zedechemist - Tumblr blog

[zedechemist]

LOCATION: A churchyard. TIME: Late morning / early afternoon. CLOSED FOR: @movskas

On absolutely necessary occasions, Zed shows his face on the days that Joseph is feeling a particular way. If he's called and said something that's earned the chemist an unpleasant, but swift call from overseas. Joseph could stir, and shake the foundations of lives he had very little direct involvement with.

Zed couldn't forget that they shared a city. He could almost forget about his own, the ones nicely settled in Russia. So Zed's sat through mass, with Lev, Eva, Diana, Joseph and the small, fidgeting Sasha. Lola, has been spared such a morning of confession.

He'd once pitied her for involving herself with Lev, and now, he's found himself quite envious of her Villarin perks.

Zed's outside whilst churchgoers filter out behind him. The air's still brisk and everyone's in camel coats, and woollen gloves. Joseph's around the side of the building, and the chemist finds himself there too. Gazes glimpse the dotted gravesites, as they both wait for the rest of the Movska's to be burned out of the church, in the way of post-confessional rejection.

Some things, even bible verses, stick with Zed.

'I will not find a wise man among you.'

He can resonate with that one. Whilst quiet, however ⏤ Zed himself makes a foolish but knowing accusation (but the stitches and the bruises don't help his case); Joseph knows: "You called her."

[zedechemist]

If someone asked Zed how old a kindergartener was. He would probably just say Sasha's age, who is definitely not one. His cousin's kid is the benchmark, for all children.

"How many could count to one-hundred?" Apparently, Zed's curious enough to know that. The generational question, like he already doesn't think university-level students have enough brainpower to retain half of what he lectures. He cannot fathom a smaller, less capable tiny human anywhere near his realm of education. Aviel, obviously finds this amusing ⏤ if the smile is anything to go by.

Zed's is a lesser version, irritated, in fact.

Yet ⏤ as his reputation precedes ⏤ he's smart enough of a man that Gillinski does read him quite clearly. "I'll keep in in mind." He would try his hardest, not to. "It all sounds riveting."

Aviel is well aware that professors aren't exactly chosen for their personalities - and this is a very clear instance of such. Because this man has the stiffest and most unfriendly handshake, and nothing he says or does shows he is at all interested in speaking to Avi for more than absolutely necessary.

It's interesting, at the very least. And then, some weird backhanded comment about archaeology. Or is it about kids? Odd.

"What am I teaching kindergarteners?" He clarifies the question, making sure he's understanding what this man of high regard is asking. A slightly crooked smirk. "We're focusing on learning to write at the moment, actually. And the life cycles of plants. So we have some seedlings growing in the big window, and mother's day cards in the works. We recently did a counting bee to see who could count to 100."

He regards him for a moment. "Well this has been a gas, but talking about child development isn't for everybody and I'd hate to bore you, Professor Movska. Feel free to stop by the classroom, though. We'll be getting into science experiments soon."

[zedechemist]

"You have an endless supply of macaroni rings, then." Zed replies, as if it is obvious, and the little worker chain of students making arts and crafts on repeat wildly differs to what he asks of his students.

The hammer drops, and Movska should have known to expect this.

His gaze falls to the outstretched hand, a forced smile fixates itself on Zed's face as he begrudgingly shakes Aviel's hand once. He pulls it back, almost as fast as he'd touched him. Personable qualities, were lacking — he saves them up for Columbia, or for consulting. Like a battery, he needs to charge that part of himself.

Not for absent coffee stops.

If Aviel should have retired — and had been suggested to, how good could he really be? But, even Zed bites back his tone of probing. It would mean he has to extend the conversation beyond its worth. Bitterly, he's even sure he's actually heard of Gillinski now he's said the name.

And it is usually spoken in good standing. "What are you teaching the next generation — digging?" Not that Zed dislikes, or holds other subjects in lower regard. It's just that he absolutely did. And it's detrimental, because he knows history, at its core, even benefits his specialty. "I suppose their paintings must be quite good at least."

The silence hangs like a swinging dead corpse - and perhaps Aviel would be more intimidated if he didn’t find it so fascinating. Instead, he watches Zed in minute understanding. Perhaps the kindergarten teacher appears as a shit-stirrer, some little devil on the shoulder. But he is not trying to instigate here - merely, to have an interesting conversation.

In this pregnant pause, he has to wonder if Zed’s capable of such a thing without a cup of coffee first. And the thought gets the tiniest grin out of him.

“Then?" Right, the cliffhanger. "Then I’d feel rather put off but probably just ask my student to make a new one.” His lips split into a disarming smile. 

“You do lectures and teach at Colombia. I’ve been around for quite a few conferences, lectures, meetings of the minds…. Zedekiah Movska.” He holds out a ringed hand. “I’m Aviel Gillinski. Art historian, celebrated archaeologist, and currently a kindergarten teacher. Should’ve retired years ago, or so says the chair of Art History & Archaeology.” What his PhD is in. 

[zedechemist]

Like most, in their crowd.

"Is that a professional opinion?" It's a poke. Zed rarely finds the humour, but Viktoriya is not Dr. Batrum still talking about an outdated thesis. He knows Vahl, dare he consider he doesn't actually dislike her company.

Even if they get satire. "You haven't been here long."

@zedechemist setting: evening, university get-together "You're a professional." (from here)

It could be in reference to her extensive curriculum, but Viktoriya feels in the cold of her hand that it's more to do with the vodka soda she'd drained down to nearly half, already.

"Yes," she says, with a small laugh. It's more comfortable, out here in the balcony. At her age, the alcohol hits the same, yet her skin feels warmer than it did way back when. "And you're on your way, too."

[zedechemist]

A man is summoned at the mention of a familiar grounded astronaut — it's just as the two men query the absence of likely the only common ground they shared.

— unless the flakes of concrete on their clothes counted.

Somehow, Rahi's knowing gaze gives Zed the impression that he's already fired off something that's his fault, and entirely avoidable. Because of course, Zed could control erratic drivers.

When Zed returns a silent bulleted look, it's very much: How is this on me? Yet. Zed stops himself dead on making a sharp goad in return to Easton's dry statement. He's being nice, as requested.

The chemist notices concern filtering across Kumar's face as he checks over Madden. There's an exchange between the two that Zed fills with straightening the cuff of the now (it had already been a little) wrinkled shirt he's wearing. But whilst he's not looking, his ears work fine.

Zed thinks he can get away with an eyeroll; being hit by a car — dramatic, it had been a tap. He'd suffered more injury being taken down by Easton himself than the vehicle had. And whilst Zed can feel the grazing of where a stone had torn the skin at his hip. A dark shirt, fortunately meant there was little to see when it daubed the cotton.

Nothing that he couldn't wash off in the bathroom in a few minutes.

"Sure," Zed answers, when Rahi greets him — and they're talking reservations. Naturally, as Madden holds the door and let's Rahi inside, Movska uses his foot to prop it open, and jerks his head for Easton to go on inside after him. "Go ahead." a beat, "I need to clean up. I won't be a moment."

@astrorahi

"What the fuck?"

The only appropriate reaction seems to come from him — arriving late to the scene, yet early enough to catch the end of it. And hurrying quick, to his boyfriend's side.

"Are you okay?" Directed at Easton — with furrowed brows and hands checking arms and torso for any sore spots — as though he doesn't tackle men for a living.

Then, an pointed gaze shot Zed's way. Normal people say thank you, spoken in silence, when someone else saves their lives.

Similarly, Easton gets a message too: Forgive him. A half-pleading, half-humorous look. It's Zed’s first time inhabiting a human body in over twenty years.

Dust finally settles, leaving the car incident behind. Thus the rewind, and a start back over: "Hi," with a small peck to Easton's lips and a squeeze to his waist. "I'm sorry I'm late."

And to Zed, "Hey." Small smile. "Should we all go inside?"

@easton-m

[zedechemist]

Zed hadn't said Max would be a surgeon. But he was sticking something sharp in Zed. Operating or not. Movska did not care for wonky sutures.

He hadn't desired to make Miller's business his, either. But, an anaesthetics consultant recognises the slick shine on Max's skin, beading at his hairline. Para's sweating over some stitches? Unlikely. Shaky hands, and an unfocused gaze; tense shoulders, made for stiff movements.

It's the same reaction when taking a highly medicated patient off their prescriptions. It's a sudden, shock to the system they are never ready for. Zedekiah could list tens of combinations that Max's body were missing — addicted to. And Movska hadn't wanted to make it any of his problem. Someone else might have told him to go home — and not allowed anything to sit between trembling fingers, let alone something sharp.

"Were you?" he asks mildly. Why would you do that? So Zed wouldn't draw attention to Miller, and his bodily battles? Albeit, endearing for him to even want to come up with the idea to be mentored, and lectured by a man who'd just said he likely wouldn't make it.

Zed's jaw ticks when Max drives the needle deeper; it's retaliation, sure. And maybe Miller isn't entirely unfit for Zed's kind of teachings. Maybe. Because he isn't about to sit and wean a medic out of withdrawal to get there. Sick, sure, Max.

"Were you planning on testing all the doses on yourself first — before you put it to application?" It's the subtlest jab Zed has that doesn't incriminate him to any passing nurses, or techs. It's very much a: I know. So you should do a little better to convince me. That is, if Max is serious about his specialist pursuit.

"Who says I'll be a surgeon.", Max bites back - and it's not quite his dream, anyway. Or maybe it is. Emergency Medicine is his thing, the adrenaline rush, the relief when everything goes alright (he does not think about the other what ifs - if it goes bad, it goes bad, and he ignores it. It's similar to his mindest earlier in life - when I'm not the one hurting, I don't have to focus on fixing myself. Maybe it's still his current mindset. Yeah. Maybe it is.). "I was thinking about Anesthesiology." Max presses his lips together in a tight line, eyes looking up at Zed here and there, "And I was going to apply to this hospital, here. So you could be my mentor." Pause, "Because I like learning from you."

You'll fail with hands like that, and Max pushes the needle deeper into his skin, "I was sick, Zed." A blatant lie, and there's no real lying to someone that knows drugs inside out, "I've done four years. What's four more."

[zedechemist]

Well, Zedekiah —

It takes the anaesthesiologist more than another second to pinpoint exactly who the man is. Even then, that part of personable has not been retained. Colleague? Fellow?

Patient — escaped? Did psych turn their back again?

Another attempt to drown this memory with coffee goes by (that, and to kickstart his brain for the day). The cup is already half empty, as is Zed's outlook.

"Then, what?"

The other man's empty line passes as a threat, or a taunt, and Zed isn't in the world of half-cooked problems waiting in the background. He has too many things on his mind then, to make room for macaroni rings.

The prolonged silence hangs between them, Zed tilts his head to determine if there is a joke lost between them. Movska isn't formidable for his jokes.

"No, it's fine." Offer declined. It still bothers Zed that he cannot place the man pre-caffeinated state, and that the other knew him: "But you are, exactly?"

Aviel's eyes only briefly glance down at the puddle that Zed's shoe stands in. Oh well. A kid would kill to stomp a foot into one of those babies. Then the coffee staining the cup from the tip-over. Hopefully not too hot. What a bout of bad luck, really.

He's observant over it all - ever dialed in, always noticing. But that doesn't change his mood. Nor does it change his own aloof and conversational nature when the other frequent Colombia lecturer and stand-in professor stares at him in some death glare. Cute.

"Well, Zedekiah. If I end up breaking a priceless artifact such as the stunning handmade ring in question because you didn't speak up about it..." He's leaned up against the doorframe of the coffeeshop.

A moment as the 6'4" silver-haired man eyes the coffee cup again behind thick spectacles. Gaze travels up that scarred hand maybe a bit slower than necessary and finds Zed's gaze. "Don't let a little spilled coffee ruin your day. Shall I buy you another, sweet? So you don't go shooting lasers from those very intimidating but absolutely gorgeous eyes of yours?"

[zedechemist]

Foot lands in a puddle, splashing and soaking blue denim.

Forgetting a lid for the coffee cup — as it jostles and spills down the cardboard. It trails between scar tissue of his hand; too warm, an uncomfortable heat —

There's a stage where it's simply too late to transpose a moment, for any other. Zed's wiping his arm, and fingers with a napkin.

It's just the same when a voice chimes in beside him. Too late to make believe that he hadn't heard, looked or seen the figure. He might've tried, if his eyes hadn't already darted up to meet the stranger's jovialness. Zed's not mirroring the expression.

— if looks could kill.

"Does it change the outcome if I care to answer?" Zed asks, pocketing coffee stained napkins, and sipping the lidless drink. It's the strangers saving grace, honestly; the coffee.

Aviel looks down at his ringed fingers, wiggling them as if debating if each one is on the right digit. Sips his cold brew, then:

"Is it rude to not wear the ring my student made and gifted to me? Well truthfully, it was made out of three pieces of macaroni and some Elmers. Feel like it should be preserved somewhere safe. Perhaps mounted and framed, hung in the MET... not worn on my pesky little hand."

A laugh. "I dunno, would macaroni look good on me?"

[zedechemist]

Lev's forthcoming. Они всегда меняются. The days he came back to the apartment, unspeaking. Stark contrasts against a door slamming, mistakenly believing a child had broken in. A door locked, an air of ignorance that spends years on the precipice of bursting. Zed's nothing, if not observant.

He's never pursued to ask after his cousin, and in return, Lev didn't pry either. A cognizance between blood.

Tristan Zaire.

Eyes shift from the mug in hand, to the other man. The chemist doesn't know him. Barely an underground whisper; carefully avoided — Zed keeps his hands out of that kind of business, no allegiance is better than the wrong one. So he doesn't know the inner workings of this, yet.

Zed doesn't have an answer — he hasn't calculated one yet.

"They moved on you first?" It's more question, than a statement. As if he isn't quite sure he believes Lev. He should. But, he knows his cousin too. A clear comprehension of the predicament meant that Zed would have all the variables. He could still adjust the variables, and stop Lev's apoptosis before it's gone too far.

Maybe it already had, if they knew where they resided, worked, frequented —

He won't kill me.

No. If Zed were being cruel, he’d pick the fly's wings off too — and then all it's little friends, and more. Lev might have seen that in Zed's eye at the idea that Zaire being unhinged didn't mean he was any different to the rest of them, when pushed.

Often, the variance, is how much one has to lose.

"Then assume he has none." Limits, that is. Do you? Do they? Does Zed? "Names. Все они. Lev. If I am to expect a potential visit," It's calm, too calm. Because his cousin has enough of the unease to unsettle the entire foundations of the apartment. "I want to know who." a beat, as if asking Lev's limits:"Они могут исчезнуть."

Then, a lift of his lip — like he's thought of the most amusing of jokes: "Я мог бы поговорить с ним." What it would achieve, besides a personal appraisal of the man, is probably very little. Zed took it seriously, of course. But, arms length also provided ample opportunity to return favours. Pouring another drink, he fills Lev's mug again; Zed's still thinking: "Полагаю, ты не вмешался в это своего отца?"

There are certain things one can expect when they live with person. You learn a lot of shit. How they take their coffee, whether or not they like mushrooms, drinking habits, long they scroll on the phone in the bathroom, little twitches and tells. It's why the comment comes as no surprise, though it makes it no less bitter to swallow.

"Правила изменились."

The mug is accepted, no time taken in having a drink from it - better to wash it all down, with. Can't help but wonder how long it took him to realize something was up, or when he figured out just what he'd been involved in, to be begin with.

"All of it." Funny enough, that fucking gang is the foundation that brought them together. Lev would never credit them for such a blessing, though.

Fuck, if only Zed would say the word. But then, he almost hopes he doesn't. To say he's been weighing options is an understatement. One thing is for fuck sure - Lev's never shared a single fucking piece of information with anyone out of intent. "Tristan Zaire." A name, first and foremost. "The deal was, I stay the fuck out of shit and keep my mouth shut. And I did." Beat. "One of his captains cornered me. He was getting close to the family, knew I'd make it hostile, wanted to intimidate me. I told Tristan at New Years to keep the fucker away from us."

And that's where it all went downhill.

"He knows where we live, work, all of it. He's unhinged and fully fucking prepared to do whatever he feels he wants to." He's staring down into the mug now as if it might just hold the answers. Quietly, he adds: "He won't kill me."

Just everyone else, starting with her.

"I don't know where his limit is. All I know is that the fucker seems to think I'm not holding up my end of the fucking bargain, and he's not real interested in talking and he is watching."

[zedechemist]

Ask ; answered hospital .   my  muse  is  told  that  yours  is  in  the  hospital . Continued from: HERE

It's not the voice he's expecting — he's not expecting anyone. It's a bruise, it's always just a bruise (it's not). A new nurse that's apparently appeared to have called everyone on Zed's contact list.

Gerard's stampeding presence is endearing, but entirely wasted.

He's not even sure Gerard's number is saved in his contacts.

Or maybe it is — under: emergency; фиксатор кофе

There's the misunderstanding. "I ripped a stitch, Gerard." There's an unfamiliar face lifting his shirt to prod at the slit on his hip. Zed's glaring at them. He'd played it down on the day, but it hadn't wanted to heal without a bit of help after a few more — Zed's irritated by it; after being dragged across the concrete by NFL's most notable.

He sees the frantic expression on Gerard's features. Did you think I was dying — what did they tell him? Zed's eyes search for the dangerously new nurse, to offer an anaesthesiologist's lecture. Usually, it involved the reminder that he's responsible for who gets to keep their eyes open.

She needs to open hers.

"Do you need to sit, you look like a призрак —" he replaces the word: "—pale."

@saudadc

[zedechemist]

[zedechemist]

He's at the cabinet; the vodka's there, and he's scanning for glasses — clean ones. Lev continues talking, and if Zed is good at anything relating to serious, unasked for conversations — it's being silent.

He reserves judgement, in this case.

Zed crosses the kitchen, holding out the mug that he's poured the drink into. There's a bubbling in the background, as he stirs the soup on the stove. Years of a complex network of operating their lives around each other, had knowing silences and a certain ignorance — "Мне было интересно, когда ты скажешь мне."

He hasn't any idea what Lev's possibly got himself ensnared in still. But whether Lev acknowledges it, Zed has had plenty of clientele that crosses the lines Movska's were formidable for. He wasn't foolish enough to go and get the t-shirt with a no returns policy.

— threats change everything.

Zed tips back his drink, and pours another. He's opposite his cousin now, the bottle beside him on the counter. Forgotten coffee sat cooling.

The cogs in Zed brain spin their methodical calculations as he scours Lev's shifting expressions. It's clear why Lev has come to him. Knocking players out of this game, only means other fresher ones will sit in their place. And repeat. Zed can't do that.

Whoever the guy threatening a Movska is —

First — "Does she know?" a beat, because Zed too has coldened to someone who could start anything from a chemical war, to a verbal tennis match. "Tell me everything you know about him."

Zed isn't arrogant enough to say the words: leave it with me.

But he's almost sure that's what Lev's hoping he'll say.

"Go ahead," he mutters. Lev's going for the coffee, no questions asked - hesitation, though. That's another story.

He sighs, and nods.

"водка."

He really doesn't want to come out and fucking say it all. What he would fucking love is for Zed to read his fucking mind and have the solution ready at hand. "Listen, before you fucking judge me.. I was a fucking kid, alright?" Never mind, the thirteen long fucking years of willful living in that mistake. "I can't ignore it this time, Zed. Shit's changed."

He leans into the counter but immediately stands upright again, too restless to relax in any capacity. He stares for just a minute, half hoping that his cousin would magically do exactly what he's been wishing for. He doesn't. "I ghosted the Brotherhood," after over a decade of loyal service, "and the fucking boss I had an understanding with is in fucking jail. The stand-in is a fucking crazy fuck who fucking... he threatened her. On New Years Eve." Explains the sudden obsession with security systems, at least. "Said he'd make it look like Kelly." Suicide. The implications are double-fold.

His mouth runs dry, just like it had that fucking night.

"Они не оставят ее в покое."

That's not even the whole of it.

[zedechemist]

ask meme ; answered patch .   help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound . continued from: HERE

"Вы делаете это не правильно," he's muttering it at Max as he watches with a hawk-like gaze. The paramedic is more equipped for this, but Zed would have preferred a line of staples in his side at this point. It's not what he's here for — Miller is the only one brave enough in the hospital to approach Movska about the discolouration on his knuckles.

And he'd finally texted him that if he didn't stop staring every time he rushed someone into the ER that Zed would be tempted to get a matching pair of bruises.

He wouldn't, but he's incurred some wrath about minor indiscretions of late. The anaesthesiologist isn't about to divulge anything about the auction. Or the actor — or whatever story that small papers managed to print.

"Do you often shake when you operate?" It's a jab, and the tension in Zed's muscles is also not helping.

A pause, and surveying eyes scan Max for his outburst. Medical school. Zed should have congratulated him, but he's not that kind — "You'll fail with hands like that."

@max-millers

[zedechemist]

Ask meme ; answered take down .   forcefully  bring  my  muse  to  the  ground . Continued from HERE

A squeal of tyres echo in Zed's ears, the afterburn of rubber is nauseating as it permeates off the concrete. A numbness throbs in his hip, and something warm drips down his upper arm. Disorientated, it feels like someone's fighting to put him under. As with him, he's refusing to go so easily, warring through the sudden shock to the system. Blinking, he's fast recovering.

He barely recognises the large statue of a figure talking at him, or their body pushing off of him as he stares through a fogged vision at the momentary disarray of a car askew in the street — there's a holdup in the road now. His head is spared damage, somehow.

It all happens in the space of a few seconds; a blast of bodily pressure, and then colliding with the tarmac.

Looking up, a hand is being held out at him — he's internally groaning (resisting the physical discomforts being broadcast) as he stares for several seconds.

He remembers Kumar's one request.

This is him; the guy. Be nice. Treat him like you treat me.

"Is this you out of practice?" Zed asks, getting himself off the ground, and brushing his clothes off the stains marring the already stained outfit. He's wavering off the panicked driver — Eva would threaten to sue, he's sure. Zed has no interest. He's instead eying Easton, dabbing the graze on his arm to know the extent of the superficial injuries. The absence of the astronaut is noticed too: "Where's Kumar?"

@easton-m

[zedechemist]

 wrap.  wrap  an  arm  around  my  muse’s shoulders

There's an upturned bottle somewhere, Zed heard it rattle on the floor — foot has kicked it across the kitchen as he crosses over to meet Kumar. They had started this last night, or, in the early hours of the morning; it's written clearly as scientific notes on the island.

The same sideboard decorated with a spillage of something probably requiring gloves to clean. Blow something up? That's what they'd said last time, right? A rocket engineer, and a chemist can come up with a kitchen-made compound that's definitely not available over the counter.

Explosive, flammable, like every good kitchen cleaner.

Alcohol is good for that too. Maybe they should have stopped there.

"Hey, Kumar," Zed starts, arms sweep over the other man's shoulders from behind. He blinks, looking at the bubbling of their tipsy creation. It's just like old times; chaos reigns as youths often did. Hands are loose dangling over Rahi's chest, weight half-balanced on the man's collar when one hand gestures to the haphazardly spread apparatus. The temperature they've been waiting for approaches with pressure gauges rapidly increasing and the kitchen is hot with fumes. Zed's not foolish enough to make bad jokes, only terrible ones: "I think we could blow a rocket with this." a beat, "What do you think?"

[zedechemist]

❛ it hurts that you still can’t trust me after all this time. ❜

"—Почему вы думаете что?"

He answers with a cold toned question. He's nonplussed that Eva feels such a thing as hurt. But it's likely an unfair assessment, Zed is not the lecturer of feelings, and emotional understanding. But whether she's a Movska or not, he's not sure he trusts anyone.

Well, maybe.

One. Two, at best.

The chemist has partial faith in others, but they are not the same. Eva is not the same. He trusts her to do her job, and play her role. To walk into his apartment, and know not to start touching acidic concoctions that he knows she wants to clean away. She's on his call back list, and he'll sooner pick her side, than anyone else outside of his circle.

But, trust—

Quietly, he's casual: "Я доверяю тебе достаточно."

[zedechemist]

He's only recently got the coffee machine repaired. And it's trickling a deep brown liquid into a stained white cup when the sounds start in the other room. Zed, at first, doesn't move besides glancing in the other direction.

Fortunately (for them), it's one of the two people who have acquired a key they refuse to relinquish. Even if they did, and the locks changed. Nothing else really would.

They'd get more keys.

Something is boiling on the stove — it's not chemical, or at least, it's not the sort Zed's used to. It's the kind out of a soup can.

Maybe more chemical than edible, then.

When Lev appears and meets his gaze, Zed's propped lazily against the kitchen slash laboratory counter. He doesn't need to hear the words to know that there's something else at play; Lev's not cracked a single remark about the state of the apartment.

The coffee stops and it sits on the grate, steaming.

"Водка, затем?"

It's not his proudest moment, but he's been left with little choice. In recent months, his anxiety and paranoia got the better of him. Nightmares make sleep his most difficult chore, and it bleeds into his day-to-day. Those happy moments are more manic, decision making clouded by rational concern and fear. It gets better for short periods of time. Though he hardly forgets his problems, their absence is a small relief.

Bond Street has been decked out with a ridiculous security system, inside and out - not even a fucking fly makes it in without him knowing about it. One press of a button, and the cops are on the fucking way; how fucking sad his life has become.

But then, shit happens, and in one fucking night any semblance of security is completely fucking shattered.

Chinatown is a familiar safety net, the one place in the whole of the fucking city where he feels truly secure. Makes him wonder if he was wrong to have stepped out of his comfort zone, pursue a better life and try to find some fucking happiness. He'd still be here, and she'd be completely fucking safe from his baggage.

Lev steps into the biohazard, shutting the door loudly behind himself and locking it into infinity. "It's me," he calls out. He can tell Zed's home, weird science smells are fresh in the fucking air.

He should be soothed, pacing his way to Zed's forbidden fucking lab and edging his way into it; the world is just too fucking heavy.

"Zed," he swallows, forcing himself to meet his cousins cold ass fucking stare. "Я облажался."

@zedechemist