#c conor

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: Saturday Morning, at around 11pm PARTIES: @faunandfl0ra @kadavernagh LOCATION: Downtown, Wicked’s Rest SUMMARY: Conor gets a good shock and ends up looking a little more goat-y than he likes. Regan is there to pull him aside and worry about his weird legs. CONTENT WARNINGS: Car crash tw

“I appreciate it man, you’re a lifesaver,” it had been a while since he last broke a string on his violin. With Mother’s day behind, and the amount of money it brought in, Conor had finally taken a trip to the local luthier, and gotten his bow rehaired as well. It would be nice to play again. He barely had time to do anything for himself this month, and his various encounters with other fae had left him in a state of anxiety that simply wouldn’t go away. 

He had 4 hours before he opened the shop again this afternoon, which left him plenty of time to unwind, right? 

The faun stopped for tea at the local coffee shop. He would head home soon, but it was a sunny day, and he liked walking around on such occasions. His cup in one hand, his violin case in the other, he let his stroll take him around the neighborhood. He had reached the seafront, and stopped to look at the crabs which for once were napping on the sand instead of being up to no good. Things were quiet at last. He could tell there was another fae approaching, but while he had already met four, he had gotten used to sensing them in the street. There were quite a lot of them around here, weren't there. 

What he didn’t sense coming was the car turning a bit too fast around the curb, other drivers honking in protest. The tires screeched against the pavement, and Conor turned on his hooves, wide eyes staring at the vehicle headed his way. What was the expression again? A deer caught in the headlights? There were no headlights. He was a goat. It was still a pretty damn good expression in this instance anyway. What are you doing? With shock past him, he stumbled back, although it was the driver’s swerving at the last second that would save him. The faun tripped on something, probably his own foot, and sent the cup of tea flying. Call it a terrible sense of preservation, but his violin’s safety came first, and his glamour last. 

Did falling down always hurt so bad? 

It would have been appropriate to compare Regan’s life to a car crash in most respects. She often did. What happened less frequently was witnessing an actual one. She had been paying more attention than the man on the curb was – maybe it was that awful bubbling feeling in her throat as the car rounded the corner way too fast – but she was too far away to help. There was a honking of horns and whooshing of lungs and before Regan could will herself not to scream, don’t scream, bite your damn tongue off if you need to, it was over, no scream needed. And no one had died. 

Her own cup of coffee had fallen out of her hands at some point and matched whatever discarded beverage was dropped from the almost-dead-man’s. Evidence that too much emotion still flowed through her during moments like this. Right. She had responsibilities here as a doctor, a first responder. As the car peeled away, she noted the license plate number. A vanity plate, of course. She’d make them regret driving away without checking up on who they almost hit.

Almost. But not quite. Her attention turned to the man, who seemed understandably shocked. He was clutching a heavy-looking case like it was keeping him alive.

“Are you–” Okay? That was what she wanted to ask. But her eyes caught on the pair of horns above the man’s head, and she traced them down to his skull, where they poked through his mop of wavy hair in a manner that looked all too real. Those weren’t there before. And his ears, too. She would have noticed. Horns appearing out of thin air? The prickling and tickling across her shoulders and arms as she got closer to him? And then – she looked down at his legs, or where regular legs should have been, and they looked bent in some grotesque configuration underneath his pants. Okay. She’d seen enough to make up her mind. 

“With me.” Regan grabbed him by the shoulder, scrunching her face up at the intensifying buzz of her skin. She noticed a couple of pedestrians staring; initially they showed only concern, but they seemed to notice the same things Regan did and concern melted into confusion. “Can you walk? Your legs don’t look –” She offered her support to help him catch his balance. “They don’t look the steadiest.” Regan tried to shove him toward an alley in a manner that wasn’t as gentle as she would have preferred, but efficiency was to be prioritized. A fat rat flushed out of a fallen garbage can and scattered across the alley. “This is hardly a place to assess your injuries, but we may not have a choice. Considering your, uh… say, you didn’t just come from one of those ‘cosplay’ gatherings, did you? I was informed about those.”

Wide eyed, the faun clawed at his violin case like his life depended on it. His eyes fixated on the car as it drove off, as if nothing happened, as if they hadn’t nearly run him over. As much as the idea of living, when everyone he grew up with died or had already died, made him feel sick, realizing that he could have been gone right then brought a rushing, overwhelming sense of nothingness to his head.His nose wrinkled in what looked like anger, but his eyes were humid. He felt too much and he couldn’t even swear his heart out like he usually would. 

He stared at the car until it vanished around the corner, the woman’s -no, the fae’s- voice reaching his ears. Conor was alright. He was… He looked down at his legs, who didn’t look… Well they looked normal to him, which was absolutely not how they were supposed to look. Oh fuck. He reached up to his head. Fuck, fucking crispy shit on a cracker, fuck. Focus. He’d learned how to do that in the days that followed his ‘growth spurt’ of sorts. He was 13 then. 57 years later, he still let it slip when he panicked. He needed to calm down. He just needed to focus on something calm. 

“My legs are fine,” he replied. They were fine. He just had to make them look like so, and agree to follow her somewhere no one could see him like that, the sound of his hooves no longer muffled by a spell. “I’m a… what? Cost play?” Wasn’t that the name of a British band? He didn’t like their music, but he also didn’t see the connection with him here. “You…” He pressed his lips together. He wasn’t making sense and he needed to make sense right now. She was fae, she must have known things. “You and I… We’re both…” Brilliant. He was ready for the debate club. “Fae…Right?” He didn’t like it, that word, or associating himself with it, but what else was there to say to explain his legs, his horns and everything wrong with him? “I need to focus. They’ll go away if I focus,” he assured her. She didn’t have any on her head, so she must have understood that much, right? He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, cutting himself off from his surroundings for a second. For the most part, this meant pleading please please please please go away until it all came true. 

“Well, your legs don’t look fine. They look like you’ve broken some bones. But…” Given the way he was walking, Regan doubted that was the case. Though his gait was terribly clumsy, just not strained. And there was a weird clopping noise accompanied by each step. Did she even want to know? She peered out of the alley, noting that the gawking bystanders hadn’t followed them, and heaved out a sigh. 

The word fae wasn’t one she had wanted to hear, but it was a reasonable thing to ask under the circumstances. Interestingly, he seemed as uncomfortable saying it as Regan was hearing it. “Yes. I mean, no. Well, yes, but –” Regan froze. It was such a simple question, yet one of the most complicated ones in the world for her. She wasn’t like him, some antler-covered, floppy-eared bambi man. But she was more like him than the people who had been staring. “We have something in common. I prefer a different word, or none at all. I’m helping you because…” She searched herself, making sure this wasn’t a lie on a technical level. “Because I am a doctor. And you were nearly flattened by a car.” Some small part of her still wanted to think the antlers were part of a costume, but this was confirmation enough that they weren’t. “So they’re real, then?” She asked. There was that one patient she’d had at Saol Eile, a visitor from a neighboring community, who had possessed similar antlers and ears. Perhaps a relative. 

When he mentioned needing to focus, Regan understood. “Oh! This is a glamour.” Something in her eyes brightened for a moment, before dying just as quickly. She had both seen and heard about glamours. Her grandmother tried desperately to force her to succeed in them, resorting to methods that marred her wings to this day. But Regan never could. She could never give over the last bit of her skepticism to believe it was possible, as much as she desired to hide herself from the world. She flicked the pendant on her necklace between her fingers, silently thanking it for existing, as much as she hated the thing for existing just the same. “Does this happen when you’re, um, frightened? You grow horns? Are you sure your legs are okay?”

“I don’t know a different word,” he pointed out. Conor didn’t know many things regarding who he was. His mother was clueless about those things, and his father wasn’t the most helpful, unsurprisingly. Now she was nearing the end of her life, and he didn’t even want to know where his old man was. “And I would rather fucking be normal but here we are,” he motioned to his legs, and then his face, as if to just highlight the obvious non-sense at stake here. Who the fuck looked like that? Not someone normal. 

“You’re a doctor,” the faun repeated. So this was all she cared about then? Whether he was fine. “I am fine,” his stomach churned, as if to express discomfort in the face of a lie. He grimaced. Fucking hell. He needed to stop doing that, but somehow, saying I’m fine, that shouldn’t have counted as a lie, right? Everyone lied about that, not because they wanted to lie, but because they didn’t want people asking why. He should have just smiled. He didn’t smile much, but that was better than feeling sick, wasn’t it? 

Fucksake.

She asked about his horns, and he sighed. This was all he hated. Talking about himself, and worst of all, the parts he hated about himself. “Unfortunately.” And that was it. He didn’t want to elaborate. Maybe she wouldn’t ask more questions, he hoped. How could he focus if she asked more questions? His heart was still racing from earlier, and he knew he was still in a bit of panic, but Conor also felt an urge to look normal again. That’s all he wanted : he wanted to look normal, to be normal, and go back to his place, with his violin, have a bit of quiet, a bit of peace. This was all he asked for. 

He was a stubborn guy, and if he pleaded enough, focused enough on what he wanted… It would work. “My legs are fine. Faun.” The word was spat out, like an insult. “Means I’ve got legs like a goat, and this fucking bullshit growing on my head.” He finally looked at her again. “You’re not a faun, are you? You’re another sort of…” He didn’t say the word this once, and looked away as quickly as he had looked at her. They were alone here. At least, there was that. 

There was venom in the man’s voice as he spoke about himself, which immediately cut into Regan’s composure. She never expected this. He wasn’t… proud? Perhaps not at a moment like this, when secrecy was at stake, but he didn’t like what he was, how he looked? That was slow to sink in. The others at Saol Eile were always crowing with pride, screaming with it, and she was used to competitive displays of wings, comparing and complimenting. She never wanted any of it, but she couldn’t escape it. She assumed all fae must have been the same way. All of the ones she’d had the displeasure of meeting were. But there was him, this one, and something was very wrong with him in a way that, honestly, seemed right.

“You don’t like being –” The notion still made her mind reel. When she spoke again it was a statement, not a question. “You don’t like this. You wish you were like everyone else.” Years ago, there might have been some giddiness in her voice, some rejoicing at finally finding kinship, but she couldn’t access it now. It felt more like a kick than anything. Those first couple of years she went from other to other like she was seeking table scraps, hoping to hear that she could have normal, that she could have the life she wanted and the life she left, but as her grandmother said numerous times, some desires could only be met with a knife. Regan had excised her hopes and wants out of herself, slowly, methodically, and the thing that remained did not – would not – waste time wanting what it couldn’t have. Now she was faced with someone who mirrored that young, ignorant doctor, except he hadn’t gone shed his old self. He was the most sensible fae she’d met, and, perhaps, the most terrible and hardest to face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you – I’ve never met one like you before. Not the, um, goat… thing. The other thing.” Regan took a step back, uncertain. She hadn’t considered that she might have been crowding him before. That probably didn’t help with his focus. Especially since he looked like he could barely stand on his own legs. She had questions about that, but now seemed like a bad time. Her uncertainty was uncomfortable, and she needed to discard it. Regan swallowed thickly, her eyes darting away from the man’s strange antlers and fixating on a particular brick that jutted out from the side of the building. Her fingers twitched, and she could almost feel the blade between them. Regan’s voice was hollow and flat when she spoke again. “Banshee. It means I don’t have a say in what I want. It means I gave up being a person when I gave up being human.” 

If she looked taken aback by his attitude, Conor didn’t immediately see it. He wasn’t ever good at spotting those things, because he didn’t look at people’s faces often, and because right now, he was still in a state of limbo. The adrenaline wouldn’t come down, and he couldn’t help but think again of what just happened. What if the car hadn’t swerved. What then? He was about to step aside, to react, but… Her voice, thank God, brought him out, for a bit, of his trance. “I don’t like being the main attraction to a freakshow circus?” He heard it before. He had heard his dad tell him how proud he was to see that ‘his son’ (Conor regretted not being more violent back then) was a faun just like him. What a fucking nightmare. What a fucking bloody nightmare. Pride? How could you possibly be proud of being nothing like someone normal? 

Then and now, all he wanted was to have a normal life. 

“What other thing?” He fell silent for less than a second. He knew what she meant, even if it all was confusing now. “They’re all so fucking proud of being like that, heh?” There must have been a middle ground, somewhere being accepting who you are and feeling like the next best thing since easy-to-spread butter. 

She stepped away, his eyes settled on her shoes, if only to make sure that she wasn’t going to leave him there now. Yet, he appreciated her giving him back his space. He nodded quietly, if only to vehiculate his thankfulness. Now all he needed to do was keep his breathing steady, and to focus on what he wanted to hide. His legs would remain the same, his horns would still curl on the sides of his skull, but soon they'd be gone.

With a feeling of control, of some sort of control, he crossed her gaze again. At last she'd see him in a way he didn't mind being seen. 

"Banshee… I heard stories about you… back when I was a wee boy," he didn't quite smile, he didn't feel like it. Those stories always scared him back then. He wasn't sure how he felt now. "You too heh? It was nice, wasn't it. When things were simple ?"

The man was right – he did simply need to concentrate. Regan stayed quiet, letting him focus, knowing he probably hated having anyone see him like this. She wouldn’t bring up his appearance again. That would be easy to do, given how much she wanted to forget what she had seen. The horns dissolved away like they had never been there to begin with, nothing more than a figment of an overactive imagination. That didn’t make seeing the process any less disturbing. Regan averted her eyes, somehow more stunned to have the horns and crooked legs gone than there to begin with. She had seen stranger, experienced stranger, but it was unpalatable all the same. “You fixed it.” Regan said simply, though regretted her choice of words immediately after. But they were true.

That same, eager part of her kicked again. Her thoughts wanted to pour out of an overflowing dam. I tried to remove my wings, I wanted to disfigure my larynx, I screamed for hours when I saw myself, I hate it, I hate them. But those couldn’t be her thoughts anymore, could they? No, they belonged to someone else. Someone lacking in discipline, purpose, and dignity. Someone who hadn’t yet been broken and built themselves up anew. That mousy, awkward doctor who died along with her father. Regan bit her tongue, tasting blood and wishing for a metallic tinge that never came. “Not about me, personally, I assume. You’re the only one here who knows.” Her eyes flicked toward the alley entrance, as if someone could have snuck toward them while they had been talking, then back to the man’s. “I don’t know whether to say the stories are probably true, or probably false. Things… felt simple. But they never were. It was always lurking, a pathology in my family’s lineage.” She hesitated, and ultimately decided not to explain further. The banshees didn’t like others knowing how the young ones started out – weak, powerless, and stupid. Her loyalty was to them.

“That… aside, are you alright? Did your life flash before your eyes?” A cliche, but one with some truth. Regan had found that her biggest and worst regrets came digging themselves out of the grave as she was digging her way in. But she was always pulled back out, or pulled herself back out, and the regrets stayed buried.

You fixed it. Damn right. “I did, thank fucking God,” the faun brushed his hand against the grey fabric, smoothing out wrinkles his actual legs might have left in it, then ran his fingers through his hair, as if it would make everything better. It made him feel better, and perhaps was this all that counted right now. His shoulders dropped and he rubbed his hands against his face. This was fine, no one had followed them, which meant that no one knew what the fuck they’d just seen was very much real, which meant that he’d be okay, because she was like him. 

It’s okay, he repeatedly told himself. It’s all okay. As long as he believed it to be true, it would be true. 

His eyes fell on her. She was quiet now. There wasn’t much going on in head then, and he wondered what was happening in hers. The silence was welcome though, and he almost felt regret when she spoke again. “Not about you, no. Just… Stories about the woman who wails for the dead,” he read stories about fauns too, many, more than he could possibly count, but none of those helped him make sense of who he was. It was always about who he was supposed to be, and it felt like reading an horoscope written by someone who didn’t give a shit. 

He glanced toward the entryway, “I won’t tell anyone about you, don’t worry.” His gaze dropped to the floor, which would be when it fell on his violin case. He hoped it managed to protect it… Squatting down to check on it, he looked up at her. “I found out when I was entering teenagehood, one day you’re perfectly fine, the next, you’re…” he didn’t have the heart to finish his sentence. What was there to say here? Pinching the strings on his instrument, he left out a sigh of relief as they rang out exactly like he wanted them. He did it a second time, if only to be sure, and with a shake of his head, answered her question quietly first. “I just froze. I think I thought of my mom, and my cat,” and the fact that he didn’t want to go just yet.

“I appreciate it.” Regan said, with no emotion. It didn’t matter whether or not she trusted him. He would stay true to his word, or he would not. And given their shared trauma, she wasn’t willing to attempt to bind him to his words. “I won’t tell anyone about you, either. I’ll pretend I never saw.” For a second, she tried to summon that mental image of the man’s legs, all bent in grotesque directions, but it wouldn’t come. It would be easy to repress. “A teenager, huh? Your entire life must have been uprooted.” It seemed young, but she had witnessed those much younger being forced into their nature. At Saol Eile, the standard age seemed to be around 4 or 5, though each family had their own customs and traditions. “I was twenty seven. I know I still look about that age. I’m not. There’s no going back. The only way is forward.” The fat rat scampered across the alley again. She wanted to blow it up.

“What do you have there?” Regan nodded toward the instrument in the man’s hands. It was clearly important to him, judging by how he clung to it when he was about to be struck by a car. More important than his beverage, at any rate. An alleyway hardly seemed to be an appropriate spot for something of such great importance to him. And now that his appearance was under control, they could depart. “Shall we? I need to replace my coffee.” 

“I appreciate it,” Conor repeated with the same deadpan air she sported moments ago. What was there to say about her anyway? He hadn’t seen her do anything out of the ordinary. Just two people having a chat, in an alleyway. 

“Yep, I was 13, nearing 14,” he sighed. He hadn’t told anyone about that. He supposed it made sense she knew something no one else knew of yet. “I left home around then,” the thought brought a smile to his face. Ironically, that had to be perhaps his saddest memory from childhood. Her words were an echo to his, except for the fact that he had kept aging ever since that day. “I’m not 13, obviously,” his expression had fallen back into the usual air of jadedness, as he told her of things that were simple. The truth was simple, memories weren’t so. “You’re right though, there really is no going back,” certainly no way back home for him. His family was aging normally, they’d be gone in a year, in a few decades for some others. And then it would just be him. 

He glanced over at the rat, then back at the violin in his lap. Putting it back into its case, he slung it over his shoulder and nodded along. “And I need to replace my cup of tea.” He paused. “I’m Conor.” 

Whatever the man’s story was, Regan was certain it was as pitiable as her own. Maybe more so, as the tethers between her past and present were ever-thinning. She felt sorry for her old self, and that was all. Regret was to be rejected and removed. He had gone through no such evolution, and she could see the sadness heavy around his eyes even as he tried to stuff it away. She had questions about his childhood, his family, and how he managed to get through each day, but she feared asking them. She was supposed to be bigger than her fear, but in this case, she knew addressing her emotions would only lead to so many more. And he deserved to move on, too. 

Regan tilted her head at the introduction. Before, there was some anonymity. She had shown too much of herself to someone, but that someone had been a stranger. And she’d seen too much of him, but without a name, who could she tell?

Conor, apparently, trusted her.

“Dr. Kavan–” 

Maybe she could extend a little bit back.

“Regan. I’m Regan.”

[vanishingreyes]

TIMING: Today, in the evening LOCATION: Downtown, Conor’s window PARTIES: Conor and Xóchitl SUMMARY: Music reaches Xó’s ears and she approaches Conor’s window, eager to know who might be producing all that sound. CONTENT WARNINGS: parental death mention

It had been a while since he’d started a new piece. He’d been playing with an ensemble before he got here, and they would practice twice a week all together. He missed that, but he hadn’t really had the time to search for something like that. The shop had kept him busy, and all those new things he learned about himself, all those fae he had met, they’d made his anxiety spike. This was meant to help with that. He always felt better after playing. 

Adding notes with his pencil and his felt pens, the faun was finishing his first read of the first pages of Sibelius’ violin concerto. Usually, his cat ran out whenever he picked up his violin, and today would not be any different. Deciphering a score was not the most pleasant part, surely, but it still managed to fill his heart with joy, even as he noticed which part would be tricky for him. It wasn’t Paganini, thank God, but those damn trills were going to be a damn nightmare.

He could lose track of time when he played, but he tried not to inconvenience his neighbors too much. He’d just arrived in the neighborhood, after all, and he doubted they’d approve of him for long if he played past 9pm. 

The near-summer evening air was cooler than the day, though still warm enough. Which was ultimately for the best, because Xóchitl did prefer the heat - at least if given the choice between that and the cold cold. So a walk was nice, made doubly so by the fact that she’d gotten to leave work early - there’d been no clients after 3pm, and she’d taken advantage of that to go and do some reading at the library. Another small test to see how easily she’d be able to access the archives, the past news clippings, no matter how much she didn’t entirely like the idea of dealing with that.

How much she disliked the fact that Mackenzie’s death hadn’t been a front-page story. Except that, if she were entirely honest with herself, having something like that be complete front page news was likely some great level of entirely inappropriate. 

She glanced around her, the streetlights bringing her out of her thoughts, as was the sound of a violin playing. “Well, I know I’m not in some fancy-ass European city,” she muttered, more to herself than anybody else, “so what’s…” Xóchitl looked up, trying to discern the source of the noise. 

“Nice music!” She called, hoping whoever was playing the music would hear.

It didn’t take much more than two words for the faun’s cheeks to turn pink. A great part of him was tempted to remain away from the open window, another, small part felt bad to leave a stranger alone in the street with her words and, surely, a whole lot of embarrassment at being ignored like that. With a sigh, he dropped his instrument from his shoulder into his left hand and headed toward the opening to look down to the pavement. 

There was a young woman looking around, up at the house facades, trying to point out precisely where the sound came from. It struck him as odd. Conor always had good ears, and never had this problem. Maybe she had bad ears. “Hi,” he gave her a small gesture of his hand, something meant to accompany his words. “Tha-” He stopped in his tracks and offered a sheepish smile. “That’s nice of you to say, but huh, it’s really not…” 

“I mean, I’m not a musician,” Xóchitl called back up, finally having found the source of the music, “so I’m not an expert, but I think you sounded good, and my moms used to take me to the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Boston Pops, so I like to think I’ve got a decent ear for that, and besides, I like it, so that’s all that should matter, right?” She raised an eyebrow up at him.

“But also, if you don’t consider that nice, what do you like, as far as music goes?” She’d stopped fully now, feet planted on the ground, looking up at his window. “I’m Xóchitl, by the way, just so you know the name of the woman who’s decided to talk to you in the middle of the night.” She made a small face, “I play piano, by the way. So maybe I know something about music.”

“You’re from Boston?” He hadn’t been in Boston in years. His whole family lived there and that was precisely why he couldn't go back. His accent still remained, after all this time, in the way he dropped his Rs or rounded his Os. 

His cheeks turned red and while she commented on his music taste, he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "It's not that I don't like what I'm playing, but I'm just reading the notes right now. It has no heart right now…" he paused . "Give it a few weeks," with a small smile, he set his violin in his lap, sitting against the window sill. "I'm Conor, I work downstairs," he explained. She told him she played the piano. He frowned. "I thought you said you weren’t a musician.” Shifting lightly, he glanced down at her : "how long have you played?"

“Lived from when I was eight, but no, I’m from here.” Xóchitl made a small face, again, before shaking her head. “I mean not literally here, I grew up on World’s End Isle. Which doesn’t have a lot of kids. Or didn’t. I don’t know what it’s like now.” Mackenzie had visited all the time. Even if the house was up for sale, Xóchitlwas pretty sure she wouldn’t have been able to live there again. It was bad enough being in the town, going back to her childhood home that probably had “Mac and Xó, BFFS 4EVER” carved into her closet door would’ve been entirely impossible.

“Are you inviting me back in a few weeks, then?” Her lips curved up into a smirk. “I’d be honored.” Xóchitl gave him a small wave as he sat at his window sill. “Flower shop? I’ve been meaning to stop by, so now I’ve got enough more of a reason to.” At his question, she paused. “Twenty-one years, I think? I started when I was eight. How about you?”

“Ah, well I got here a couple of months ago. You must know Boston better than I know the area,” the faun assured her, leaning his back against the window’s frame to get more comfortably seated. “I have only been there for wedding venues. I didn’t take much of a look around,” he didn’t have much time for that. “People don’t like having kids at weddings nowadays. It’s a bit sad.” Sure enough, they were loud, and they kept moving around, but he remembered he liked weddings back when he was a little kid. Maybe he didn’t though, and he just liked spending the whole day with his mother instead of waiting for her to come back home from work.

“You want to come back in a few weeks?” Conor looked down at her, and catching her smile, felt his cheeks warm up a little. Was she making fun of him and questioning his word or did she really want to listen to the progress? "Huh, sure. If you want," he glanced down at the front of his store then back at her, or rather at a spot on the window sill. "Oh I started when I was 6 years old," with a half shrug, he glanced up. It wasn't precisely a lie, and it beat telling her he'd practiced for around 60 years. "You know, I think that makes you a musician." He noted, unsure of what she might have meant by that.

“I might, yeah.” she kept her gaze focused up toward him. “But I’m not a tour guide by any means.” Xóchitl nodded, “That’s true. My moms had me at their wedding, but to be fair, they couldn’t legally get married until just about a year after we moved.” That was too much personal information, and Xóchitl involuntarily winced - backpedaling a few steps. “It is sad, I mean, I get it sometimes, but never wanting kids anywhere seems a bit weird.” She and Mackenzie had gone with Mackenzie’s mom more than a few times to help cater events - she was a baker or a cook or something that Xóchitl couldn’t quite remember just this moment, but she did remember eating frosting out of a bowl next to her friend, feet hitting the doors underneath the countertop.

“I’d like to.” She offered him another smile. “We can communicate from the window again, I’m not inviting myself in, unless you’d like that.” Xóchitl sighed. “Two years before I did, then. He looked to be roughly her age, maybe slightly older - though she’d never been too good at guessing ages. “Well, then I’ll accept it, even though that won’t make me change my actual job, it’s nice of you to call me that.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want a tour,” Conor preferred exploring the area at his own rate, without rushing through town. On his first day in town, he had gone for a walk in his neighborhood, and ended up enjoying a stroll by the sea front. It was a nice town, if you could forget about that weird smell that enveloped it now for months. His garden provided for a nice change of air, but even his flowers weren’t enough to completely fade off the scent of rotten eggs and charcoal. 

“Oh you have two moms?” He fell silent, as if digesting the information. “I have one. I have no dad though,” he was happy to keep it at that. Conor had just gotten used to write parent as a singular word, that was all. His father wasn’t worth thinking about. Conor felt he’d have felt even better had he not existed at all. 

“That’s no way to listen to music,” he protested. He wouldn’t invite people over, he couldn’t bring himself to, but he wouldn’t allow for this either. “We could meet elsewhere?” The town was large enough, and offered enough options when it came to meetings with strangers. “I suppose. We look about the same age,” he gave her a small nod. “I don’t think you need to make it your job to call yourself a musician,” was it how that worked? You could play music for decades and still not be considered a musician? 

I wasn’t offering one. Xóchitl nearly said, but Conor was being nice, so she held back. “Yeah, that makes sense, and I mean I know some ways around town, but not having lived here in about two decades makes me not the best choice. 

“I do.” She nodded at his comment. “Well, my moms have always been married, so I also don’t have a dad. I - I’m sorry you don’t, though, if that was something you wanted.” Having two moms had always been the best for her - though she didn’t know of any other way, of course - but Xóchitl liked to think that even if she had the chance to have had a dad, nothing could ever have topped having the two best moms in the world.

“Sure, we could meet elsewhere. Whatever works for you, though I suppose if you want me to play, we’d have to go somewhere where there’s a piano. My house is always an option, but that might be too soon.” Xóchitl fought off a smirk. “That’s fair. Also maybe it’s just personal preference? I don’t know. If you want to consider yourself one, then I say you are.”

“That makes you a terrible choice,” Conor agreed. He wasn’t sure how much the town had moved in over 20 years, but it was safe to say that she didn’t remember much of it either way. How much did he really remember of Boston outside of the block around his mom’s apartment, aside from the way to school, or the park? 

He gave her a shrug. He didn’t like talking about that. “I’m glad you had a happy family,” not that his family had been unhappy, but they weren’t the sort you found in picture books. Every father’s day, Conor was one of those rare kids who came back home with a present he couldn’t give to the right person. His grandfather collected them dearly. He wondered if things would have been different for him, with a father. He wondered what would have happened if his father had stuck around. His expression darkened the more he thought about it. He tried to shake it off before she would notice. 

“Huh, yeah. I am pretty sure you’re not supposed to invite strangers over to your house,” even if he knew her name, he didn’t know her, aside from the piano playing or the two moms thing. “I play music, and so do you. We’re musicians,” the faun rose to his hooves, turning around to come lean his elbows on the edge of the window instead. “Don’t you have one of those portable keyboards?” 

“It does, I’d agree.” Which at least meant that there was little-to-no chance he’d ask for her view of the town. Which was something she was more than happy to have anybody not ask her about. Even if Xóchitl couldn’t pretend that she’d never lived in town (hell, there were still diner workers and librarians who’d known her twenty-one years ago), she could pretend like she didn’t still have a good portion of the town’s layout memorized. If only because maybe, somehow, that would help with figuring out what happened to Mackenzie.

“I’ve never taken that for granted.” She knew not to. Xóchitl also knew that her moms wouldn’t have faulted her for anything, but that was just another reason to love them. The fact that they truly did love her unconditionally. She’d elected to make cards and gifts for both of her mothers whenever the class did father’s day things – of course, she celebrated mothers’ day with both of them, but more gifts for them were never bad, and she’d taken to glaring at any teacher who questioned what she was doing. Thankfully, very few ever had.

“Seems like one of the first rules regarding stranger danger, huh?” Xóchitl offered another shrug. “Okay, so not that. We do both play music. We are musicians.” She offered him a bright smile as he came to the window. “I can see you better now, so that’s nice. But - yes.” Or she could buy one, because she preferred her non-portable piano. “Sorry, very good point, yes, I can bring it just about anywhere.”

“You shouldn’t take them for granted,” he paused. “They’ll be dead soon.” She looked about his age and he seemed to have forgotten, for a moment, that this was only true for him. Conor was nearing his seventieth year. Of course his mother was close to passing away. 

He returned to Xóchitl her smile, as though he never said something so grim. “That would be lovely, I look forward to it.” It would be nice, playing with someone again. 

“If you like it enough, we could ask around if others would be interested in playing with us,” he took a look down the street. “But I’m getting ahead of myself,” and a red tint colored his cheeks once again. “We can go buy music sheets across the street. The shop owner, Leti, she probably has them,” he paused. “Any piece you’d like to do in particular?” 

“I - yeah.” Reminders of death never sat well with Xóchitl. Because Mackenzie hadn’t been supposed to die when she did, they weren’t even double digits in age, and everything had gone wrong, then. “That’s true, I guess. Except they aren’t that old. They’re not even sixty, yet.” But he probably hadn’t meant that in a rude way. Maybe he was just far more matter-of-fact than other people were. “I look forward to it too.”

Xóchitl nodded, “that could be good, we can see about it.” She nodded again, “Leti? I know her, actually. She’s wonderful, and she’d have excellent taste in music, so I can tell that you’re smart, and you’ll do well with this sort of thing. Logical. If that makes any sort of sense. But I’d be up for anything - whatever strikes your fancy.”

Sixty. About his brother’s age. He didn’t want him to go so soon, but Conor knew he had no control over it, and that all he could do was cherish whatever time he had left with his loved one, even if he could never see them again. 

“You can tell that I’m smart?” Because he knew the woman across the street sold music sheets? “I’m really not that smart,” he shook his head, although didn’t care much to do more to dismiss her words of kindness. “Anyway, I’ll pick a sonata tomorrow. We can meet sometime this week to read it and start practicing right away,” he didn’t take her hesitancy to choose something as anything else but that. It didn’t occur to him that perhaps she was avoidant to get herself out of the interaction. He knew people lied all the time, and yet it never occurred to him that they did. 

“I mean, I’m not an expert on qualifying what is smart, but yes. Besides, aren’t you trying to make a good impression on me? It’s perfectly fine to say that you are, even if it’s a bit of a lie.” Xóchitl shrugged. “Well, you seem at least passably smart, then. You are a nice conversation partner, and I’ve enjoyed this.” She nodded, though she didn’t know if he could see that. “Sonata is perfect, and should I give you my number, or would you prefer to be called upon on the street again?” She’d only not chosen a piece because of her curiosity about what he’d pick. Nothing more - other than the fact that she was tired and didn’t want to try and think of one at the moment.

“I’m sure we’ll be experts in no time.” Xóchitl let her lips curve into a smile that was nothing but kind; a gentle sort; because the idea of playing music not all by herself was a very good sort of idea.

It’s fine to lie? His eyebrows curled. No. That was not fine. Lying was not fine. “Passably smart, alright, I’ll accept that,” shifting to rest his hip against the sill, he looked down at her, pointing toward the store front beneath him. “Just knock on my door, alright. No need to complicate very simple things, is there?” 

He gave her a shrug as his only answer. He wasn’t sure experts would be the term. He had played for over 60 years, he was beyond that. If she had been playing for 20 years, he was sure she would be fine too, had she been serious about it. “See you then,” Conor gave the girl a nod and a small wave. He’d never been great with social cues, and it was no wonder he bumped his head against the window’s edge as he stood back up and disappeared beyond the curtain. “I’m fine,” he called out. Stupid.

[stromer]

“He’s improved his eating habits, he’s reading a book almost weekly to try to improve his brain… I know that sounds silly, but as a captain at 23, that motivates you, that motivates our group… He’s the engine for our team" — Conor Garland Quinn Hughes via the Dropping Gloves podcast

[captainshazamerica]

Satine version here

[canis-or-cannotis-lycaon]

@faunandfl0ra replied to your post “Group think time! If I told you I were a serial...”:

What the fuck.

​It's one of my group think activities. Would you not be fooled?

[heartsbreaking]

they have matching coats and are on opposite sides of each other's trauma, i think they should fuck.

featuring . . . cassandra argent & peter haIe

mutuals may interact, personals/non rp blogs do not touch

[closingwaters]

PARTIES: @faunandfl0ra @closingwaters

TIMING: A few weeks ago

SUMMARY: Teagan stops by for some tips and new additions to her plant family, quickly realizing that Conor was also fae. He wasn't thrilled at first, but the two get along and have some tea.

WARNINGS: None

The scent of everything floral was easy to find. Google Maps helped, sure, but Teagan used her nose to find the rest of the way to Inflorescence. Excitement brimmed over her skin, and she couldn’t help the extra bounce in her gait as she made her way to the door. How could she? Conor was obviously not human given his lack of technological knowledge. There were flaws in the logic, but that’s why Teagan took caution. She didn’t out herself or gave any indication that she may know something. It was safer that way.

“Hello? Conor?” The fae announced her arrival, and she beamed at the prospect of being immediately welcomed by Conor. He was nowhere to be found. The bell continued to ring as the door swung closed, the sight of all kinds of plants radiating color and beauty. Teagan’s pupils grew into saucers, like a cat experiencing enrichment for the first time. Her attention couldn’t stay in one place, only lingering for a blink before moving onto the next green life. She hardly noticed the man who owned the place making his way to her. 

When he was not in the shop, Conor usually retreated to the quiet of his garden in the back. There was quite a lot to do here. The previous owners clearly didn’t like the concept of nature and other than an ornamental lilac tree in a corner, there was nothing but lawn. What a fucking waste. Some plants would take a few more weeks to properly sprout out, but he knew he’d soon have pollinators again in here.

He was getting the soil ready for plantations when he heard the bell ring in the front, along with his name. It was someone he had already spoken to. He heard the quiet pads of ‘his’ cat climbing down the stairs. Little bugger had showed up in his flat while he was moving in, and Conor wasn’t the sort to resist that sort of intrusion. He hadn’t given it a name yet. It was a guy, by the look of it. He’d have to take him to the vet. 

He walked in through the back door, not surprised to see his cat on the counter.  As he saw her looking with those eyes at the flowers he kept around the shop, arranged by size and color, he figured that he’d probably appreciate her. “Hi,” he put on a small smile and wiped his dirty hands on his apron. “I was in the back,” he explained, then turned his attention toward the plants as well. “I’m sorry, you’re…” 

Oh. The hum that accompanied Conor further widened Teagan’s pupils. It was familiar. Lovely. Home! Wicked’s Rest was nothing short of a wonder, all but throwing more of her siblings at her. They’d never replace her actual family, but she couldn’t go back to them, now could she? Pretending was just as good, or at least, that’s what Teagan told herself. The lie constantly made acid rise in her throat, but she wasn’t lying to herself then. She was far too enamored with the man in front of her. 

Heterochromic eyes beamed, and she closed the distance, stopping just before intruding on Conor’s space. Teagan had learned the hard way that not all fae wanted even the briefest of connections. “I’m Teagan. We spoke on the web. Ring a bell?” Her eyes glanced at the furry friend on the counter, but they could wait. When it came to living creatures, fae tended to come first for the nix. Everything else fell too easily aside for her, especially when excitement overflowed in her heart. It was what drove her, and motivated her to pounce at any chance at being around a sibling.

“I’m sorry to be so forward, but what are you?”

Conor must have felt it the exact same second she did. His hands tensed and he held up semi closed fists in front of him as she strode his way. Oh no, not this again. He barely relaxed as she told him her name. Teagan, from the computer. The one who was swooning the ladies, he recalled. It had been a few days, there must have been a lot of swooning. “Huh uh,” his eyes moved around her figure while he tried to make some sense of all this. She seemed all too thrilled about this. Birdie had seemed just as fucking thrilled. Then there was him, who stared back at her with a dulled fright in his eyes. 

“Oh fucksake,” should he have been delighted too? Why was he inhabited with dread then? “You’re new to town too,” he mumbled to himself. Maybe she was like him : she didn’t know many other fae. It didn’t explain why she was excited, but he heard before that different people reacted differently to the same event. “Huh, I don’t suppose you’re asking me about my job?” He looked down at his apron. The shop itself was telling enough, and he could have sworn he told her this already. “I’m…” He glanced down at where his hooves should have been, if only to look away from her. “Well I’m a faun I guess.” 

Ouch. That wasn’t the pleasant reaction she was hoping for, but Teagan couldn’t really be all that offended. The dread in Conor’s eyes weren’t unfamiliar, having seen the same look from her own family. Fifteen years later, and she was finally seeing the look again. Still felt just as awful as when it happened at her Aos Sí. Her arrival was never a happy occasion, met with glares and distress. It was fair, she supposed. Teagan’s skin was always burning from the blood that she was covered in from a hunt she was told not to go on. She couldn’t help it. She needed to avenge her family. 

“Well…” Teagan pressed her nails into her cuticles, trying not to let the buzzing beneath her skin turn into pin pricks at her fingertips. “Faun,” She gestured to Conor, and then herself. “And nix. But you don’t seem too pleased with the idea so I can keep my distance, if you’d like.” Proud as she was to be a nix, Teagan knew better than to force her opinion on others. She didn’t like it when her family did it, and she wouldn’t dare become a hypocrite.

 "It's not…" He didn't like it when people were upset. He never did a great job at making people happy, not unless his magic did its thing. Still, Conor dreaded seeing people upset. He put a hand to his chest, as if to calm down the bubble of anxiety growing in here. "It's not you. I'm not…" He paused. "I don't know," the faun stammered. He only ever met fae who were eager to make him adhere to their way of doing things. He was raised by humans and he couldn't bring himself to change his ways. 

"I'm sorry, I'm fucking sorry." Because things were going swimmingly well when they were chatting the other day. Why did he have to be like this? His bubble of anxiety kept on growing. Pushing his palms against his eyes, the faun turned his back on her and went on to pick up the cat on the counter, as a barrier and as a friend. "I just… I don't know many people," like me, but the words wouldn't come out, as if he forbade himself to pronounce them, to accept them as true. Maybe they could speak of something else, for a bit. Even a minute. The faun's favorite question came to mind, and he briefly met her eyes before he asked: "what's your favorite flower?"

Teagan’s heart sank at the sight. Conor seemed at odds with himself, unsure how to proceed after seemingly upsetting her. She wanted to give him a hug, reassure him that she wasn’t offended, but his mannerisms gave a silent plea to keep her distance. Not like the fauns she’d met in the past, but there was no right way to be fae. Not to her, at least. He reminded Teagan of her sister, how she behaved when an influx of emotions rolled in her chest. Even the change in subject was the same, and she smiled wanly. She didn’t want to overwhelm Conor even further if she could help it. 

“Oi, is quite all right, lad. Not upset with you at all. You didn’t do a thing wrong. Take things as you need.” She nodded her head, smile growing for added reassurance. “Favorite flower are the dahlias. Lots of layers and lots of colors.” Teagan clasped her hands behind her back and shifted her weight from front to back, going back to her more playful nature. “What about you? You got a favorite or is that too hard a question?”

“I …” It was complicated to justify his discomfort when she was trying her best to be reassuring. Still he stood his ground, paralyzed as he was with the unscheduled confrontation. The cat was a lot more relaxed, vibrating softly against the faun’s chest. The purring sound helped. He attempted to pace his own breathing with it. His gaze turned toward the floor, the faun nodded along as she explained why she liked dahlias the most. He liked them a lot too. They looked fun, all round and puffy and colorful. 

“That’s a good pick,” not quite relaxed yet, Conor shifted the cat in his arms to let it rest against his shoulder, his cheek against its head. Then, he finally dared to look at her. She said she was a nix. He wasn’t sure he knew what that was. Something to do with the night, was his first guess. He didn’t smile often, yet something akin to thankfulness etched itself on his face. She was an understanding person, it seemed. That was a rarity. “Birds of paradise,” he stated. He had one on the counter behind him, which he moved for a couple hours each day, to make sure it got just enough light. It was the closest thing to a child he had. “Colorful, but… pointy,” pretending to be something they weren’t. A bit like him. He kept that reasoning to himself. 

Warmth began to spread in Teagan’s chest when Conor stepped out of his comfort zone and looked at her. She didn’t know the man, but something told her that, much like her sister, Conor also disliked looking people in the eyes. Teagan always wondered why that was, never really feeling discomfort when eyes locked onto one another. More often than not, she was the one causing people to bristle. Her father often called her eyes too intense to look at, but as nervous as Conor was, he didn’t appear to think so. At least, not past what appeared to be an act that was always nerve-inducing to begin with.

“Oh.” Birds of paradise…a beautiful flower from what the nix could recall. Flashes of purple, orange, and yellow hues in the shape of a hummingbird came to mind. Colorful and pointy indeed. Teagan nodded with a bright smile, scrunching her nose playfully, “Now that is a good pick. Favorites are usually a decent reflection of the person. Got a feeling I’m gonna like you with that choice.” She scanned the room and tucked her hair behind both ears. “ Do you got any of those here? Would love to take a peek if you’ll let me. Who knows? Maybe you’ll sway me into purchasing those instead of my darling dahlias.” Teagan leaned in, a friendly and happy expression of curiosity on her face. “What do you say, lad?”

Her enthusiasm helped. He still felt weird about being in the presence of another fae, sure. He always would, he assumed. Conor had known only his father, and then for about 50 years, hadn’t run into a single other member of his kind. The legends were true about Wicked’s Rest, and in just a few weeks, he had met three now, and felt many more as he took a stroll through the Common, or went on a walk around town. Offering a smile back, yet one that couldn’t quite reach his eyes yet, the faun nodded along. “I am glad you like them too,” he muttered. 

Realizing his hands were still covered with dirt, he let his legs lead the way toward the sink, finding comfort, although he knew he had no reason to feel this way, in the distance the counter put between them. She’s alright, he told himself. Breathe, he reminded himself. “Birds of paradise? Oh fuck, huh.. I mean, I do, but they aren’t for sale, just…” Well, he didn’t precisely sell anything that wasn’t local or seasonal, and this was just his one moment of hypocrisy. “If you really wanted one, I could make it happen, but… They’re not too happy under these latitudes, I’d have to give you a lecture on how to handle the humidity, the sun exposure, the nutrients and that sort of shit. It’s not rocket science, I guess, but it’s still a lot more complicated than it seems and people get really bummed out when they kill a plant, when really, I’ve killed a plant, everyone’s killed a plant in their life,” he didn’t stop to think that perhaps he was both being boring and oversharing. Talking helped, it always did. Maybe this was why he didn’t lean away when she leaned in. “As for dahlias it’s not the season yet, but I was planning on planting some in my backyard,” why was he telling her this? Fuck. “If you want them to blossom come September, that’s the right time.” 

Conor was the soft type, a stark contrast to the nix in front of him. Lucky for him, Teagan knew how to calm her disposition for the sake of others. It wasn’t a lie to do so, not really. Some people couldn’t handle loud for too long, or not at all. It would be rather cruel if she didn’t make the accommodation. At least in her mind. Conor was doing her the courtesy of at least trying despite his obvious nerves. She needed to do the same. 

“As much as I would follow instructions to a tee…” Teagan tutted to herself, “It would just feel inconsiderate when it’s not the right environment for ‘em. What do you got that I can buy? I’ll be more than happy to wait for the dahlias, too.” She chirped with a smile on her face and a tilt to her head. “I’d love to get something beautiful you put together, along with any bulbs I can plant meself.” Arching a brow, she inches forward, finger tapping on her chin. “Could you lead the way? Won’t touch anything either unless it’s okay.”

“It’s doable,” Conor pushed himself to the side, revealing the one he had sitting on the counter : an icicle wooden stick stuck out of the soil, reading not for sale. “And if you do things well,” which he felt like she would, “they can thrive too.” He smiled, for once matching the expression on her face. She was pretty, but when she smiled, it felt as though the sun shone through, and he had no doubt that she had done a lot of swooning with those ladies. 

His shoulders relaxed, even though this all came with the promise that she was about to come into his garden. “How about a flower crown,” he made quite a lot of these, because they were easy to make from scraps, broken stems and flowers who couldn’t fit in a normal bouquet. This month, he made them pride themed, and he assumed she would like them.

Conor set the cat down on the floor, letting him lead the way to the backyard and picking up a crate of Dahlias tubers from an old looking wooden table. His shovel was somewhere in the back, near the newly planted sunflowers. “They need a deep enough hole in the ground. Around 4 inches deep. The soil here is clayey and heavy, so you’ll need to bring a bit of sand to drain, and a little compost, to feed,” he explained, scratching at the back of his neck briefly before he reached in his apron for his gloves. 

To watch a master in his element was a wonder, a true honor that very few got to witness. Such things were intimate, far too vulnerable to let just anyone look in. Teagan smiled with awe, careful to not get too excited at the prospect of both getting a flower crown and gaining entrance to Conor’s garden.

“A flower crown sounds lovely. Oddly enough, I’ve never worn one. Never thought they were much my style, but if it’s made by someone of your expertise, I’m more than happy to wear one.” Teagan followed dutifully, watching the adorable cat that so happened to be leading the pair to their green destination.

While Conor instructed, it was difficult to focus. The garden, as new as it was, already had so much love packed into it. Fresh soil and tools marked with the hard work Conor had put in. Not only that, but Teagan felt at peace in his world. So much so that her chest felt light for the first time in Fate knows how long. “Wow.” She whispered, blinking away the distractions to watch Conor again. “Sorry—I’m listening. It’s just—I mean…” Teagan chuckled, shaking her head at herself. “You’ve just got quite the garden.”

“They are everyone’s style,” he could pull it off, and so could she, which wasn’t to say that all flowers would do. Conor felt like daisies worked best for him, because he liked yellow the most, and because his hair was usually so messy smaller flowers would have gotten lost in there. “You said you were a nix earlier,” he went to pick up a bucket, shovel some sand in it, then returned to the spot of his garden where he intended to plant those dahlias. “What’s … Well I suppose what is a nix, because I don’t think I’ve ever met one,” he was curious. The thought of meeting new fae still terrified Conor, who never had done great with new things, but Teagan was being gentle and he felt like she wouldn’t mind his questions or his curiosity. 

“Yeah? Than-” He pressed his lips together. Regan would have been so proud. “I appreciate it. It’s a lot better than it used to be.” He didn’t like large lawns, and aside from a patio where he set up a table and a couple chairs, and another corner where he’d hung a hammock between tall trees, there weren’t many spaces in his backyards meant to remain in his complete control. He had plans for a water fountain, to help the birds get their water. He also wanted to add more feeders, but his priority was to set up a nice florison plan for the seasons to come. Perhaps, later, he’d try adding a beehive, and maybe, even later on, try to build projects with the city council regarding biodiversity. It wasn’t too bad, but the Common was a bit uninspired and outdated if you asked him. 

Motioning her to come closer, he dug up some soil, and put it in the bucket. He did it again two times more. “When you get that ratio between the sand and the soil, you can mix it together with your hand,” he explained, “we’ll be using that mix for a few plants,” then, kneeling down as well as his legs allowed him to, the faun put his hand into the hole to test the depth. “Alright, we can plant a tuber in there,” he pointed to the crate that sat not too far from her feet. “I’ll give you a few of those. You’ll let me know how they’re growing, yeah?”  

Conor was a sweet one. Once you got past the hard exterior and momentary effects of shock, his true personality shone through. Teagan felt more than thrilled to experience it. She smiled fondly at the man, hugging her knees as she crouched. “Yes, I am a nix. A subspecies of fae. A nymph. So that means I’m in tune with a part of nature. Mine is freshwater. We nixies make sure the water remains healthy and clean, keeping the balance on our side of the ecosystem.” 

Teagan knew she was rambling at that point, but she couldn’t help it. She was proud of what she was. All the memories of learning how to swim, of her family full of fish-like people that swam together and laughed happily as one big unit. But it wasn’t as big anymore, and Teagan hadn’t seen her family in years. So none of that really mattered anyway, and Conor was requesting her assistance. 

“Oh. Yes. Ratio between sand and soil, and erm…” Tubers. In a crate. Teagan shook the fog away and handed the crate over to Conor, nodding along to what he said. “Of course. And if I have any trouble, you’ll be the person I call.”

“Freshwater nymph,” he repeated, getting down on his knees to get more comfortable. He always had felt most comfortable with his hands in the dirt or grazing the strings of his violin. He knew one part of that had nothing with him being a plant nymph, and the other part probably all to do with being a faun. “That’s cool.” She probably didn’t have to feed on people. He hated that he had to do that.

Conor took one of the tubercules from her crate, nodding politely as if to say thanks, then returning his attention toward the hole in the floor. Setting it down in the dirt, he glanced up at the nix. “So the easiest way not to mess up is to plant it sideways. The stem’s always going to try to grow toward the sun, but if you plant it upside down…” Well then, good luck getting anything out of your tubers… “Then you cover it in your sand and soil mix, and voilà,” simple as that. “You’ll probably want to plant more than one tho… Just put one big step between each of them, alright?” 

Sitting down onto the floor to get more comfortable, he looked at her. “You’re not the first fae I meet here,” he began. He wasn’t sure how to say this without once again looking like the odd one, or seeming too direct, too nosy or god knows too what else. “Do you…” He paused. “Are you…” It wasn’t so hard to ask, was it? He just wanted to know if all the fae were all so comfortable about who they were, happy to be the way they were.

“Fascinating…!” Teagan smiled, in complete awe of the way Conor looked so comfortable and like he could understand the plants. He was doing something he was passionate about, and anyone that watched him would be able to see what she did. “I’ll be sure to follow your instructions. Will get my home looking like a painting with how much color these little lads will add.” Teagan settled with Conor, propping her chin on her hands and smiling as he began to speak. 

Her brows began to raise slowly with surprise, the obvious anxiety Conor had becoming prevalent. Despite having met a few fae, it didn’t seem like he had much experience with his own people. “What is it, mun?” Teagan scooted closer, eyes growing sincere with a small tinge of worry. Not about the question, but the fact that Conor looked like he felt bad about having one in the first place. 

“Go ahead and ask what you’d like. I’m not gonna be upset with ya. Truth is, I like talking to ya so far, and if you’re unsure about something, my mam would say questions should always be welcomed.”

“I think so too,” Conor pressed his fingertips against the ground, making sure the tubercle was cozy in there before he sat back to look back at her. He didn’t generally like having people in his garden, but there was something about Teagan that had made him feel immediately at ease. Their introduction in the shop might have been clumsy, she had this aura to her that made him feel simply good. 

Still, as they started to talk fae matters, he had to admit that even that was not going to cut it. He hadn’t discussed it often in his life. His experience as a faun could be summed up to be approximative and disastrous. “It’s just… You don’t seem to be ashamed of being different. A lot of the fae I’ve met lately feel this way.” Conor didn’t go on, but the subtext was clear. Why couldn’t he feel the same way? 

Conor felt revulsed still when he saw his true form, and the only mirror he had upstairs was one above the sink. He didn’t like getting in the shower either, but if he didn’t pay too much attention to his legs, it usually did the trick. He just had to pretend he was one of these guys with really hairy legs. 

“I’m… Don’t mind me. I ain’t usually so fucking moppy about shit, I just… yeah, well we must have been brought up differently, heh?” 

The shame and guilt Conor felt was practically palpable. His body looked like it was in pain, as if it had an incredible weight on it. Teagan worried her lip, heart tightening. “No shame, no.” Her eyes remained on the ground for a minute, slowly trailing to Conor. She wondered what he’d look like in all his glory, but given how much he disliked it, Teagan doubted she’d be able to.

“I was born into a family of nymphs. Raised in the water and in several Aos Sís—those are fae communities.” Teagan offered a wan smile, “I suppose you were raised by humans, eh?” She tilted her head to the side, sympathy for Conor’s discomfort evident. “So yeah, raised differently—but that doesn’t mean you’re anything less. As much as I used to dislike humans, they’re not all bad, and your upbringing shouldn’t be a factor in how people treat you.” 

Teagan stood up, hand extended for Conor to take if he so chose. “Why don’t we talk more over some tea? You can ask as many questions as you like and we can get to know each other. It’s only right. You’re a cousin.”

“You can breathe underwater?” It was perhaps not the heart of her words, yet it was the bit he found most interesting, right before another: “Your community, is it in town?” 

He tilted his head down as she glanced his way. Was it all there was to his troubles : he had been raised by the wrong people? He didn’t think his mother did such a bad job raising him, but when his feet slowly started to shift into hooves, he wondered if she hadn’t been the one to contact his dad. He sure wished he had never met that guy. “My father bailed on my mom while she was pregnant,” he gave her a small shrug. He didn’t particularly like talking about that, but he supposed Teagan wouldn’t judge. She seemed kinder than most of the people he’d spoken to before, and since she was fae, he knew she wasn’t pretending.

“I’ve met one other faun. She’s a lot louder than I am. I wonder if I’d be like that if I had been raised by him,” with a scoff, he took her hand, getting back up on his hooves. “Th-” He cut himself off, “I’m glad we met. You’re a kind soul,” with a wider smile now, he invited her to get a seat at the small garden table he kept in the back, beneath an apple tree. “Green, white or black tea? I’ve got a whole collection in there.” 

“Aye. Can breathe and swim and my actual form looks like an axolotl. Might be a tad overwhelming to see right now, but I can show you some time.” Teagan blinked at the next question, brows furrowing slightly, but only for a moment. She quickly steeled herself, expression changing to something a little more content. “No. Haven’t seen that community in quite some time, sadly. On my own for now. Well…” A breathy chuckle huffed out of Teagan’s nose and she patted Conor’s shoulder gently. 

“Not so much now, eh? Your pa sounds like a right fucker, so who needs ‘im? You seem more than all right to me. Quite the gentleman, I think.” Another pat, “I’m glad we met too, mun.” Following Conor, Teagan plopped herself into a chair and gazed with wonder at Conor’s beautiful hooves. Maybe he didn’t enjoy them, and though she didn’t want it to be the case, Teagan knew there was a possibility he never would. But at the very least, she hoped she could wash away the distaste for them with the waves of her heart.

“Black tea, please. Splash of cream and sugar, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Axolotls are adorable,” Conor commented. He had seen a few in aquariums. He wondered if a human sized axolotl would still look as cute. Putting his gloves away in his apron, he tidied up the area around the new dahlias and put a bunch of tubercles on a pouch he made with his apron and his hand. “I see. Well, even if you don’t have them, I’d be happy to offer my garden as a safe haven for ya,” if he wondered why she wasn’t with them anymore, he figured that was none of his business. He didn’t answer with precision and he knew that was a right she should have had too. 

“You’re right about that. He is a major fucking dickhead,” he rolled his eyes though her next words brought a smile to his face. “You can thank my mom for that. I was born in the 50s,” with this being said, he parted ways with her to get back inside. His ears would pick up on her reply even as he passed the threshold. Putting her dahlia bulbs into a cardboard box with a bag of sand, he washed his hands before he headed upstairs to his flat. With a light chortle, he approached the window to speak to her from up there : “Cream and sugar? You heathen.” And yet as he walked back downstairs with a tray in his hands, there was a small jug of cream by her empty cup. 

He poured them both a nice amount of tea, and let her adjust to her liking with sugar and cream. “Perhaps you have questions yourself,” he tried. He felt he might have asked too many already, and that she’d find him rude, perhaps.

Teagan’s eyes began to sparkle. She was touched by the compliment and the kind offer. For their meeting to have gotten off on the wrong foot, it seemed like Conor had more than come around. “You are quite the wonder, Conor. I hope you know that.” He was more than that, really. Teagan knew there was power in the kinship they shared as fae, but he didn’t have the same upbringing, and sensing others overwhelmed him. The two of them were meant to meet, it seemed. Even better, they were meant to truly connect, souls ripe for intertwining even with being decades apart.

“The 50s? My, you’ve seen a lot of change then. Can’t even imagine. I’ve only lived three decades, and could very well live up to two centuries. Wonder how much change I’ll see then.” Teagan offered a smile, watching Conor whisk himself away and tease her from afar. She snorted, absolutely amused with the faun’s reaction. He was jesting, the tone in his voice making that apparent.

With a sigh, the nix prepared her tea, nodding her head lightly. “Got a few, but mostly just general questions when you get to know a lad. ‘Where were you born,’ ‘What’s your favorite color,’ “What’s the worst kiss you’ve ever had.’” A laugh escaped Teagan, and she shook her head. “That one was mostly a joke. Really, it’s just nice to feel at home again.” She patted Conor’s hand, head tilted with a warm smile on her face. “Let’s just see where the conversation goes. Take us like a tide on a beautiful summer day.”

“Huh uh,” Conor had ran a hand through his thick, bushy hair then, his wide eyes seemingly suggesting that he had never been told such a thing before. A wonder, he hadn’t been called that, although he once had heard the word monster coming from the lips of someone he liked. He was sure she could relate to that, people who weren’t like them, and didn’t understand. 

He got cozy in the opposite chair. He didn't look like it, but he was quite comfortable now. Holding his cup against his leg, he looked at her as she served him with the questions she had in store. He told her that he was born in Boston, and expressed concern that she hadn't noticed the specks of yellow scattered around. Then, she hadn't been upstairs. Upstairs was a lot worse. Yellow on the walls, yellow on his shower curtain, on his bed sheets. He liked it a tad too much.

He caught himself laughing in relief. Yeah, he didn't want to tell her about his disastrous dating history. Lots of cringing to be found there. But just like that, the pair got chatting of nothing and everything, and the end of afternoon passed joyfully, with the song of the cicada taking over laughter and chatter as the sun reached the horizon. 

[morganrielly]

[my-burnt-city]

[convulsionofhonesty]

these albums consume me. my god.

[kadavernagh]

November the 1st.Along with a 1,5 oz glass jar containing what is labelled as Goat flakes, Conor sends Regan a bouquet of white flowers decorated with a few stems of dried snapdragons (pictured below). It comes with a note that reads Don’t be a stranger.

[willstafford]

Bleak House

GIRL FROM THE NORTH COUNTRY Alexandra Theatre, Birmingham, Tuesday 7thFebruary 2023 Imagine Bob Dylan wrote Les Misérables but set it in 1930s dustbowl America à la Steinbeck.  If you can do that, you’re some way to understanding what this show is like.  Technically, a jukebox musical, raiding Dylan’s back catalogue and stringing songs together to tell a story, except it’s not, not really.  The…

[postambientlux]

• conor c. ellis • everything is okay • bit.ly/cCe-EiOk

[badmovieihave]

Bad movie I have Boys from County Hell 2022

[darkurgetrash]

Music Tag Game🎵

I was tagged by @commander-krios - thank you!! I decided to hit shuffle on my Spotify ‘liked’ songs because I don’t have a brain, so let’s see what comes up. 👀

RULES: write one song for every letter in your url and then tag as many people as there are letters in your url

D Duvet — bôa

A Alien — Thumpasaurus

R Road to Joy — Bright Eyes

K Keep the Car Running — Arcade Fire

U United States of Whatever — Liam Lynch

R Ready To Go Steady — The Go! Team

G Grapeface — Warmduscher

E Exeunt — The Oh Hellos

T Tachycardia — Conor Oberst

R Remember My Name — Mitski

A Apple Tree — AURORA

S Seven — Sunny Day Real Estate

H Here Comes Your Man — Pixies

A good selection I think! No pressure tags (also spelling my url except I don’t follow anyone with a k name so c will do hehe 😘) @drizztdohurtin @attackofthefangirl @rinbeastie @charmedcleric @underdark-dreams @rolanpilled @gender-in-a-blender @el-tur-el @tadpolebrains @rolansrighthorn @a2zillustration @savriea @heytheresunflower 💕

[tarjapearce]

Bad Teachings (Pt. 9)

Older! Miguel x Reader

WARNINGS: Slow burn, Relationship building, mild angst, friendship establishing, spanish learning with Miguel. Mild sexual innuendos, Age gap implied.

Summary: Instrospection and more bonding with Miguel.

A/N: Forgot to update this week. Hope you enjoy c: Thanks to my beta reader @oharasmommymilkers00 ❤️

Previous Pt. 10

—Remember that time when we agreed to take that Accounting class but we got it canceled last minute?

Oh god, don't remind me. Statistics was worse. Nearly fail that one, nearly tear my hair out of the stress.—

—You looked cute when stressed.

                                     Ahh, shut it.—

—It's true. And look how gorgeous you've turned.

          You just wanna get in my pants—

—I'm polite enough to take you out on dates before that happens, mon cherie. ;).

—If you want to, of course.

You chuckled at the message and covered your flushed cheeks. Same sly dumbass that had asked you to date him after one of your worst days in a class. His clumsiness had been one of the things that came in handy to conquer you.

Sometimes you often wondered about the what ifs and what not with Simon. And so far he had shown you nothing but kindness and respect. He'd be straight forward. Just like Miguel.

But Miguel was a bit cryptic when it came to his words. His warnings left you pondering and surmising over your current situation. He seemed unbothered by the whole thing. Rather amused and borderline intrigued.

As if waiting for a chance to prove himself right. But in truth, it was his own way to say 'I'll let you experience this for you to trust your gut more and learn to not be so gullible over pretty words' He was teaching you a valuable life lesson without actually intervening too much. Not that you knew anyways.

A life lesson that he had learned in the worst way possible. Sometimes deciphering him was a true challenge. You thought that things would be different considering the two of you had shared his bed. Not once but twice.

And again, he seemed unbothered by it. He was cautious, a bit too reserved with certain things, but honest. A bit too blunt, but somehow, an enjoyable company despite him having the personality of a black cat sometimes.

He was true to his words of hating formalities once a line was crossed. At least he thought of you as a reliable person. Your heart had leaped a bit too fast upon hearing those words and his reassurance.

The buzz of your phone pulled you out of your thoughts about Miguel.

—Want us to go to a date? A proper one, I mean.

Simon had sent and you couldn't help but stare at the screen.

Probably in another timeline it'd be Miguel asking you such things. But in this you were sure that he was currently working, cussing in spanish to his useless coworkers in his mind. The thought made you chuckle.

He knew what he wanted. But it didn't mean you were in that personal list.

Right?

He didn't seem the type to be actively seeking for a partner either. You sighed.

You didn't know anymore. Conflicted as you were you typed back a reply.

             Sure. Next Friday night at 7. —

Maybe trying to figuring him out wasn't your duty. If he'd want something, he'd tell you. And so far the silence from his end regarding such things made it all clear. Friends. That's what you two were and his actions only reinforced the thought.

-----

"Birdie?"

"Hm?"

Hobie threw in the hoodies in a box as you packed up the ceramics and fragile objects. He had asked your help to make some little renovations here and there back in the shop.

Despite the paintings that adorned the local were cool and part of the subversive aesthetic, they were fading and were in dire need of a retouch. Just like the front desk you found him in sometimes.

"Lately you seem to be up in the clouds a bit too much. You ok?"

"Oh yeah. Just had a rough day at work. Glad I'm here."

Hobie kept putting things inside the boxes, the voice of Conor Mason echoed through the place as he sang 'Animals' with his band, Nothing But Thieves in the background speakers.

"Do you have any particular favorite food from here, Hobie?"

"Wish the rich could be edible, but doubt they'd be good tasting. They're shitty as they are." He shrugged nonchalantly, "I settle for that little dinner two blocks away on east from here. Gotta luv me a good strawberry shake and chips."

"That actually sounds good."

"Innit? Might take you and the mates one day."

You chuckled. "Sounds good."

"How's the friend making thing going?"

You put all the watercolors in a box labeled with the provider's name.

"Oh great, actually. Met with an old friend of mine. My ex from college actually"

Hobie's face deadpanned and rolled his eyes. You huffed in disbelief.

"Geez, seems everyone has an opinion on him lately"

"He's your ex for a reason, birdie. Just saying"

Your face puckered, "We were just... friends that kissed back in college if I'm honest with the status. The Boyfriend-Girlfriend thing was merely honorary"

"Still, an ex." Hobie pointed out flatly, again.

"We barely saw eachother in between classes! Then he left to his homeland to finish his career."

"And that is?"

"Industrial engineer."

Hobie's brow quirked in derision but smirked

"And what about the big bloke?"

"Big bloke?"

Hobie brought the ladder and soon began dismantling the hooks the clothes were on

"That big, mean dog looking bloke that helped you with the door?"

You giggled at his description. They'd probably wouldn't like eachother that much and would hate to be in a Get Along T-shirt.

You opened a new text chat with Miguel and typed quickly

I know you dislike texting, but I finally had the time to open up my photography profile. —

You hit send after copy pasting the link to your media profile and put the phone back on your blazer's inside pocket. He'd take a while to reply.

"Oh? You mean, Miguel? What about him?"

"What does he do for a livin'?"

"He's a geneticist"

Hobie grunted "Must be nice for him to fuck around and find out with nature."

"He seems passionate on his work. Workaholic even."

Hobie stored the ladder and sighed, "Or he's trying t'cope."

"Cope? With what?" your face puckered

"Thought you knew him." He shrugged.

Even though unintentional, Hobie's words just reminded you of how little you still knew about eachother. And so far you still kept doing the effort in knowing him more.

You groaned to your insides to then let out a heavy sigh.

" It's complicated. I'm in... We are in the process of getting to know eachother and I don't want to push him into doing things he feels uncomfortable with."

"How old is he?"

"Fourty two."

"He'd tell you if something is wrong. Still, smells like dady issues."

Your cheeks grew warmer and your eyes widened at his words.

"It's not like that! He was my teacher. My dad was pretty loving and attentive by the way."

Hobie just laughed and you hit his shoulder playfully.

"To each their own, Birdie." He raised his hands in defense, "Jokes aside, the bloke seems good. Bitter but good."

"He is."

There was a little smile on your lips that vanished as a couple entered in.

A tall, black man with honey eyes and a kind face, a little afro ontop of his head and a soft stubble, a smile that only stretched upon seeing Hobie, followed by a blonde young woman with her right side of her head shaven and her hair with a pink ombre on its tips. Hand in hand.

"Miles! My man."

Hobie smile stretched genuinely as he hugged and gave him a secret handshake.

"What's up, Hobes?"

"Hey, Gwendy."

The both gave a heartfelt hug and then Hobie gestured towards you.

"This is Runway Girl. Corporate slave"

With a playful scoff and a roll of your eyes, you introduced yourself properly with handshake. Both looked in their fresh twenties.

"Nice to meet you both."

"Ready for new paintings?"

Miles spoke as he placed his backpack on a nearby table. Hobie explained that Miles was the artist that had painted his place. That they had known eachother for a couple of years, after all Hobie had moved to Nueva York a while back, surfing through apartments until he settled in your building.

"Please tell me he's doing graphic arts in college"

"He went for physics"

Gwendy, or rather Gwen spoke as Miles and Hobie chatted through new ideas on the paintings.

"Did he?"

"Yeah, the art-thingy is just his own business."

You couldn't help but groan

"God, I feel so useless and old right now."

Gwen giggled

"Totally get you. Barely on my twenty-one and I feel like I need to step up my game. Or I'll die."

You giggled. After a while of witnessing Miles skills on the grafitti, you told everyone their goodbyes, earning a little tease from Hobie and how obedient you were for da system. But truth was that you had been skipping meal prepping costing you a little splurge of money on food.

Once home, you changed into your pj's and removed your makeup, followed by the little ritual of a skin care routine.

The constant drip dropping in the kitchen's sink made you annoyed . No matter how much you tried, the leak kept flowing.

You snapped a picture and reported it to the landlord. Just as Miguel's name popped on your screen. Fingers padded at his chat box.

—Impressive, specially these two from this album.

He sent you a picture of a tied up man, black and white. Despite the bdsm-ish undertones in it, you had kept it classy and esthetically pleasing to the eye. Those had been your first essays back in Photography 101.

The other one was a hand holding a chain, connected to the model's collar. Same black and white setting.

Didn't know you were into this sort of stuff, Mr. O'Hara —

—Told you to quit calling me that. Are these your creation entirely?

      Of course. Had to bribe a classmate with a week worth of burgers to get these pictures, he knew bondage. —

— Well, it was really worth it.

You know?... You could be a great model for me 🤔—

—No.

Not precisely this sort of theme 🙄, dummy. Just pure portraits. —

Wanna practice them. And you happen to have a photogenic face.—

—Do I now?

You sighed and rolled your eyes with a little pink on your cheeks.

                   Sure. Are you in or... —

—Lemme think about it.

You were about to type when he beat you to it.

—Gotta go. Long day tomorrow at work. You have talent. Keep it up.

                                 Thanks! GN. -

—Goodnight, guapa.

-----

Even though you were in a meeting your attention wandered to the pretty skies out the window. A mix of blue, peach and a dash of lilac painting the endless blanket of clouds above, extending past your vivid imagination.

Some clouds had shapes. Or at least you tried to create 'em. A bowling man, a fork with a huge star in it. A bee in a skull.

Your lips curved involuntarily at the mental image, within a blink of an eye you were back on the meeting. Julius sure knew how to lead a team, but when it came to speeches he'd lose a crowd's attention span almost immediately.

He dismissed your team for lunch break.

Food was enjoyable. After all, no pleasure should make feel oneself guilty. You had prepared some Asian food thanks to a new YouTube channel you had found by mere coincidence as you were trying to add new music to your playlist.

You went through your phone media while eating. You updated to some stuff, liked some posts, laughed at the dad joke level memes, and checked on your new profile media.

A couple of comments in the ethereal flower themed album, some others in L'Art Du Bondage, the bdsm aesthetic album. And to your surprise a couple of new followers. The name m.oh2099 made your brow to quirk.

You stalked the profiles but so far the only that looked like a bot was the 99 one. No data or pictures. Deciding to ignore it, you resumed back to your eating.

The scarf was almost done, and by almost done you'd mean halfway there. As much as it pained you to use the first thing you created for other purposes, you were sure that this new one would look and would be built better. With a much more less error margin and something that was actually wearable.

Your mind rambled through the thoughts and soon you were back to your work. Making briefs was like an automatic process for you at this point.

And soon, you'd continue pouring yourself over work until you reached three thirty pm. Friday evening, seemed like a good chance to wander the city again. This time however, an idea popped in your mind.

Your legs crossed underneath the table as you sorted through your contact list and dialed Miguel's number.

It took a while, he didn't pick up. But returned the call almost immediately.

"Aló?"

His gruff and terse tone made you purse your lips

"Is it a bad time?"

You heard some shuffling and papers being crumpled

"Not really"

"You sure?"

Miguel sighed, "I'm sure. What is it?"

Taking a deep breath you spoke "I was going to city wandering today, and I thought it would be fun if you'd came. To relax us a bit. You sound stressed."

His sharp cheekbones rested on his knuckles with a softer expression upon your words. He was about to bring Simon into the conversation but gave a mild grunt as his joints popped together. His ass sure was sore to be spending the whole day correcting and approving projects.

"Sure. Need to stretch out my legs. Me duele el culo de estar sentado todo el pinche día." (My ass hurt from sitting all fucking day)

He grumbled the last bit to himself with a creasing face.

"Okay? Uh, see you at the same parking lot of last time then ."

"Right."

-----

He was there when you arrived to park the car. You put the lock and walked towards him.

"Sorry for making you wait, had a little brief in last minute."

You pulled out your phone and soon both started walking. You let him to go ahead for a couple of steps. You snapped a first picture of him looking with deep eyes over his left shoulder your way. Gray strands shone under the dying sunshine rays.

" What are you doing?"

"Taking natural portraits of you."

He crossed his arms and you snapped another picture. His upper lip scowled at the suddenness of the whole thing. He wore a navy blue shirt, black dress pants and shoes with his ever trusting matching belt and his glasses.

"Let's go." You giggled and took his arm.

You snapped more on the way, He crossing the street as you snapped one behind him, earning a good shot of his back. People stared at you both as you walked by, everytime he seemed to protest, you took another picture, and that's how you both discovered a new treasure.

A little French café. The sweet and coffee aroma instantly assaulted your noses once you came closer.

"Wanna try it?"

He just pushed your lower back inside.

Large glass windows with simple decor, a warm chocolate and beige color on the walls and the outside chairs and tables, scattered in the front. The name 'Belle Vie' printed in brown san serifs capital letters on the beige large tent in the entrance.

A couple of people filled in the outside tables as the inside was full. Seeing the different desserts in display on the front made you curious.

"I'll get this one. You invited last time." You spoke as you pulled your little hand purse as he took his wallet.

"Not a fan of that."

"Too bad."

You smiled and pulled him closer. Of course, he'd order a black coffee and a slice of French flan. You asked for a hot chocolate and a croissant to dip and went outside to occupy a table.

You had already took some pictures of the desserts and the place. He smiled at your eagerness.

"I now understand why you like wandering the city"

"Hope you're having fun"

You smiled before immersing yourself into editing the pictures as your order came. You giggled with a mischievous grin as you tweaked his photos.

"I think it's polite to pay attention to the person before you, guapa"

"Gimme a minute"

Your fingers slid and tapped dexterously and he leaned towards you. He called your name with a voice you knew too well. His teaching voice.

"Yes, sir?", You blinked dumbly and snorted, correcting yourself as you looked up at him "Yeah?"

You were pulled out from the instant trance as he pried your phone from your hands with a little smirk at your default reply.

"H-Hey! "

"Pon atención" (Pay attention)

He warned you while waving his index finger at you.

You gulped and stilled. Immediately looking at his expression. Smug, but serious. Like the one he gave you when saving your ass from failing his class at the library years ago.

"May I have my phone back, please?"

"You can chat all you want with Simon later"

That broke the sudden spell as you deadpanned

"Uh, what? No! I was editing your pictures. Give it back, please."

He chuckled with satisfaction plastered all over his face.

"Quick lesson. Say por favor." (Please)

"Por favor?" You tried as your tongue rolled with the words, making him laugh gently and you to pucker.

"Glad you find my ignorance in spanish amusing."

"Ah, no te enojes, preciosa. Im just kidding" (Don't get worked up)

He cleared his throat

"Look at my lips and how they move. Try to copy that movement"

And oh you were looking. Plump lips moved as he spoke, his voice making your brain tingle.

"-Por favor"

Again, you repeated the word and he seemed pleased that you didn't butchered the phrase.

"Relax your jaw. Let loose your face muscles." One hand cupped your jaw and he squeezed softly, making your lips to pout as you giggled.

"That's better. The tongue rolls better when you're loose"

"We're learning Spanish, right?"

You both chuckled and he let your face go with a soft look in his eyes.

"Of course. Show me the pictures"

"I happen to need my phone for that."

"And what do you say?"

"Can I have my phone back, por favor?"

He smiled and handed the trinket back to your hands.

"Gracias."

His eyes widened a bit and you giggled, "Thats the only phrase my brain could keep in the past two days. "

"You're doing good."

"Gracias."

With a bashful smile you finished the retouching and showed him the pictures you took of him.

"See? You're photogenic"

It was his time to give a shy smile.

"You're not used to be taken pictures."

"I don't like em much."

"Too bad. You're a natural at this. A bit more of production, my professional camera and my. The shots I could do with you."

"You can do better than this old man."

You rolled your eyes at the comment with a scoff.

"You're not old. And you look good. I'd say you're in a beekeeping age"

His brow quirked, "What is that?"

You shrugged with a smirk "That's your homework."

The waitress apologized for delaying as she brought your order. The treats instantly filled in your lungs. She suggested to put some whipped cream inside the chocolate. That it tasted better.

You sat to replenish your energies with a contempt smile on your faces. The sky was gorgeous, you were having a good time, the drinks and treats were delicious.

You could see his tense shoulders slumping at the taste of the coffee and Flan. You snapped a final picture of him about to eat a piece of Flan.

"That's my favorite" You showed him the picture without editing. He looked relaxed and borderline inlove with the coffee taste.

"I'm keeping it."

Just as he was about to take a picture of you, his eyes wandered away snatching all his attention to something. More like someone.

Mahogany eyes trailed after hot magenta. He put the phone away as his eyes followed the woman.

"Miguel?"

His attention was elsewhere and you followed his looking. Nothing out of the extraordinary but a group of people.

A tall black man with a lovely and fashionable coat, a woman with a hot magenta pixie-punk haircut and shimmery cinammon skin doing some shops, and a group of young adults with a dog. Nothing out of the common, except the pink haired woman.

You shrugged

"She's so pretty" You'd mumble casually as you dipped your croissant on the whipped cream mix chocolate, ignoring the subtle mood swing on Miguel’s face.

His eyes casted down to his coffee, the bitterness hitting a bit too hard as he sipped it, so he took a large chunk of the Flan to appease the rioting taste buds.

You attention full on the sweetness and pastries before you.

"Thanks for coming. Means alot."

He cleared his throat with a rasp and shook his head briefly.

"Thanks for inviting me. It was good."

His attention going back to you, despite his mind chanting to look up again, and when he did, the woman was already gone.

It wasn't a hallucination. He knew what he saw. You lips moved to say something and then smile.

A flurry of questions knocked at his mind's door, the noise coming too strong and his breath hitched.

"How do you say look at me in spanish?"

"Mírame"

You nodded.

"Miguel?"

your voice was pulling him out the unpleasant trance he got himself in.

"Hm?"

"Mírame" even though the accent was still there, he looked at you. Many emotions crossed his eyes, confusion and discomfit taking the lead.

"You ok?" He nodded.

He wasn't ok. Not when ghosts of his past came back to haunt him in such a subtle way that had rattled his mind. .

"I'm fine, guapa."

For once, he lied to you.

----

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