vespcrtines

[vespcrtines]

location: old mill status: closed @ofmourningdoves , @alainapricity

The night is thick with heat and hush, with summer dark that presses against his skin heavily, a coat he can't shrug off. Crickets sing somewhere out in the hollows, and the distant rustle of crispy, browning grass carries the old hymn of the land, the melody soft and endless.

And Azariah stands just outside the old mill.

A single suitcase rests by his feet, scuffed at the corners, overfilled and trembling at the latch. Inside it is barely anything: some shirts, a silver cross, a photograph from childhood, a book of sermons he marked and wept over before leaving behind his collar. The rest of what he carries is tucked inside him. The years. The ache. The decision.

He’s left a letter on his pillow. It wasn't long. Nor cruel. Just... enough to let them all know he’s gone by choice.

The moon hangs low over the tree line, sallow and watchful, her eye gleaming down at him with the weight of every action she's ever seen him do. Everything around him feels like it’s holding its breath, like the whole damn county knows something is ending. Or beginning.

He presses a hand to the wood of the mill door to steady himself, and when he breathes in, his heart is a fist. In his throat, a prayer is strangled back into a cough that he hides in his arm. And Missy, God, Missy, her name rings through him like a bell struck from bone. He has sworn himself to her, reverent, devoted with undeserving hands that held her face after all those years. He beheld her, right here, fingers trembling with the holy of it.

Alaina will be here soon. He can already feel her near, spectral and sure, the only soul besides Missy who has ever truly known him. The three of them, pulled toward something none of them thought existed for the likes of them. Something none of them thought they'd ever reach.

Azariah glances up the road. Waiting.

[vespcrtines]

She blinks, caught flat-footed. Well now, was that… an offer? Did sweet but sensible Laurie Sutton just go and ask her to dance? Her eyes go wide, round as carriage wheels, meeting his gaze as her head tips, catching the scent of sugar and marigolds and a look on his face she was dying to pick apart. Something about it gets her brain to itching, and she can practically feel herself float straight off the cobblestones.

Lord above, it sure as sin wasn’t Patty Finch on his mind when she’d started her teasing. She catches it plain as day now, the way his shoulders eased, not the stiff drop of a man disappointed, but the sag of relief, of the thought that he was able to skirt the question he didn’t wanna answer. Because Misty knew Laurie's disappointment well enough; she'd seen it in him before, every time some poor soul wandered past his mead stand and grabbed a bottle of water instead.

“Oh, Laurie, honey!” she crows, bright and warm, one hand flying up to her chest. “Are you askin’ an old hen like me to a dance?” The laugh bubbles out of her before the sentence finishes, merry and just a little wicked, a spark of shrewdness in her eye that she doesn't bother hiding. Her hand catches the plate he’s still fanning around, steadying it between them as she beams up at him, one of her wide, sun-bright Misty Apple smiles that could sweeten cream that’d already soured.

“I’d be honored, sugar,” she grins, and she leans in, her voice dropping to a warm little murmur meant just for him, “And don’t you worry none, baby, your secret’s safe. I might’ve pegged the wrong girl this time, but I got a nose for these things. You be good to whoever’s got you starry-eyed, y’hear?”

Panic flashes behind his eyes—just a glint, almost too quick to notice. Does she know about Tanny? Everything until now had been fairly innocuous, he thought. Not enough to raise any eyebrows, at least. But if Misty knows, it’s bound to have already spread to every corner of this tiny town.

As much as he adores Misty, he does not understand her penchant for gossip. He finds other people’s affairs wholly uninteresting. Hearing about how the Callaghan kid cheated on his math test or Mrs. Singh’s latest haggling session at Rustic Relics brings him zero joy—in fact, he finds it actively tiresome, as his brain has the bad habit of storing all that useless info away, neatly tucked in a box that he has no desire to open.

And because he lacks much contribution to any and all conversations, he’s bound to get an earful of the latest news whenever he stops by the Happy Apple.

But if she knows about Tanny… it wouldn’t be the worst thing, he guesses, but he wanted to keep this just for them, just for a little longer, before their families find out and it becomes a whole spectacle.

And then she says Patty’s name, and he feels his body deflate.

“Ah, no, no—wasn’t plannin’ on dancin’ today.” He shakes his head, still waving the plate rhythmically, up and down. He's never been much of a dancer—that's more his sister's thing. But then he hears his Mom’s voice in his head, saying something about being polite and taking cues and… is that what this is? Does she want to dance? “Unless, uh… you wanted to?”

[vespcrtines]

“Come on, Quen, you got it yourself-- Hey! Careful!” The sudden jostle of his shoulder is more surprise to Huck than anything, as Logan on his hip finds it hilarious, letting out a high, delighted squeal as he's shaken on his own version of a mechanical bull. Again, again! Again, Quen! “Ain’t shakin’ no babies here, kiddo,” Huck mutters, huffing out a breath as he shifts the boy higher against his side, much to a little blond toddler's disappointment.

He lifts his gaze to Quentin, one brow climbing as he takes in their expression. Lord above, they were dead serious about this. Eyes bright and sparkling, whole damn face lit up, bouncing in place over a stuffed Mothman. Huck’s mouth twitches a little.

“I’m sure you can just ask t’buy the prize, can’tcha?” he drawls, glancing toward the booth attendant with a pointed look. They look back at him and shrug. No skin off their ass. “Ain’t gotta work yourself up into a holy fit over it.”

But his hand’s already reaching for another ring.

“Hell, move over,” he says, nudging Quentin’s hand aside with a huff beneath his breath, something like a laugh, if you were optimistic. “Bet y’don’t believe I can do it twice.”

And damned if he doesn’t flick that next ring through the air with the same lazy, careless wrist-- Has to be careless. Has to be effortless, or at least casual enough for it not to hurt if he misses by a mile. Not that that was a concern, because his flick was clean as a whistle. Hits dead-center, bounces once on the peg, and settles like the good little ring it was.

Huck snorts, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Well, look at that,” he says, tipping his chin toward Quentin with a spark in his eye. “Guess I still got it.”

Quentin shouldn’t be flabberghasted, honestly, what were they expecting after all. This is precisely the reason they wanted Huck’s help in the first place. If anyone had any talent or skill when it came to hooking a peg like this, it was going to be Huck and boy, did he deliver. The ring goes flying impressively through the air and didn’t even consider missing that peg.

Excitement hollers out from Quentin’s mouth immediately when the ring settles.

They grab Huck by the shoulder and shake that man like he’s a tambourine. “That’s it! Yes! Huck, baby, that’s it! Again, again, I gotta get five in a row to get that mothman! Huck, please!” They’re begging now, oh lordee, they are begging. They don’t care how it looks. Big guy like him, all shoulders and chest and voice like molasses, sticky and sweet, clinging onto poor ol’ Huckleberry like his whole world depends on it. “Come on, come on,” like an angel on his shoulder cooing gratitude and positivity. “Four more,” the appropriate number of fingers gets held up eagerly and they beam at him. Their eyes are full sunbeams that could turn a marshmallow even squishier than the summer sun at noon.

[vespcrtines]

“Now, now, sayin’ things like that might sound like you really mean it,” she teases, her laugh slipping out round and breathless, merry but just a little nervous, like it always was when they looked at her too long. Lord, quit your actin' like a teenager! She steps in close, fitting herself against his side with ease that feels older than the both of them, natural as anything. Her hand settles on their shoulder, Lord, their solid and familiar and strong shoulder, and his palm finds her waist like it never forgot the way.

It's hard for her to admit it, but the both of them didn’t exactly match clean. Never had, more like two puzzle pieces from different boxes, edges worn down by time and use under different hands and in different rooms, but somehow still managing to lock together if you turned them just the right way. God, how unromantic was that? That was Misty all over, dressed in crooked metaphors and smears of flour, and the self-sabotage doubles its own weight at the mention of Wendy.

She hasn’t seen her girl all day. That cake box probably wasn’t getting picked up, and the concrete floor of her own self-destruction is pierced through her own hands. She feels like she could hear her, looming somewhere above her, neat and pristine as the other half, the other puzzle piece that just didn't fit, and Misty lets her gaze fall down to the dust at their feet. For a second, everything tilts. The world, the music, the thrum of her unsteady heart.

Stop it, Misty. Stop it.

But their hand is steady, catching her before she can meet the earth, and she remembers how much she wanted them to fit together. How much she wanted them to be the two pieces that found each other. Could they still be? No. Yes. No. Yes. She draws in a breath, a little shaky at the edges, and lets it out with a huff of a laugh that doesn’t... quite land. Her head shakes, braids brushing against her cheek with the breeze that picks up, cooling their skin.

“...Sorry,” she says at last, voice quieter, threading between the hum of music and summer air. “But… I don’t wanna talk about her right now. That okay?”

They brush a bit of flour from her cheek, a dust of white powder she’d missed, “There now. You’re decent again,” but she’s always decent, even with flour in her hair and jelly staining her dresses. It’s a sight Q has seen countless times and never fails to find the beauty in her chaos. She’s a whirlwind in the kitchen and they wouldn’t have it any other way.

“’Course I remember,” they playfully taps their boots against the cobblestones, “How could I ever forget? You damn near beat them into me after I misstepped one evening,” a low chuckle meanders out his throat slowly, like it can draw out the memory as well. A quiet evening in his home, music on the speakers, abhorrent box wine on the counter nearly gone. It might have been the wine that made them step on her toes or the way she’d been looking at him. They can’t quite recall exactly which it was but the memory is in their eyes when they look at her. Around her, memories float like petals in the wind, waiting to be caught.

On a night like tonight, the air is filled with petals.

As their hand settles over hers and they lead her closer to the music and the turning bodies of the square, it begins to feel like how it always had with her. His heart still does that flip when her hip touches the side of his when they walk. A little in tandem. A little discordant.

"I saw your little Wendy Darling floating around taking pictures but she got away from me a'fore I could say hello," Quentin's drawling voice lulls thoughtfully.

[vespcrtines]

Her fingers catch his wrist, steady, sure, even if her heart's doing somersaults she’ll pretend aren’t there. She guides his hand like she’s done a hundred times before, but there's a reluctance in his touch, a shrinking back in his movement. His fingers used to be careless with her, tugging her braids just to hear her holler, passing frog eggs, high-fiving so hard it stung. Now he touches her like he’s afraid of leaving a mark. Like bruises would bloom if he breathed on her wrong.

Oh, grow up, Hiro. Step out of the shade. Face the sun.

She presses the marigold into his fingers, and guides them up to tuck it behind her ear. It snags a little in her hair, of course it does, all these wild curls barely contained by the teetering steeple on her head, and her breath catches for just a second when his knuckles skim her cheek. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. For one breathless second, something eases behind her ribs. The gold looks good there, gleaming bright against the copper tangle of her hair, and, Josie being Josie, doesn’t give him a chance to get lost in his head about it. Her fingers lace through his, warm and familiar, and she tugs him toward the cobblestones with a huff sharp enough to cut through any excuse he might be thinking of.

Her bare feet ghost across the stones, quiet beside the heavy, stubborn thud of his boots. Always boots. Always big, clunky, too-loud boots for a boy who barely speaks above a whisper. Some part of him’s gotta be loud, she guesses, or no one would notice he was there. Stupid, slowpoke boy.

She remembers being seven years old with her hands on her hips, yelling at raccoons and stinky boys and anyone who dared yank her hair or pester Hiro about things that weren’t their business. She'd stomp her little foot and flash her glare over at him, calling for his attention, calling for him to look at her. Say something, Hiro! Tell them to quit it!

Don’t look at me, Hiro!

She stops them in the center of the square, right where everyone can see. Out here, out with her, out where it counts. No hiding. No ducking away. The music starts, sweet and lazy and old as every summer ever passed in the Springs, and Josie lifts her chin, meeting his eyes. Snapping blue into deep dark.

And there’s nowhere for him to run.

Her hand finds his to guide it to her waist, her other still wrapped around his fingers. She steps, steps again, pulling him along, moving them into place and holding him steady, holding him here. Pulling him into it, into the rhythm, into this stupid, sweet, impossible thing between them.

“Just follow my lead,” she murmurs, quiet under the music that curls up and around them. And because she’s Josie, and she’s got a heart that always forgets to shut its mouth, she lets her lips twitch up into a softer, fonder grin.

“Try not to step on my toes, city boy.”

Hiro knows a dare when he hears one and he’s never turned down a dare.

Around eight years old, he was dared to jump from the highest rock. Hiro had boldly climbed that monolith and jumped without hesitating. The broken arm he wielded afterward was brandished like a sword and shield that protected him against any name calling for a week and dubbed him brave by the other children his age and reckless by their parents. That’s how it always has been for him. One brave act made reckless after the other. It became harder as he grew older to find the difference.

His eyes slip, sneaking past the image of the bold young woman standing before him now with conviction in her eyes and her fingers squeezing determination into his hands and looks back onto the note.

Hiro Uehara, count your days…

It’s impossible to know who wrote it. There are so many who dislike him and for reasons he doesn’t know. Their reasons are not for him to know, that’s the point, otherwise they would have told him to his face and if they were any friend to his then it could be worked out. But this was a warning thrown into the abyss, nameless. He can’t do anything about it. But this note, this warning, is a dare in disguise. Perhaps the one who wrote it didn’t even mean for it to be this way but it is, somewhere underneath the letters and the press of handwriting into paper, somewhere about the intention those words bring out make it into a dare.

And with two dares facing him, Hiro has to chose.

His eyes slip back to Josie. She can see her still, the young girl from memory, pressing pretty stones collected from hikes and dirt paths and pulled from the river into his palm the same way she’s pressing her fingers. Look at what I found. Can you see it? Are you looking?

Why aren’t you looking at me?

He’s looking at her. He’s always been looking at her. He’s just never trusted himself not to ruin things. They’re standing on the knifes-edge of change and one wrong slip could spell ruin for the both of them and he’s always been sharp. He can’t help but hurt the people closest to him with his knife hands. Bad decisions follow him like a shadow at his feet he can’t outrun.

Hiro Uehara, count your days…

The note dares him to walk away from the rock.

Ask me to dance, Hiro.

She dares him to jump. It's just a rock. It's just a dance.

Hiro jumps.

A hand pulls from her grasps, reaches behind her and plucks a marigold from the bulletin board. It’s golden petals twist and curl against his skin, a soft offering extended to her by burn scarred fingers, “Josie, will you dance with me?”  

[vespcrtines]

It was just like it always is... but it’s not. It’s heavier, aching at the joints with disappointment but buoyed at the feet by something stupid and unshakeable. Hope, probably. Josie follows the steps she and Frankie have shared for years, ever since she was a little thing with bows in her hair, when he had to lift her so she wouldn’t stumble on her toddler feet, through her teenage years, braces and bangs and barefoot summers, where she giggled the whole way through, barely able to string a sentence together between fits of breathless, silly laughter.

He always laughed with her. That part hasn’t changed.

She leans in closer for him to whisper to her, so she can hear him better... and God. She kind of wishes she didn’t. No! No, scratch that, she doesn’t wish that at all. This is part of the plan. This is good! This is part of her exposure therapy. She was gonna dance with Frankie, he was gonna finish with that goofy grin and bow he always did, probably walk her to a stall for kettle corn or lemonade, maybe see Vernon Apple somewhere over by the game stalls, maybe Huck’d call him over, and then that would be it. That’d be all she saw of Frankie Buchanan for the whole rest of the festival.

You enjoy yourself now, Josephine Sutton!

So, pink-cheeked and giggling, she leans herself back and reaches up to pinch Frankie’s cheek, gentle, barely a pinch at all, and grins at him. A loose, fluttery grin, maybe a little wobbly at the edges, but the best she can muster.

“I looked lovely last festival too, y’know,” she teases, as they step, step, move through the center of the square, the veil off her hennin fluttering around them like a wing. “Not that you saw.” She sticks her tongue out at him then, bright and brief, before adding, a little quieter, torn between the want for him to catch it and the hope it'll get lost in the music,

“Glad I’m harder to miss this time around, at least.” He'll miss it. 'Course he will. That was Frankie, after all.

She really does look radiant. Well, that's always a given with Josie -- there's a certain kind of glow that emanates from her very being, even if she's covered in a layer of honey and dirt. It's something special that very few have, and she happens to be one of the special few to feel like sunshine hitting your skin when they're looking at you.

Maybe that's too poetic of a way to describe a friend. Maybe there's a reason it feels that way when she looks at him, like he's someone who deserves the sun on his freckled skin. And, maybe one day? Frankie will realize what exactly that reason is, even if it's just a little too late.

That moment is not now.

Instead, he leads her straight into the center of the dancers. What? She has to be in the center; it's only right for the future Marigold Queen. Hands go into position, one against her waist, the fabric soft against his palm, and the other clasping hers. If he notices any nerves or something...negative, he hasn't commented on it.

Frankie's there to dance with Josie.

And, the music swells, the pair taking off in the dance they've done since they were small, Frankie pulling Josie onto the floor with a wide grin and flowers surrounding the pair. Or, was it the other way around, Josie tugging him onto the cobblestone despite his two left feet? Huh. He's never given it much thought.

But, nevermind that.

His attention on the girl he's holding, a content little grin on his lips as he takes her in. Breathtaking, that little grin growing just a touch wider. And, he leans in, lips closer to her ear, loud enough for her to hear over the music.

"You really do look lovely today, Josie. I hope you know that."

[vespcrtines]

Whoa now. Eyes goin’ up ! Huck turns his face aside, giving the woman a moment to hitch up her skirts proper, but keeps a firm grip on her hand as she steps into the stirrup. She takes his boost like she’s done it a dozen times before, and settles herself in the saddle easily, back straight, hands steady, not a single jitter working off her. Not bad.

Valerie, huh.

“This here’s Pandora,” he says, tipping his chin toward the mare in question. Woman to woman (well... mare) introductions matter, after all. He gives ‘Dora’s neck a fond pat, and a stray marigold drops loose into his hand. Without thinking on it much, he holds it up toward Valerie, as his other hand keeps a steady hold on the reins. “Pandora’s my girl, ain’tcha, love?” he murmurs, and sure enough, ‘Dora noses against his head, clearly in on the conversation. He gives her a good, rough-knuckled rub along the side of her face for her trouble.

They fall into an easy walk, the clip of hooves against the cobblestones mixing in with the spill of music and the shrill giggles of kids darting between legs. Huck lets it settle around them, and for a while, he doesn't say much. Never been one for filling up the air just to hear himself talk.

But after a minute or so, he glances up at her in the saddle and lets his curls bounce as he tilts his head, meeting her eye. “Y’know,” he drawls, shifting his reins in one hand, “you sit a horse better than half the fellas I know ‘round here. Got good balance. Most city folks I’ve seen get up there like they’re in a hostage situation.” He tips his drooping crown back a notch with a thumb, sunlight catching the edges of his hair. “Might’ve fooled me, if not for the shoes. Ain’t nobody from around here wear boots that clean.”

It looks like there's some kind of communication that passes between the horse and her rider, but what it is, she's not sure.

The mare is beautiful, and big– a pinto, if she's not mistaken. Anatomy-wise, Val's been doing her homework, and getting some fieldwork in at the clinic, too. Different breeds, however, she still could do with some brushing up on. She didn't interact with many horses in Empire City.

The rider offers her his hand as well as some advice. She takes a second to adjust her skirt, pulling a hair tie from her bag to use as a sort of makeshift skirt hike. “Thank you,” she nods, glancing up at him. She appreciates the advice– it's solid and succinct– as well as the small insight into her personality. “And, no worries,” she adds as she readies her foot in the stirrup, “I'm definitely rusty, but it's not my first time.”

She takes him up on the extra boost, taking a steadying breath as she grips his hand tight before giving him a nod. With his added help, Valerie easily swings her leg over and settles onto the saddle, flower crown only slightly sliding out of place in the process. But she'll fix that in a second.

Letting out a breath, she takes a moment to adjust her posture and run a hand over the mare's coat. “You alright, girl?” she murmurs, trying to gauge the horse's mood.

In her limited experience, she did pretty well with horses. They tend to be incredibly characterful as well as sensitive to the emotions of other beings. And she's a person who can keep her cool, compartmentalize her emotions, and she's good at reading animals.

“What's her name?” she asks, peering back at the man. Then, after a moment, she remembers to add, “I'm Valerie, by the way.”

[vespcrtines]

It did feel a little bit like a fairytale. And Lord knows, Misty Apple wasn’t the fairytale girl. She’d never been a princess, never one to perch in a tower or flutter her lashes at some handsome, English prince riding in to save the day. No, she was born a whirlwind, a woman that swept through a place, picking up the pieces she could, knocking a few others loose, leaving the whole world just a little bit upended in her wake.

It struck her sometimes, how many folks made a point to stop by her little corner of town these days. How many smiled too wide, said Oh, Misty! Am I glad to see you! And every time, she smiled right back, but a quiet, curious thing wriggled at the back of her mind. Are you? Me? Maybe there were bits of her nobody ever quite clocked. Maybe there were pieces she tucked down deep, neat and outta sight. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Misty Apple was no princess.

But right now? In this exact second? She feels a little like one. Being led through those slow, steady steps, held close in a way that makes her heart stutter and her head spin, following the rhythm of a man who dances like it was second nature. She isn't half as graceful, not by a long shot, but she moves like a ribbon in the wind, loose and easy, laughing against the music. A laugh that sneaks up slow behind her back and grabs her, startles her.

For a moment, she lets her eyes fall shut, just to soak it all in; the fiddle hum, the clatter of boots on cobblestone, the sugary scent of kettle corn on the breeze. The world feels softer when she isn't looking straight at it.

“Careful, Miles,” she murmurs, one eye cracking open, a spark of teasing light catching there as she watches him. “I might start thinkin’ you really mean that.” And then, quieter, because maybe the music would swallow it, maybe he won't hear, or maybe he would, she murmurs, “And Lord help you if I do.”

"Well, that's the English for you." Miles tells Misty blithely, popping the tray into the oven. "Certified freaks, et cetera." He grins, teasing, easy and relaxed, and dusts off his hands. And asks her to dance. Twenty-three minutes; plenty of time for a dance or two. And --

Oh dear. Misty freezes, grin going rigid, eyes too bright. And he freezes with her. For a moment - a very long and uncomfortable one -- he considers that he may have made a grievous tactical error.

Maybe the teasing, faux-grumpy tone of the request was a mistake. Or maybe Misty is already spoken for. (She probably is, you idjit, a small voice in Miles' head reminds him. Just look at her; you're punching well above your weight, boy.) Or -- most likely -- he's overstepped, crossed some invisible boundary; maybe she's already firmly assigned him to the friend-and-kitchen-helper-only category.

People always say nothing ventured, nothing gained. They rarely mention the corollary: nothing ventured, nothing lost. A small dent forms between Miles' brows; he waits on tenterhooks. This is the sort of misstep that can alter friendships, turn them awkward and tetchy. And he has come to enjoy Misty's friendship greatly.

And the early mornings at the bakery as well. Enjoy them, look forward to them -- perhaps even rely on them a little. They make him feel useful, and needed. And those are feelings that have been in critically short supply since --

Well. Ever since Elliot passed, really.

He waits, hand held out, biting the inside of his cheek. And breathes a sigh of relief when her grin returns, bright and beautiful and natural. Her fingers find his, twine with them, and they're off -- towards the square, the first strains of a stately 3/4 time song wafting along on the late-afternoon breeze.

"Sea legs. Please," he scoffs, the tone belied with a warm, relieved smile; they traipse down the cobblestone path, weaving in and out amongst other festival-goers. "The day I can't waltz...well. May's well hang it up, yeah?"

He pulls her into a loose embrace, standard slow-dance style. And hopes he's right. If this was been the cha-cha slide, Miles might be in deep water. But slow-dancing-- like French, and neat penmanship -- comes naturally, one of many semi-useless things he's retained from his almost hilariously old-fashioned and stupidly expensive private boarding school education.

It has, however, been a long time. Thankfully waltzing is easy; one of those things you never forget, like riding a bicycle. Or at least Miles hopes that's true; a tiny pang of tension tightens his neck. It loosens again when muscle memory kicks in and his feet find the familiar rhythm. He twirls Misty into the dance, one hand entwined with hers and the other at her waist; her skirts swirling in the breeze.

She is utterly, heart-thumpingly lovely, and fits so nicely in his arms that it's a bit scary. In a good way. it would be easy to fall for Misty Apple; perhaps he has already, a little. He smiles down at her, thumb brushing the back of her upraised hand, the small of her back warm and alive under his palm.

"Thank you. For saying yes, I mean. This is nice," he tells her, leaning in a bit to speak over the music without shouting. "Really nice." A vast understatement. Cashmere vests and jam stains be damned; this is the best decision he's made all day.

[vespcrtines]

“You hobble on it, and it’s gonna-- Oh!”

She startles as his hand brushes her head, fingers ghosting over a spot she didn’t even know was hurting. Her own hand flies up, fingertips pressing against the sudden, warm sting. Was that… pain? Dang. Guess so. Must’ve smacked a branch or scraped the trunk on the way down. Either way, ow. She can already hear it, clear as day: “Josephine Sutton, you are not a damn possum. Get outta those trees before you break your neck!” Yeah, yeah, Mom. Add it to the list.

Never mind all that! Man down, man down! Her brain won’t stop hollering it, especially with the way his ankle’s already swelling up bigger than it was two seconds ago. No time to properly panic, but maybe, maybe, she could spare a second to be indignant.

“Hey-- stop that!” she huffs, cheeks puffing in a full-blown scowl as she bats his stupid, sparkly jazz hands away from her face. “I was gonna do that! The- the splint thing! I had a whole plan! Ugh! Just-- hang on, don’t move!” She doesn’t wait for an answer, already scrambling to her feet, wiping dirt onto her shirt as she bolts for the edge of the clearing. The underbrush isn’t exactly a willing participant, snagging at her ankles and tugging at her curls, but she barrels through anyway, muttering to herself as she crouches to inspect every fallen branch in sight. “Too bendy… too flimsy… ooh, nope. Bad vibe.”

She snags a branch, squints at it. This one? Good weight, decent build, a little scarred, but solid. The type that’s probably seen some things, maybe volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends. Definitely the kind who’d lay down his life for the mission without hesitation. She gives a decisive nod and sets him aside. Another one catches her eye and she gives it a testing shake. Nah. Too smug. Definitely the type to ghost you after two great dates and a shared slice of Granny’s Famous Boysenberry Pie. No thank you. She chucks it over her shoulder.

Then... jackpot! “You,” she breathes, plucking a sturdy, no-nonsense stick from the undergrowth. “Bit of an overthinker, maybe, but you’ve got a heart of gold under that gruff exterior, don’t you? Yeah, you’ll do.”

What? Everybody’s got a system. Arms full of stick candidates, she hustles back to the blond stranger and drops to her knees beside him. Grabbing a flat stone, she sets to work stripping the itchy bark from her chosen heroes, the rasp of wood against rock steadying the anxious and unsettled thrum inside her chest. She sticks her tongue out in concentration, working careful, practiced strokes. The silence hangs heavy for a while, but it’s not the bad kind. At least now she’s doing something.

But after a while, curiosity breaks the dam.

“…What were you even doin’ out this far, Mister Fish Boy?” she asks, not looking up yet, her fingers still working the bark off in quick, careful strips. “I mean, this is a real long way from any decent swimmin’ hole, unless you took a wrong turn and wound up spectacularly lost. And most folks round here know better than to wander this deep unless they’re local or actively lookin’ to get snatched up by a forest demon.”

She finally glances up, one brow hitching. “And no offense, but you don’t look near scruffy enough to be either.”

Mars looks at that itty bitty bandage presented by a trembling hand and can’t help the soft touch of a smile that spreads across him. He feels like laughing at her but he doesn’t. It’s too sweet a gesture to laugh at but it certainly makes his heart sing a little.

“Looks like ya need it more than I do,” a cool thumb sweeps across the top of her forehead, a small but delicately blooming welt appearing against her skin and a fine line of crimson which he avoids that had been missed earlier in the frantic search. The injury had appeared late, like it was ashamed to be there. “I’ll be fine, my –” he realizes he’s about to say, my husband will carry me, and then a little part of him crumbles.

Right. He’s not here. The reminder and a memory come back to him against his will but he doesn’t let it manifest into something tangible. Doesn’t let it sweep through his features. Doesn’t let it do anything other than wash right away like a gentle mist in the morning or a soft shower in the evening. It’s there and then it’s gone. He’s still damp but not enough to be miserable.

He clears his throat, “My ankle is fine. Here, gimme,” and pulls the bandage from her fingers, tugging the packaging away and then waiting until she brings her face in closer so he can position it just so against the crown of her hairline. “Dere we go,” jazz hands around her cherub face, “All better, ‘eh? Chin up, assapan, yer too short to be a walking stick, just help me stand and we’ll call it square." A slight nudge to her shoulder, "I can be a hobble horse, ain't nothing to it, 'er ya can fashion me up a coupla sturdy sticks. Two fer either side," his hands gesture to his ankle, he can affix them in place with his belt.

[vespcrtines]

Maybe there was time for him to answer the Cap’n. Maybe time for a look, a half-grin, some gruff remark to poke at him with, to let the man know he didn't forget his name. But nothing tugs at Huck Buchanan’s attention harder than his own people, and sure enough, his eyes break from Miles' to instead follow Tweedy's crown of blonde hair as she ducks past them into the house, the porch creaking soft beneath her steps.

He jerks his chin toward the man before him, a wordless gesture that says come on, then, and falls in behind her. The beer bottle’s cold in his hand, condensation slick against his palm, and Biscuit, the oversized, under-brained fool, wedges his big square head up under Huck’s free hand with a needy little whine that’s too soft for a dog his size. Damn beast never could stand being left out. Huck huffs out through his nose, dragging his palm down over the dog’s skull. "Christ almighty, you’re worse than the kid," he mutters.

“Hm? Naw,” he answers without looking when Tanny calls out, already crossing the living room. “He’s pickin’ lemons off the Conways’ tree,” The bottle clinks gently against the coaster he drops it on. Ma might be upstairs, but he can still hear her voice clear as a bell in the back of his head about water rings on her good table. His curls bounce as he jerks his head toward the hallway, where the light’s gone thin and the house settles quietly. "Logan’s with Ma. Think they’re both sawin’ logs, if you’re fixin’ to wake 'em. Careful though, Tweed; Bozo’s makin’ a beeline for your knees."

His shoulder finds the wall, settling there easy as you please, easy as anything, one boot crossing over the other. His gaze flicks to his sister just in time to catch her hop aside from the dog’s insistent shoves, then slides back to Miles still out in the doorway. Sure enough, man looks about as steady as a fencepost in a storm, and it stirs up a slow itch in Huck’s chest, left over from the bar, from the ease of that night, from stories and lighters and shared beers.

Yeah. Tanny sure as shit didn’t tell Miles exactly whose porch he was walkin’ up on. She’d told Huck, though. Names just didn’t stick worth a damn.

“Met down at the Stag, actually,” Huck drawls, slow and steady, with all the time in the world. His gaze catches on Miles’, the glint in his own steady, even if no grin comes with it. The corner of his mouth twitches, though. Just a little.

“You’re welcome to sit wherever suits ya, Mr. Briggs-Bennett.”

It's not a very long walk. Thankfully, Fergus and Jeeves make it a bit longer than strictly necessary -- stopping to pee enthusiastically on trees and fenceposts, plunging their curious noses into gopher holes and clumps of vegetation.

Tanny chatters happily away, excited, as they walk. Woofster lounges in her arms, grinning, bug eyes bright. The big dogs whuffle and sniff and do big-dog things. All in all, thankfully, everyone's too preoccupied to notice the faint sheen of sweat dappling Miles' brow.

The extra time gives him just long enough to get his simmering near-panic under control. And rein in the slight urge to run around in circles shrieking like an overstimulated three-year-old. Breathe, he reminds himself. Five in, seven out.

By the time the quaint, well-loved farmhouse at Pure Valley comes into view, he's just about managed to convince himself that everything will be fine. A little mortifying, perhaps, but fine. He's prepared to walk inside, introduce himself to Tanny's ailing mum and her other brother, and set the dogs loose to run. And then sit down at table with Mr. Finn -- Mr. Buchanan, as it turns out -- and politely smile through the embarrassment.

He's not prepared for Huck to be the first face he sees, before even entering the house. One minute they're stepping through the gate into the yard, Tanny gleefully introducing a delighted, wiggly Woofster to her cat Clementine. And the next minute, there he is, big as day, sitting on the front porch. First just a pair of anonymous boot soles propped on a porch railing -- until they're taken down by their owner, who rises, all sleepy blue eyes and messy curls.

And a familiar upward curve at one end of a small, pursed mouth -- almost-smile, almost-smirk. Eyes connect from a small distance, in a way that short-circuits something in Miles' head for a second, sends a rush of prickles down both arms and a slight flush crawling up from his collar. "Hey!" Tanny shouts gaily, and pushes the bouquet back into his free hand, trotting forward to close the distance between herself and her brother.

The sudden arrival of a slightly-tickly bundle of flowers, pressed back into his arms, does the trick. Unsticks him. "Uh..yes..hallo," Miles says, a little uncertainly. He steps into the gap and shakes Huck's work-roughened hand -- an act of sheer reflex, other arm burdened with wine and leashes and flowers.

And before he can falter too obviously -- voila. A miracle happens. Years of grudging, reluctant practice handling customers -- learning to front the counter at the antique shop, at Elliot's insistence -- kicks in. And Miles' Customer-Service Voice, plummy and smooth and almost absurdly English, comes to the rescue, rolling off his tongue like melted butter. "Miles Briggs-Bennett," he says, with a slight cordial tilt of the head. "I believe we've ..eh.. met once before. Briefly."

Wonder of wonders. The Voice works beautifully to disguise his urge to bark at Mrs. Singh when she comes to the shop and starts arbitrarily moving things around. Turns out it works just as well to cover the slight mortification that attends an unplanned meeting with the man he'd made a concerted effort to shag just a few nights before. Who is, unfortunately, just as appealing sober and in the clear light of day as he was several whiskeys deep, in a moonlit parking lot.

No need, thankfully, to explain any of that to Montana. She's walked a short distance away to set Woofster down in the grass beside Clementine. She turns to beckon for Fergus and Jeeves, so Miles releases their leashes and lets them gallop across the yard. The smile he offers Huck is a small, private one, equal parts good-natured embarrassment and shared secret. He holds out the bottle of wine, and tucks the bouquet a little more neatly into the crook of his arm.

"The flowers are for your mum," he clarifies, a flash of rueful humor in his gaze. His eyes flick briefly over to Tanny, out in the grass happily introducing all the animals to each other by name, then back again. "I haven't come courting, if that's what you're concerned about," he assures Huck with a soft, gravelly chuckle, then follows him inside. Although now, in all honesty, he's no longer entirely sure that's true.

@moonlitmontana

[vespcrtines]

"Honey, there's no thievin' here and you know it," Misty laughs, her hand darting out to shoo a nosy little bee from his hair. Lord above, leave it to the Suttons to drag their honey-loving entourage with them wherever they roam. The bee hums off, none too fussed, and Misty lets out a fond little breath through her nose.

And bless him, Laurie Sutton, sweet as peach preserves, taking up a paper plate to fan her like some gallant storybook prince. She always did wonder how he and Wendy might’ve got on, or maybe Vernon, truth be told. Both of them stubborn as a rootbound rosebush, with their heads on straight and shoulders up straighter. Mm... Similar hearts, maybe, but that doesn’t mean they’d march to the same tune.

Well. That was neither here nor there.

"Oh, don’t you fret, baby," she grins, sighing as that blessedly cool air stirs the heat off her skin, "you weren’t walkin’ outta here without a stack for your honeybees to buzz over. I’d be run outta town if word got ‘round I let you leave empty-handed." She gives him a wink, a flour-dusted hand propping on her hip. Then, with a little tilt of her head, she catches his gaze, something playful and sharp glinting behind the warmth. Leaning in just enough to drop her voice, she teases, "But you ain't gettin’ off that easy, sugar. You go on and tell me now... who you got your eye on over by that board for a waltz? Hmm?"

She hums, feigning a thoughtful glance toward the square. "I swear I saw Miss Patty hoverin’ round one of them stalls like she was waitin’ for somebody tall and handsome to come spin her ‘cross the cobblestone. Could be your lucky day, huh?"

And Lord, if he so much as blushed, she’d be sure to tuck that away for later.

Part of living in a small town is this feeling of family wherever you go. The neighboring farms help each other out when a tractor breaks down or a batch of seeds don't take, the shop owners toss in a little extra just before you walk out the door, and the older ladies rocking on the porch at sundown give you a wave as you trod back home.

But no one feels as much like family as Misty Apple.

She always greets him with a sunny smile and a pet name, no matter how frazzled she is, no matter how many batches of treats she's juggling. And he always finds himself lingering longer than he would with most other people—less keen to just get in and out as fast as possible. He doesn't talk much, of course, but he enjoys listening, maybe even helping out where he can.

He takes the tray with a small smile, eyeing each sample closely. They are all near-perfect, fragrant and sugar-dusted. Despite the chaos of ingredients and mixing bowls and finicky ovens, the output always turns out delicious. He lifts the marigold fritter, biting into the golden crust, feeling each flavor pop on his tongue as he chews. She's got a way with flavors that is inspiring, especially now that he's on his mead venture. "Can I steal that combo for a batch of mead?" He asks after swallowing—his version of that was really delicious, thank you. "First bottle is yours."

Then there's a beat as he watches her fruitlessly wave the dishtowel, before he picks up a paper plate from the stack, nonchalantly fanning her as he replies. "She's doin' good—got us all takin' turns helpin' out." Luckily, the Suttons have it pretty easy at their booth. Handing out samples is certainly more relaxed than preparing heaps of fresh pastry. "She'd love one of these," he nods toward the partially eaten fritter on the tray, "but she also loves anythin' you make."

[vespcrtines]

Her hands flutter against his, and for a moment, just one, tiny, traitorous moment, she thinks about leaving them there. Let the both of them stand like this, locked in place, waiting for whatever comes next until it feels easy to breathe again. Maybe if they stand still long enough, the world will soften around them. Maybe she won't have to keep learning how to inhale around the ache of him. But God, was she really so flimsy now? A Made-of-Paper Sutton? Since when? That wasn't her. That was never supposed to be her!

Sure, she liked the boys she liked, fell in love too fast and too foolishly, threw her heart around like it was made of rubber and not something that could crack wide in two. That was fine. That was normal. That was Josie Sutton. But falling to pieces over a dream built out of matchsticks? A boy who took himself out of her life only to float back in only breaths ago? Hadn't she moved on fine before? Well... maybe not fine. But she got up. She wiped the tears off with the back of her hand, dusted off her skinned knees, and went right back to it. She made her soaps. She swam in the springs with Tanny. She went camping with Laurie. She curled up on Kenny's bed and watched dumb movies with overly-buttered popcorn dotted with chocolate chips. She laughed. She danced. She was still standing. She was fine.

He was just a boy.

So she tightens her grasp on him, tighter, tight as hell, and yanks his fingers off her eyes like she's pulling herself up from underwater. Dragging herself back to the light, to the warmth, to a world where he doesn't get to haunt the edges of every pretty thing she looks at. And when she turns her face up to him, it isn't soft or sad or trembling the way her heart might be. Maybe she's not as brave as she wants to be; the wobbles there at the corners of her mouth, a little frayed thread she can't quite cut, but she scrapes together a huff all the same.

“So ask me, then,” she says, not letting his hands drop. Not giving him the chance. She grips them the way she always has when things felt too big, too loud, too much, when they were small and tumbling through trees, grabbing for each other in the dark, Hiro, quick, grab her hand, she'll pull you out before the Old King comes and gobbles up your feet. Giggling and out of breath, knees muddy, hearts light, believing she could be his shield against the sun and the shadows and curfews. She was still that girl, damn it. She just had to remember how.

She turns around then, still holding onto his hands, maybe even tighter now, and lifts her chin to meet his gaze. Snapping blue into quiet dark, and there's no room for running in those eyes, no corner of the world where this doesn't find her. Not this time.

“Ask me to dance, Hiro,” she breathes, and she's the little girl who would've dared him to jump off the highest rock and the woman who's daring him now to stop hiding in the dark.

Music playing from the live band on the other side of the square is too lively for this feeling, it’s the kind of music that makes one want to tap their fingers against their thigh, clap their hands, stomp their shoes. Many people are, many people do. A crowd of townsfolk behind them moving in a fluctuating sea and Hiro and Josie are anchored in place in front of the bulletin board.

“I can,” he says with a nod, maybe she can feel it, the way his chin gets tickled by stray strands of her curly hair, “But we might get tired of standing here and don’t get me started on the bathroom…” there’s humor in his voice and his fingers against her face twitch.

He lets a little bit of silence fall in. He doesn’t mind standing here. It’s peaceful and quiet on the fringes of the square. The day is warm in the way that invites more warmth. Somewhere else a crow pecks at a fallen pastry and a child wails at the loss.

Hiro swallows, “You know I– I wanted to ask you to dance,” he doesn’t dance, she knows he doesn’t. He wanted to ask her to dance at the festival before but time and circumstance never seemed to be on his side, he’d missed the chance, ruined it with his mouth and a closed off heart. “Is that breaking the rules?” It's not only a question to now, this little moment of make-believe that reminds him of when they were younger and would childishly cling to their precious moments together in the fields.

If we crouch down real low, your parents can't find us, he'd whisper to her through gold wheat fields, stifling giggles in his fists. Foolishly believing they were concealed, truly hidden and could therefore spend more time together, but they were always easy to discover. Laughter drew attention no matter how restrained.

But it's also a question to her, of them, of this. Whatever this has become between them. He never used to question it. Back when life and living was simpler. Less complicated. What he's asking, what he's really asking, if she can hear it, is are there rules now? Does he have to be careful with his touch? Does he have to mind his words? Is he not allowed to look at her the way he used to? How careful does he need to be?

Is this okay? His fingers ask, twitching a little at the place they rest over her eyes, the high tops of her cheekbones. He doesn't know what part of him she sees, the part of him that made her love him so he doesn't know what part needs to be careful, if any.

His eyes catch his own name looking back at him on the bulletin board. A warning. Hiro Uehara, count your days... He turns a passive eye away and pretends, for now, that he did not see it.

[vespcrtines]

There it is again. That strange inkling of his that always itches the back of his brain whenever Tweed starts talking about Jojo like that. Is it strange to ask about it? 'Course it is. They'd known each other for centuries, is all. Two peas in a pod. One half of another. Where one ends, the other--

Damn, it was really itchy.

He crosses his arms over his chest and watches her bustle about with all that squirrelly energy. Their eyes meet, twin sets of Buchanan blue, and Huck shifts his gaze just enough to the left to give her a clean shot through the crowd without a word. No redheaded princesses thataway, last he checked. Not that he's been checking much, to be fair.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, a huff of a laugh catching him off guard as she fires off her order about Dora. Mama would eat that up, no question. The sight of her girl back on Pandora's back, even for a minute, would about send her into my babies this and the good old days that, like she ain't still got them all underfoot most mornings. And maybe, if he's lucky, he can wrangle Tadpole long enough between whichever aunt or neighbor or nice lady from church has him in tow to get a proper Buchanan brood picture taken. Just once, something where nobody's blurry or blinking or mid-sneeze.

Would it make her happy, though? Or would it be one of those things she tacks to the fridge and stares at too long in the middle of the night, tracing over the empty spots where Daddy ought to be, where she ought to be, all the gaps she won’t say out loud.

Hell. No use stewin' on that now.

He gives his head a little shake, chasing the thought off before it gets too heavy, then points a lazy finger her way as she's about to disappear into the crowd. "Just don't go takin' a dance with anyone weird this time, will ya? I don’t got it in me to chase down a toddler and a wayward knight 'cause somebody asked you to waltz."

Tanny finishes the note off with a little flourish of cursive and puts the pencil back in its place before Huck starts patting his pockets looking for it. She studies the paper for a moment, a critic's eye, making sure it's perfect. Only the best and most scandalous for Josie.

"Lucky," she mumbles, casting glances over each shoulder as she pockets the note. No Josie in sight, which is wonderful news for her for approximately thirty more seconds. The heat's already getting to her, and she'll no doubt be in desperate search of her counterpart as soon as the message is pinned and the ballot boxed.

She takes Huck's paper between two fingers, sneaking a quick glance inside to see his hostage letter handwriting. A satisfied smile plays on her lips as she folds it back up once, twice. "'Course y'can – and y'will." She swings back around to the front of the stall, but not before patting his shoulder when she passes.

"I'll be back in an hour t'let'cha take Logan around," she says, adjusting the piece of fabric draped around her neck. "And then – Momma said y'gotta – you're takin' me for a spin on 'Dora." The sight of her brother's horse has been getting her nostalgic all morning, misty-eyed and proud, reminiscing on times when Huck could practically throw her onto Pandora with one hand.

"We could even get a picture – she'd love that."

[vespcrtines]

"Honey, you keep talkin' like that, and my head's liable to swell so big,  they'll have to butter the doorframe to get me outta here." Misty's laugh tumbles out, big and bright, catching even her by surprise. She leans in over the counter, grinning so wide her cheeks start to ache a little.

For all the bluster she puts on, there's always that little voice in the back of her head (her mama’s mostly) warning how a hare-brained idea can go sideways quicker than a cat on a hot tin roof. Lord knows it's happened more times than she'd care to count. She's ended plenty a Monday evening with soot in her hair, a cold one sweating on the kitchen floor, and a tray of something burnt to a crisp hiding somewhere behind a stack of pie pans. Could be dumb luck, could be the good, stubborn blood of the Apples, but every now and then, those same disasters turn into bestsellers. Misty's Morning Mint Marmalade Muffins? Hadn't been a plan so much as a last-ditch effort to use up three pounds of mint someone delivered to her by mistake, but folks took to 'em quick, and now she's baking them so often, she dreams about the smell.

So when Molly's face lights up at the sight of the ramekin, something eases in Misty's chest. She tips her chin toward the ceiling and sends a wordless thanks to whoever's been keeping her held together this long; God, Daddy, maybe her own two rough, work-worn hands, and lets herself hope this might be one of those good days. One of those marmalade muffin days.

"Well," she drawls, settling her chin in one palm while the other taps out a gentle, absent rhythm against the countertop, "proof's in the tastin', sugar. If it turns out awful, you're more than welcome to lie to me 'til I’m good and outta earshot." The grin stays, but she can't help watching for that first bite, hoping for a flicker in Molly's face. That little tell that says you done good, Misty.

She watches Molly a moment longer, maybe two, before letting out a soft breath through her nose, leaning in closer. "Tell you what," she murmurs, dark eyes bright with the giddy that never seems to leave her no matter how many years stack up behind her. "I was fixin' to drag somebody with me down to the church cellar tonight. There's a handful of us get together every Thursday-- call it Stitch & Bitch, though half of us can’t sew worth a damn. Mostly, we pop open something chilled and spend a couple hours runnin' our mouths about every fool man in a hundred-mile radius." The grin widens, her hands coming up to cup her cheeks, barely able hold in the excitement of having somebody new to invite to her little gossip circle. "You oughta come."

Molly feels a blush creeping across her face as Misty greets her, feeling like a warm embrace on a sunny morning. Molly moves closer to the counter and reaches a hand out to reach Misty's. As eyes lock she sees the check-in, Molly giving a short but soft nod in return. She knows she looks tired after the morning excitement. "Well it's easy to feel like a sweet Georgia peach in your presence." And Molly means that, too. If Misty couldn't cheer someone up, she wasn't sure there was another soul on Earth who could.

As Misty tells her of her morning struggle in the kitchen Molly finds herself shaking her head and laughing quietly right along with Misty, a laugh that says she understands. There wasn't much of a difference between chaos in the kitchen and chaos in a library. Juggling ingredients and bake times was sometimes just as stressful as juggling tasks and helping humans.

Though as Misty hands over the ramekin Molly's watching in adoration. Even with details of Misty feeling like she was ready to run from what she could only think of as a disaster in the kitchen, Molly thought it was beautiful and it smelled even better. It was a warm, sweet scent that she was so grateful she had followed.

"This little guy left you nearly losing your mind?" Molly's ready to reach into her bag but Misty's hand lingering and following insistence has her shoulders relaxing just a bit more. "It's beautiful!" The jam cascades perfectly into the cracks in the meringue. The purple is the perfect shade for spring. The mint sitting on top makes Molly want a mojito on a porch. "And smells amazing. This is absolutely what was calling my name."

After a moment more admiring the tiny work of art, Molly's gaze meets Misty's once more. "Thank you. I sure do appreciate it, and you. It's been a bit hectic this morning but it's always a good kind of chaos at the library." Especially in the Springs, and Molly's grateful for it. It wasn't the case everywhere, if you could believe it. Libraries were capable of being hotbeds for mischief and the not so good kind of chaos at times. Sometimes Molly felt like she was living in a movie in the Springs, the kind you put on when you were having a bad day and needed to watch something that felt like coming home. Misty always felt that way. And she couldn't wait to dig in.

[vespcrtines]

The warmth of his embrace lingers longer than it ought to, a quiet hum beneath her skin that refuses to settle. It was a different kind of comfort than the one she’d grown used to when it comes to her soux chef; Miles was a man who moved through the world with his sleeves rolled up, his hands steady, always fixing, fetching, filling in the cracks she left behind. He’d catch the bowls before they crashed, pluck pens from her hair when frustration started to fray at her ends, scrub dishes in the back without asking, no matter how firm her protests, no matter how many I'll get to it tonight, sugar!. His way of staying was practical, wordlessly efficient in all the things he sets his mind to do. A man of small, necessary mercies.

But to hold her like that… soft and close, in no hurry to let her go… well. This was something else entirely.

She doesn’t get the chance to linger in it, doesn’t trust herself to, really, but he’s too quick with that joke, a flicker of his old, familiar deflection wrapped in that bah-humbug mask of his, and Lord help her, it works. A startled, silly giggle bubbles out before she can swallow it down, and the sound feels good in her chest, loosening the tightness that squeezes down her ribs, pulling them apart. Helps her breathe, at least.

“Oh, you’ll have to forgive me, sir,” she says, catching the edge of her skirt and dipping a crooked little curtsey, the corners of her mouth spread wide in her delighted grin. “Didn’t realize that’s what y’all were into across the pond. I’ll be sure to spread the word!” His question brings her back to the element she was born to, and she gestures to the oven, chasing a familiar rhythm, chasing away the fog of curiosity that settled into her brain for a few seconds too long. Ah, clarity. Much needed clarity. Or was it her own form of deflection, too? “Set that for twenty-six, sugar. Minute too soon, they’re dough. Minute too late, you could shingle a roof with ‘em. Ask me how I know.”

She straightens, already reaching for the hand fan, determined to cool the tray of shortbread before the icing seized. Always on the next step, always prepared to continue the job, even between moments of respite. Get too lazy, watch it all fall apart, after all. But when he asks, casual as anything, her hands falter.

Dance? Together?

The words settle heavy in her chest, pulling her ribs closed tight once more, and she feels it again; this old instinct to brace, to expect the joke inside the offer. A kindness disguised as teasing, or a teasing thing disguised as kindness. She wouldn’t fault him for it. It was their language, after all. But the music begins before she can answer, those familiar strains of the Rain of Petals waltz drifting through the open square, carried on the breeze with the scent of buttered popcorn and cut grass.

Something she figures was meant for lighter hearts than hers.

And yet, her shoulders ease, the knot in her belly giving, just a little. Maybe... it wasn’t a joke. And maybe it didn’t have to be a grand gesture, either. Maybe it was just a man asking a woman to dance because she looked like she could use it. Because she’d held onto him for half a second too long, and he hadn’t stepped away. Because he'd seen her in her whirlwind since before the festival began, and now the sun was beginning to dip. Just a break. He was just offering her a break.

She lifts her eyes to his, the frozen expression on her face easily alighting to that bright, sunshiney grin from only moments before. Easy. Familiar. “Guess that didn’t work,” she murmurs, setting the fan aside, her fingers finding his with a warmth that felt dangerously close to the edge of something-- No. No, it didn't. And she needs to stop letting that fog take her mind over.

So, before she can talk herself out of it, she tugs him toward the square. The cobblestones stretch out ahead of them, the crowd a swirl of color and linen and petal-thin laughter, and for a second, Misty feels sixteen again, tugging a boy toward the dance floor, heart knocking loud and foolish against her ribs.

She glances back at him, her grip firm, steady, her smile nervous-- Nervous? No! No, she wasn't nervous. She was fine. What did she have to be nervous about? Oh, Lord, she was nervous. “C’mon, Romeo,” she says, her thumb brushing absently against his inked knuckles. “Let’s see if you’ve still got your sea legs.”

"Hush," Miles tells her, with a sideways glance and a smirk. "I'm a bit festivaled out, honestly." It's true; he's already had a few drinks, visited with everyone worth visiting with, and sampled some of the vendors' wares. And has also spent an ungodly amount of money at the carnival games. (Which are clearly rigged -- he was a fucking sharpshooter, for Christ's sake, there is no way he cannot reliably spear a balloon with a dart from a dozen feet away.)

He waves Misty's objection away with one oven mitt. The weariness is written all over her lovely features. And he's familiar with the drill now. No matter how tired, or ill, or overworked, Misty will always, always put on a brave face and soldier on, trying to do everything singlehanded.

Doesn't mean Miles has to agree with it, or play along, so he doesn't. He's already committed, jacket off and game face on. And is about to put on the other oven mitt when Misty reaches for his hand.

It's not the quick pat and gentle reprimand he expects, not a half-hearted attempt to shoo him out of the makeshift kitchen. Instead, she drops her hand atop his. And leaves it there -- palm warm and soft against his inked knuckles.

Oh. It's unexpected, but not unpleasant. Not at all. She's not quite holding his hand; she's not quite not holding his hand either, and it's definitely not nothing. Miles' gaze settles there, on the impromptu hand sandwich.

He's still contemplating what to make of it, and considering whether to turn his own hand palm-up and entwine their fingers -- make a move, turn a not-nothing into an definitely-something -- when Misty slumps against him. She drops her head to his shoulder; a soft, tired puff of breath warms his skin through the cloth of his shirt.

Is it odd, or too forward, that Miles wraps an arm around her, oven-mitted hand against her back? Rests his bare hand on the rumpled leaf kerchief keeping her braids in place? It doesn't feel that way -- it feels as natural as the grass underfoot, as natural as the spring breeze wafting stray marigold petals through the warm air.

And it's fairly inconsequential, really -- no different than the hugs Miles has given platonic friends a hundred times over. Hardly anything, compared to the silly flirtatious side-eyes and hip-checks they've been exchanging for weeks now. So why does it feel like a sort of watershed moment -- unsettling, in a good way?

Miles isn't sure. Maybe it's only because it happens in public, with the entire town milling around nearby. Maybe because it lasts a beat too long to be purely friendly.

And maybe the flash he sees in her eyes when she steps back -- lightning-quick, blink-and-you'd-miss-it -- is nothing. Maybe Misty's just tired and overheated; maybe it's just Miles' imagination, wishful thinking on the part of an admittedly foolish closet romantic.

Who knows? Maybe, maybe, maybe. Too many maybes; jury's still out. Anyway, it's unreadable, and gone in an instant, disappearing behind a bright but weary smile, Misty reverts to business as usual -- playfully hectoring Miles, fussing over his jacket.

So he takes the cue -- mulls it over but says nothing. And responds in typical faux-grumpy manner, resuming their usual back-and-forth. "Maybe I actually enjoy being covered in flour and jam; have you ever considered that?" he rasps, pulling on the other mitt. "Everyone's different; don't kink-shame," he adds mildly, a bit prim, only a slightly-arched brow and a blue-grey twinkle giving away what is -- mostly -- a joke.

Bending, he squints at the controls of the ridiculous pink oven. "So how long do these go in for?" he inquires, then puts them in and sets the timer to her specifications. Off come the oven mitts; Miles dusts a stray bit of flour off his hands.

"There -- done and done," he rasps, satisfied, then turns to Misty. "And I hardly see the point of scouring the park for something pretty to dance with, when there's something pretty to dance with right here." He holds out a hand, expectant, brow arched but eyes warm and fond, over a faint, barely-there smile. "Unless that's your polite way of telling me to get lost."

[vespcrtines]

“What if I wanna fall in, though?”

The sun winks through the thick leaves, a thousand warm smiles cast down between branches, and Josie welcomes every one of them with freckled arms outstretched, her eyes slipping shut as she breathes in the soft, green-sweet morning air.

What a beautiful day to be alive!

Her boots lie abandoned on the creekbank, kicked aside without a care. The cuffs of her overalls are already dark with creekwater as she wades in after Sage, a little basket hooked at her elbow for whatever treasures the world feels like handing out today: Cracked stones, bug casings, and a particularly friendly spider who keeps hitching rides on her fingers, waving its skinny little legs like it knows her.

“Mm…” She crouches low, denim soaking through as cool water runs over her fingertips. “Shucks, if they do, I hope they ain't about t’scold me for all the nonsense they’ve caught me at." A flicker of something bright darts through the water, as small as a dragonfly, or maybe as big as a dog, it’s hard to say. It didn’t feel like talking just now, so she lets it slip away.

When Sage offers her the flower, it finds a home in her hair without a moment's hesitation. Her grin blooms wide, brighter than the sun.

“Lord, you’re good at that,” she says, tipping her head so the petals catch the light. With a sly little grin, she splashes a fingertip’s worth of water toward Sage’s arm, her eyes sparkling. “Now I gotta find you somethin’ just as pretty.”

closed starter | @vespcrtines (josie)

The sun was barely peeking over the treetops when Sage slipped her boots off and waded barefoot into the creek, the water cool and clear around her ankles. She hummed under her breath—a half-remembered song her grandmother used to sing while gathering wild herbs—and bent down to pick a cluster of goldenroot growing near the edge. “Careful, Josie,” she called back, grinning over her shoulder. “These rocks’ll charm you into fallin’ in if you’re not sweet with ‘em.” Her woven basket was already half-full: sweet fern, clover blossoms, a feather she said was an “offering,” though from what and to whom, she hadn’t said. Time with Josie was sacred in its own way—not a ritual, not a prayer, but still something that tethered her to the present. “Do you ever feel like the trees remember us?” she asked, casually, like it wasn’t the sort of question that might tug something loose in your soul. “Like they watch us growing up the way we watch ’em change with the seasons.” She looked over, sunlight catching in the beads around her wrist, and offered Josie a single bloom plucked from her basket. “For your hair,” she said, soft as morning mist. “The Harvest Goddess would approve.”

[vespcrtines]

She isn’t. She isn’t ready. How could she be?

She looks at him with sunshine in her eyes, and he looks at her like she’s a wildflower by the roadside. She looks at him like he’s everywhere, all warmth and sweet things and summers spent cooling in the springs or splashing in the lake, and he looks at her like something to smile at in passing, a thing you forget about by the next turn.

Lord, why couldn’t he just take that turn already?

“As I’ll ever be, Finn.”

Her smile wobbles, but he won’t notice. Her step closer falters, but he won’t notice. And when he leads her toward the whirling skirts and glittering lights, she knows he won’t notice if she’s still looking at him like that, like he hung the sun, like every step of her life had Buchanan scribbled in the corner. Her hand finds his, fingers slipping into place so easy it aches, the way they always did when she was little, before it ever hurt to hold on too tight. The other curls against his arm, the fabric warm beneath her palm. The music swells, signaling the start, and she hopes he won’t feel the flush rising in her cheeks, the flutter of her pulse where it presses up against his skin.

But truth is… she doesn’t have to hope too hard.

“Let’s dance, Frankie.”

Look, Frankie meant to get a dance with Josie at the Bleeding Hearts Festival. Honest! Time was sand slipping through his fingers that night, and the last grains fell away before he even realized it. It's not an excuse to his broken promise, however, and he's been feeling the weight of grief on his shoulders since. It's something he's been meaning to apologize for, give her a jar of loquat jam that is currently sitting in his fridge, yellow bow tacked to the top.

Her words fizzle and pop, a soda can cracking on an approaching Summer's day. If he's confused about her words, Frankie doesn't show it. In fact, his smile only grows larger, ear to ear. His hands give her arms a delicate squeeze before they drop -- only to promptly move up to fix his hair. What? Royalty just asked him to dance. He can't be seen looking anything less than well-groomed on the cobblestone floor with her.

Then, that hand extends back out, before taking her hand into his. Josie's less sticky than usual. Is it weird to say he kind of misses the feeling? "You beat me to the punch, Princess," Frankie replies with a chuckle, glancing over to the dance floor. Glittering figures twirl away in flurry of flowers of colors, and he can only hope he can keep up. "You ready, Jojo?"