skyburners-oath-blog

[skyburners-oath-blog]

justfkntrash:

Gideon disappeared into the darkness of his apartment and Austin waited in his doorway hoping he wouldn’t have to go fish him out. There was an undeniable sense of relief when he reemerged carrying that familiar stuffed animal. There was something endearing about Gideon’s attachment to something most people would have deemed childish.

With the door closed and locked behind him, Austin followed after Gideon through the almost-dark hallway. He didn’t bother flipping on the overhead light. The curtains drawn closed over the one large window in his apartment weren’t thick enough to keep out the light pollution of the city around them. The blue-tinted light cast shadows over Gideon’s face that made him look even more upset than he could possibly be. “Okay, so…” he said, moving towards the his bookshelf. Right in the middle of a row of BluRay cases, Austin found his the ceramic canister, shaped like a chicken, that he’d plucked out of a junk pile at a rummage sale. “…you wanna talk about it?” His voice was as gentle as he could manage to make it.

Austin put the canister on his coffee table before sitting, cross-legged on the floor. Inside the canister was Austin’s favorite pipe, a bag of weed that he’d already cut the night before. “You talk, I’ll pack,” he offered, leaning back against the couch as he went to work. He hoped smoking a bowl would have the same calming effect on Gideon that it usually had on him.

Gideon didn't even pay attention to Austin's action, mostly because he was aware of what he was going for, and partly because he was just tired. Setting his Sylveon on the couch, he lied down on it, head on the plush; as Austin sat down on the floor, Gideon let his arm fall along his friend's chest in a vague gesture of affection. He sighed, "What usually happens, really? I lost control."

“You lost control with the loud shit bag across the hall,” said Austin, punctuated by a dismissive shrug as he pressed his thumb into the bowl to pack it down. His head rested against Gideon’s dangling arm and gave his lighter a quick test strike. “If anyone deserved to be on the receiving end of an ass beating it’s that guy.”

The splayed hand gently started to rub against Austin's chest while Gideon shook his head as well as he could, in the position he was. "Doesn't matter." And it didn't. Loss of control, whether the opposing party deserved it or not, was always a bad thing. "If I lose control, beating someone's arse isn't just bruises," he grunted, closing his eyes. "Besides. I think he's an abuse victim."

Austin held the pipe to his lips, dipping the flame just over the surface of the pipe in his hand. The pull of his inhale burned so smooth in his lungs and he held his breath. Slowly, smoke billowed from his lips as he exhaled. “Shit,” he muttered, his voice noticeably lower than it had been. “How’d you figure that out?” Austin passed the pipe and the lighter over his shoulder.

Propping himself up on an elbow, Gideon took the offering and imitated Austin's actions seconds earlier, instead letting the smoke leave through his nose like some angry clockwork bull; perhaps not too far off from the truth. "His reaction," he murmured in a somewhat choked voice, emphasising with a shrug of one of his shoulders. "Body language, things he said. Not hard to figure out, really."

There was a knee jerk reaction that Austin had that always reminded him that he was not so far removed from the father who raised him. Who hated him. Who Austin hated ten-fold in return. The cruelty was bitter on his tongue but he swallowed back his dad’s voice saying, in his head, “‘man up; get over it.” Instead he leaned his head back against the couch. “I guess that explains-“ Austin’s gestured broadly in front of him, “—whatever his deal is.”

"Yeah." Gideon let out the word with a sigh, holding the pipe and light out to Austin again. Sometimes Gideon felt like a stereotype of Catholicism; now that the guilt of how he'd triggered Thanos was washed away by the pot, new guilt replaced it by how easy he was able to overcome the initial guilt, like he ought to care more than he did. It felt strangely selfish, and he didn't like it. "Nothing I can do about, though. I can't help him, even if I wanted to."

Austin adjusted his position, turning around to face Gideon directly. “You can’t fix everyone,” he said, resting the pipe in his lap for a moment. “And you can’t beat yourself up about that either.” Another hit, another slow rush to his head passed before Austin could speak again. “You help who you can.”

Logically, rationally, Gideon knew Austin was right. Of course he was, he was just one person, he couldn't do everything, help everyone, regardless of how he tried. But in his heart, the unreasonable part, he disagreed. He knew where it came from, unfortunately; his mother might have taken him away from his father's drilling, but it had left its mark in the eleven years he'd had to endure it regardless; in his heart, nothing he would ever do to help others would be enough, so long as there was still anything left in him to give. "Yeah," he said again, distracting himself by plucking at his Sylveon's ear bow idly. "I wish it were that easy." And then he paused. "Can we not talk about me? I don't like it."

“The psych doesn’t like being the patient hm?” Austin’s smile was small, but wry as it eased into place. He handed his pipe over again, wondering if his own form self-medication was helping or if it was being analyzed. His hand settled on Gideon’s leg. “I just mean it’s not totally your fault.” Austin didn’t know Thanos aside from knowing that he was the loud guy across the hall. If it hadn’t been Gideon, someone else would have gone over there to shut him up eventually. Austin wished it hadn’t been his friend, given the guilt that radiated off of him now.

Gideon rolled his eyes and, despite the exhaustion he felt, gave Austin a grin back. "I know I have issues, I don't care to talk about them," he countered in good nature. He took the pipe and took another hit, his mind clouding and everything becoming less soft as the weed took affect. "I know what you mean, though. Is what it is." The words spoken when Gideon decided to close an avenue of conversation, definitive. "How about we talk about your issues, though?" Gideon gave Austin a sharp look, with a side-serving of mischief. "See if I like that better?"

It was hard not to laugh at the suggestion. Austin liked talking about his bullshit about as much as he liked slamming his hand in a car door. “You know,” he said, bringing his legs into his chest and resting his chin on his knees, “I might just let you dig in. But only because you’re sad.” He curled his arms around his legs, a defensive, childish pose that betrayed the ease with which he offered access to his depths.

Gideon chuckled at the childish man sitting before him, and gave him a small, affectionate smile. He wasn't sure if it was the 'medication' that had put him at ease so quickly, or the company, but often times, these things went hand in hand; he'd never taken up smoking by himself, almost exclusively did it in Austin's presence. "I'm not sad," he said, lying his head back on his plush, one arm curled against his chest as his other hand reached out to toy with Austin's hair a little. He would take the offer, though, rare as it was. "How's your family?"

“Christ,” Austin muttered, “aren’t you supposed to start with softball questions? Get a rhythm going before you just shoot straight to the core?” Austin pulled himself up, bracing himself on the coffee table. Taking the pipe with him, he took the unoccupied space on the other end of his couch. His legs stretched out to rest his feet on the table. “My dad is still propagating government run lies to the idiots who still trust him. My mom is probably still handling billion dollar divorce cases. And I am going to need to be much higher than this to get deeper into that shit.” He lit the pipe again, inhaling hard so that the flame would catch on what was left of the tightly packed leaves.

Chuckling, Gideon turned and put his head in Austin's lap instead, looking up at him. He knew this topic was particularly difficult for Austin, which was why he felt they had to discuss it. "You're whining," he smiled. "I'm the one that's supposed to be the whiny one." Gideon watched as Austin inhaled again, one arm behind his head, idly stroking his thigh. "So what is it about them you disagree with?"

“I tried to give you the chance to be the whiny one but you deflected,” Austin offered, putting his pipe aside on the end table. His threaded his fingers through Gideon’s hair and an easy laugh escaped him as he looked down at the boy in his lap. “Yeah, I can toss out fancy shrink terminology too. I learned that one from my real therapist. The one I pay to bug me about my bullshit.”

Even through his grin, Gideon couldn't stop the yawn that wrenched his jaw apart and forced his eyes shut tightly. "Real therapist?" he asked in mock offensive, wiping away at some tears that had started to gather in his eyes. "That's mean."

Austin rolled his eyes but still working his fingers back through Gideon’s hair. There was genuine affection in this gesture. It wasn’t something he would have done for Finn or Tanner. “Real as in paid for,” Austin specified. “As in not my friend who has seen me naked.”

A soft chuckle escaped him before Gideon opened his eyes to look at Austin again. "Do you want to go back in time to where I haven't seen you naked so it's more appropriate?" he asked in a teasing manner, taking his glasses off and, reaching over to the coffee table, dropped them with a little toss, where they immediately fell short and landed on the ground instead. He didn't care. Instead, he turned on his side and buried his face in Austin's stomach, full-body wiggling at the physically satisfying feeling it gave him.

A low sigh hummed through Austin's closed lips as he eased himself further down in his seat. One arm laid across Gideon's middle. "Nope," he muttered. He could feel Gideon breathing into his bare stomach, the sensation made the hair on his arms stand up. "Naked is the part I like. The prying questions about my parents is the part I could do without." The high was a thin mist over his brain, leaving him teetering on the satisfying edge of sobriety and inebriation. Another bowl, two bowls, would fuck him up and make him hungry. But this was a languid, peaceful high.

"Who would've guessed?" Gideon murmured against his skin in a sardonic tone, unable to stifle yet another yawn. With his eyes closed, he felt like he was floating, and then a sudden rush lurched his stomach pleasantly and he couldn't resist a soft giggle, before his inner ear found its equilibrium again, and he was back to floating.

Austin rubbed his hand along Gideon’s side, fingers brushing gently over skin. “I can deflect too,” he said. “In fact, I’ve been told I’m very good at it.” He ended the sentence with a yawn, the contagious sensation of sleep seemed to have settled over both of them. “Let’s go lay bed before you fall asleep on me, hm?”

Gideon merely smiled at his friend's words, giving him a slight shrug in reply. "You don't like me fallin' asleep on you?" he asked, punctuated by yet another yawn. He wanted to get in bed, but he also didn't want to get up.

“If you fall asleep here I’ll be stuck like this all night.” Austin patted his palm softly against Gideon’s hip. “Fall asleep on me in bed so I can at least have a pillow.” He reached across to the other end of the couch, fingers stretching to reach the stuffed animal Gideon had left behind. He dropped it on Gideon’s head, as if that would incentivize his movement.

"Whiny," Gideon murmured from under the plush, before grabbing the thing by the scruff and pulling it off his head, finally getting up. His foot landed on the glasses that had fallen on the ground, and he just managed to pull his weight away lest he break it, leaning over to put it properly on the table. "Alright," he yawned, slowly rubbing an eye. "Do you have work tomorrow?"

In the absence of Gideon’s weight on him, cool air rushed to fill the space he’d occupied. It was enough to almost make Austin shiver, but he pulled himself up and moved towards his bed, tucked into the corner of his studio apartment. “Nope,” he said with a dismissive shrug. He should go into the office in the morning (which was, already just a few hours away), just to see if there if anyone had dumped any press packets off on his desk. But if he faked food poisoning he could get someone to bring them over. “That’s what the home office is for.”

"Convenient," Gideon said with a sarcastic tone, following his friend to the bed, not hesitating to crawl under the covers and finally let himself rest properly. With his Sylveon clutched to his chest, Gideon let out a slow, satisfied sigh, inevitably burying half his face into the pillow he'd quickly claimed as his. It smelled like Austin, and it was enough to bring a little smile on his face.

Austin slipped into bed behind Gideon. His arm wound around the other mans mid-section and he gave a gentle tug to pull him closer. His lips pressed against Gideon’s arm, a gesture he performed without thinking. His eyes closed and he murmured, “Go to sleep.” Instead of “goodnight.”

Without hesitation, as the arm moved around his ribs and he felt the pull back, Gideon shifted backwards against Austin's chest, eyes closed already as he more or less curled up around his plush. He murmured something in return, but within seconds, his mind was already more asleep than not, and he wasn't even sure himself what he'd replied. He didn't even notice when he'd fallen asleep.

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GOD’S OWN COUNTRY (2017) dir. Frances Lee.

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Cris watched the undertaking in front of him with fascination.  The irishman was quick about his study, and were it not for the concentration so apparent on his face, it may have been taken as an act.  But know, it could be seen in the way he seemed to linger on certain words or the slight shifts in the speed of his page turning.  He looked entirely wrapped in his reading despite his offhand responses, like a small piece of his mind had been set aside with the intention of continuing the conversation, compartmentalized away from the devouring he did within the bindings of the old book.  It was a wonder in its own right to watch.

Languages were often a love affair for those who fell into them face first.  While his repertoire wasn’t exceptionally wide, there was still a latent appreciation that hovered within him for each one, and those that could wield them proficiently.  “What do you speak?”  He reached a hand out to smooth a small fold that had come to the corner of the book.  It had been a marker once, but the information there was long since dispelled from necessity— the page deserved to sleep unfolded and unkept.  

“The notes?  Yes.  It’s a habit I developed when I was much, much younger.”  He chuckled and returned to the stove to check on the food that was already in progress.  As he pulled the lid off a large cast iron pan, a heavy, spiced smell filled the kitchen.  It was rich, flavorful and threatened a spicy heat just on smell alone.  He used a wooden spoon to stir the contents.  “I imagine it wouldn’t be hard to find another like it on the shelf.”

Closing the book slowly, Finn acutely and instantly realised what a bad guest he was being. It wasn’t usual that he entered a person’s home and there were books everywhere – not unlike his own messy place – and he’d gotten a little off-track. Granted, Cris’ place was a little less chaotic than his own flat, and he realised that was a distinct difference between the two of them. Moving away from the kitchen again, he put the book back in its spot of the shelf he’d plucked it from, and gave it a longing look and a little wanton sigh, before turning back to Cris to be a less absent conversationalist.

The question of what languages he spoke conjured a sheepish grin on Finn’s face, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Not many people outside his family knew the full extent of his linguistic library, and while many people would be proud of it – his parents sure were of him – Finn was a little more apprehensive in enclosing exactly how many languages he spoke. He’d come across enough people who thought he was a bit of a show-off with what he knew, and while Finn definitely liked to flex his mental capacity and prowess from time to time, as he grew older, he’d become more close to the chest with certain information about himself. He certainly was less of a show off than when he was younger – too many experiences of being burnt for it.

“Uh,” he started, scratching the back of his head, one eye squeezed shut. “A lot, fourteen, so what are you making?” The answer flowed into the question smoothly, and Finn wouldn’t deny that he was trying to change the conversation’s subject. He liked this guy. Not just physically – he did, that arse – but his vibe, his intelligence, his interests, everything. There was no reason to push him away or turn him off already. Finn snorted to himself; he had enough time to do that later, and after that happened, they’d be awkward neighbours and would stick to saying hello in the hallways if and when their paths crossed.

But the question wasn’t just thrown out as a way to derail the question he’d been asked. He really did want to know what Cris was making, because damn did it smell good. “Smells really good,” he said as he leaned next to him against the counter, peering into the pot.

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It was impossible not to look at Gray’s arms as they were crossed, even worse as he leaned against them, an undeniable flex present that made something in his stomach twist.  Russ wasn’t subtle, never had been, not making even the most thinly-veiled attempt at hiding the way his eyes dragged.  It was less tarnished with the immediate desire he often projected, instead something a little less— something less thirst-driven and more a moment of admiration for what was in front of him.

A daydream hit. He could see those arms around him, picking him up and setting him down on the counter; wrapping his own arms around his neck, reaching his fingers up into that curly mess of hair. He blinked twice and it was gone, out of his sight.

God, fuck this guy.

“I don’t keep boyfriends.  So I don’t worry about exes.”  It was mostly true.  There had been a couple exceptions but he considered them statistical outliers, unnecessary parts of the conversation.  He tended to stray away from avenues that got messy in a way he couldn’t control.  “I’m not the slightest bit a sports fan.  How very intuitive.”  That explained the familiarity though.  He didn’t give half a fuck about sports, but had taken on athletes before.  Professionally, often enough.  Quiet affairs when he had time for it.  He’d seen Gray’s face somewhere, he knew that much.  

He stayed casual, stayed calm and forever cool as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, hands idly resting on the edges of it as he watched him.  “Lawyer.”  But he didn’t want to spend much more time on the subject, there was a question already in mind.  “You said you live with your buddy.  Is that your friend, or a boyfriend?”  It was direct, very well to the point to find the answer he was looking for.  Why did he even care?  Boyfriends had never stopped him in the past, and they weren’t about to start.  

Gray followed Russ’ eyes, realising that, once again, he was being checked out. He knew he shouldn’t take it as a very big deal, but it made him feel incredibly uncomfortable and naked, something he could barely keep out of his body language. It wasn’t even as though he was self-conscious; he absolutely had no problem with being naked to any degree around other people, borne from a lifetime of sharing locker rooms and showers with others, but he couldn’t recall an instance where he was in a state of nudity of some degree and being objectified so blatantly. Gray didn’t know what to think of it.

Watching Russ’ eyes glaze over, Gray raised an eyebrow, about to say something before there were two blinks and he was back; he decided not to mention it.

Lawyer sounded about accurate – he didn’t have a lot of experience with lawyers, but he knew most of them had sharp teeth and grey moralities. Perhaps that was where the excitement and sense of danger came from. It wasn’t even anything concrete, but the glint in his eyes, and the idea that, small as this guy was, he could absolutely best him and even wreck him in a mental fight. Gray let out a little sigh; he always chose the ones with the most potential to hurt him, didn’t he?

The question caught him off guard in how direct it was, and his eyebrows raised to convey his surprise. He had to think for a moment, to let the question and its implication sink in, watching Russ. “Uh,” he stumbled out, blinking a few times. “No.” Insufficient response. “I mean, uh, no, no, Tanner’s just my friend. I don’t, don’t have a boyfriend.” His face shifted into a confounded expression. “You just assume I’m gay?”

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THE SIMS APARTMENT AESTHETIC: graham bell (pt 2.)

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THE SIMS APARTMENT AESTHETIC: talitha laux-antille

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THE SIMS APARTMENT AESTHETIC: vrej sahakian

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THE SIMS APARTMENT AESTHETIC: graham bell (pt 1.)

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THE SIMS APARTMENT AESTHETIC: sophie tsai & jinyu park

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THE SIMS APARTMENT AESTHETIC: finn mcginty

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THE SIMS APARTMENT AESTHETIC: gideon guinness

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The moment he’d discovered exactly who had moved into one of the building A seventh floor penthouses, Gray’d been out the door, cereal left on the kitchen counter half eaten. He’d barely had time to say two words about where he was going to his roommate, hadn’t even put on shoes, sprinting in sweats and an old t-shirt along the grounds of the complex. The lift door was met by his hands onto its surface to keep himself from running smack into it, and all his energy and excitement surged into a hand that started pounding the call button.

There was only one person to date that could incite such excitement in him, a person he’d unfortunately had to say goodbye to last year. You’d think, in the age of technology, it wouldn’t be that big a deal – distance, in this day and age, was but a number – but Gray had always felt amputated by technology. It was good, absolutely, and it helped him keep in touch with people he otherwise wouldn’t have been able to, but he couldn’t hug them, or kiss them, or just sit with them and drink beer with them. For all the blessed good technology did, there were some things that distance still kept from him.

The lift dinged and he stepped in, slamming the button with the ‘7′ on it with as much fervency as he’d done the call button. The ride up felt an eternity and his fingers tapped against his thigh while his eyes were glued to the indicator above the door. Seven whole years had passed, according to Gray, between him getting in the lift and the doors parting again.

The door was knocked on with as much ardour as every action up to this point had been. The thought that she might not be home didn’t even cross Gray’s mind – if she wasn’t, he would stand in front of this damn door all day, cancel all plans he had, just so he wouldn’t miss her. The door opened, though. He didn’t even stop to look if it was, in fact, his best friend; without any effort, he picked the girl up and pulled her legs around his waist while his arms engulfed her body. “I fucking missed you!” he proclaimed, perhaps louder than the morning would appreciate of him, but Gray couldn’t care less. “You didn’t even tell me!”

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She hadn’t expected the knock.  Not in that century, not in the next.  But it’d come anyway, unannounced and unassuming, pulling her from a moment where a downward spiral was threatened.  Eli crossed large open space, opening the door, greeted by a face she’d only just become familiar with.  He didn’t owe her anything, what on earth was he doing there?  She was quick to step aside and usher him in, door closing as she presented him with a small smile, though her attention became pinpoint and specific.

His eyes were all the more apparent, as was the tension that seemed to radiate from him.  It reminded her of migraines, the pounding that was shuffled by the slightest noise or light that dared make and appearance.  Concern flooded her face as she put pieces together, simply too scattered to make the detection past tired earlier.  She’d kick herself for it later, for letting it go unnoticed as they’d stood downstairs.  

She slipped out of her shoes quickly, to eliminate the sound of her heels, making a quick dash to a tablet that was set on a large, long rough hewn table in the living room.  From there, she lowered the lights, bringing them down to nothingness beyond an ambient, soft blue glow that could be made out in the kitchen, as well as the light the city provided.  She did away with the latter, making the mechanized drapes close, cutting off the static from the outside.

Eli returned to him, holding the tablet against her chest in the dark.  Her voice came soft and low.  “I’m sorry.  I should have noticed—-  you didn’t have to come.”  She bit at her lip lightly, a force of habit she’d typically work to override in the presence of another person, but it seemed to slip through.

All Gideon could so was mumble, something about how it was okay, that she shouldn’t worry about it, it was his choice. A sigh escaped him slowly as darkness settled; it was like a cool cloth had been draped over the top of his head, and the meltdown that had threatened to wash over him gently ebbed away. It wasn’t out of reach yet, but it wasn’t looming anymore either. He found his breath again and took in a deep gulp of air, the kind a drowning man would take, and without really asking for permission – the moment of asking permission was past in this situation – he moved past her and further into the place, disregarding how expensive everything was.

Instead of taking inventory of the luxuries he was now surrounded by, Gideon sat down on the couch and all but threw his glasses down on the table, hands quickly finding his face, where his palms pressed into his eyes. And the rocking began. A slow breath in, the movement of his body in the rhythmic motion gentle and quick, though almost non-existent. A slow breath out, the motion increasing, not in speed, but rather in lengths in their back-and-forth. A slow breath in, and he was properly rocking now, elbows on his knees, finding equilibrium with every movement. As he released his breath again, Gideon’s hands slid from his eyes, along the sides of his face, where they rested, clasped, on the back of his neck.

Silence. Nothing but silence. No burning, no ticking, no boiling or knotting in his stomach. Everything slowed down again where it had sped up to infinity, too fast for him to even remember, teetering on the brink of... Gideon sighed, blinking eyes that had stared, unfocused, at the table, looking but not seeing. He hadn’t registered anything else but the darkness, his own breathing, and the slow rhythmic rocking of his body. He was exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” he cast into the darkness, a quiet voice in what he realised now was an enormous space. Gideon’s brow furrowed and a hand moved from his neck to his forehead, to prop it up as he looked down at his shoes. “I didn’t mean for–” He cut himself off. He didn’t mean for what? To meet like this? For this to be her first impression of him? But it was the right impression, wasn’t it? He was a mess. He could pretend not to be, he could go through life with a straight back, but he’d always come apart at the seams at some point, like a mess did. He could act like anyone he wanted, emulate everyone that had their lives together, that didn’t have a near breakdown from overstimulation, but that didn’t mean it was he wasn’t a mess. He was tired of this.

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Russ looked at the bottle in his hand, and then the giant man that was sticking his head under the faucet of the kitchen sink to take a drink.  A single, resounding question settled in his mind:  who the fuck was this?  He couldn’t quite place what it was, but the some mystery element was endlessly endearing; just as much as the rough nature was interesting and piqued every bit of interest he had.  Who the fuck was this and why was he just now coming across him in his life?  Someone needed to be held responsible for the deficit.  “You’re an animal.”  Nonetheless, Russ sat the bottle of water on the counter, shaking his head in disbelief of the entire encounter.

As the guessing game began, he leaned back against the counter.  His arms crossed, eyebrow raised as he listened to the accusations that came.  Though he would show it, he was a shade impressed as the guesses narrowed in.  “Warmer.”  Very warm, in fact.  Almost every legislator was a lawyer, as was any good lobbyist.  He was in the right realm and he’d gotten there quick.  Russ took it as a compliment, in a way, if his general being was enough to project what it was he took so much pride in doing.  

“What about you…”  It was a question to himself more than it was for Gray.  He pushes himself away from the counter, stepping closer as he eyed him, the playful, terrible thing ever-present in his eyes.  “There are two very, very different vibes with some shared threads.”  His walk paused.  “I doubt you’re anything as common as a business-bro.”  Russ considered him for a moment more.  “And you seem vaguely familiar for some reason, which means you’re someone.”

Gray’s eyes moved over Russ’ face, unassuming and bright compared to the terror Russ’ eyes were translating. His forearms moved on the island counter where his hands clasped together, Gray was entirely unaware of the way he projected himself; he took his physicality for granted on most days, feeling a disconnect more often than not between what people found attractive in him and who he saw himself as. If you asked him, he was being friendly, with his attention on Russ as spoke.

“I don’t know what a ‘business-bro’ is,” Gray chuckled, shrugging. He’d been accused of plenty of things in the past; a jock, an idiot, a fool, but never something like a ‘bro’, and the idea seemed odd to him for some reason. “I’m really just a dude, though. I’m white, that may be why I look familiar,” he laughed, giving him a wink. “Probably look like an ex, right?” This was as close Gray had ever gotten to flirting with a complete stranger – it was usually something reserved for people he knew better. “Play hockey. But you don’t really come across like a sports fan to me.”

He nodded at him idly. “So what do you do, if not... any of the previous mentioned?”

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Black tea it was.  Cris reached into some high cabinets, sorting through tins before landing on one that was decidedly old, continually refreshed with new tea bags as the contents were used.  He could remember the exact moment he’s seen it amidst piles of junk at a yard sale he’d paroused in passing in Chicago.  It was from Sprague, Warner & Company— an old original tin that was without monetary value but instead was cased in history.  He’d been enchanted by it the moment he saw it, and he’d overpaid and happily carted it away to clean and keep; to once again give purpose to.  

He dropped two bags in a mug, waiting for the water to boil.  He looked to the book in question, recognizing it on sight.  A smile came, a fondness for the entertainment and exercise the dear thing had provided him.  He shifted to Finn’s side, looking at the scribblings that crowded the ledger.  The Latin was far from foreign, the notes matching the text’s language for sake of continuity.  The script was familiar, his own.  “No.  Some additions and notes I’ve made over the years.”

Years.  The book was laced with insight, a blend of his younger self and what he’d grown to become.   His handwriting only shifted slightly, but if a person were to give it enough mind, they may have been able to decode which narration was from the past and which was from the present.  “I do.  It was a labor of love.”  He laughed, remembering the frustrations of it at the time.  “I take it you do as well?”  His eyebrows raised slightly, as it wasn’t much a common language to share.  It was dead, long gone in practical use.  Latin was meant for those who refused to detach themselves from the past.  

The tea and the meaning for the visit had been long banished from Finn’s mind. If you asked him, he wouldn’t even remember why he was here, only that he was here, with his elbow on a stranger’s counter, hand in his hair, hitting on absolutely no one. It wasn’t that Finn wasn’t interested in Cris – he’d tried, after all, and Cris had given him a very clear and succinct ‘no’ on the matter. At this point, it didn’t even really matter that he’d been rejected, as his eyes poured over the printed Latin, followed by the handwritten where continuity demanded it. The more he read, the more he found himself intoxicated, not by the man’s physical appearance and that amazing arse, but his mind and how it worked; the connections it made, the way it argued with itself even, and the timeline of growth it provided, like the measurements of children in a parental home.

“I’m Roman-Catholic, however much a sad excuse of one I am,” he murmured, not looking at Cris, but his body and mind were acutely aware of him, his closeness, and the infinities of him presented in little notes in a damn book. “Taught myself, among other things.” He turned a page, and went quiet again as his eyes flew over words and absorbed at lightning speed, hard and focused, a picture of casual concentration if there ever was a thing like it. “Languages are kind of my personal project, a hobby, if you will..” He chuckled, finally looking up.

When his eyes diverted from the book and up to Cris’ face, it was like he’d warped into a different person. Sure, his features were the same, the smile unintentionally charming – which was charming in and of itself – and his eyes kind and unassuming. It was like he looked at him, not seeing a pretty face, but more; or that’s what Finn hoped. What was different now about the Mexican was nothing attributed to him, but rather Finn’s interest in him that extended beyond just looks. “You do this a lot? Do you have more?”

[skyburners-oath-blog]

The moment the door closed behind him, Gideon felt a weight drop onto his shoulders, and he found himself resting back against the door heavily, letting out a deep sigh while his eyes closed. An eternity passed him by, spanned by silence and darkness, and not even the old, disgusting carpet under his bare feet broke him out of this void, his headspace of nothing. Gideon believed this was what peace felt like; cold, silent, dark nothingness. And then a voice reached out through oblivion, and within seconds Gideon was back in that hallway of a shitty complex in Los Angeles, head snapping up as his gaze met the blurry face of, arguably, his best friend.

“I’m okay,” he whispered back, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he was or not. Gideon knew he was tired, more so after that outburst; and then there was the guilt. The guilt that he exploded at all, but also the guilt of how he left Thanos, regardless of the fact that he didn’t even like the guy. There was no excuse to it.

He watched Austin push the door open, and for a moment, he simply stared into the fuzzy darkness beyond him. Gideon nodded, slowly, pushing himself off the door – and then he paused. “Wait,” he said in the same low, hushed voice that Austin had addressed him with. Gideon knew that if he went there, exhausted and overextended as he was, there was no way he was going back home. So instead of moving towards Austin, he went back into his flat, straight to his bedroom, quietly cursing as he nearly tripped on a discarded shoe near the door.

Without a second thought, Gideon grabbed his glasses off the end table, and his phone off his bed next to his pillow, before digging under his covered until his fingers wrapped around something soft and thick, grabbing it by the scruff. Yanking his Sylveon to his chest, he turned again, exiting his flat to head in past Austin, bottom of his face buried in the head of the plushie.

@skyburners-oath

“What the fuck,” Austin muttered to himself, groggy as he reached for his glasses on his end-table hauled himself from his bed. It took an act of God to wake the heavy sleeper up most nights. So any commotion in the hallway that could pull him back to consciousness was probably worth a cursory investigation. He didn’t bother getting dressed, hoping he wouldn’t have to intervene in a fight in just his boxers and glasses.

By the time he cracked his door open, whatever altercation had taken place had ended and all Austin saw was the back of Gideon’s head following Thanos into his apartment. Absolutely nothing good could come of this, Austin knew. So he waited. With his door still cracked open, Austin leaned against the wall just inside his apartment for a worrying several minutes.

And when Gideon finally emerged, looking more rattled than he’d expected, Austin slipped out into the otherwise empty hallway. “Hey,” he said, low and hushed voice loud enough to get the other man’s attention, but hopefully not enough to carry beyond the two of them, “You okay?” Austin’s brow was furrowed with the concern that had done nothing but grow and expand into a hard ball in his stomach as he waited.

He pushed his door open further behind him, nodding towards the dark room behind him. “Come on,” he said, “tell me what happened.”