ghcstlies

[ghcstlies]

It’s hard not to notice Phoebe’s immediate reaction to the lights debacle — her eyes turn glassy, guilt written plain as day on her expression. Theo, despite her excellent track record when it comes to destroying people in her previous line of work, is not immune to a sad disposition. Especially when there’s something familiar in Phoebe’s guilt, unwarranted or not. Theodora likes to say she herself walks around with guilt as an accessory, showing it off in the most inappropriate moments.

Theo glances at the lights as Phoebe laments their state, shaking her head in what she hopes is a comforting gesture. “No, they don’t — it looks like it could’ve been the wind,” she assures Phoebe. She eyes the step stool Phoebe kicks with a small smile, taking the couple of steps necessary toward it and leaning down to set it upright once again. She eyes the lights from where she stands — she could probably get a good vantage point if she steps on, she muses. She’s got the height advantage on Phoebe, plus the heels of her boots, though she’s not sure it’s a great idea to test how well those will fare on such a flimsy-looking stool. 

She glances back just as Phoebe opens the door to the shop and offers her entrance. “If you have a ladder in the backroom, I’m sure we can at least set them right again,” she offers. She’s pulling her phone out as she walks past Phoebe and inside the shop, appreciating the immediate warmth that washes over her. “Or I can have my girlfriend bring us a string of new ones to replace them all while we’re at it,” she mutters, pulling up Marion’s text thread. “We have so many unused ones at our place,” she explains, typing out a message to her before receiving the go-ahead. She glances up at Phoebe with a small smile. “Downsized,” she explains, probably unnecessarily.

It has been a while, Theo thinks. Doesn’t send the message just yet — in case Phoebe doesn’t take the helping hand offered out to her. She tends to do that, Theo remembers. “Fantastic,” she tells her. And, for once, it’s the truth. “And you? Aluma Lake treating you alright, still?”

With a shaky hand, she gets down, observing the damage with a wince. Mr Inglewood — the shop’s owner and almost as old as some of the classics on the window display — would insist that it didn’t matter, but Phoebe can already see herself sacrificing some of her paycheck to repair the lights. Maybe if she had time to head somewhere before the day’s end? The nearest Home Depot outside of Aluma Lake was forty minutes without traffic…

Her panic planning halts in her tracks when she realises she’s yet to answer Theo, offering her a bit of a shaky smile, feeling the all-too familiar sting of tears threatening to fall as carelessly as the lights she just ripped down. Not that Phoebe is necessarily sad about the damage caused, but her body tends to overreact even when her mind finds the scarce bit of rationality. “I’m the only one working today. And they were messed up and…” She daren’t look at the carnage. “And now they look even worse than before.” She admits in a small voice, helplessly kicking at the step stool now her two feet are back on solid ground.

“I mean, this normally helps when getting the books off the top shelf inside so I thought —,” She lifts her hands up to demonstrate, “— If I just stretched just the tiniest bit, it’d be okay.” A shiver runs through her, and she digs for the ring of keys in her jacket pocket, nodding at Theo to step inside from the cold. “I could probably get my friend Seb to take the blame. He owes me.” But she wouldn’t, the guilt would eat at her too much. “Um, hi, anyway. How are you? It’s��been a while!” Anything to distract her from the absolute fuck-up she just committed. 

[ghcstlies]

✦ ・ terry's kitchen. terry & ᴀɴᴛᴏɴɪᴏ. [ @rococovariations ]

It’s been about an hour since Antonio arrived — since he’d rejected Terry’s offer for a drink, citing some weak excuse about a headache, since he’d combed over everything he’s learned about birding the past couple of months just to have a reason to commandeer the conversation. He’s running out of words, though — a frighteningly common occurrence nowadays — scratches idly at his jeans as he tries to grab for a question, a distraction, a comment that’ll get him out of his head long enough to avoid why he’s really here: instead, he finds himself at a dead end, brain clearly out of fuel or, frankly, maybe even out of sympathy for itself. 

He glances at Terry as he trails off, suddenly far too aware of his own heartbeat. It pounds against his chest like soldiers on a march, loud and deliberate and exhausted. “I think I have a problem,” he confesses, apropos of nothing. Unless Terry’d like to count and I figured out why binoculars are so expensive as an appropriate segue, though he doubts they will. He turns over in his seat, though he manages to avoid Terry’s gaze, anyway. “Not with — the binoculars. Though, I mean, if you’re still interested—” he gestures lamely, silently offering to revisit the conversation, attempting a smirk. “But I mean—” he sighs deeply, finding it difficult to allow the words to slip past his lips.

Though not unfamiliar with the issue — Izzy had made it clear more than once that she was worried about Antonio’s relationship with alcohol, and had even believed her intervention that one time to work because Antonio’s a fantastic liar — it feels far more menacing this time around. Like it’s hanging over Toni as a cartoonish storm cloud would, rearing its ugly head to taunt him, to worry him. So the words — the words don’t seem to want to make an appearance in the conversation. Which would be fine, if he hadn’t already begun the conversation. Now they only have the luxury of being late, and even that feels embarrassing.

Pursing his lips, Antonio shakes his head once like he’s attempting to somehow pry the words out of his mouth physically. “I think I have — a problem with how much I drink.” Scrambles the words a drinking problem some, so that it sounds less like what it is: an addiction, inhospitably housing the rest of him on a daily basis. So that it sounds less like he’s beholden to the alcohol, and more like he’s just having a bit of trouble with an unruly house guest. He scratches at his facial hair. “I don’t expect you to know what to do about it. I just — I think I needed to say it out loud.”

[ghcstlies]

Raising an eyebrow at her friend, she glances back down at the food she’s sure even a starving stray dog would turn their nose at before she meets Reggie’s gaze again. “I can’t fuck up bugs,” she points out. “They’re bugs. I’ll just kill ‘em and serve ‘em,” she clasps her hands together eagerly, finding the idea of a bug-exclusive dinner plate more amusing than she thinks it should be. Then again, she finds she can throw pretty much anything at Reggie and find it amusing — sure, he’s a baby when it comes to inedible food or whatever, but his adventurous spirit, though dampened at times, still pokes out once in a while at Andy’s more egregious suggestions and/or challenges. Case in point: the bugs. 

“It is a challenge,” she adds cheerfully. “Give me a week. I need to Google.” She knows she jokes often about killing people with her food, but the last thing she wants (or, frankly, needs) is actually murdering someone by serving them, like, poisonous bugs or something. Not that she’d mean to, but Andy’s left a trail of angry, heartbroken people throughout her travels across state lines — she’s willing to bet at least half of those people would certainly take the stand against her. Plus, she’s Puerto Rican — already, she’s lost half a jury of her peers. Internalized racism, and all of that. She’d definitely go to prison for murder. 

At Reggie’s comments about her and her sexuality, her face contorts into one of offense — she’s gone years living in the closet, thank you very much, expertly navigating the ins and outs of discovering her lesbianism with just some collateral damage to speak of. “Maybe to you, baby, who reeks of homosexual, but I don’t think I reek of lesbian to anyone else.” She has an entire male fiancé somewhere in Chicago as proof, who still sends her text messages begging to talk. God, sex must be so simple for men. 

“And I don’t reek of disinterest, either,” she points out, crossing her arms over her chest with a smirk. “I’m a good flirt. I keep him on the hook long enough so that he thinks the day is coming, but before he knows it, I’ll be out of here with his money and his tanking Google reviews.” He’ll be happy for that part, at least. Knowing the reason you’re getting one star after one star online is finally out the door and out of your life — sex or no sex — has got to be a good consolation prize, right? 

“Not all of us walk around with influencer money, Falvey. I may be terrible at this job, but I still need it. I live here,” she points up toward the second floor, where the inn’s small bedrooms reside. “So, no. No immediate plan to let him down,” she says, and where there would maybe be at least some guilt in a normal person’s tone, Andy’s almost sounds disinterested, like the information is old enough news she’s unaffected by their implication. She lowers her finger so that it’s now pointing accusingly at Reggie, instead. “And you will keep any more comments about my gayness to yourself.”

Resisting the bubbling urge to roll them at her, Reggie’s curious eyes follow the path of Andy’s fork towards the charred slab of meat that’s currently rotting untouched on his plate instead, and it’s horrible — like, really fucking bad — but he wants to laugh as it remains wholly unfazed by the action; there’s not even a scrape mark against the blackened, overly crispy skin to show for it. Undoubtedly her worst dish yet, he definitely isn’t lying about that. Though it’s then that he notices the potatoes, and granted, he can’t be sure how they’re supposed to look in comparison — funnily enough, he never actually finds himself coming to the restaurant all that often when there’s someone on shift who can serve him real, edible food — but he knows for certain it’s wrong. They’re severely undercooked, laden with unidentifiable chunks, far too yellow in color and … slimy, somehow. 

Probably the closest thing to how he imagines alien brain matter looking like. Or perhaps a sentient creature all on its own. Downright abysmal, whatever it is. 

Reggie cringes. What if he stares at it too long and it starts to stare back at him? “Right, yeah,” he replies incredulously. “Because you’ve perfected the, uh — incredibly limited menu you’ve already got, babe.” There’s a moment’s pause before he wags a finger at her and adds, like an afterthought, “But I totally would — eat bugs again, I mean. If that’s a challenge. I’m always down to prove a point.”

As if the likelihood that she’ll take the plate back increases the farther it is away from him, he makes a show of pushing it more towards the middle of the table and sighs. It’s more about the company, he thinks, which is a statement he’s been telling himself as each day passes and each new dish is placed in front of him with the same rancid presentation. There’s no other reason to keep showing up over and over and over again if not for the entertainment of it all, anyway, and the truth is — well. He’s been super fucking bored lately. Like ‘clawing out of his own skin’ levels of boredom. At least coming here, even if it’s bound to get him sick one of these days, is something exciting. At least Andy’s exciting.

On that thought, he wants to laugh again. It’s the perfect answer to the burning question he’s had for weeks — and that’s why her boss hasn’t canned her ages ago for her poor kitchen skills, of course. The feminine wiles or whatever may be entirely lost on him, like she’s said, but excitement? A good little thrill? Entertainment for the masses? That, he gets. As quickly as the realization comes, however, it leaves — he doesn’t want to find any sort of pathway to relate to a man named Dave, much less a sex-blinded man named Dave at that.

��You’re kidding,” he states, leveling Andy with another disbelieving stare. “You’re telling me he hasn’t, like, I don’t know — looked at you properly? How long have you worked here? C’mon.” With a shake of his head, he adjusts in his seat, leans against his elbows on the table. “Anyone within a five mile radius should be able to tell you reek of lesbian. Or, maybe, I guess, disinterest at least — and yet he’s letting you serve goop that my two year old niece can probably cook better all ‘cause he wants to fuck you. That’s vile,” he rambles. Can’t help but admire the deception, though — on Andy’s part. “You ever plan on letting him down?”

[ghcstlies]

After making the decision with Marion to move to the States again, Theo had thought she’d miss Ireland almost immediately. As it stands, she does miss it — the entirety of the country holds an incomparable beauty she’d be hard pressed to find elsewhere (hence, well, incomparable) — but not as much as she’d thought she would. It likely helps that Marion’s here with her — she feels like a little piece of home, anywhere they end up. 

Terry’s presence is helpful, as well; she’d missed them most of all, after moving so far away. Though their phone calls were never scarce, there’s a difference, Theo thinks, in an hours-long conversation across time zones and the ability to show up at their place as much as she used to, in her youth. If Marion is Theo’s home, Terry is her safe space, and the combination of the two in one place has made the short month she’s been in Aluma Lake fly by with little to no hardship.

Which, in all, means she’s been busier than she’d’ve liked to be — coming back to the equestrian center after having left it in Duncan’s care for as long as she had has been an adjustment for the both of them. They’re navigating a dynamic they’d left behind a while back, trying to find their footing again, Theo making it clear she’s displeased with some of the changes Duncan had implemented in her absence, and Duncan making it clear that Theo’s displeasure is not something he’d worried about, when he was making said changes. Which is fair, considering Theo’d been far more focused on writing and her life out of the country, but the equestrian center means something to her.

She’s in the middle of making a pun to herself about taking the reins back from Duncan when she catches sight of someone nearly slipping from a stool. Theo’s heart jumps to her throat as she quickly holds her arms up in an attempt to catch them in case she needs to — thankfully, they seem to find their footing without Theo’s help, and she’s only mildly surprised to find it’s Phoebe looking down at her when their gazes meet. 

“Phoebe,” she greets with a small smile, lowering her arms. “I won’t tell anyone,” she promises. “But, uhm — and I don’t mean to say you can’t do anything you set your mind to, of course, but — it’s—” she bites the inside of her cheek to keep her amusement from showing too much. “This definitely feels like a job you could probably hand off to someone — taller?” She eyes the lights that are now hanging uselessly over the roof, having taken some damage from Phoebe’s attempt to steady herself. “Or one better done with a ladder, maybe.”

𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔬 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔟𝔢 — 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 ( @ghcstlies )

Fairy lights are so annoying to detangle. But unfortunately due to a storm over the weekend, the festive decor outside the store got jostled, and it’s looking less like a winter wonderland and more of dystopian land full of tornadoes. And with Phoebe being the only one working that day, she put it upon herself to sort out the mess, balancing precariously on a step stool outside the shop as she tries her best to loop the awkwardly shaped bulbs around each other.

“I’ll be just a minute!” She yells down when she sees, from her peripheral, a figure standing outside the door that she had locked for security purposes. “I’ll just…” And her foot slips from the stool, and she drags the lights down in an effort to keep herself steady.

“Fuck!” She exclaims, before looking down and noticing Theo is the person standing patiently. “Theo, hi…um, please don’t tell my boss I did that…or yelled an expletive loudly in front of you. And please don’t tell, like, anyone that I’m risking my health and wellbeing to fix some lights.” Foster especially would lose his shit if he found out how she had been spending her morning.

[ghcstlies]

how can i get into someone's nightmares i have a message to send

[ghcstlies]

Evangeline loves pulling this shit on him nowadays. Guilt trips him into meeting her at a bar (I feel like you never spend time with me anymore) only to stand him up last minute with some bullshit babysitter excuse. 

(And he knows it’s a bullshit excuse, because he pays for a full-time nanny and keeps several excellently-rated babysitters on retainer for situations such as these. His little sister, however, doesn’t care how believable her excuses are anymore — just loves to get him out of the house to socialize and mingle and stop living like The Beast, lest I find out you’ve started talking to your furniture, Rhett.)

As it stands now, Everett can think of ten different things he’d rather stab himself in the eye with than spend another second in this place alone, a list which he types out furiously in the midst of a scathing text message to his sister about disrespect and a waste of a perfectly good Netflix queue. He’s in the middle of typing the words ‘a used glass dildo’ when he pauses, reassessing the situation. It takes him less than a minute to settle on deleting the entire message and texting back a simple ‘K’ instead, because he may be angry, but he’s not angry enough to antagonize the person who dictates how much access he has to his niece. 

He pockets his phone, ready to close out his tab and crawl back into the hole he similarly crawled out of, when the words Ghost Towns assault his ears. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing — almost instinctive, nowadays, when the name of his show is shouted at him. There are two kinds of people who’ll do this: the kind that hate him, and the kind that don’t. He’s not really sure he’s in the mood to deal with either.

Glancing at the source of the intrusion, he’s met with a young man — probably in his twenties, by the look of him — who looks, for all intents and purposes, like he’s been left unsupervised. Everett can’t really put his finger on why he looks this way, but he catches himself looking around for a parent or guardian anyway, just to be sure. “Uh huh,” he replies warily. He braces himself for whichever of the two ways this can go. If history has any say, it’ll either go fine — big fan, man — or not-fine — so you’re a piece of shit, huh. He scratches his jaw anxiously, attempting to school his expression into one of nonchalance. “That’s me.”

𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔧 — 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔡𝔬𝔩𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔫 ( @ghcstlies )

You break one bottle of vermouth and suddenly you’re ‘not welcome at The Velvet Unicorn any longer’. CJ thinks it’s ridiculous, because it was the bartender who dared him to juggle it in the first place. It’s like…making him one of those escape goats or something. That lick the salt lamps.

Still, there’s not too many places in Aluma Lake he can go for a drink that would happily have him, but he thinks he can risk The Fighting Dolphin, because they don’t seem to mind that he’s there, as long as he — loosely quoting some grumpy man who stands behind the bar with his arms crossed all the time  — ‘doesn’t touch shit’. And he won’t, he promises.

So there he is, being exceptionally well-behaved at the bar, not attracting attention to himself at all, until —

“Holy shit! Aren’t you the dude from Ghost Towns?!”

[ghcstlies]

It takes Antonio a second or two to realize Roman’s hands have taken over what his own hands had been attempting to do — rubbing at his arms, like he’d immediately taken note of Antonio’s predicament and offered a solution swiftly. He glances up at Roman, a little taken aback — not because of the gesture, but more so because he’s suddenly realized he’d just spent far too many minutes of his time more focused on his next drink than on his boyfriend, the man he’s in love with, who’s right next to him and offering him a place in his arms to warm him. The realization settles like lead in his stomach, and all he can really do is offer Roman a practiced smile and lean into him, allowing himself to be embraced.

“Thanks,” he mutters, adjusting his position on the couch so that no part of him isn’t touching Rome. He thinks maybe this is a good way to quell the craving; finding warmth in Roman’s arms, slowing the beat of his heart to something resembling normal. His arm wraps around Roman’s torso and he presses a soft kiss to his jaw as he replies, “I don’t know, you take care of that stuff now,” he reminds him. Brings a hand up to the side of Roman’s face to tilt his gaze downward, far enough so he can press a soft kiss to his lips, focusing on their taste rather than the whiskey’s. “I don’t want you to move, though,” he says between kisses. “So either you find a superhuman way to cook from here, or we order in.”

Roman is none the wiser to Toni's momentary blip at the control buttons, settling down and ready to complain about the upcoming epilogue to the wankest Christmas film ever made, stretching out in a way that conveyed how little he respected the piece of so-called cinema playing on the screen.

"I'll fall asleep anywhere if I'm tired enough," He argues, frowning when Toni begins to rub at his arms, reaching out to half-heartedly rub at them himself. “You cold?” He asks, adjusting himself for his boyfriend to lean in, an unspoken invitation. Not that Toni would need one. Since they’ve gotten together, the other man takes any opportunity to invade Roman’s personal space. And Roman finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

The cast of Love, Actually has gathered at the airport, and Roman is just ready for it to be over and done with. When Toni mentions food, though, he perks up, not even bothering to pause the TV at this point. “I mean, I’m not watching another load of drivel, but I’ll definitely eat. What do you want? Or, more importantly, what do we have in?” We, like Toni’s kitchen is his kitchen. Their shared space. Their home.

[ghcstlies]

Andy’s hand remains outstretched for an uncomfortable amount of time after Terry politely informs her they do not, in fact, shake hands — she doesn’t mean for it to stay that way, really. Mostly, she’s busied herself with eyeing the other’s expression curiously, enough so that she forgets about where her hand is or why it’s strange to keep it extended when someone’s already refused to engage it in a hearty shake. 

Eventually, she snaps out of whatever stupor she’s found herself in and pulls her hand back, letting it settle on the table so that her fingernails can tap rhythmically against the wood. “I learn something new about you every day,” she declares dramatically, unnecessarily, considering most of what she learns about Terry would be deemed new. “I’ve got a cousin back home, he doesn’t shake hands either. But that’s mostly ‘cause he’s got that thing, uh,” she snaps her fingers over and over, as if it’ll help her remember the words she’s looking for quicker. “That germ thing. I can’t call him a germaphobe, ‘cause he gets all pissy,” she snorts. “Kid goes to therapy to learn how to deal with the phobia, but not how to lighten up.” 

She ignores the commotion back in the kitchen, choosing instead to grin widely at Terry. “I know your full name,” she points out. “I see the bill. Your credit card,” she amends. “It’s pretty. But I’ve heard more people call you Terry than”—she gestures vaguely, a substitution for speaking their full name out loud—“so I thought it’d be the safer bet. I do love when I’m right,” she leans back in the chair. “As you can imagine, I’m right often.” Alma is loudly reciting something that sounds like the beginnings of the Lord’s prayer in Spanish back in the kitchen. 

“Nothing special about today,” she admits at Terry’s question, then, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s cold and I’m bored and you’re hot and interesting,” her grin widens. “You walked in today like the two perfect solutions to both my problems.” She leans forward again, as if bracing herself to listen intently to whatever Terry has to say next. Not far from the truth — Andrea grew up curious, far more than her parents knew what to do with, a trait they could neither scold nor train out of her. What she lacks in ambition she makes up for in wonder, she thinks, often able to muffle whatever insecurities try to rise to the surface with this excuse. Who needs a fixed timeline for the next five, ten, fifteen years, anyway? She learns things about the world as she drifts through it, immortalizes moments bathed in light most people take for granted; she’s so fucking good, thanks.

Anyway—“Now you answer my question.” The words are not a demand, despite the way she’s phrased them. They stumble out of her mouth more like a challenge, as if she’s laid out her hand after going all in. “Why do you keep coming back here, really? I’ve been accused of assassination attempts by several people,” she smirks. “But you just keep taking it on the chin.”

When the apology comes, it is not an apology at all. The syllables roll off her tongue with such practiced ease that Terry wonders just how many times the cook has uttered it in jest. As a consequence, their expression remains flat, curiosity betrayed only by their brow that, in all fairness, does not arch very much. 

It does arch slightly upward as the cook moves in to join them on their table. Terry clears their throat. “I didn’t ask for your apology,” they say, glancing at the space just beyond her shoulder. The inn moves, casual but insistent. A little ways off the back, they can spot one of the waitresses fretting over the sight of the pair of them but has made no move to intrude. “There wasn’t any real need to give it. You volunteered to come here yourself.” 

There had been no need for an apology. Not when it’s one of the few things that Terry looks forward to everyday. It’s hard to articulate precisely why it is without landing on their flawed logic: of how the mornings they spend here—from business outings to brunch dates and at times with no purpose at all—are only opening acts to Terry’s desire for reverse engineering. It is easy to identify mistakes. The next clear and logical thing, and arguably the more difficult, is in mapping out the trajectory of how the mistake came to be. How the failed egg has landed in Terry’s plate, how none of the staff have insisted on doing a quality check, and how the cook has been allowed to make the same mistake, over and over, in the first place. Always, though not desperately, they have tried to make sense of it.

And Terry enjoys a challenge. Enjoys when the order of the universe is upset and then put back into place. Facades and public faces torn to find the complication, and why it has swerved so much from its original purpose or function. 

The motivations of her boss for keeping her around, now that she made her presence apparent, rings fairly obvious, in retrospect. There’s a timbre to the other’s voice that feels as if she moves through the world as one big dare. It is not unattractive. Yet it is too large for this little life. Aluma Lake might have its charms but it does not pose much of a challenge. Here, the world does not move, but settle.

They watch as the other holds out her hand and offers them a name. “Terry isn’t my real name, either. It’s just what I chose,” their eyes hover on the outstretched hand, mapping the ridges there. Gives it further thought before Terry ultimately says, “I, um, don’t shake hands.” Their voice is almost sheepish. They try to rid themselves of the awkwardness by dragging out another question, “Is there any reason why you chose today to come and see me?”

[ghcstlies]

The fact that Reggie hasn’t caught on to the fact that Andy’s been progressively worsening the dishes she cooks him delights her, really. To be fair, the first couple of them really were as bad as they’d been — what, is she supposed to be Gordon fucking Ramsey or something? She thinks everyone’s aware of how far her abilities extend at this point, alright — since she does not, in fact, know how to cook things properly. But Reggie’s comments and expressions are far too amusing not to poke at them; so at some point she’d stopped attempting to make anything remotely close to what he’d ordered, and just kind of started throwing things together for the fun of it. See if he’d notice, or if he’d just chalk it up to Andrea’s inability to do, like, anything in the kitchen.

So far, it’s the latter.

Andy tilts her head at the unnamable dish sitting between the two of them, raising an eyebrow at her friend when he mentions preferring bugs over her food. “Maybe we’ll add bugs to the menu,” she smirks. “See you put your money where your mouth is, Falvey.” She reaches a hand toward the dish and pokes at what was once an otherwise okay cut of meat — can’t remember what cut, exactly, doesn’t memorize them, nor does she care to — but would now surely pass regulation standards as a hockey puck for an NHL game.

“What do you mean what was it? It’s what you ordered,” she blinks innocently at him. “The, uh—” Ah, fuck. She hadn’t even cared to read what Reggie had pointed at when he’d ordered, had she? “The — you know,” she gestures aimlessly, trying to think of an item in the menu off the top of her head. “Chicken and waffles,” she decides, then looks back down at the plate, staring at it blankly. The lone hockey puck stares back at her, accompanied by some undercooked mashed potatoes she’d kind of just fucked around with on the stove. “Sans the chicken,” she adds cheerfully. “Or the waffles.” 

How’d they let you serve it? Andy leans back from the table and shrugs her shoulders delicately. “I know my feminine wiles might be lost on you, Reg, but some people know the value of a pretty face.” A pause. “That, and my boss thinks I’m gonna fuck him one of these days,” she grins slyly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Short of a health inspector shutting it down, he’s not gonna do shit. I think he’s convinced himself my food’s experimental.” Dave’s a terrible business owner, clearly. Andy would’ve fired Andy months ago. Then again, it’s not her fault men like him have small, useless sex-fueled brains women like Andy can exploit, is it? 

— REGGIE + ANDY, The Yawning Seagull. / @ghcstlies.

Reggie doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or impressed as a ceramic plate is slid haphazardly in front of him, the contents of said plate being nothing but a vaguely shaped puck of ... well, something. In truth, he doesn’t remember what he ordered originally — kind of just pointed at a random item on the restaurant’s limited menu and said ‘sure, give me this one’ — but he knows that what he’s ordered doesn’t matter, not really. Not as long as Andy’s on shift. That’s where the impressed comes in, because if she’s anything his friend’s certainly consistent, equipped with a wicked talent of burning every dish she can get her grubby hands on. And the disgusted? The disgusted comes in because regardless of how impressive it is, he’s still looking at an unidentifiable brick of food with the expectancy to consume it and he’s pretty sure he can feel the potent smoke lifting into his nostrils from its charring. Regardless of how impressive it is, it’s not any less gross. She has to know that, doesn’t she? Almost as if he’s not sure whether he should look at it for too long, either, his deep eyes pan upwards to Andy and he deadpans, “You know, I’ve eaten like ten different types of bugs that’re way more appetizing than this.” Unfortunately, he remembers. One of Ralphie’s more sadistic dares — and he wants to recoil again just thinking about it. “That’s a whole new low, Andy — preferring bugs over your food, fucking hell. Can I ask what it’s even supposed to be in the first place? And how’d they let you serve it, actually? Shouldn’t have ever seen the light of day, this.”

[ghcstlies]

“Hm,” Antonio hums noncommittally as he frowns down at the remote. He loses sight of the play button for a moment — he really shouldn’t have had as many drinks as he’s had today, the buttons all sort of blur together for a second — and it’s only when he finds it again that he presses down on it, allowing the final bit of the film to start playing. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind the next time we’re trying to start something.” He tosses the remote somewhere into oblivion, surely, then allows his back to rest against the couch. 

Glancing at Roman, he shakes his head once at his Uber comment. “You’d just fall asleep in a stranger’s car?” He asks incredulously, turning back toward the television screen. “Won’t catch me snoozing in the back of an Uber, Daniels.” He feels a little cold — rubs his own arms with a frown, wondering what the fuck he’d done with all the blankets he’d thrown over the couch at one point. Thinks maybe Izzy might have stolen a few — some might have ended up upstairs? Maybe he should pour himself another whiskey. Or maybe that's just an excuse.

He glances toward the kitchen and wonders if it’s worth it before looking back at the television. “Do we have anything queued up after this?” He asks Roman with a sidelong glance. “Because if we do, I refuse to start watching anything else without food first.” 

He scrunches his nose, waiting for the usual bubble of annoyance to rise in his chest, but finds that it doesn't come when the teasing comes from Antonio. He doubts that there's anything the other man could do or say that would make Roman actually irritated, which makes him his Achilles Heel, probably.

"Oh it's actually the Dewey Decimel System that gets me going, darling, not just basic alphabetising." And isn't that something? That he can actually joke along? He knows it's dangerous to put credit on another person, but he truly does feel that because of Toni, he is the best version of himself he can be.

He lets out a longing sigh when he feels Toni shift away from his lap, already missing the weight and warmth, leaning into him. "Well, it's all well and good if it's an Uber picking you up, and we can sit in the backseat and sleep until we get there."

[ghcstlies]

Antonio snorts at Roman’s comment — doesn’t for one second believe his boyfriend finds defying logistics in any way attractive. “Uh huh,” he says disbelievingly. “I think you might be more inclined to find following the rules sexy,” he teases, patting Roman’s cheek once in jest. “Bet you get all turned on if someone alphabetizes their bookshelf, or something.” The words hold no heat, nor much seriousness, for that matter  — but he’s at least right in tangentially thinking he doesn’t expect any grand, romantic gestures from Roman, at the very least.

Raising an eyebrow, he can’t help but smirk when he replies, “I’m going to remind you you said this the next time I’ve got to be at the airport at three in the morning.” He maneuvers himself off Roman’s lap and reaches for the remote again, adding, “Don’t want to hear a single peep out of you when I’m making you drop me off.”

The tension leaves his shoulder, and he wonders if it physically looks as if he's melting into the couch in lieu with his mental state. He's just glad that Toni is letting go of all this hypothetical running through the airport nonsense, because, admittedly, it does make Roman feel like a bad boyfriend.

All he has to say is a repitition of what Toni murmurs to him inbetween the kisses, but he can't. Maybe it's because a part of him has hidden his entire life; and that admitting something corny and straight out of a romcom is opening him up to ridicule, though he knows deep down Toni would never judge him, it's all just paranoia induced anxiety from learning to accept himself. "You defying logistics for me is the sexiest thing I ever heard." He says instead, playing out the joke even further, turning his face to get a better angle to capture his boyfriend's lips. "That's settled then, we never head out the front door to the airport without each other."

[ghcstlies]

[ghcstlies]

Girls5eva (2021-present) Clarksville (S03E03)

[ghcstlies]

Marina

[ghcstlies]

Andy has maybe caught wind of Terry’s voice once or twice — often muted, and from a long ways away in the kitchen. She’s not sure, now, hearing them speak, that she did a particularly good job at listening to it, though. It’s much different than what she’d thought she knew of it: deeper, almost melodic, though the tone of it remains passive and almost disinterested as they speak.

Terry lists off everything Andy’s done wrong in terms of her cooking, but there’s no heat to the words — they state the errors as fact, though there’s an inflection of something when they finally make it to today’s apparently-undercooked dish. Andy feels her grin widen, delighted to know she’s come across such a brazenly honest person who somehow has not made it their mission to try and make Andrea cry for her misgivings. 

(Let it be known no one’s managed to make her cry yet, by the way. She’s under no illusions about her cooking ability — some boomer with a fishing cap and socks under their sandals yelling at her about it isn’t going to hurt her.)

Sliding the seat across from Terry back, she settles into the chair, resting her chin in her hand and searching the other’s expression curiously. Trying to figure out if this is some kind of act, or if this is just Terry at their normal setting. “And what would you expect me to do, if I got your call from the hospital?” She asks, smirking. “Apologize? I can do that right now,” she points out. “Sorry.” 

Doesn’t really sound like she means it, but then again — she doesn’t mean it. She’s nothing to be sorry for, anyway; Dave should be sorry. He employs horrible business practices. Who keeps a cook like Andy on for this long, anyway? It’s like he cares more about a pretty girl fluttering her eyelashes than keeping customers around. And for that matter—

“Should I apologize, though? You’re the one who keeps coming back,” her smirk widens. “I think by this point you know, acknowledge, and understand the risks of eating the food I cook.” She says cook the way a child would — cook, kind of, cook, like she’d cook mud pies or pizzas out of Play-Doh. She cooks, but only in theory; in practice, she more or less throws ingredients together and hopes for the best.

She holds out her hand delicately, raising a challenging eyebrow. “Andy,” she introduces herself. “I’d tell you my full name, but in case you ever come to your senses and try to sue me, I want to make it difficult for you.” 

Terry flinched as the woman dropped the ceramic plate on the wooden table, shoulders twitching upward at the abrupt sensory assault. The plate rattled, but its contents—and the structure, too—remained intact. No splinters, no shattered glass. Just the stubborn ceramic and the faint concentric grooves of the dining table beneath. 

They had ordered their poached eggs with some regular toast and butter, this time around. The eggs hardly qualified as poached, or even cooked, for that matter, but they had come to expect the bad cooking. It was one of the few things they’d stored for later, reserved for the idle nights when they began sifting through each detail of their day. 

Terry. 

Their name sounded almost strange in the woman’s voice. Terry glanced up, then back down, eyes skimming past her face before capturing it to memory. They suspected their name escaped into the air by people they’d invited over to have brunch, either from the tweed-clad Dartmouth professors that they considered colleagues or the few bad online dates who were expecting someone different—and not someone who spent long stretches of time staring out the window and whose gaze went increasingly blank as they lost interest. 

But it was not Terry’s fault that their vantage point had led to some great sights, which then led to their lack of resolve in finding another table aside from this one by the east-facing window, each and every time. They recalled, on one particular date with a dark-haired beauty close to their own age, having glimpsed what they thought had been a Bullock’s oriole, only to deflate when it stepped out of the shadows and found the more common Baltimore. They’d craned their neck to follow it while the woman—was it Lucia?—muttered something sharp about disrespect, and, well, there had been no other date to speak of since. 

You got a kink for wasting your hard-earned cash? 

Their gaze drifted back to the woman, her voice pulling them back into the earth. “No,” they said. Finding her gaze a bit too overwhelming, they instead looked down, focusing on the gleam of the silverware, “I didn’t think to ask.” 

A lie. They had thought to ask, at some point. Only by the time they’d mustered the courage to do so, the moment had passed, and admittedly, they just didn’t see the need to make such a fuss. In terms of things they needed to deal with regularly, bad breakfast food fell low on the list.

“Last Wednesday, you added too much vinegar. Two visits before, you were using boiling instead of simmering water. The last time you left it in the water for too long.” So what was the mistake for the day? “And this one’s undercooked.” The poached egg wobbled faintly on their plate like half-set jelly. As if to gesticulate, Terry speared it with their fork and let the yolk run through the bread. 

Setting the plate closer, they picked up the knife and fork and began cutting the toast into triangles, butter pooling at each edge. “I guess it’s just… interesting, to me, how many times you could get it wrong,” they said, unfettered. “I haven’t had salmonella yet, so you seem to be doing your job just fine.” Just fine, though, was not excellent. These days, they were not expecting excellent. “Perhaps I’ll just ring you when I’m in the hospital.”

[ghcstlies]

CHRIS EVANS as Ransom Drysdale in Knives Out (2019), dir. Rian Johnson

[ghcstlies]

✦ ・ the yawning seagull. terry & ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴀ. [ @rococovariations ]

God only knows why this place has regulars. Andrea’s forced to be here — she works here, for nickels and dimes and a place to sleep, and she doesn’t necessarily make things better with how creatively careless she gets with the stove top sometimes. Recipe books are meant to be followed, you know, Dave had said to her incredulously the first couple of unfortunate instances, and Andy had done little else but pout up at him pathetically and apologize again for her inability to ‘follow basic instructions.’

It’s a miracle that still works. She imagines Dave must be a terribly lonely man.

She’s not complaining. It’s not her business whether or not people enjoy being miserable. No, she’s just here for a laugh and a couple of bucks, then she’ll be on her way to some other small town somewhere in Jersey, maybe — Michael hates Jersey, last she recalls. Maybe it’ll deter him from spamming Andy with as many texts as he has been, as of late.

And anyway, some of the regulars are interesting. There’s Paul, who leaves the building to smoke in between every five bites like he’s got a compulsion of some sort, and Roger, who’s told Andy he lost his taste buds years ago ‘in the war,’ though he never exactly specifies which war, or how one loses their taste buds in it. There’s Lea and Dorothy, two women in their seventies who’ve been coming here every week since they were in their forties, apparently, and some new shitty cook who doesn’t know her ‘salt from her sugar’ isn’t going to change that. She admires their stubbornness almost as much as they detest the mere sight of her.

There’s Terry, too. Only reason Andy really knows their name is because they do eventually hand their card over to pay for the shitty food they’re eating — and she’s found it difficult to get a read on them. Thrice a week, like clockwork, nearest table by the entrance, right next to the window, same unmistakable aura, often with a craving for poached fucking eggs, Andy’s favorite thing to fuck up. Once in a while they’ll come in with someone else — professional-looking, at times, and not, at others. 

Andy notes their presence in a different way than she notes the other regulars — Terry has a side profile made for the rule of threes, with light that seems to fall on them like it’s following their trajectory around Aluma Lake. She wonders if the sun and Terry have a relationship that allows this to happen, oftentimes in the middle of burning a pancake or two. (How do you fuck up pancakes?! Dave had shouted the first time, and Andy had blamed it on the heat, then the flour, then the eggs, then eventually she got away with shrugging and touching Dave’s arm in a way that promised a promise of a promise of something.) 

Today, she’s decided to wave Alma off when she shuffles inside the kitchen, looking drained and annoyed as she often does. “I’ll take this one,” Andy tells her, and Alma glances behind her for a second before meeting her gaze again.

“But you’ve got—”

Andy’s already on her way out of the kitchen, the words a boiling pot on lost to the sound of the obnoxious indie-folk-country-rock-jazz-rumba music blasting from the speakers. She makes a beeline for Terry’s table, dropping the plate almost comically carelessly in front of them before crossing her arms over her chest, smirk tugging her lips. 

“Now I’ve got a question for you,” she drawls, her Puerto Rican accent only donning about a third of her inflection nowadays. “You and me, we’ve got this thing, right? You’ll order your eggs poached. I’ll make them a mess,” she gestures at the eggs in front of them. “But neither of us will say a single thing about it. Why is that?” She tilts her head curiously, eyeing the other’s features against the warm orange hue of the outdoor light. Presses both palms against the table and leans in slightly, casually. “You’re not enjoying the food, are you, Terry? You got a kink for wasting your hard-earned cash?”