm in a small act of penance. His sweater clung to him in a way that made him wish he'd chosen something less… soft.

He slipped quietly toward the nearest empty table, his boots squelching just softly enough to humiliate him. Perhaps he could order a coffee. Something warm. Sit quietly and wait for the worst of the storm to pass. And then he’d be on his way, back into the rain, back home. Hopefully before word got around that the Healing Hearts pastor had made himself cozy inside the town watering hole.

[vespcrtines]

location: sutton family home status: closed @spanglehoney , @wildmead

Josie is nearly home by the time she realizes she's still barefoot.

Her hands are full of her dress, clutching up the hem so it doesn't drag in the mud, and her cheeks are blotchy and hot from either the mead or the stupid, stupid tears she’d let fall on the walk back. Everything about her feels sticky and overheated and just... wrong. Wrong. It's all so annoyingly, irritatingly, upsettingly wrong.

The sight of the house, warm and familiar, should be a comfort-- but, God, it isn't. She doesn't want to walk inside and see someone. She doesn't want to walk inside and see no one. She doesn't want to be the first one home. She hopes she is.

But the light in the window tells her she should know better.

Her fingers unclench, letting the hem of her dress fall down around her legs, damp and splattered in dirt. Her palms raise up to press against her eyes, trying to will away the puffiness she can feel beneath her skin. Not that it helps much, dumbass. It's cold stuff helps puffiness, not warmth, right? Wasn't that something she read in Teen Vogue once? Not that it matters. Not unless someone inside is gonna notice the puffiness.

God, someone inside is gonna notice the puffiness.

Her lip is pinched hard between her teeth, trembling just enough to make her mad at herself, and she doesn’t even realize she’s sitting until she sees the corners of her dress sink into the mud and dust on the edge of the walkway. Great. Perfect.

A boy told her he didn't love her and she sat in the mud about it. Humiliating.

[vespcrtines]

Lord, about that strength You were supposed to grant him? Was that coming in installments, or should he just keep waiting on the package that’s already a week late? All he could manage right now was a huff and a grunt-- and hell, even that felt like a stretch. Being the pillar for the Buchanan kids wasn’t a role you clocked out of. Some days, he was sure he could carry the whole damn family on his shoulders. Other days, it felt like he was wading through waist-high snow, looking for a path that didn’t exist.

He’d had his youth-- back when falling down meant scraped knees and not the dread of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He'd lived through his own fair share of heartbreaks and bad choices, and he’d learned to keep those scars as keepsakes to share. A little insight here, a cautionary tale there, passed down like heirlooms. Enough hard-earned wisdom to keep Montana and Franklin from suffering the same way he did, to keep them from having to learn the lessons he's already learned. But there was always gonna be some space he couldn’t fill. Some things he couldn’t fix. Some cracks he couldn't cover in gold.

And when it came to his baby sister… that line between protecting and guiding got real damn thin.

His hands are slow to lower the mug back to the counter, and his eyes track her like they always did-- quiet, tuned to the way her expression shifts in subtle flickers. He’d known her long enough to read the in-betweens. The tells she probably didn’t know she had.

He wants to press. Lord, he wants to know. Who the hell she danced with. Who made her doubt herself. Who might need a friendly reminder, delivered by his knuckles, to not put that look on her face again.

But he also knows it wouldn’t help. Not yet.

“Normal?” he echoes, voice low and gruff, more to himself than to her. Like he was rolling the word around in his mouth, trying to figure out what she meant by it. He gives a slow shrug, turning to rest the small of his back against the counter with his arms crossed, one ankle hooked loosely over the other.

“Normal ain’t a state of bein’, Tweedy. Not really. It’s not constant. It’s like… tryin’ to hold onto sand. Even if the beach stretches on forever, even if you scoop up as much as your hands can carry-- hell, maybe even more than you can carry-- it’s still gonna slip out.”

He tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. The mug lifts, hovering near his lips, then is set back down again. Still untouched.

“Even you,” he says, softer this time, like the weight of it was sitting just behind his ribs. “You’re holdin’ your own handful. And that’s gonna slip out between your fingers too, no matter how careful you are. So when it does… you just go back for another scoop.”

He glances at her, then, shooting her a look that he hoped said what he was trying to say. That he didn’t need all the details to know she was hurting. That maybe he couldn’t patch every crack or broken piece, but he could keep her hands from bleeding.

Shit. He is going to press her. Serves her right, dropping that bomb on him with no warning. And while she can say no, I don’t wanna talk about it to Frankie, she can’t say no to Huck.

“I dunno,” she starts, “think I’d spit it out if I knew what I was chewin’.” It’s all too confusing, her mind going JosieHiroJosieHiroJosieFrankieJosieJosie– and then, of course, that other dance snuck in between the hard hitters.

She feels his gaze on her, tracing her own to the flowers on the counter. Four of them hers. The other must be Frankie’s – maybe he lost a couple on the trip home? She’ll get more coherent details from him once he’s awake, she’s sure. But until then, she’s in the hot seat with her eldest brother.

She settles on a half-truth, even though she can’t verbalize what’s at the front of her mind. “Danced with someone I shouldn’t’a.” The words come fast and hurried, going back to her self-assigned task of loading their plates up. She makes Huck’s just the way he likes it, sliding it over to him once she’s finished.

It fills her heart a bit to hear him speak, to send that warm reminder through her that they share more than their eyes. It seems like nearly everything she endures, Huck’s been through. Makes her wonder what she’s still yet to face. She appreciates him putting words to her feeling; more questions than answers. That about summed it up.

Tanny starts to work on pouring her own mug of coffee, inhaling deeply as the steam licks her chin. “I dunno,” she repeats, both hands cradling the mug to her chest. “I just get the feelin’ that was the last time things’ll be normal.” Her fingers find the little antique sugar spoon to stir into the liquid. “I try t’just be me, but…maybe everyone’s seein’ a different thing.”

[vespcrtines]

Of course there was a but. There was always a but.

I think you're great, but... I think you're really sweet, but... I think you're beautiful, but...

It never mattered how much she glittered. How wide she smiled. How many constellations she could name without looking up, how many stones she’d collect, how many nights she’d wait by the telephone for just one ring. It was never enough.

And that wasn’t Hiro’s fault. Just like it hadn’t been the boy from Jumpin’ Beans who kissed her cheek in the hayloft and never called, or her senior date with the clammy hands who left her on the bleachers while he drove himself home. The truth was... it was her own fault. For putting all the love she could muster into things already cracked under the pressure, like trying to patch a dam with petals and honey. For swinging her pickaxe at walls too precariously packed, and then acting surprised when it all came crumbling down, leaving her buried beneath the wreckage, scraped and bruised in places no one could see.

Her. It was always her. And it hurt like hell.

She can still hear him talking, his voice low, careful, kind. But the words blur after that one. But. The rest of it, every careful apology, the ache in his throat, the sadness in his eyes, fold into white noise. All drowned out by the sound of six years’ worth of playing pretend spilling from her knapsack as it finally gave up at the seams.

She swallows hard. Her throat burned. She wants to cry, but her cheeks stay dry.

Is she still drunk? Maybe.

But rejection like this, clear as church glass, cold as mountain air, was sobering in a way no coffee ever could be. And somehow, it still makes her dizzy. Makes her sick.

God. Josie Sutton, you goddamn idiot.

Her hands reach for his before she could stop herself, and she covers his knuckles with hers. A soft squeeze, brief and certain, a sure press of her fingertips, steadier than she’d ever been in her life, before peeling his fingers away like the petals she never should’ve plucked. With a careful grace, she undoes the laces, slipping them loose from the boots before drawing her feet free from the warm, worn leather. Bare against the earth again.

When she looked at Hiro, she wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t crying either.

Her palm finds his cheek, warm and solid beneath her hand like it fit there. It doesn't. Her thumb traces the shape of him, memorizing a moment she knew wouldn’t come again-- one that hadn't really been hers to keep. Ever. And when she presses her lips to his forehead, it wasn’t a kiss of heartbreak or desperation. It was breath. A folding of everything they had been-- quiet nights, stardust, promise and pretending-- into one last, final brush. Long enough to feel the thrum of her pulse in her ears. To hear the reeds whisper in the wind. To catch the music drifting lazily from the temple grounds. A kiss without heat. Without demand.

And when she draws back… there is no flustered blush. No bashful laugh.

Just Josie. Just Josie, letting him go.

She stands up.

“…I wish you were brave,” she says softly-- not cold, not sharp. Just... soft. Like this was all something she'd accepted a long time ago, even if she hadn’t said it out loud until now. Her eyes drift toward some far-off place she wasn’t going to chase tonight.

“I wish you were brave enough to tell me not to wait... when you knew I would.” Her voice didn’t crack. She was proud of that. Almost. “You knew, Hiro. You knew I’d wait ‘til the damn sun exploded... and you wouldn’t’ve said a word." The sigh that shifts her shoulders isn't heavy, but it isn't light. It was... breath. Breath, after holding it for so, so long, as she reaches up, fingers threading into her hair, and pulls free a flower. Not a marigold, but a pink primrose. Small and soft and hopeful, still clinging to something she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore. She tucked it behind his ear, gentle as ever. A parting gift. Maybe even a goodbye.

“…You still owe me a dance,” she whispers. Maybe her voice wavers. Maybe it doesn't.

She doesn't know.

“…But not tonight.”

He stays near to the ground, waiting, watching as her fingers stumble over the laces, uncoordinated and clumsy. All it takes is a short shuffle forward and he's there to pick up the fallen laces, gently brushing his fingers over hers to nudge them away. Her question comes out quiet and soft but it still hits him hard, directly aimed for a puncture wound in the center of his chest. He tugs the laces to tighten them, wishing he had an answer that would make things better, wishing she'd never asked this question at all.

Looking up at her is a losing battle where two oceans meet.

"Josie, I--" he's too heavy, he's always been too heavy and he wants to look away again because it's easier this way, easier not to acknowledge the tender boundaries of a friendship edging along the precipice of a deep unknown. He doesn't want to hurt her but he doesn't see a way out without one of them drowning. "I think you're beautiful," he breaths, callouses at his fingertips loosely hold the strings of his laces around her ankle before falling to the soles where the boots on her feet meet the ground. "But.."

But.

In every aspect, she is wonderful. She's beautiful, smart, funny, adorable, cute, pretty, nice, generous, compassionate, caring and idealistic. He can listen to her ramble about crystals and flowers with a smile on his face, paying more attention to her than any chemistry or geology teacher who might have tried to teach him the same but coming from her lips it felt more interesting because she spoke from a place of passion that couldn't be recreated in the institution of education found in the city. They shared unique moments together in their own pocket of the universe under the stars and glow of fireflies, with nature as their witness and the naivety of youth, he'd shared more with her than anyone else in this town. And yet, despite how wonderful Josie Sutton is, there's a but.

"I'm sorry." How many times has he apologized to her now? How many times will he have to continue apologizing to her for a heart that doesn't listen when it is knocked against. She's right there and he's right in front of her and they're right at the place where two oceans meet but don't mix. "I wish I were different. And could give you the love you deserve," his hands around the boots at her ankles squeeze gently. He's always been physical in his displays of affection and perhaps this didn't help when they were younger in blurring the lines of their divide. "And I know I'm going to hate everyone who ever loves you and whoever you end up with because I'm selfish and a bastard. And I know I don't deserve it," there's a weakness to his voice that isn't usually there, a wavering tremor in the base of his throat, "But I'm going to ask.. if I can still be your friend."

[vespcrtines]

God, she should’ve dabbed some honey behind her ears or something. Or, like, rubbed a flower over her cheeks, maybe even dragged her magazine across her chest. Sure, they were from the early nineties, but they had the perfume sample pages that... still smelled like something. Anything. Because now she was standing here with the sun all but baking her, probably glowing in the worst possible way, and hoping to God Frankie couldn't smell the panic under the warm garden soil.

Did she smell okay?

She was pretty sure she’d put on deodorant this morning. Had a vague memory of doing it between brushing her teeth and chasing a bee out of the kitchen. But now, of course, all she could think about was how she’d have to lift her arms to climb through that window. Arms. Up. Over her head. And Frankie-- dear, sweet, unfortunately handsome Frankie-- was gonna be right there. Below her.

Oh God. No, no, no, Josie, do not think about Franklin Buchanan being beneath you. You stop that right now.

Ah, jeez. How long had she been standing here, exactly? Because when she blinks, he's already crouched under the window, hands cupped and ready, with that heart-stopping grin on full display like it hadn’t just knocked the breath out of her lungs. His eyes were bright, all easy affection and clear as the sky that stretched out above them, and she was standing there like a raccoon in headlights, one hand halfway up to rake through her hair. Her hand skims atop her curls in a way she hopes looks casual and not at all like she’s sniffing herself-- good. Conditioner. Definitely her conditioner. That’s at least one out of three. If she gets the chance to freshen up while she's inside, it'll be a passing grade.

With a slow, steadying breath, she slips her heel atop his folded palms and stretches up as far as she could, fingers finding the edge of the paneling, arms high, back curved, and when she pushes, she pushes hard-- only to immediately come to a halt. Midway. Suspended. What the-- Something tugs sharply at her chest.

Click. Oh. Oh, no. Nonono--

"...Hey, uh… Finn?” she calls out, voice wobbling somewhere between laughter and oh-no-I’m-gonna-die-here. “I… think my overall buckle is caught.”

He doesn't notice that touch being maybe half a second too long being out of the ordinary, nor does he pick up on exactly why her cheeks are now a rosy flush. It's simple, really. She's been stranded outside for a little too long with the sun heating up her poor, poor skin and she's thankful for him helping! Classic Josie, he laments to himself, his smile just as wide as hers.

The Suttons are wonderful. Granted, Laurie could smile a little more and he's mostly over his fear of Uncle Shannon, but the little details don't matter. He could map out the nooks and crannies of their property, from that one creaky floorboard in Kenny's room to exactly how many hives they have just as well as any one of them. They're an extension of himself at this point; nearly a second family. His heart glows as golden as honey itself for them. And, Josie, especially.

"Think I can?" He pffts, playful, his nose scrunching up. "I know I can, Jojo." It's confidence lacing his words, but not from his actual, physical prowess. No, if that was the only factor, then the pair would be screwed; he's almost certain he has some kind of rare condition that makes it physically impossible for him to actually develop muscles. But, it's from the simple fact that they've done something similar to this time and time again from other times she's lost her keys. Plus, the height of the window isn't that bad. If he thought hard enough, he'd be able to deduce that Josie could probably climb through without falling. But, he doesn't. Because, why would she ask for his help, then?

Instead, he saddles up right below the window, kneeling down with a knee propped up before cupping his hands atop said knee. "Just don't go fallin' when you land over there, okay? I didn't bring my first aid kit."

[vespcrtines]

Well… no. He didn’t wanna sit down. What he wanted was to mumble his little bitch piece and smoke. But his momma didn’t raise no asshole, and when somebody offers you a seat, especially one already half-cleared just for you, you take the damned spot.

So, he waits until her things are all gathered neat in her lap before letting himself hunker down into the bench with the whole exhale of dad double his age. One boot nudges the leg of the table and his thigh pops with an audible crack. Oof. Ow.

His watery blue eyes take their time getting up to her face, with the cigarette still between his teeth and the quiet suspicion she might not appreciate it if he just stared like a cow lookin’ at a new fencepost. And when he finally does find her face--

Well, hell. She ain’t someone he knows, that’s for damn sure. And she doesn’t look like anyone around here either. More like she wandered out of one of those glossy magazines Josie likes to hoard and plaster all over his couch-- hair all shiny, angles smooth and soft at the same time, like she’d be more at home in a billboard than a folding chair in the middle of the town square. It don’t feel like she’s from here.

Shit. Was she lost? Was that rude to ask? Well, better to ask and be wrong than to not ask and have a hand in a disappearance.

So the cigarette shifts to the corner of his mouth as he takes off his cap-- just a second to scratch at his forehead, buy himself a pause before he commits to speaking. His thumb rubs over the crease of his brow as he glances back down at her phone, then to her again.

“…You, uh. Lost or somethin’, miss?”

Andie’s brows are furrowed, taking a precarious hit off her vape as she types out a long-winded response to Josie about how she is never going to be setting foot anywhere near one of those beehives, thanks. It’s an admirable thing, sure, but one she prefers only to think of, from a distance of 100 feet away or more.

The square always has roamers— it’s somewhere she frequently finds herself during breaks at work or an open evening, telling herself she’s people watching when she spends most of the time staring at her screen anyway. She has, like, 90 unread messages on insta and doesn’t even know where to start. She’s moments away from being sucked into a reels rabbit hole, when a stranger’s disdainful mumbling catches her attention.

Andie plays this game with herself before she speaks to someone, where before initiating conversation, she guesses if they’re from here or not. But with this guy? It’s basically a no-brainer. A free point, if you will. The accent is basically radiating off of him.

“Huh?” She pulls an airpod out, tugging her sunglasses down from where they sit in her hair and squinting over at him, smiling warmly even though she’s not even sure if he was talking to her. Yeah, she’s seen this guy around. Or maybe it was a brother of his. She remembers someone much more smiley. Maybe he’s just having an off day?

“You wanna sit down?” She asks, scooching over a bit and gathering her things into her lap before he even gets the chance to answer— a tried and true trick she's been utilizing since grade school. People are, at the end of the day, predictable. They like inhaling stuff that's bad for them, human connection, and sitting down. Might as well get three birds with one stone.

[vespcrtines]

"Hm?"

Azariah glances up at the shift in movement beside him, just catching the sight of her crouching down before he can lift a hand to wave her off. He hesitates, hand halfway raised, then lets it fall. She’s already helping-- refusing would feel... impolite. Possibly condescending. Possibly both.

"Oh, I'm alright," he assures, tone clipped but sincere. His fingers reach for the papers she’s gathered, brushing hers only briefly. "Thank you. It was my fault, really. Distracted, with all the... festivities."

The last word lands a little wry. He tucks the pages back into his leather-bound ledger with mechanical neatness, smoothing the creases that dared to form. A few sheets are still out of order, but he’ll fix those later. Before Mother sees. Hopefully.

His hands hover over the last sheet before his eyes lift again—really looking at her this time. She doesn’t belong to any of the usual families, not that he knows of. And in a town like this, unfamiliarity tends to stand out. But it’s not just that-- there’s something different in the way she moves, a kind of air he isn’t used to seeing in the folks around here. His head tilts slightly, unreadable, though not unkind.

He doesn’t smile, not quite. But his expression softens as he straightens up, extending his hand toward her like they hadn’t just bumped into each other beside a pastry cart or whatever corner of chaos this happened to be. It’s the next logical step.

“I’m Azariah,” he offers, voice steadier now, less warbled by the collision. “I’m-- well, I’m training to take over pastoral duties at Healing Hearts. Not quite a pastor. Not yet. But close enough, I suppose.”

He doesn’t add that everyone already treats him like he is. Or that he’s been wearing this collar since he was seventeen. Or that he’s not sure what he’d be if he wasn’t this.

Instead, he glances down at the last page she handed him, thumbing the edge without looking. “And you are... new?” It’s not an accusation. Just a question. A flicker of curiosity. Sue him.

She looks away for just a moment– her attention turning to the sound of someone's dog barking in the crowd– but it's enough to knock into someone.

It's just a slight bump, but papers fall to the grass as she accidentally shoulder checks someone. “Crap,” she says reflexively as the man starts to apologize. “It's fine,” Valerie insists, refocusing on the person in front of her, immediately noticing the black robes, and white collar. Of course, she literally runs into the priest.

He looks surprisingly young for it– generally around her age if she had to guess– though, as cliche as it was, looks were sometimes deceiving. He's tall, with a mop of dark black hair, and an angular face. It's very much not the kind of look she's used to seeing from a priest… or, pastor? She does not remember the difference, only that priesthood was a lot more rigid.

Regardless, his arm is outstretched as if to steady her, despite the fact that he's not actually touching her. He's simply holding his arm out somewhat awkwardly. “I wasn't looking either,” she says after a beat. “No harm done.”

Carefully adjusting her skirt, Val bends down, helping to grab some scattered sheets of paper off the ground. But after collecting a few pages, she looks up suddenly, tucking the hair out of her face. “You're okay, though?” she asks, belatedly. It was barely a collision, so she can't imagine it could have caused him any damage, but it's probably the polite thing to at least check.

[vespcrtines]

Ah, Jesus. Why not twist his arm for a few bucks while they were at it? It wasn’t like Huck didn’t tip when he had the means-- just didn’t always have the means. Still, he grumbles something unintelligible and digs a calloused hand into the pocket of his jeans.

Felt like loose change in there. And... yep. A cigarette. Half a stick of gum. What the hell-- was that Logan’s pacifier? He blinks down at it, thumb rubbing over the faded blue plastic like it might explain itself. Shit. He’d told the kid it went off to war. Got drafted. Honorable discharge. And here he was, keeping it tucked in his pocket like some hostage situation. Shit.

He curls his hand, pressing his lips together before dumping the rest of the pocket’s contents onto the bar: coins, a button, and the aforementioned cigarette, which he quickly reclaims for himself.

“Make that... nineteen bucks and fifteen cents,” he mutters, then adds with a faint snort, “and a button, if you’re feelin’ wild.”

His gaze flicks over the room-- flashes of boots and fringe and sweat-slick laughter. Bodies swaying in rhythm to whatever was blasting from the speakers, some local boy with more charm than tune. He takes a long swig of beer, the cold bite welcome, the weight of it familiar.

But what draws his eye back isn’t the titillating conversation, nor the girl who's made herself at home line-dancing on top of a nearbytable. It’s that lone shape curved in on itself halfway down the bar. Captain Price, Ernie called the man existing in his own space with all the enthusiasm of a guy waiting for a bad diagnosis. Didn’t look local. Didn’t look thrilled to be here either.

Huck shifts his weight, elbow sliding along the bar as he jerks his chin toward the guy.

“Who’s th’mope?” he asks low, not unkind, but with the slow, slanted curiosity of a man who’s seen plenty of barroom archetypes but can’t quite place this one. His cheek settles against his palm, rough jaw rasping faintly against his skin. And if whatever comes out of his throat is a chuckle, it sounded parched.

"Can't not know the only other party animal here, after all.”

The look on Doc's face does not scream radiant happiness. Ernie, to be fair, has never seen anything approaching radiant happiness on Doc's face. His vibe generally ranges anywhere from overworked to resigned grimness to kicked puppy. Maybe it's the beer, surely warmish now. Maybe it's the environment -- the sweaty fug of too many overheated bodies, the racket of bootheels on the wooden floor, the loud music. Hell, maybe it's Ernie themself -- admittedly an acquired taste. Who knows? Ernie's not bothered -- cheerfully indifferent to offense. Guy's not stuck here, after all. Unlike Ern, who's on the clock and trapped in yeehaw hell, Doc can get up and leave anytime he wants. Which he doesn't -- just winces, slightly, as the last swallow goes down. "Alrighty then." In response to the dusty huff that passes for a laugh, they nod and slide open the lid of the cooler. Out comes a frosty new bottle, cap knocked off on the edge of the bar. A line of crescent-shaped dents in the oak surface -- like a scalloped molding -- tell the history of innumerable beers opened this selfsame way, by a long line of bartenders at the Stag. Ernie's just the latest. They like Doc, despite his Eeyoreish demeanor, a funk he carries around like a little cartoon raincloud. Messy curls, chipmunk cheeks. Like a renaissance-painting cherub all grown up and stuffed into a white undershirt, brooding over the state of humanity. Or something less profound -- taxes, a backache, some kind of GMO bullshit only farmers worry about. Doc's eyes follow Ernie's to the other quiet patron, doomscrolling over a nearly-empty bourbon halfway down the bar. Barrel of laughs, these two. Still, vastly preferable to the rowdy ones that pick fights and overshoot the urinal and hurl in the parking lot. Doc's thumbing his empty beer bottle; Ernie snorts, scoffing. "Pay you...? Please." Plucking the empty away, they park the new one in front of him, a wisp of chilled vapor rising into the warm air of the bar. They dart a glance at the tip jar -- pretty anemic, people too busy dancing to drink much. "Pretty sure sixteen bucks isn't gonna buy me anything interesting anyway."

[vespcrtines]

Josie loves the way Tanny moves them through the world, like anything too heavy turns feather-light the moment she takes hold of it. Like whatever weighs like heavy stones in Josie’s chest, all the warbled noise that clashes loud in her head, dissolves the second Tanny says come on.

And she always does. No asking, no explaining-- just that quiet, steady faith between them, that Josie’ll follow. Willingly, always, she'll follow, letting herself be tugged deeper into the spring, past the reeds and cattails, where the lily pads float like scattered hearts and the world hushes down to nothing but breath and water. Where she needs Tanny’s arms linked with hers just to feel like she won’t float up into the wind like a dandelion on someone else’s wish.

The world feels softer, quieter, safer when she’s not looking straight at it. The stars overhead seem close enough to pluck, and she pictures handing one to Tanny, as her fingers squeeze tighter.

One squeeze. Two. Three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

A secret language they made for when words feel too small. For when the hurt gets too big. For when their throats get too tight, or their minds too full, or the world just stops being a place they feel steady in.

The water rises around her cheeks as she tips back to float, and whatever tears she had earlier, half-washed, half-held back, get swallowed up by the spring. It’s salty, but it doesn’t sting anymore. Gone now. Swept away in the cool, sweet spring.

Their legs link, hips brushing close. Their arms fold around each other like vines winding together in the stillness. Josie lets her eyes fall to the stars above, mapping out constellations she doesn’t need to name. Tanny’d listen if she tried, she always does, but tonight, Josie just wants to feel them. Wants to know they’re both small and safe under something that stretches out to the end of time.

She turns her head slowly to face her, cheek brushing the water, eyes finding Tanny’s. There’s stardust in her eyes now, glimmering where it hadn’t earlier, catching on lashes and curling into a smile that's only just starting to grow.

And Josie… Josie finally breathes again.

“No,” she says softly, giving one last squeeze, tighter than anything. “…Cuz you know better than to keep anythin’ rotten. We just... plant somethin' prettier t'bloom.”

After tossing the thermos back the couple feet to the banks, Tanny’s arms immediately find their way around Josie’s neck, each palm pressed flat against the girl’s shoulder blades. It’s natural, almost more so than breathing. And as Tanny nestles her chin in the crook of Josie’s collarbone, she feels the rise and fall of their chests sync.

Her fingers find each other on either side of Josie, taking a little damp strand in between her lightly pruned grasp. She braids the piece unconsciously, chin never leaving its newfound home on her companion’s shoulder.

“No. I needed this,” she answers Josie, shaking her head twice. Comforting her has always brought Tanny a selfish sort of satisfaction. Maybe, just maybe, if she can help pick up Josie’s pieces…she can pick up her own.

If she ever figures out what those pieces look like. Or where they’ve landed.

“Wanna be otters?” She pulls back just enough to meet Josie’s eyes, hands still firmly planted on her shoulders like Josie’s leading them in some sort of intricate waltz. Her own gaze lights up slightly and she presses her forehead to Jo’s, eyes squeezing shut as she inhales deeply. “C’mon,” she adds before she can even get an answer, left hand slipping down to grip Josie’s right one.

Slowly, carefully, she submerges herself enough to float on her back, hand tightly interlaced with Josie’s. Even with their fingers locked, Tanny’s arm winds around Josie’s, her leg meeting hers like they’re some three-legged, two-headed girl in the water. “Did I catch ‘em in time?” she asks, head turning to look over at her with a grin. “The pieces?” She holds tight the whole time, silently saying I won’t let you float away.

[vespcrtines]

Well. His fault for thinking one of these damned events would end without somebody getting their heart stomped on. Just a little hard to wrap his head around it being Tweedy this time instead of Tad. He steps in behind her, reaching for the coffee pot and setting it back on the heat, not looking her way as she moves through the breakfast he laid out.

Briefly, too briefly, he wonders who might’ve left her feeling like this. Who she could’ve spent her night around to end up asking questions like that.

Well. He had a thought. But it wasn’t his business.

“There’s a reason I don’t go to those things,” he mutters, flat as ever, like he’s reciting the week’s forecast or the color of the sky. He lifts his mug to his mouth and takes a long sip of coffee, humming under his breath like it might fill the silence between her words and whatever ones are trying to climb up his throat. He don’t like hovering. Don’t like stewing in a feeling too big for the room. Was that something he should work on?

Tadpole was the one with a heart big enough to hold all of theirs at once, every heartbeat thrumming in sync inside his chest. But Montana wasn't talking to Franklin, now.

The mug lowers, and he stares into the coffee for a long, quiet moment. Two. Maybe three. He tries to dig around for something, anything more useful than whatever gruff dismissal was sitting on the tip of his tongue. Something that wouldn’t just push her thoughts further in.

“Romance festivals like that, in a town the size of a damn fingernail...” His voice is quiet. Weighted. “Shit gets tangled up. Messy. Sometimes you walk away with more questions than answers.”

His eyes flick over to the marigolds, where he knows she's still staring, lost in whatever goes on in that noggin of hers. Another moment passes, just long enough to let her have a breath. And then, rough as nails, he exhales, a hand raising to rub through his curls like he was gathering his own thoughts.

“…Out with it, Tweedy.”

Tanny catches the fleeting warmth in his eyes the same way the rising sun catches her hair, shimmering it like gold. It dulls when she steps forward, holding the glass with both hands. She wants to chase Huck’s warmth down, coax it back out again, but she knows she doesn’t have to. It’s always there for her.

“‘Course they are,” she mutters, teeth hidden behind a small smile. He’s quicker than her, for certain, but she’s just as thorough. She was taught by the best, after all.

She’s used to starting every morning with Huck – even if he beats her by half an hour, it’s their own daily moment of quality time before the rest of the house inevitably starts to hum. And once the humming starts, it never stops til’ everyone’s weary-eyed and yawning. She loves it. But she loves the breath of stillness in the morning, too, and especially sharing it with her eldest brother.

She chuckles at his question about their brother, eyes flickering to the floor. “Guess we’ll see in a couple hours.” Even though she’s late to rise, she knows they have a bit before Frankie’s awake, and at least a few minutes to mimic their usual morning routine. She won’t say it out loud, but she doesn’t take it for granted for a second.

“Y’eat yet?” She already knows the answer, judging by the picturesque breakfast growing colder every minute from its place on the counter. “Sit,” she orders, grabbing two plates so she can load up for the two of them.

She’s glad he isn’t looking her straight on when he asks about her night, because she feels her eyes widen a bit. “Yep,” she spits out quickly, already scooping eggs onto both plates. Because she did have a good time – didn’t she? She danced with Frankie and killed the lift, and she even got to catch up with Hiro and dance with Josie and—

“Y’didn’t miss much,” she lies, knowing Huck missed at least four events he would smack her (or someone else) upside the head for. But she’s grownish, and she got Frankie and herself home safe last night, so she knows he won’t press her. Not now, at least. Her eyes catch the marigolds again, but she doesn’t look away so quick this time.

“Huck…y’ever felt disappointed after those things?” No, disappointed’s not the right word. Come on, Tanny. “Or – off?”

[vespcrtines]

Lord, save him. Lord, help him overcome this trial. Lord-- Are You there?

He can't seem to remember how to call on You, not now. Not when there’s only one name in his head, loud and bright and burning, scorching through every psalm, every plea. Every ache in his body doesn't cry out for holiness-- it cries out for her. For the memory of her laughter in his hands. For the woman who still makes him forget how to breathe.

“…Hello, Missy.”

Her name leaves his lips quieter than he meant it to, and he can feel how it trembles at the edges. When was the last time he looked at her? Really looked at her? Not through a fog of guilt or memory or the miles of space they’d made between each other. But here, now, with the moon soft and the air still, and her eyes on him like she still remembers too.

She’s older, but so is he. She’s changed, but so has he. And still, she’s her.

It hits him like scripture-- the unshakable, undeniable truth of her. His eyes trace her face, almost greedy in the way he takes her in, like if he just looks hard enough, long enough, he’ll find the piece of himself he lost when she walked away.

He remembers the pew. The wooden bench that creaked when they sat too close. Her hand on top of his, small and certain and brave. Braver than he’s ever been. He was red-faced and breathless and barely understood the kind of faith it took to let himself want something that much. She was always the one who moved first. Always the first to speak, to reach, to choose him. And he-- he only ever followed.

His throat tightens, and all at once, he wants. Wants a cigarette. Wants a drink. Wants to disappear. Wants to stay. He wants anything that’ll quiet the part of him still screaming her name like a prayer. He wants to burn the whole memory down just so he won’t have to carry it anymore.

Another. Another cigarette. Another memory. Another lifetime.

When does it end? When does he finally stop loving her?

He doesn’t even realize his hand is reaching until it’s almost there-- almost touching the soft curve of her cheek, the warmth of her skin calling out to his fingertips like it used to. His breath catches, and he snatches his hand back like it burned him.

A flush rises up his neck. He clears his throat. His gaze should fall. He should look away. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend she didn’t happen. But he can’t. He just keeps looking. Looking and aching.

“…Sorry,” he says, though for what, he isn’t sure. For reaching. For stopping.

It's a bad idea. Scratch that, it's the worst idea. Missy knows this, but she can't help herself. Too many memories of gazing into Azariah's eyes when they were together -- catching his gaze from her perch in the pews, her breath hitching in her throat. Staring at him from just breaths away, a hazy cloud of smoke covering them like a veil from everyone, everything that isn't the two of them. His gaze from above her as the pair laid on top of her bed. But, those are just...memories. It's been so, so long since she actually looked in his eyes, she can't remember the exact shade they are.

Maybe it's selfish to ask him this, but Missy, like all humans, is a selfish creature. She's sure he has a bible verse to prattle off about coveting, or not looking to her own interests. But, she deserves this, doesn't she? Just one look, and...well, she doesn't know and. See if he still cares for her? If he hates her? To see if that spark is still there? Selfish, but she has to know.

And, he looks at her. Her chest tightens.

Green, like the color she chose for their kitchen. She had painstakingly matched it, holding up those little paint cards to Azariah's face before huffing when it wasn't perfect. No other color would do; the kitchen is the heart of a home, and she wanted the constant reminder of who exactly had her heart.

It's a bad idea, but she can't look away. She's lost, like always, swept away in a feeling she hasn't allowed herself to feel in years. Not when it's too hard, not when it's too intoxicating. Not when it's something she has to drink away to sleep soundly, without any dreams of Azariah.

And, she can't look away. She sighs, soft, quiet, her eyes softening the long she stares.

"...Hi, Aza."

[vespcrtines]

Oh, Josie’s little heart soars at those words. Her eyes sparkle twice as bright as the soap she was holding up in the sunlight, catching golden flecks across the surface like magic or honey or glitter or the way a creek shines back sunrays. She looks at Molly like she’d just given her the biggest, best compliment in the world. Which, honestly, she kind of had. Josie might’ve been the only one in the household making non-edible goods, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want them to look good enough to eat. Smell good enough to eat. Be good enough, period.

She watches Molly’s fingers curl carefully around the bar, the way her eyes light up just like Josie’s had, and she knows-- oh, she knows-- that soap had a home.

“Take it!” she bursts out, bright and impulsive, feeling like she might actually combust if she didn’t say it quick enough. Her hands fly forward to help Molly gently secure the bar, and her curls bounce with every frantic little nod. “It’s yours! She deserves a home with someone who’ll treat her right, and I know you’ll treat her right.”

With a soft, satisfied huff, Josie plops back into her seat. She smooths her overalls with both hands and sits up straighter than necessary, crossing her leg just so in a way that mimics the girl on the cover of Summer ’92 Sassy. Does she look like a cover girl? God, what a self-absorbed thought.

Well. Anyway.

“It’s pretty easy,” she insists, already diving back into the box. She fishes out one of her slab molds-- one Uncle Shannon helped her cobble together a few years back. It used to be a vanity mirror, repurposed and slotted into place between narrow metal rods to keep each bar of soap separate. She runs her finger gently along the edge as she explains, as animated as ever.

“I just pour the clear base in first and let it sit for a minute, then layer the flower in. Sometimes the petals float off a little, or curl up weird, but I kind of like that. Like they're growin' their own little personalities.” She pauses, thoughtful, then smiles. “I’m sure there’s some trick to keeping them all perfect, but… I dunno. I like it when there’s a little variety. Don’t you?”

Josie's energy was infectious and Molly nearly felt herself jumping for joy at the sight of her. And she couldn't help but feel her smile widen a bit more, about as wide as it would go, as she eyed the magazine. A soft chuckle even escaped from her lips. She knew exactly what magazine Josie was referring to. "I can't quite remember myself," she adds quietly, "But I think you're right on target with '95 or '96. Sassy was one of my favorite magazines."

Molly recalled one of her very first visits to Healing Hive, remembering the sight of Josie behind the counter with the familiar magazine from her own childhood in her hand. Molly's parents weren't much for magazines, except for Southern Living once they made it to a southern state, so Molly and her sister Grace would peruse their local library for the latest releases and what they once called an "amazing" archive of backlogs of more magazines than they could ever imagine. Molly was just happy to see that the tradition seemed to continue for some girls. "And thank you. You're too kind."

With curious eyes, Molly watches as Josie briefly disappears behind the counter before emerging with the box. Molly almost offers to help but sees Josie has it handled in no time. "Woah," she lets out in a quiet breath as Josie flips open the box and reveals the soap. "Josie, that's incredible!" The words tumble out of Molly's mouth without a second thought. Someone might've thought it to be a little silly, becoming so entranced by a piece of soap, but to Molly, these were works of art and to her, Josie was one of the most talented artists she knew.

"How on earth did you get the petals to sit so perfectly in the liquid?" she asks, taking the soap just as carefully. It was worth its weight in gold, that was for sure. Gold that was as pretty as the piece of soap itself. Not to mention the smell was divine. "It looks and smells just like sunshine."

[vespcrtines]

She doesn’t really realize what he’s doing at first-- not right away. She’s too busy studying him, trying to match the version of him sitting here now with the one she still carries in the back pocket of her memory. The one who used to tie her sneakers when they were small because she always got the loops tangled. The one whose hair fell into his eyes just like this, and who let her push it back with her glittery headbands even though he’d groan about it. The one who’d rather chew gravel than say anything sweet, who gave her flowers and feathers and smooth river stones instead of words.

That boy is still in there. Somewhere.

And she knows it should bother her. Knows she ought to be mad all over again, like she was in the town square-- when her voice cracked, and she had to run home and cry on the phone to Tanny until she felt human again, until her heart stopped buzzing like a bee stuck in a jar. But now? With the snail, the cake, the boots he’s pushing toward her like a peace offering he can’t quite say out loud?

Maybe “love language” is the wrong word. Maybe it’s always been the wrong word.

She slips her feet into the boots and they absolutely swallow her. It’s not even close. They’re warm and worn down, the kind of shoes that know how to carry someone through a storm, and her pretty dress looks ridiculous above them. She bends down to try and work the laces, her fingers fumbling more than she’d like. The mead’s making everything a little blurry, or maybe it’s just him.

“Damn it,” she mutters when a lace slips from her grip again, falling limp to the ground. Her brow furrows as she stares down at her hands, trying again. And then, before she can stop herself, she looks up. Her voice is quieter this time, soft around the edges but sure in the center.

“Why aren’t you lookin’ at me?”

It’s not a demand. It’s not even an accusation. It’s just a question. One that’s been building behind her ribs since the day he walked away.

It's easier not to look directly at her and the natural place for his gaze to fall is usually the ground, only staring at the ground by her feet makes him realize she's missing something. Shoes.

Dark eyes lift to her face as she speaks softly, watching her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She's not telling him to beat it or storming away already so maybe the cake worked at least a little bit to help ease away the tension. He doesn't mention how he got into a little glaring match with her brother when he was leaving. He still doesn't know what he ever did to Laurie to earn his ire, maybe it was the worst offense of all: nothing.

His mouth pulls to the side, when she says the bee was cute. If he was the bee, did that mean he was cute? His eyes travel back down to her bare feet and then to his own boots. He can't very well let her stand there in her bare feet like this. It'd make him feel too much like a bully. He's already pulled her away from the festival and all the fun in order to have this conversation and now he's making her stand out here in the elements with no shoes. Granted, from what he remembers, she's always been the sort of girl to not really mind that sort of stuff, usually, when it was the farm or a field full of wildflowers. But seeing her helpless little bare toes against the earth is simply too much.

He sighs and goes down to one knee, unlacing a boot, "I'm a jerk," somehow it's easier to start talking now that he's not looking at her. Apologies are heavy, stitched with regrets that rest heavily over his shoulders like a weighted blanket he can't shrug off. One boot removed, he switches legs and begins to unlace the other. "But I never meant to be a jerk to you," this boot feels like it takes longer to undo but he gets it off and scoots the pair of his boots toward her. They're at least two sizes too big for her, well worn and beaten, and don't match the aesthetic of her pretty dress, but he offers them anyway, fingers tapping against the leather sides with the silent offering, remaining knelt down in case she needs help lacing them or help balancing.

[vespcrtines]

“Sure,” Azariah says, voice quiet, but steady. No heat, but not necessarily no warmth. “But this is a family event. In front of a church.”

He doesn’t sound annoyed. He’s not trying to call Hiro out. It’s more of a reminder, like pointing out that someone’s tag is sticking out, or when they’ve tracked mud across a clean floor. His gaze sweeps briefly over the crowd-- Children race past booths draped in bunting, someone’s aunt carries a tray of cornbread like it’s communion, the older folks lingering around folding tables with sweet tea and casseroles. It’s loud, a little chaotic, but it’s still meant to feel safe. Clean. Tidy.

Not a cigarette in sight. Not today. Not with the eyes of the whole town fixed, whether they realize it or not, on the sanctity of the setting.

And yet, here he is, thinking about it anyway.

He knows better than most. That twitchy little pull behind the ribs, the one that only ever gets louder when he’s trying to ignore it. He swallows it down, the same way he has every hour on the hour since the festival started.

He doesn’t look at Hiro’s hands again.

Instead, he meets his gaze at the comment, a dangle of some kind of bait in front of his eyes. There’s something pointed in it, but not mean. Just observant. A little sharp around the edges, maybe, but Azariah’s used to that. He tilts his head slightly, studying him like he’s trying to make sure the question doesn’t come with any hidden barbs.

“I’m not trying to get rid of you,” he says finally. “If I was, I’d probably just say that.”

He turns carefully, steps slow to keep from stumbling over a darting toddler, cutting a path away from the pulpit and toward the quieter edge of the churchyard. Not quite behind the building, not yet, but headed there. His shoes crunch lightly against the gravel, the noise barely audible beneath the murmur of the crowd.

Behind him, he lifts a hand in a loose sort of gesture; something between come on and up to you. He doesn’t look back right away. Figures if Hiro’s curious, he’ll follow. And if he’s not, well-- Azariah doesn’t exactly make a habit of chasing people down. Never has.

His mother will handle the festival for a little while-- probably already has a mental checklist of things he didn’t do quite right, and it's not like he's in a rush to take the clipboard back from her hands. He’ll be there before the egg hunt, anyway. It’s not like he’s slipping away for anything serious.

Just a minute. Just a breather.

Just… maybe hoping to catch the edge of someone else’s cigarette without having to admit how badly he wants one of his own. Pathetic, maybe. But his feet keep moving.

And he hopes, more than he should, that Hiro’s behind him.

Hiro pauses with the cigarette hanging from his lips, his fingers were already curled around the lighter in his pocket before he's made to stop the action entirely and he can't help the slow tilt that leans his head to the side like a pup craning his ears to hear better. Part of him wonders if he misheard what Azariah said, part of him mulls on this for a while and then his features turn, mouth pulling into a slight frown as the cigarette is cautiously removed and inspected like it suddenly did turn into candy.

"Wait? Seriously?" Were the kids in this town so sheltered from people smoking that they'd think it was candy? It was a bizarre thought. "Don't... a lot of people smoke here?" But he doesn't press the matter and concedes by tucking the cigarette behind his ear instead like it's an accessory to his look.

Then takes a step in closer, the two young men are similar in height but now that he's removed some of the distance between them, Hiro's eyes have to lift ever so slightly to meet his gaze, "Unless that's an excuse." There's no force in his tone or expression, an almost imperceptible tinge of humor in the tilt of his eyes, "And you're trying to get rid of me?"

[vespcrtines]

It’s with a soft, weary sigh that Azariah finally closes the ledger, the corners of his mouth twitching, begging to tug down into a frown that he doesn't let take root. His patience is fraying, only slightly, as small hands continue to tug at his cassock, his hem, his sleeve. One particularly insistent child had declared, with full certainty, that he’d hidden an egg somewhere beneath the folds of his robes. He hadn’t. At least, he was fairly sure he hadn’t.

The hunt hadn’t even officially begun, and already he was fantasizing about the quiet dark of his bedroom. A pillow. A locked door.

He lifts his head and scans the churchyard. The crowd’s beginning to break apart now, meandering toward the booths and tables lined with food and folded flyers. Laughter rolls lazily through the air, easy and warm. Someone’s congratulating a couple on their new baby near the cider stand. A few paces away, an older woman is being held close while someone murmurs condolences. This part, this interconnectedness, this closeness, is what Azariah cherishes most about his place here. The way people let their lives spill over into each other’s. It is exhausting, yes. Constant. Demanding. But it is also a kind of holy. Even if it isn’t always on his terms.

Not that it ever is.

He turns, making his way toward where his mother is surely waiting to collect the ledger, her hand already hovering over the clipboard, probably, ready to confirm each time slot, each transition, with a flick of her pen. He barely makes it three steps before another tug on his cassock distracts him. This one’s aiming for his laces, apparently.

He bends to shoo the child away, just as someone appears in his blind spot. The collision is gentle, but enough to knock the ledger from his hands, scattering pages across the grass.

“Sh—hoot,” he mutters, catching himself just in time. He straightens quickly, hand lifting automatically to steady whoever he just bumped into-- but it hovers in the air instead, respectful, never making contact.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice a touch rushed, the edges of his embarrassment kept under tight control. “I wasn’t looking. That was entirely my fault. Are you alright? Did I step on you?”

Valerie wasn’t planning on going to the Healing Hearts festival. While she was a little curious to see what its whole deal was, she wasn’t exactly one for mingling. And it being held at the church was a bit of a turn off, too, honestly. She grew up in a Latine household and had done the whole Catholic school thing until college, she no longer practiced any religion. She’s not a dick about it– not unless provoked, at least– but it’s not for her.

Alas, the church is smack dab in the center of town, and it’s not like she’s actively trying to avoid it. So, she’s in the vicinity when she sees the crowd start to disperse across the churchyard, voices picking up as they begin to talk and explore the festival. It appears she had just missed the actual church part. Her eyes flit across the grounds as she nears the festivities, pace slowing as she takes in the scene.

She may not be a huge fan of religious institutions, but she had to give it to church architecture, and Healing Hearts Church was no exception. It was a beautiful building, even more so now that it was decorated for the festival. Chains of marigolds danced in the breeze and adorned the booths piled high with food and drink and treats for the children whose shrieks of joy and laughter filled the air as they ran and played. It was a pleasant sight, very quaint and homely, though it was far from what Val knew to be home.

She wanders around the perimeter of the churchyard, sticking to the quieter edges of the crowd as she takes it all in.

[vespcrtines]

Ah, Ernie. Fit in like a pineapple among hedgehogs-- just enough of a spiky edge to fit in fine, if you squint hard enough. Huck never quite figured out how to talk to 'em, but Ernie didn’t seem to mind. They talked enough for the both of them, and that suited Huck just fine-- Gave him time to sit with his beer and think about nothing in particular, or maybe about whether the cardboard cutout version of him in this little exchange knew any more about life than he did. Probably not. But hell, maybe he oughta call him up anyway. Could always use the like-minded company.

He lifts the bottle in greeting as they approach, what’s left inside sloshing around like the last gasp of ambition. He downs it easily, but not without the look in his eye that screamed grimace, even if his expression didn't twist to follow. Last swig of a beer was never the good one-- never cold enough, never crisp. More like a chore than a treat, a lukewarm sigh at the bottom of a glass. Still, what’s another bottle when the kid’s got a roof over his head and a couch full of aunts and uncles keeping him occupied tonight?

“Think I might be,” he says, low and quiet as anything, giving a slight nod as he sets the empty aside. Their teasing earns a dry huff-- more air than laugh, but from Huck, it’s basically a chuckle. He flicks a glance over at the other guy down the bar, then back to Ernie, one brow raised like that’s all the commentary they’re gonna get.

“Not unless you’re fixin’ to pay me for it,” he mutters, rubbing a thumb along the label of the empty bottle in palm. “Ain’t bustin’ out into nothin’ wild unless there’s a paycheck and hazard pay.”

He leans an elbow on the bar, quiet for a moment as he contemplates whether or not this was a fix-up of some kind. “…and maybe dental,” he adds after a second, just a joke. Probably.

Another Wednesday; another two-step and two-dollar draft night.  The Stag’s busy – the wintergreen Skoal stink is back, upbeat yee-haw music pounds out of the sound system.  The dance floor, predictably, is full.  The laughter and chatter and the scrape and shuffle of boots on the wooden planks is loud enough to compete with Morgan Wallen’s cornpone twang over the speakers. The floor’s sticky under Ernie’s soles.  They dance too – not a two-step but their own usual number, red Chucks skipping back and forth behind the bar, one end to the other.  Drinks poured, empty bottles winged into the bin, dirty Pilsners and highballs into the soapy sink.  Debit cards and sweat-wilted dollars pass from Ernie’s long nimble fingers to an assortment of reaching hands and back again. A couple of months now in BHS. And at the Stag, helping the town get its collective drank on.  All this country stuff – the boots and pearl snaps and pickups – isn’t Ernie’s natural habitat, probably never will be.  But it’s gradually getting less weird and more familiar: strangers becoming sort-of friends, the layout of the grocery store (and the location of staples like coffee and Froot Loops) memorized. The music still kinda sucks, not gonna lie. But Shaboozey comes on, and next thing Ernie knows they’re humming along. Christ.  Catching themselves, they laugh, a little ruefully.  “You see me come in here in a fuckin’ Stetson one day,” they tell a familiar face – a regular they like – “just shoot me, ‘kay?” Apparently there’s a general consensus that Shaboozey is, in fact, catchy – most of the bar-sitters slide off their stools and head for the dance floor, a small stampede.  Ernie, glad for the brief respite, pulls a Sierra Nevada out of the beer cooler and pops the cap, grabs a swig.  Only a few bodies dot the length of the bar now.  Ernie approaches one – a semi-regular, slumped a little, quiet, curls rumpled and sweaty and sad puppy-dog eyes a little droopier than usual.  Got a condensation-slick bottle held between two battered hands, not empty but getting there.  “What’s up, Doc?” Ernie greets him, bar towel hung over one shoulder.  “You ready for another one?”  It’s Huck – one of the rare government names that actually sticks, because of a battered paperback that lives on Ernie’s bookshelf.  He gets a nickname anyway, because Ernie likes him. Likes all the more contemplative ones, that come in and sit, play chess or doomscroll before the crowd shows up.  They’re restful.  Not gonna admit it, though. “I’m watching you, y’know,” they tell Huck, poker-faced. “It’s always the quiet ones you gotta watch. You and Captain Price over there,” they add, with a jerk of the chin at another lone drinker, nursing a glass a ways down the bar.  “One day y’all are gonna bust out with some wild shit,” Ernie teases, grinning.  “I just know it; I got a feel for these things.”

[vespcrtines]

He was up before the sun’s own alarm clock, like always. Didn’t matter if he’d gotten four hours or six-- his body knew when it was time to move. The kitchen was already scrubbed up by the time the first gold started peeling over the treetops, light creeping in like it was guilty about being late to shine on the breakfast sat ready and waiting for someone to come pick it clean.

The house was bone tired from the night before. Tad and Tweedy had probably danced their damn kneecaps off in the middle of that marigold mess, twirling and laughing and maybe reaching over for the same gi-- Well. Huck wasn’t touchin’ that particular powder keg without a stiff drink and a full night of sleep. Which, as usual, he hadn’t had.

He hadn’t gone to the Bleeding Hearts Festival. Took Logan to the church celebration instead, sat through the hours of small-town sermonizing and restless children screaming in delight as they rushed across the courtyard in search for the colorful eggs that they could have their Poppas carry in the basker for them. Honestly? It was kinda nice. He wasn’t much for the more close-knit parties, especially ones where folks expected him to mingle. Smile. God forbid, talk.

By the time the rest of the house started to stir, Huck’d already knocked out half his list. Chickens were fed, tools sorted, a busted fence post halfway patched up. He’d tightened the hinge on Tweedy’s door, found a loose plank in front of Tad's that he'd fixed tight back into place. He’d left water on the nightstands, just in case either of them forgot they were mortal and needed hydration after the drinks that burned down their throats all night.

Now, though, he stands in the archway to the kitchen, arms crossed, hip propped just enough to look relaxed without actually feeling it. His back ached. His hands ached. His everything ached. What else was new?

He didn’t say nothin’ right away when Tanny turned around. Just took her in: tired, a little sheepish, still glowin’ faintly from the night. There was a moment, one of those tiny, quiet moments, where his eyes softened a hair, but it passed fast as it came. She had to kill it, after all, with that apology of hers, right on cue. Like she needed permission to be a kid, to have a good time and need to sleep it all off.

He huffs. Of course he huffs. That was the language he spoke best.

“Already fed,” he mutters, voice gravelly from that early morning chill. His eyes shift to the marigolds in the vase on the counter, eyes squinting like they might give him answers to questions he wasn't about to speak out loud. He’d picked ‘em all up off the floor when he found the trail leading to the front door. A few were crushed. One was tucked behind a boot. There’d been a hair ribbon too, stuck to the knob. He didn’t know who danced with who, and frankly? None of his business.

One of 'em had a good night. Maybe both. Maybe not.

“Tad still got his motor functions? Both of ya stumbled in talkin' 'bout the Buchanan Spectacle,” he murmurs after a pause, trying for casual and landing somewhere near tell me you didn't try that shit from when you were kids in a place where folks would be too drunk to keep your skulls from hitting the ground. He cleared his throat, scratched the side of his neck like that might un-jam the rest of his words, before quietly, more to the floor than to his own sister, “You have a good time?”

closed starter / tanny & huck. location – pure valley farm

When Tanny’s body doesn’t wake her up, the sun does. It’s why she jolts awake at the first sense of blue this morning, why her heart skips a beat as she reads 7:29 on her bedside clock. It’s five minutes fast, but she’s over an hour late. Shit.

No pounding headache. That’s good. She hops across the cool hardwood until her toes sink into her slippers. Preparing herself for the scolding of a lifetime, she slips out of her room and into the hall. She peeks her blonde head into the cracked door down a ways from hers, letting out a breath of relief as she sees Logan sleeping soundly. She’d taken the silent path up the stairs last night (or this morning, rather), but she doesn’t now, letting the last four creaks on the stairs follow her descent.

She didn’t even get that crazy at the festival. A cup of whiskey, maybe two cups of mead? Either way, all that dancing definitely made her sweat it out before her vision started to blur. What the drinks did do, however, was keep her going til’ the early hours of the morning.

Her feet take her to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of juice. There’s a slight pull in her triceps as she reaches for the glass – courtesy of the Buchanan Spectacular, no doubt. She nearly chugs the whole thing in one gulp, feeling it hydrate her almost instantly.

“‘M sorry,” she says as soon as she hears footsteps behind her, knowing there’s only one other Buchanan who’d be up this early. “The chickens are prob’ly revolting. I’ll get ‘em their breakfast in a minute.” It’s silly, she knows, but she prides herself on being helpful – on being the Swiss army knife that Huck can stick into any problem on the farm. Something that’s a little hard to do when your most loyal farmhand wakes up 90 minutes late.

Her eyes catch the marigolds in the vase on the counter, wondering if Frankie added his in too. Did she really get five dances last night? It sure only felt like two or three mattered.

@vespcrtines