riveires

[riveires]

an introduction

Set in modern times, because it's more conveniently uncertain.  a drabble for @toauz

[...]

Her presence only completes half of the gesture, he's just eager to complete it.

Or so she'd been told.

Inside the house, the parental units are out of sight, but not totally out of mind—echoes of their incessant chattering making its way into the veranda. Out here sits a table expertly set for two, half shaded from the blistering rays, complete with an intricate arrangement of pale pink peonies and cape jasmine gardenias in the center. There's something about this that's so much more blatantly shameless than the events of this past afternoon that Ahra has to fight down the urge to apologize because, Jesus, really?  As if enough posturing hasn't been done for the past two hours.

A sigh. Trying to not sound somewhat defeated, she asks, "Wanna sit?" A gesture to the opposite chair, as she sits down. Hyunwook follows suit, and when's all settled there's that silence again, polite and unsure all at once. Courtesy of Ma and Pa on both sides, on the insistence to "leave the two alone," as if this is the first time any of them had laid eyes on each other; any stretches of years of prior—and current—familiarity suddenly negligible.

For the sake of the show, amusement pending, she gives it a try. Envisions the dossier slipped inside the manila folder, the glossy headshot paperclipped to the corner, the initial impressions before seeing the real thing up close. Figures. Entertaining hypotheticals always drain out the fun from memory, don’t they. The Ahra from this one wouldn't have a single clue about the gaudy hypebeast wear, the fingers up the nose, the voice cracks heard crystal clear over the landline. Both portrait and living subject far too polished to know the juvenile embarrassment of getting older, as if being some pseudo-embodiment of grace too, is some bestowed birthright.

Pfft.

It's about as far as she'll go. Ahra leans against the table edge, one elbow propped to rest her chin in the curve of her palm, as if to say Well? but it never breaches the surface. No elephant is too big to ignore, even with this bit of room.

"Where was it this time?" Of all the icebreakers out there..."Brazil?" She can't trust much else at this point but the bare assumption that this isn't his first rodeo when it comes to this sort of thing. No expectations here. God knows where those'll lead to by now.

Imagine her surprise anyway at the hum of assent before some elaboration: "Sao Paulo."

“Oh? What's there?" Pastel, Oscar Freire, the largest Japanese diaspora on Earth, strictly city speaking. As for the country as a whole?

"Rackets."

A squint. "Right..."

"No, really. You're looking at the top exporters of badminton rackets in the world."

"And that's going to be the next big thing for you?" You, she means, in the broader sense, but he knows that. Neither of them come as standalones in this arrangement.

"No." 

Okay..." Ahra falters. Then? Small talk shouldn't leave anyone this dumbfounded. Losing touch already? Feeling the heat creep over her cheeks, she finds sudden interest in the pale lace patterns on the tablecloth.

The twitch at his mouth is innocuous at first, but there's no helping it. The grin that surfaces despite himself, the dead giveaway.

"There was a conference too, but" his head tilts, "Not sure how much that'd grab your attention."

Ahra gives him a look. "And rackets would?"

"Did."

"Uhuh..."

She exhales, expression softening, nothing more but a motion of pure relief. She won't admit it, but he might've seen it flash across her face anyway. The Oh God, the slow sink of dread in the possibility that this is what it'd be like, once all is said and done.

Ahra searches his gaze, as if looking for that same sort of second guessing, only to find nothing but a boyish glint in his eye. He doesn't need to say it out loud for her to know it. Gotcha.

Some things don't change. They better not, because God knows where that'll leave them altogether.

"I'll be more predictable next time." 

"Oh, shut up."

"Let's try that again–"

[riveires]

Resting her head on the driving wheel, snaking a hand into a paper bag of salted peanuts. Splitting jerky with Dad, half-listening to Mom about a dress she’d scored at Goodwill over the phone after coming home from an early morning shift. Burping in public, playing footsies with… well, no one since you can’t get away with it on the train like that. Merely wondering how this would be if she weren’t alone. She doesn’t usually feel like she is in the first place, but today the silence is so jarring she imagines the horn from the car behind hers being honked just to snap out of the thought.

Sejin’s gone to mandated therapy before. Cried, said nothing. At therapy now, willing, she describes in great length why she has a problem with being called “missus” like she looks any day past thirty, like a child. Overshares what kind of habits she has when she’s single vs. when she’s living in with… what did they say they were again? Then she goes home, pretends for Mom that it’s working. I prayed for you, from the other line.

How much, Sejin almost says. She doesn’t have the heart to think of a quantitative amount, tells her she’ll call next week about it. Not a white lie, not quite the truth either. She’d rather hear her talk about how she’ll haggle the next slightly chipped teapot she doesn’t even take out for the guests to use, that she sees at the flea market she frequents.

Parked outside glass buildings, she remembers that more than anything, however, that she could find her again. So much for a meeting point let alone a match. Fishing for a cigarette, only to come up empty on Esse for the third time this month. Sleepwalking, eyes wide open. Release, indefinitely on hold, still.

@riveires

[riveires]

Wifi in the sky, funny as it sounds, is no funny business in its execution. In first class, Rachel doesn’t have to raise her phone for better reception (why anyway, you’re thousands of feet up in the sky as it is) let alone a hand. All is well except for one thing, and that’s Mom on Messenger asking where her youngest is.

Beside her, River tugs on his collar in a sleep-ridden haze and shifts his head closer to the window, an even more subconscious swallow in place of his usual curiosity. Rachel blinks, her thumbs hovering over the screen until she decides on sending a simple Zzz. It’s cryptic enough and has a double meaning, and satisfies her talking quota for the hour. They have five more to go, each feeling longer than the last, and with their parents just now waking up in a city no warmer than Seoul, Rachel figures a nice lunch at home would be the one thing to look forward to upon landing. A combination of their favorites, neither one shying away from enjoying what the other likes out of spite and because Dad’s cooking is just that good.

With Gayo Daejun being the last thing River probably remembers, it’s no kidding how much more disoriented he’d be feeling waking up above the western coast of the Pacific Ocean just twenty hours later. He doesn’t snore, and Rachel doesn’t watch, fix his blanket, put his tray up for him. Just reaches over and opens the window halfway so that he doesn’t miss dawn.

@riveires

[riveires]

wildfire

@twentysixdegrees

JOONHO

Midday in July, sunlight full and sweet, melting golden. It’s uncharacteristically poetic, more so yet when such a line is being waxed by none other but Son Joonho. Must be all that love in the air, with the newly weds having tied the knot—that, or it’s the dazed heat that’s making his thoughts slip clumsy.  He’s reliable in that department: too little to say, too much to think. He looks down at his flute, now drained of champagne and comes to the final conclusion that this, this is must be the root cause but it doesn’t matter. He needs another glass.

Pulling away from the small crowd that had began to gather around the table, Joonho turns to wave a server over, but before he can so much as pivot on his heels, eye meets unsuspecting eye and he’s struck. Stunned. Bolt of lightning without the thunder.

Standing at a distance no more than a couple of feet away is a face he once knew. Knows still, too well. Memory lines up almost perfectly to the present; his face is more angular here, no doubt sharpened with age, but then Joonho gaze roves over to the slant of his nose, jaw, curve of his mouth, and his breath is caught in his throat. Sugar dissolves from his tongue. Something stings. Aches.

“...Joohyuk?”

JOOHYUK

Jamie has been really great. She's picked up on his hesitation whenever people ask if they're next, and she plays it off like a champ. They work together, she's beautiful, and they get along well so it just made sense to ask her to be his plus one. There's no love there, just a lot of respect and admiration. In fact, he respects and admires her so much, that he offers to go grab them each another drink. Joohyuk is thanking god for the open bar when his internal prayer gets interrupted by the call of his own name.

"Joonho," he responds instinctively, blinking three times more than necessary when he turns to look in the direction of his former...roommate? best friend? flame? "You weren't, I didn't--uh," Joohyuk is panicking; it feels like he's back in college. "I didn't know you were coming to Lara and Jiya's wedding." It feels like New Year's again--that one night that changed everything but didn't seem to change enough.

He looks as Joohyuk would have imagined. The years between then and now have polished him; he's clean lines but gentle eyes, yet his posture betrays him. They're both tense. Where do they even stand?

"Do you want to walk with me? To somewhere a little quieter?" Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why would he want anything to do with you anymore?

JOONHO

There’s something inherently wrong with this picture: two men with their feet forward, and the prospects of downing 70-proof concoctions by the bottle. The joke very nearly writes itself, but neither are laughing. Joohyuk stills as if he’s only a step away from making a mad dash for cover, and Joonho is too tongue-tied to be aware of anything else but the intense regret that washes through in overflow.

“I didn’t know you were here.” Here, in this little slice of New England that he’d made meticulous efforts to avoid any and almost all chances to return. A handful of hours from there, north of where back then marks a decade in its passage. Stagnancy and permanence, both ways that had been so undeniably his own that anything else was impossible. But the impossible had happened: the day after graduation, he’d hit the ground running, and for the next ten years, he’d never turned to look back.

Now, Joonho can’t even think to take his eyes off him, frozen in his shell-shocked state. Joohyuk’s lips spell out a stream of questions, ones that he carefully, dazedly answers.

“Yeah.” Again then, a little softer. He puts his hands in his pockets, steals a glance at the ground before his gaze returns. “Yeah, that’d be...good.” Joonho clears his throat. “Where...do you wanna go?”

JOOHYUK

The more appropriate way to go about this conversation would be if he'd been the one to say: 'I didn't know you were here.' Briefly, he's at a loss as to what he should say in response. Joonho had effectively taken his line and thrown it right back at him and-- "Lara and I kept in touch after graduation." The hidden implication sits uncomfortably in between them right after the sentence leaves his mouth.

Unlike Joonho, he'd stayed in the area, finding half-fulfillment in a well-paying, stable job with one of his former soccer teammates. Kyle had almost fully replaced Joonho in the 'best friend' department but there was always something a little lacking. They'd climbed up the corporate ladder with their prestigious university's mantle hanging above them with every promotion, networking like crazy--until Kyle moved halfway across the country and Joohyuk climbed up even further. Without him. Without Joonho.

That second loss wasn't nearly as devastating.

The reminder makes him stutter in his steps, and he feels a lot less in control. "There's the uh, the hedge maze or something right outside the...venue." He looks around for his date, for another classmate, anyone that can help ease the tension or take him out of the situation completely but it's like he can't place faces to names anymore. It's just Joonho. "We can just...walk around it or inside, it doesn't matter to me."

Ungracefully, he downs the rest of what's in his champagne glass, and waits for Joonho to walk his way. He's extremely conscious of their pace, how far they're walking apart, and in a fit of nervousness, he remarks, "Either way we're going to get lost. I'm still bad with directions even after living in New York for the past few years." Give a little, take a little.  "Where...have you been?"

JOONHO

With every answer, there's the unspoken question of his lack thereof. Couldn't, didn't keep in contact, his number always beneath his hovering hands but never pressed, leaving behind footprints everywhere and anywhere except where a certain someone might be. Between the two of them, Joohyuk may have been the athlete, but Joonho had the unfortunate skill ability to run at the first spur of reflexes—the heart wants what the heart wants, but he's already sprinted. Made a distance marked by miles. Years. Memories already fading into sepia tones.

So then what's stopping him from turning the other way?

"Oh. That's great." His steps match up to Joohyuk's strides. They fall faint, hushed against the padding of the trimmed grass as they walk. Instinctively, he moves on a couple inches ahead, in case they do get lost. That strikes him belatedly, with a pang. Old habits die hard.

“I’ve…” Joonho hesitates. “I’ve been around.” He can’t lie through his teeth, if that’s anything to find relief in. “Where I work they like to keep me constantly on my toes. Checking up on sites and such.” A dry laugh follows.

When they reach the maze, he moves on further ahead—through the entrance, to a bench situated somewhere in the clearing. He could easily suggest they go deeper into the coiled space, but then wonders if that would imply anything more than what is already lodged between them. He’s knotted with discomfort, or is it want? Or are those terms interchangeable? Want, the pang of not having anything at all. It brings the same spell of nausea all the same. He should’ve known to slip himself another glass before diving in head-first.

“I should’ve known you were there. New York. It’s...” He pauses, struggling to find the right words. “You’d fit right in without question.” And there’s that laugh again. Not knowing, unknowingly so. “Much better than I could, anyway.”

JOOHYUK

It strikes him suddenly, that he's always looking at Joonho's back. Back in college, Joonho had hard-carried him through a few semesters when he couldn't figure his shit out, and Joohyuk had...provided comic relief? An outlet for those nights where Joonho needed to get out and drink until he forgot his own name?

But look at him now - cushy job in one of those fields that makes people nod, impressed. Full of crisp suits and white men - Joohyuk's where he is today because he's a great bullshitter. Half the battle is the confidence, and the other fourth is connections. And that last bit? Well, that part is actually is hard work, and he'd learned that from --

"Joonho, you coulda made it in New York if you really wanted to." He grins, and he feels like a college freshman again. "You're the smartest and most hard-working person I know - you'd do my job ten times better than me in half the time."

But the  feeling at Joonho's compliment fills him with giddiness - a little amplified by the open bar (former blessing turned current yikes), and he puts his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. And then, he takes a seat onto the stone bench, perched just a bit on the edge, looking up at Joonho.

Something about this position takes him back to some day in late December, and his chest tightens. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

"It's been a bit lonely without ya." And he never should have sat down. Joonho has the higher ground; Joohyuk has always been the one who felt too much, too quickly, too intensely. He's a bit of an all or nothing guy. "I did miss you, if we're being honest here."

Well, fuck.

JOONHO

There's a sting of disappointment that has him almost flinch despite himself. It's a compliment that means well—of course, it's Joonhyuk, for Christ's sake, he always does in twofold, three, heart stitched flame red on his sleeve—but the sinking feeling snakes in, anyway. Is that all there is to say? But he's the last person on this planet to have the right to such expectations, to yearn as so.

"Uh," Joonho tries on a polite smile. "Wouldn't be my kind of people there..." He doesn't dwell on the stagnancy of his own job—a passion project for sure, but Joonho's not blind to what that speaks volumes to  an outsider. A dismissive wave. The sentiment that follows this time is genuine. "I'll let you handle the big city for me."

Like he's let him done back then. The one constant he's known, forever steadfast in his presence, his warmth.

In the beat of silence that falls, Joonho wonders if it's too late to turn things around. To let the confessions he's left buried to fall free from his mouth. That there was never really anyone else after him.  That his absence has become a part of his very being, like a tangible limb, a faithful shadow. That there are days where the empty air of his room is filled whole with it, a kind of lonely that is intimate with the pain it brings.

But then Joohyuk speaks, and he's stunned speechless.

The shock on his face is vivid. Common sense lags too far behind to have the decency to at least be embarrassed, thoughts lapsing into white noise.

"You-" It's on the top of his tongue. You don't even know. He takes a shaky breath, his mind catches up at last. Composure. Not yet.

"I actually thought about calling you before," Joonho shifts, one foot to the other. "Maybe once. Couple of times. But-" Excuses by the dime, but he's not in the proper state of mind to pick the right one. Another breath, and it lets out in a defeated sigh. "I don't know." I don't know if you'd want me back.

JOOHYUK 

"Me." he teases back, interjecting himself in between the breath it takes for Joonho to continue with his sentence - because Joohyuk is the one that's afraid of being forgotten. "You should have called. I would have liked that." But then he remembers himself in college, and the way they'd left off, the way he'd acted towards the end. It's a two-way street, and he's played just as big a part in this mess they're in right now (if not more). "I could have called too. Should have."

But now they're adults, and their friends are getting married, settling down. Joohyuk's biological clock isn't bothering him and he isn't desperate to find someone to get all domestic with, but there are regrets that have been left gaping still. Tonight might be the best and only night to disinfect and band-aid the damn thing so he decides not to hold back. "You're still a bit of an old man, aren't you? The city and its people aren't so bad. You just need to find your niche."

Joonho looks antsy, and Joohyuk wonders if he should try and wrap this up. He's always been the one to push Joonho from his comfort zone but he doesn't want to actually make him uncomfortable. This situation is awkward enough as is. "You say your people aren't there, but..." The incessant need to be noticed and acknowledged, and the uglier parts of himself that manifest out of those traits - well, he's working on them. Therapy has been great for that. "I'm there." So, that was a bit selfish, a bit self-indulgent, but two steps forward and one step back still nets positive, right?

"And wasn't I your person at one point?" Joohyuk looks up at the man that had given him so many firsts. The one who he truly felt attached at the soul with. "You were mine." Bonds like that don't just fade, not when it's them. "The position's still open if you're interested."

No holding back.

[riveires]

thirty nine

@toauz​

HEATHER  Four rounds, then five—the grill pops hot and sizzles crisp and the drinks pour through with something like reckless abandon, but all of them have senses too trained to even fathom going past the tipping point. Makgeolli tastes sweeter on a summer night by the window seat, left a little open to let the heat of the flame out and the cool breeze in. There are enough years shared between them to have a never-ending arsenal of anecdotes, bygones, and what if’s, but the night has to end somewhere. By now, it’s almost expected.

Heather counts out the bills in her hands one-two-three one-two-three and like clockwork, a phone rings from the other side of their table.

“Duty calls.”

The looks passed along are both knowing and of self-inclined relief. Couldn’t be me. They pick themselves up and off to wave goodbye, until next time.

Heather slides the money over the counter and leans against it, hands in her shirt pockets as she waits. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.” On most weekends that hardly means a thing, but she’s hell bent on making it otherwise. She drums her fingers along the laminated wood, tilting her head to direct her gaze at Lena. “Think we should take the long way home.”

LENA 

Tomorrow is Saturday, which isn’t so bad if you’re, say, still in school. With one lingering look from her periphery, school feels just like yesterday—summer nights, window seats, frat parties only at the beginning of the list. Lena hums contentedly at both that thought and this moment, sparing just a few bills more for the tip jar. Big, big bills.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” she echoes, finally allowing herself to return that gaze. There’s a beginning of a list, and then there’s the top after some accommodations and life experiences added on as you’ve gone along. “Today, I’m thirty-nine.” There’s nothing wrong with the scenic route at night if you’re sick addicted to things that never make sense. Lena burps, loud, out of nowhere, scrunching her nose before mouthing a quick excuse me and laughing it off, linking her arm with Heather’s as they wait for the customer copy of the bill and some change. “How about some cake first?”

Like, actual cake. It’s their day off tomorrow unless duty call calls. But who dies on Saturdays anyway? Get a life! At least enough until Sunday, 6 am! (God, but they’re just kids—)

They leave, arm in arm. At the door, Lena says something about bills—mainly the phone one, cracking a joke about who’s got Heather wrapped around their finger for her to be running it up like that. Some feet away, in the dark, they part. You can’t really be arm to arm in the front seats of a car, anyway.

[...]

“Come look.” Lena beckons heather with a single finger, eyes fixed on a single piece. Tarts are better in the afternoon but this place gives her every reason to cave into the unusual (how on brand), all that meat and alcohol from just half an hour ago nothing but more energy already. “See how this hurts me, this beautiful plate.” She’s ogling at roasted pear and brie galette this time, biting her thumbnail as she pretends to consider getting the whole damn thing. “Could’ve made this if I had that kind of time.” Talent, moreso. “Whaddaya think, huh?” Yup, or yeah?

HEATHER 

It’s hard to pinpoint when it’s felt this natural, but that’s the essence of habits, isn’t it. Done so many times, yet nowhere close to feeling overdone. The opening notes to “Save Room” croon through the intercom as the cashier counts up five quarters and a dime and tears off the receipt for her having. Weird song choice for the time and place, but what’s weirder is how John Legend hasn’t sounded this good since they’ve graduated. A damn shame.

“That you are.” Thirty nine, and excused. “Let’s go.”

The cicadas are louder out in the open. The magnolia trees from across the street are in full bloom, heavy with petals so white that it’d look nothing more like snow on barren branches in the distance.

“Yeah,” Heather rolls her eyes. Always hits bullseye somehow. It’s the how of it that boggles her more. She squeezes her arm slight. “You wish it was you.”

[…]

She hovers only for a couple of moments. “Yeah, I’m looking.” Back at the array of focaccia laid out that is. Last of today’s batch, surely, the smell of garlic and rosemary left to being faint but ever-present.

Heather moves back to her side, an expression like contemplation but not quite. Her eyes rove over Lena’s face, bright with elation that’s nobody else’s. She couldn’t ever tell you about the beauty of knowing bread like that. The sheer intimacy of moments like these on the other hand, seeing joy and feeling it double from the mere sight of it, well. Good luck with that too.

“I think…we have all day tomorrow for you to try.”

And yet, in the same breath, over the display: “Two of the that one, to go.”

LENA

"Try what," she replies, eager to say this next part: "Your patience? In us trying to make this ourselves?" How about now, with this dumb wordplay. Her eyes crinkle when Heather puts in an order to-go, her arms searching the crook of her elbow, her cheek finding her shoulder. "You should pick one too," Lena elects, knowing that Heather already knows it's still for her, in her name. Her lips graze a sleeve as she eyes Heather's profile. "Something a little sweeter."

HEATHER

"You'd find fun in both," Heather returns flatly, more resigned than feeling truly reluctant at either idea. Wouldn't be so bad to say things for what they are, would it? Coward.

Her fingers press along the glass, nonsense hum at her lips and no real decision as of yet, telltale Heather-esque signs of being distracted by the new warmth and weight she saw coming (and yet). "Tiramisu?"

[riveires]

wanderlife

@toauz​

GYEOUL

Shotgun. A useless offer in a van full of testosterone, headphones in no better with the radio blasting at a record high. It’s not insensitive as much as it is baffling, what with your teenage years being the time you can get away with peak childish things. You’d just think boys would know better, but maybe that’s why they’re boys and not men.

It’s like this for an hour and some, eventually settling into a hum of hip hop on low and the majority of the team beat. This half anyway. God knows how tense the other vehicle is with Yisae alone, something she’s bothered to turn around and ask about to anybody who’s awake. But Sungwoo fidgets with his Switch, Wooram now focused on the scenery passing by. Abe’s boring because he’s asleep, and so it goes. Resolute, her smile barely makes it past the corners, kept to herself when she figures she could use the next best thing after quiet for the following fifteen minutes.

Someone has to pee five minutes in, everybody else taking the liberty to get out and stretch. Hahaha-ing resumes, she bets over a petty thing, in earshot. Gyeoul wishes it were her, because nothing’s been too funny all afternoon and she could use a pick-me-up right now. Just not coffee, because caffeine after two pm is bad news. She looks over her shoulder to match the laugh to a face. The latter isn’t as obnoxious, but she doesn’t turn away quickly enough to imply otherwise.

​SUNGWOO

With the weather this good, it's hard not to not think. Gameplay and court rotations can only be so effective when they stay stuck on paper, and Sungwoo had dutifully pored over the pages of hypotheticals. It's when they'd started creeping into his dreams that he'd finally called time. It's been ten hours since he'd so much as fathomed their existence.

Tension is a foreign feeling at this point, his form as relaxed as can be off court. Away games double as an escape, even if this one involves stakes as high as moving up the bracket for nationals. But that's not at the forefront now. It’s just Astral Chain and returning remarks tossed his way in conversations that involve him or have in their periphery. His eyes only ever lift from the console screen to find part of Gyoeul's face in the side mirror through what he can make out from the window seat, a half moon in the distance.

Kyuwon's got a price to pay for the Big Gulp from 7/11 he was warned against guzzling in one go, which has the van making a detour for the nearest sleepy town by the seaside.

He only laughs because it's the little things that come with mood-making and maintenance, but Sungwoo's attention returns, again and again like the many times that prelude this one, to the fraction of a second where their gazes overlap, and he takes it as a sign to touch base.

"We've got an hour. Coach is feeling nostalgic or something," he begins, bumping shoulders light as he nears where she stands. "Carpe-fucking-diem. You down?”

GYEOUL 

As he catches up, Gyeoul takes a moment to roll her shoulders back, this a buffer for her thoughts. “We don’t have a choice, do we?” Her voice isn’t caustic, just a little bored but only because she’s been in her head for too long in favor of avoiding... well, this.

It’s not you, but it isn’t me either.

She finesses a once-over, making sure so much as a chin tilt his direction gives her away. “Stretch your legs and arms properly while we’re still here. Don’t want you pulling a hamstring or discovering a knot in your back too late.”

SUNGWOO

He cracks a grin, eager to please—in spite of the suggestion being his own, or the lack of objection, it's hard to say. At this time and place, Sungwoo isn't in the headspace to think it through. A mock two-finger salute, a "Roger that", and he moves onward.

But not without taking proper caution: glancing this way, then that. Finding everyone else distracted, and that's more than a sure sign to take his chances. He times it accordingly—letting his hand fall just as he takes the step forward, letting his fingers find the curve of her wrist, the ghost of something more, before it slips free. It's an offer at most, a suggestion that can mean absolutely nothing if she wants it to be. He's only sowing the seeds of possibility.

"There's something over there." Sungwoo gestures with his other hand. Looks like some haphazardly put together shack. The sign says it's some coastal shop. "Gonna check it out."

GYEOUL 

"What, alone?" Mind still on his hand on her wrist, the ghost of it heavier, her gaze in the meantime follows his other hand. Stays consistent, only dropping when he's decided out loud for sure that's what he means by where. "I'll come." A mere reaffirmation.

SUNGWOO

"Yeah, alone." He looks her in the eye for a beat longer before he breaks away. Being this upfront is unusual, even for him, but there's things to be said that have yet to breach the surface. Sungwoo glances over to the others again, off shooting their shit elsewhere, as if the uptick in decibels within their circumference doesn't speak, well, volumes. "It'll be real quick."

But there's no need for further persuasion. The smile widens at the answer. "Cool. Let's go then." And like that, he's ahead. Playing it off cool is off the table the second he looks back over his shoulder, just to make sure she's good on her word.

[riveires]

feel your weight

@toauz​

​ONE YEAR AGO, THE ENGAGEMENT

AHRA

This late at night, the reception is no longer about them and she’s thankful for it. Leave it to endless champagne showers for people to pour themselves silly into punch drunk bliss and veer the event gloriously off course, the banquet hall of the palace rendered to nothing but an immodest backdrop to the revelry.

It’s been easier to tolerate than expected. Then again, anything feels easier to swallow with a little bit of drink in you. Like looking at Hyunwook as she does now, with less of the residual discomfort, the ever-present mournful ache buried deep in her chest more bearable than she's used to.

“Hyunie,” A nickname that still manages to stick after all these years, with enough fondness for him to understand. They’re close to the guard-less backdoors to take the chance. She reaches for his wrist and gives it a small tug. “Let’s leave.”

HYUNWOOK 

It takes two to tango. Happy feet if you want it to be something to remember down the road. This instance is equal parts relenting and a pain in the neck, but even if Ahra’s got some buzz in her, Hyunwook can’t find it in him to complain. Just foolishness if he’d turned her down. Thankfully nothing else for the rest of the night would serve him a greater pleasure. Then again, when does anything ever compare?

If her hand is to stay around his wrist, so be it. It’s something. He follows her wordlessly, a moth drawn to a flame. Outside, it is what it is: all theirs, even if guards might be lingering around gates. They aren’t close enough to disturb anything, though. So it stays.

The way of the wind in the trees is missed, but it seems vacation-esque, wishing for that during any time here at home. It’s weird being here, what more with her. Maybe this just hasn’t sunken in yet. It probably won’t, at least not for a while. money moment pending and aside… what else is there to think about?

Nothing, he elects. They’ve already cleared all their good graces for the time to come as a new kind of duo out of their systems, a silent hope that there aren’t any bad ones. Carefully, Hyunwook slips away from Ahra’s grasp and opts for being at her side, hands to himself. Tired, he still manages a grin even if he’s not looking at her to share it. It doesn’t come difficult with you. “Long day, huh?”

AHRA

A breath is all it takes: barely-there then deep through the swell of her lungs; easy does it, and gives way to how she’s never felt freer.

Together, they pad over the expanse of the lawn. There’s a warm hum in the air, deceptively calm, but it’s enough to keep the gravity of the situation at bay. Ahra stops to perch on one of the lower garden walls. One hand reaches down to tug at her feet, left then right, and a pair of thin stilettos fall into a heap onto the grass below.

“Something like that,” she sighs, palms over the slate ledge, leaning back. After some consideration: “You handled it pretty well.” Her mind turns over the details, from here to a time that doesn’t feel quite like theirs like it might have once. Distant. Removed. A ghost of a smile graces her lips to match. “You’re used to that kind of attention, aren’t you." Getting fussed over.

From the corner of her eye, she gives him a once-over. A sideways attempt to bring together the side profile she’s always known to the one that she sees now. Almost. It’s the thought that counts, or what he embodies of it, anyway.

HYUNWOOK

“Can’t be any different for you,” he says, like a sigh but not slurred. “We’re the ones doing this together for a reason.” He can feel her eyes on him, brief as they are, but he doesn’t disturb the glance with one from his end. She’s in his memory anyway, and even if it doesn’t hurt to seize what you can while it’s still there, something tells him to let her have this one for herself. Instead, he undoes his vest and some buttons on his dress shirt, shrugging off the former and laying it carefully between them on the perch. there’s something about the air that feels inescapable, history and heat having nothing to do with it this time around.

The future, maybe, and how it’ll be here but not the way anyone would expect.

He closes his eyes and takes it all in, braving its must. Allows himself to slouch, hands clasped together in his lap. One leg sticks out, the other one bent at the knee. rolling his neck, he takes his time with this and everything else that follows. “How do you really feel?”

AHRA

He says for a reason like there’s no greater weight to it, a casual submission to what’s ultimately a cause out of their hands. She quiets then, as if on the verge of coming to an admission of her own, only for it to be an absent hum. It’d be selfish of her otherwise.

Instead, Ahra turns, gaze direct and even as she studies him. Her imagination can only go so far. She’d let it run rampant in the days leading up to tonight, helpless to the grief of circumstance, the pulse of want. Searching for a face she hasn’t held in what feels like a whole lifetime, and might not ever see again.

Even now, there’s a tepid hesitation to cross that threshold right away. Her eyes fall to the line of his shoulders, then drop to his hands, the ring with its dull glint in the low light. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Like this, how they are. How they will be, if that’s even a possibility.

“How I really feel?” ahra repeats with an exhale. It wouldn’t be Hyunwook to not ask a loaded question. She glances away for a moment, then looks at him again, heavy with consideration. After some time, she decides at last.

“I feel like we’re losing something.”

To ourselves. From each other. It’s hard to say if it’s a matter of one over the other or both.

[riveires]

blind piggin’

@toauz​

​JUNGHAN

In America, they have niche story prompt books that aren’t actually niche. Rather they are dumb capitalist fun, appealing to the youthful masses or blogger moms who’ve yet to awaken their inner whatever author it is they think they look up to and like to misuse the word niche. He’d know because he’d looked it up once, pie charts listing audiences drawn to all kinds of books. but is that something you share with… anyone?

Junghan blows raspberry. “You from the States?” he asks the nearest stranger, testing the waters. Circles the rim of his glass with his index. Nothing. Maybe he isn’t loud enough. In case they turn around anyway, he continues, light flickering above someone else in particular. Swivels around to properly direct it to that person instead, tongue in cheek. “You look the type.”

SERIN

The humdrum of dive bars comes to no surprise, but no one ever goes to these things for anticipation now, do they. At one point of the night, you’ll encounter a happenstance that could happen at any other time here because it’s happened every damn time. She has her usual sitting in front of her, cold to the touch, eyes caught between dazed off and people watching, check and check. Any minute now, and someone’ll try to strike conversation because men are so certain in their predictability.

Serin’s reached the half-mark of her glass when indeed, a voice comes in within earshot. She’s slow to turn her gaze, and there’s no real curiosity to match the inkling of it in his timbre.

“Huh,” she offers with a raised brow, so close to saying ‘that obvious?’  but it wasn’t much of an accusation in the first place to confirm anything. Instead, Serin directs her attention briefly to his drink. “Depends on the definition you choose.” Among other things.

With something of a wry grin, she adds, “You look like the type who does just that for a living.”

JUNGHAN 

"Maybe yes." A sip. "Maybe no." He sets his glass down, sliding it over close to where she is. They call this phrase an oxymoron, but don't prove her point. There's a space between them he doesn't mind filling, Junghan transferring to the seat right next to her, the corners of his lips pulled in for a half smile. "If you're not trying to be someone you aren't tonight, we're already not all that alike." It doesn't sound bitter out loud, just as he means it. Junghan raises his glass slightly. "Do you think this is my first time trying this?" The drink, drinking, this.

[riveires]

jisoo

paranoia. 

he supposes it’s the most accurate descriptor despite sounding entirely too tame to fully capture the essence of his father. the survival instincts of a man in power. would it be jisoo’s inevitable future - a prisoner to his own paranoia? 

he laughs again, devoid of all merriment. the same unhinged laughter of someone who’s lost everything. in jisoo’s case, it’s freedom. 

‘maybe i should leave the country.’ he’s wistful, he knows it’s fantasy. ‘to the states, europe… as far as i can go.’ the only appeal of running is escaping responsibility, moojin knows this. there’s no city in the world jisoo would prefer over seoul. 

‘i bet they’ve already planned ahead for that, taken into account my immaturity.’ he muses bitterly, carefully watching moojin. he wonders if the other had been instructed to prevent any flight risks. 

he shakes the speculation. paranoia.

jisoo paces the shore, finding it impossible to stay still. ‘i’d rather die than be told what to do by those geriatrics.’ he opens his mouth as if to say more before directing his gaze to moojin in a mixture of expectancy and impotence. 

he pouts. ‘help me, moojin.’ 

Moojin snorts, "By yourself?” 

Not that that'd be an impossibility. Escapist tendencies have always been at large with the other, but to let them take corporeal form is something else entirely. Out of obligation or not, they've been practically attached at the hip for so long it's strange to consider distance wedged in all of a sudden. To be that far apart, and indefinitely at that?

Tempting, to say the least.

(Kidding.) 

“If you like being chased that badly, sure.” 

The cigarette is cast to the side, the last of its ember stamped out with care. “If you don’t, you can always hold your ground here.” He turns his head to look at Jisoo, contemplative. “Their plan’s already a lost cause the second you do that.” 

Now that’s putting it simply. In the back of Moojin’s mind is a plan of his own unfurling. Abyss-deep, labyrinth wide. All he needs is for Kang Jisoo to stay still. 

“Being told what to do is different than acting on it, by the way.” 

He smiles. The gesture says it all. 

“I can count on your acting skills for the time being, can’t I?” 

[riveires]

yehwan​

yehwan stretches out his left hand, watches the veins in his fingers protrude under a thin layer of skin before the sight vanishes from his eyes, and he relaxes once more. sian and he have known each other for long enough; sometimes she feels like the only friend he has left and that’s what’s got him so thankful when he listens to the easy way she breezes through his teasing. admiration is probably not the right word for it, but it comes close to the bond they share.

“look at us, talking like we’ve been married for forty-five years. my grandmother would’ve loved you,” he quips, the earlier hint of melancholia replaced by a sense of merriness. for a moment, he allows his imagination to paint the picture: sian meeting his grandmother would’ve made for a funny encounter. wherever she is, he hopes the old lady rests in peace.

“why wouldn’t i? they’re warm. even a vampire can freeze, you know.” the winters in their district can be harsh and unforgiving so he’s grateful for every single instance in which sian takes pity on his shuddering shape. some day, he’ll return the favour accordingly.

tapping his foot impatiently, he can feel the first surge of boyish impatience taking hold of him. this is mere indulgence and some small part of him wishes sian wouldn’t insist on phone calls: he suspects he disrupts her needle work more often than he acknowledges for her to be adamant about it.

“ah, see. she might not have agreed in so many words— “, which is to say she really didn’t, “ —but the newcomer shall be cut some slack, right? not like she can do anything about it without losing face in front of the others anyway.” the smugness in his tone implies something more but they’ve always been good at bending the rules when it came to their friendship and he’s not willing to stop doing that now. “so what do you say? i solemny swear to bring you back to old granny before midnight before she curses me for all eternity. i’ll even make myself look presentable, how’s that sound?”

“Oh really?” Sian’s voice lilts with genuine curiosity. She thinks to her own grandmother, who had retired for the night in another part of the house. Warmth personified in more ways than one—the quickest to embrace, the slowest to let go. It’s no surprise she’d taken to Yehwan with ease when he’d met her last. “I think the feeling would’ve been mutual.”  

She glances over at a shawl draped over the sofa. “You’re right.” The extent of your mortality or lack thereof doesn’t makes you any less immune to the sensation. It’s only a matter of deciding what hurts the most—to be left burning or grow numb with unfeeling. Sian finds herself reaching for the shawl, pulling it over her shoulders to draw it close to her form. 

His response prompts a mental image that’s far too vivid in an instant. Can’t be helped, not when she’s seen Jaekyung’s look of pure disbelief enough times, up close and personal. How it still manages to be so comical is beyond her.

“Taking the gentleman route? That's no fun." A smirk that's about as coy as they come, but without a lick of cruel intentions. "I was hoping you'd go all the way and ask me to elope." 

She gets up then, leaving the needles behind. Across the room is a window that takes up half the wall, the curtains parted in spite of the hour.  It's a clear night, wide open for possibility. 

The phone is pressed against her ear again. "Depends on how presentable I think you look.” And there’s that smile again. “Be quick.” 

[riveires]

jaekyung

jaekyung’s clan had doctors, healers, herbalists, weavers, sewing circles, plumbers, mechanics, carpenters, cooks. some of them had made their living on those skills in the old world, one that ceased to exist in today’s history books. most studied and learned them in the new — such as the clan leader herself. to those she knew, memories of their old lives remained a raw scar on their hearts and minds. that scar, and the empty graves of the dead, led to the forming of clans in search of comfort, stability, a safe haven.

jaekyung stood, and stared, and saw why it mattered: why all of it mattered.

more than surviving, as it had been for those first horrible months after her unwanted turning, as it had been for the months that had followed. it was living, and it was, like the clan in and of itself, hope. it mattered, she thought bitterly to herself, the lines around her jaw tightening in disquiet stoniness at the thought of haein’s erasure from this world. her life, stamped out like it was nothing of importance.

dojin’s posture would have irritated anyone who didn’t know him well enough to read the signs — she didn’t think herself capable of it, but it was impossible not to. perhaps it was a result of time, the frequent meetings between leaders of the supernatural presenting her with a bit of knowledge on body language. maybe it was the unfamiliar unease she’d never seen him wear just like that, but whatever it was didn’t lessen the impact his words had on her mind. it snapped her back into a reality she wanted no part of and had her narrow her eyes at the other as she broke through the engulfing silence with one sharp “what?”

the explanation was undoubtedly not conjured up in the moment: the carefully chosen words left the vampire with a sour taste in her mouth as she frowned at the meaning she didn’t quite catch. what kind of evidence was needed to preserve? and most importantly, what exactly needed to be investigated?

“dojin, you’re talking in riddles.” she’d never had much of patience but what little was left of it was starting to dwindle within the same seconds that stretched into minutes with no words said or actions taken. it got under her skin in a manner that should be far too simple as a means to terrorize a supernatural and yet, jaekyung felt oddly perturbed.

suffice it to say, she didn’t like the feeling nor dojin’s newly discovered sense of secrecy.

the leader twisted the ring around her index finger uncertainly before exhaling and straightening her shoulders, all emotions falling away from her features while her eyes searched the warlock’s face for more hints on the situation. “it’s not a matter of allowance. she is a member of my clan and if something happened to her then my people and i have a right to know — and to join your investigation. besides, it is my clan’s duty to ensure she’ll receive a proper burial. surely, you won’t deny us that?”

Riddles, she says, but what is there to complicate about Haein's demise? A life had left them, and a body grows cold to the touch in its wake. Had he been a kinder, simpler man, that would've been enough. Enough to step aside and let a soul lay to rest, have the soft underbelly of the earth reclaim her form in the ways it knows best. 

Only a fool would consider it a means of closure.

"This isn't about who gets to bury who." If he sounds anywhere close to calm, the steely edge to his words is what betrays that sense of composure completely, equally as bewildered. Accusatory. Don’t you understand? 

Then, it dawns on him. The slow creep of realization that surfaces and sinks, followed by the slower rise of dread. He goes pale. For a moment, all Dojin can do is stare, at a complete loss for words. 

He allows himself a breath before he tries again. 

“Haein will get her funeral, but now’s not the time for it.” Not like this. Not when the full blow of the truth has yet to be delivered. Do or don’t, he thinks. The pendulum swings, the weight of it bears heavier with each ominous tick of a second gone. 

(Do. Don’t.)

Dojin can only look at her once and only once before the words fall free from his mouth. 

“She was murdered, Jaekyung.”

His eyes shift to the bare wall behind her. It stares back, offering no comfort for the action. 

“The wounds. They’re nothing like we’ve ever seen.” 

[riveires]

jisoo

he flings another rock across the water, this time achieving three skips much to his satisfaction. ‘ i really can’t disagree with you there.’ he turns to moojin, arms spread out in grandeur. ‘i am a man to be celebrated.’

the burst of confidence subsides just as quickly as it surfaces.

‘dad’s still far from sane.’ a solemn pause. ‘was.’ he corrects. there’s no evidence of grief in his tone. jisoo could almost feel guilty about his total apathy to his father’s death if he thought the man would care. it’s laughable to even consider his father with wounded feelings, afterlife or otherwise.

ah, yes. what will he do?

the question is inevitable. it’s one he’s dodged all night, only with moojin there’s no foreseeable escape. his hands bury themselves deep within his coat pockets, the right fidgeting his cellphone he’s miraculously left untouched the entire evening.

jisoo shrugs with an almost unforgivable amount of nonchalance.

‘well, fuck man. just go with the flow, i guess?’ a bubble of nervous laughter escapes his lips. he figures there’s no hiding his helplessness now. ‘… what should i do?’

For a moment, all Moojin can do is stare. Face a drawn blank to blanket the disbelief, but the effect is comically paradoxical.

His eyes turn back to the water. "...I see."

Jisoo's embarrassing flair for drama, ill-timed per usual. Some things just don't change. In this case, it's only  for the better that they don't. A sure sign, if anything, that he's somewhat holding it together. 

He holds his breath, lets the familiar nicotine-burn spread where it has to before he lets go. 

"That's not news to anyone." Sanity and the lack thereof has always been a long, winded spectrum. A balancing act all the same, no matter where you fell along it. "Paranoia's hard to miss, but he wouldn't have been what he was without it." Wouldn't have come this far, this fast. A perilous legacy that now bears its weight over their shoulders. One that Moojin still mulls over. 

He takes another drag, taps the ash off his cigarette mid-air. “So long it’s your own.” His tongue curls around his next sentence, a warning truth. “They wouldn’t mind a puppet, you know. I doubt you’d like that.” 

[riveires]

jisoo

‘it’s much needed.’ the words seem almost transparent as they escape with a sigh. he takes a sweeping glance over the landscape before them, at last having some recognition of their location. if he focuses on the moon long enough he can pretend he’s somewhere, some time else. that same moon, just a little fuller, had accompanied him on an excellent night of partying just a week prior. if only he could have known it’d be his last. 

he’s silent in a moment of uncharacteristic self-reflection. he’s apprehensive to show any weakness in this moment, even to moojin who would see through him regardless. still, it’s nice to pretend. even if just for a night. 

jisoo naturally gravitates closer to the river’s edge, crouching down to pick up a rock he feebly attempts to skip across the water to no avail. 

another sigh. 

‘well-’ he starts and immediately clamps his lips shut. he mulls over his response again as he searches for another rock. ‘i wouldn’t exactly call that a party, would you? a bunch of stuffy old men rubbing shoulders. i mean i thought i might develop dementia just from association with those geezers. ’

He remains in place, thumbing the fork of the lighter absently. The silence that settles bears a weight as heavy as the new reality between them. Moojin does nothing to break it, allows it to loom until it morphs into a thought worth voicing out loud. 

“Commemorate the old, ring in the new—what’s not to celebrate?”

Moojin moves closer to the water, Jisoo a constant in his periphery. A sight unchanging despite the years that have grown on them both. He watches as the stone skips once before it sinks into the river bed. There’s a pathetic joke here somewhere about hitting rock bottom, but he refrains from the gesture. 

“Your dad had to associate with them his whole life.” He stoops down, tosses him a second rock. “Dementia wasn’t anywhere close to what he had to show for it.” The slowest, most painstakingly of demises—among their sort, it’s out of place in any context. Most would prefer the opposite, the blow of the bullet above all else, its abrupt mercy. No need to let Death indulge for longer than it has to. 

Moojin straightens. The lighter strikes hot. His hands cup over the spark as he holds it to the end of his cigarette. 

“What will you do?” 

And what will you have to show for it? 

[riveires]

jisoo

he feels as though he’s dreaming, a daze he’s been incapable of shaking since first learning of his father’s demise. it’s not that he misses him. the only mourning he’s done is over that of the life he once knew, one of freedom and little responsibility and childlike naivety.

the unfairness of it all. 

he can hardly process the car pulling to a painstakingly slow halt, nor can he truly decipher the words moojin speaks to him - as if radio interference were crackling directly in his ears. it takes him several beats to answer. 

‘right.’ he nods, stumbling out with the grace of a drunkard despite having the misfortune of being entirely sober. he’s still not very sure why they’ve stopped though he decides it pertinent to act as if does. 

jisoo slaps a hand on the others shoulder, offering a smile halfway between a wince and a grimace. ‘excellent. this is exactly what i had in mind, good work.’

The hand that sticks out is purely instinctual—a habit ingrained into the very curvature of his spine to hold fast to those above his rank, upright and rock steady. Jisoo is faster this time, refinding his footing all on his own and it's only then Moojin withdraws, arm dropping back to his side. 

About damn time. He has no real choice, not when his world's been thrown off balance the way it had. 

"Sure." There's no rebuttal or movement to push off the hand, only the smooth neutrality of a smile that's barely there and meant. He steps away only to accompany the other’s side. “Consider it a change in scenery.” 

Anyone that didn’t know any better would think this was a night like any other. Still waters, barely-there moonlight that pales against the glowing cityscape in the distance. Then again, it wouldn’t be just anyone who’d have an empire thrust into their palms. 

The head-rush will hit eventually, he thinks. What would the notion of power be without it? 

From his jacket pocket, Moojin pulls out the carton of cigarettes and a lighter. Teeters between contemplation and the rhetorical in the few beats he pulls out one, leaves it dangling without a flame. “You’re not one to leave a party so soon.” 

[riveires]

True Detective (2014)

[riveires]

bygone

@unstatvsquo

POST INITIATION

The ride home is quiet. 

From the front passenger seat, Moojin takes his chances in intervals: eyes on the road, then the neon blur of the city lights before his gaze settles to Jisoo's reflection in the rear view. 

Where he expects the usual transparency is an unreadable expression that sits at odds with the very contours of the man's face. A sight that only affirms the inkling he’d held all evening. No amount of party favors would make any of this more palatable, easier to deal with the reckoning that they’d been thrown right into the mouth of the lion’s den. 

He holds in a sigh, returns to stare through the window. Lets the minutes drag by them, thicker than molasses, until enough is enough. 

“You can stop here, Hanbin.” 

With a nod, the chauffeur pulls over, the vehicle slowing until it stops at the foot of the river front. Moojin opens the door. “Come on.” He glances over his shoulder. “You need some air.”

[riveires]

precursor

@toauz / @twentysixdegrees

BOM

( / she paces, antsy. the good(?) kind, fingers not exactly shaking, the rest of her body prepared to feel a high that’s to come ) first of all, you’ll know not to call it the roarin’ 50s. ( / not that a bruise would be left on rhys’ arm if she were to hit him for even thinking it. she glances at lifeboat, then at margot next, rhys last. clasps her hands together as she finally stands still in front of said time machine, tilting her head, letting out a sigh ) we’re not getting on this until i stop feeling this rush all by myself.

RHYS

[ > he leans against one of the steel pillars keeping their little hideaway from collapsing on itself, arms crossed. machinery isn't unfamiliar to him. in fact, he'd been introduced to many a contraption in the military that he had learned the mechanics of, but this one...there's something he inherently distrusts about it all, even if connor-freaking-mason says it will timetravel them. ] weren't the 20s the decade that roared? [ > pushing off, he walks closer, standing a bit behind bom, still. a good soldier trusts his higher ups, so - ] well, chief - wanna tell me something that's taboo to do in the 50s, so i don't commit a faux pas? [ > to his right, margot. ] you good, captain?

MARGOT

( / the key—or "goober" as she affectionately calls it—is deep inside her hoodie pockets—a card chip about as thin as a nail, but with enough processing power to put the highest OS on the market to bust. a little too wired to be on the blueprint for the next line of PCs, so why not just leave it on the backburner for the next best thing? ) ( / somehow next best thing is code for a state of the art time machine, but it's connor. it's 0-100 a mile a minute whenever he's involved. getting Bookworm Babe and Army Adonis up in here is just another way to push the limit. ) yeah. real peachy. ( / even if her semi-pinched expression might say otherwise—blame it on the "what the hell" thought that loops through her head for the umpteenth time ) ( / pushes herself off the beat-up sofa to stand next to bom as well, give the Lifeboat a once-over ) we'll have it easier than Bill and Ted if that'll help with the nerves. trip-wise.

RHYS

[ > the side of his lip pulls down and out, and he watches both of their backs carefully. always been terrible at faces, which is why he pays close attention to their mannerisms, instead. ] [ > not that he's been given all that long to get to know them...agent christopher moved fast, connor mason moved faster, and he's not sure that he's ever seen anyone with as much anxious energy as margot. ] i don't understand that reference. [ > or someone vibrating such terribly contained excitement as bom. ] the excitement is endearing. hell, i’d be feeling the same way if i were in your shoes. [ > but he's not. the only shoes he's in are his own, and though he doesn't think he'll need to fight tooth or nail in 1950s hollywood, his first mistake would be to completely let down his guard. ] now is there a special way to climb into this thing or should i just run, jump, and hope for the best? 

BOM 

( / nudges margot’s shoulder gently with the push of her palm, pointing her finger at her soon after. i got that reference, she mouths, nerves simultaneously eased just thinking of the comparison point indeed. ) 

how curt. ( / has her head turned back towards lifeboat, smiling tightlipped, choosing not to look back at him right away in case he really is being sarcastic after all. she spares margot a glance once more, sneaking another one that lasts a little longer in the same breath. ) also, i’m sure whatever “bad” flies now will definitely fly like it’s nothing there. ( / purses her lips in thought, squinting at the sight of the door ) get ready to be mistaken as siblings, spoken down to like we don’t speak the damn language, all that jazz.

MARGOT

( / a flash of exasperation across her features, half thank you and half can you believe this guy? ) ( / really, it's not that serious, but that's between her and bom ) ( / out loud and with a dismissive wave: ) no need. ( / delivers the side of the lifeboat a good kick, which triggers the stairs to fold out. something that should be automatic, but that's just one last minute discovery bug in the design to work through once they return. priorities. ) ( / she does the honors of climbing into the lifeboat first, goober in hand to slide it in as you would with coins into a slot machine and jackpot: baby blinks to life, lights and circuitry flickering on as they should. it's always easier to breathe when you're in your element. ) speaking of jazz, there's never a bad time for some mood music. ( / kidding! unless...? ) 

BOM

( / if overthinking is as much of rhys’ thing as it is her own, they’re definitely in for a ride. she follows suit, taking him as a ladies first type of guy. something about him... ) ( / when she’s inside with margot, the time and space between just the two of them alone brief, bom is quiet enough for him to not hear from outside. ) do you think he knows jack about that, too?

MARGOT

( / she matches her in volume ) we'll find out. ( / if not now then eventually, what with the way this "mission" has them buckled up for a ride and a half. nothing like shared history to bring people together—literally ) ( / grins and it's a full show of teeth ) but that's what you're here for if he doesn't, doc. ( / fingers dance over the dashboard, thinking to take the opportunity by the horns before he gets on board ) i'm down for taking bets if you are.

BOM

( / the hairs on the back of her neck rise when she catches glimpse of margot’s smile, eyes shifting literally anywhere else for a second before flitting over to “check on” rhys ) depends on what your idea of one is. ( / for this round anyway )

RHYS

[ > he sees the professor and their pilot climb into the lifeboat out of his peripherals. he gives agent christopher a small, relaxed salute. it's really just the hand motion, and his commander would roll over in his grave if he saw, but it's been a few since his time in the service anyways. but also - fuck him ] i may be older the both of you, but my hearing isn't that bad. [ > he sits on the little space between in and out, half of his body slung in and the other half needing a second longer. ] 'course i know jazz - played in jazz band in high school. saxophone. [ > ant then, he slings his body in, watching as the door closes behind him. ] [ > there's a look of wonder of his face but he doesn't care. eyes passing over everything on the inside, he whistles a tone, somewhere between an f and a g. ] never would i have thought i'd be here, with you two. [ > an honest smile, directed at the two he's sharing a space with. it feels weird - but this isn't an alpha-male, guard your emotions-type of shit. his therapist had helped him work through a lot of that, so he's trying to be mindful, and not fall back into that. baby steps. ] just a retired soldier getting called back into some type of service, for something i know nothing about. i'll be relying on you both quite a bit, but know that you can rely on me for anything. [ > camaraderie is a slow build of shared experiences, earned trust, and developed loyalty - but it always starts somewhere. ] i'll always do my best for you both, i promise.

MARGOT

only by what, two years? ( / well color her surprised. guess what they say about first impressions are true, after all. sweet, and a band kid to boot? huh! ) still, my mistake. ( / margot's eyes slide over to bom anyway in unspoken mischief. maybe this deal's off the table, but for next time, count her in. ) ( / the machine hums electric beneath her hands, steady like a pulse, yet it feels like she's standing on the edge of a cliff ) ( / freefall has never felt so new, so real. ) and likewise.  ( / her attention turns to the screen ) can't promise much other than a smooth ride to and fro, but it's a decent start. (  / back to the other two. ) y'all ready for this thing? 

BOM

( / is "too sweet" a thing? something tells bom rhys will never get there, this equal parts comforting and cause for curiosity more than concern. margot's a treat in another way, probably has been as cool as she is since the second grade. with all three of them on board for dixieland alone, the uneasy feeling in her stomach lessens just a bit. ) ( / she hopes she can promise even half of what the other two have the offer in her own way, holding on for the ride, as snug as can be. her turf's moments away. ) if you are. 

RHYS

as much as i'll ever be [ > he's impressed by the confidence in which margot navigates through the immensely complicated looking control panel, and he feels a little more relaxed by it in response. ] [ > a process keeps him sane, it keeps him focused. so when he feels like his soul is getting tugged out through his navel and shoved back into his head through his eyeballs, rhys tries to center himself by running through the facts of their mission: rittenhouse - big bad. more surveillance and scouting than actual engagement, but it never hurts to be prepared - ] [ > now, he just wants someone to confirm: holy shit, did they actually just time travel? ]  that is the strangest sensation i have ever experienced in my life.