Arden!

Instead, you’re left blinking again at orange lenses. You looked a little dumb, just staring, but the man sprang on you so fast you couldn’t do much more than stare. The goggles were a tease, considering how aesthetically pleasing the rest of his face was (you weren’t blind). You didn’t like not having a whole face to look at, even if you weren’t known for your steady eye contact. His goggles gave him a distinctive half-unfinished feel, like someone had blocked half the Mona Lisa. 

But, the Mona Lisa was the Mona Lisa, and likewise, a hot guy with his eyes obscured still made for a pretty hot guy.

You didn’t need to say a word, mostly because the long, blond-haired man rambled on. His voice reverberated through the infirmary. You might have wondered about bedside manners if you weren’t acquainted with Alice Stilza. Volume was not an issue in this infirmary. “I keep hearing about some dude’s stitches, and I kept seeing’em on all my fits — which they’re kinda shit, but they’re hella sturdy! And I had to really get in there to rip out the stitches when I was workin’ on ‘em, so--” A tightening of the hands on your shoulders, “hell yeah!”

That was definitely a little insulting -- or it would be if you had a technique when it came to your sewing. Instead, your lips twitched in pride at his comment about their sturdiness. That was entirely the quality of the thread you harbored in your shop. You did have phenomenally good shit. 

“August, let the guy breathe—“ Ah, so Enjin decided you were worth rescuing. It wasn’t a surprise to you that he’d waited until after you’d been grabbed and manhandled to interfere. Asshole.

The name made you focus. August was one of your favorite names, though you’d never met one. What would an August be like? 

Apparently someone who’d grab you immediately after meeting you.

Enjin sounded less than half-hearted. He waved a large hand, like August was a dog he could make mind. You doubted it.

You were lax under the gloved hands. Aside from the jolt, you hadn’t reacted much -- no glare, huff, eyebrow twitch. The guy’s volume startled you more than anything. His words might have offended someone else, but not you. 

That wasn’t out of tough-skin, mind you. Half the time you stewed over the stupidest, most inane side-comment made your way. But, this was about your sewing (which you didn’t care much about). 

He wasn’t wrong. Your work was (again) kinda shit. Plus, you only did those repairs for the Cleaners who stopped by your shop out of…vague moral obligation, some residual grief, and your own general magnanimity. Something about putting good into the universe to one day receive it back -- or that’s what The Trashsweep would have said.

You forced your brain back on track. You really got distracted too easily -- you’d do better if you could smoke indoors. Your head tilted, cutting the blond off before words could fall from his big mouth (it had been open, ready to fly at the handle -- you also noticed it was a pretty mouth, like the rest of him. Nice teeth, pink lips, very expressive.),  “So you’re the guy who makes all the equipment?”

A fervent nod that had your own neck aching in sympathy. Your body swayed with it. The big guy still hadn’t relinquished your shoulders. You weren’t even small, though you did lack some balance and general structural integrity. This guy was just sinewy and tall. And, obviously, quite rambunctious. 

(‘Rambunctious’ -- god, that old fuck had rubbed off on you more than you wanted to admit.)

“Your designs are sick, but—“ Your eyes are lidded as you mirror back the words, “your material is shit.”

A beat of silence follows August’s deep gasp. You watch the artist for a moment longer. You can’t help but note (again, and twice too many times within the 10 minute span of you seeing him) that he’s pretty -- between the straight, slender nose, defined chin, cut jaw, clear skin, and flowing blond hair. The silence makes heat bead at the back of your neck, and haltingly, you clarify, “That was a joke.“

Enjin coughed beside you, head turned to the side to muffle it. The fuckface had to be laughing. 

“Do you really think so?” August curved over you, and not for the first time, you notice how tall the man is. His height allows him to peer over you in the truest meaning of the word, leaning down to hear you better. He smells like acetone, motor oil, and burnt sugar. The smell makes your nose tingle, then twitch in irritation at the tickle. 

Enjin has to be taller, but something about August’s lithe frame and much bigger personality makes him seem infinitely taller.

August doesn’t sound offended, at least. You don’t hear it if he is. Your mouth doesn’t open, dark eyes wide on the taller man. Should you respond? Was now the time to respond—? Or was he about to—?

“Because I got like three busts in the past week, not the sexy kind, and I can’t get anything to stick. I tried like a helluva bunch o’ stitches — ladder,” and everything after that you do not understand. 

You didn’t know half the stitches you even did with a needle; you were just stubborn and stuck the needle where it felt best. You didn’t even use regular sewing thread — you used embroidery thread, hence how tough your stitching is. You enjoyed embroidery, bloody fingers and loud bitching aside. You used lots of mediums with your projects, and that led you to embroidery more than once. Thick, bold embroidery thread was typically the only thread you had on you. Actual sewing thread wasn’t made for visibility like embroidery thread, and therefore was useless to you.

Not to say you didn’t carry sewing thread in your shop -- you carried everything in that bitch. It was your biggest flex. 

(You had a lot of customers say otherwise -- before they’d then see what they were looking for. If the object went missing somewhere in that moment of them finding it, that wasn’t your problem. Inventory was spotty in a place like Pandemonium.)

Anyway -- you really couldn’t fault the guy for calling your stitching technique shit.

You do understand what it feels like to create something, though. You don’t notice Enjin opening his mouth to interrupt, because you settle deep into this conversation. You can talk shop — can talk arts and crafts.

“I recycle spherite clothes for my thread,” You supply, eyes back on orange lenses.  “They’re a lot heavier--” 

You were going to explain how you recycled clothes into thread, except the last half of your sentence is a chorus. You squint your eyes at the blond. He doesn’t react much, aside from how his smile is only widening. 

You tilt your head, a matching smile tilting the corners of your chapped lips, “I can sell some, or trade…”

Because you are a business owner -- magnanimous repairs to stray Cleaners who appear at your shop or not. Your elbow hits Enjin in a light jab when you hear him snort. The asshole was laughing way too fucking much during all of this. 

Except the rest of your sales pitch is drowned out by a screech of your name. The voice is as loud as it is grating. A small yip breaks from your lips, and the only thing keeping you from jumping a foot high is those large, gloved hands dwarfing your shoulders still. Not that you minded, but when exactly was August (you remembered his name -- good for you) going to drop his hands?

“Great,” Enjin mutters at your side, sounding as thrilled as you feel. You give a deep sigh and trade glances with him. “Hey, doc!” Enjin was a better man than you for greeting her. You were sufficiently tuckered out from the impromptu meeting with the tall designer in front of you.

Another parrot of your name, though this time from a much more pleasant voice (even if it was almost just as loud). August’s timbre cracks, conveying his shock. You cock a brow as he proceeds, “Like, that guy?” 

Okay, well, fuck you, too. Your eyes squint up at him in discernment. You were a generally polite person -- or at least you thought so. You lift a hand in a small wave, almost absentmindedly patting the large gloved hands. “I mean — maybe? Depends. You got beef?” Your tone is light, but Enjin’s hip knocking your side reveals that it falls a little flat. 

“August!” Alice Stilza booms, her crow-like eyes honed onto the blond who is still holding your shoulders. He seems to realize it with you, lightly shaking you back and forth. You tense for about a second before slipping back into deadweight and letting it happen. A younger you would have bristled. Luckily for August, he was meeting a much more docile you.

He must enjoy the reaction, because the shaking speeds up just a bit. You easily let yourself rock on your heels. You were too old for this shit.

“Gramma! You didn't tell me you knew the stitches guy!” His head whips to her, and you notice that his nose is perfectly straight. His profile is as aesthetically pleasing as everything else about him, and that just feels inherently unfair. You wonder, briefly, about a deal you could make -- or would that be creepy? 

Your lips tug down as you think, but you move on to much more pressing matters.

“Grandma?” You croak. You take a step back and finally break the hold on your shoulders. Your eyes snap between the hawkish woman of your nightmares and August, “He’s your grandson?”

That…actually makes so much sense, you realize. Still, the geriatric scarecrow of a woman can’t be reconciled with the (objectively) attractive blond man in front of you. Attitude-wise, though, that made so, so much sense. August, now that you stared a little harder at him, was just as scarecrow-like -- in a different, pleasantly distracting way. The overalls added to it. He wiggled his fingers at you in what might have been mock demure or purposeful goofiness. You couldn’t tell for sure, and both seemed likely.

You pause.

“Huh,” You huff in light acknowledgment. 

“HE IS!” Alice booms. You’d seen her so many times that the volume hardly made you flinch -- the initial scare aside. The sallow-skinned woman swarms down on you. August is forced to take a step farther back. Pale pink, chapped lips pout at the older woman. “Hurry up! Get on the table, idiot.” 

You frown, “I didn’t even say I was hurt, or that I was having an attack—“

“Don’t talk back! Sit.” 

You couldn’t really argue with that. 

Your full lips tug farther from a frown and more into a pout. You slide around August. You head to the med table and hop up to sit on it with a soft oof. Enjin meanders with you, and you idly knock your foot into his knee. The man knocks back as he settles in a lean against the med table by your side.

Really, he had work to do, but you were confident he was dallying with you to avoid it. You’d already done the trade you’d visited for, Alice aside. You suspected the older man was concerned, and that gave your heart an uncomfortable warmth. The warmth traveled in an uncomfortable itch to the back of your neck, making you worry you might get hives. Alice wouldn’t let you leave if you ended up with something like that out of the blue.

At least neither of you were acknowledging his presence. What Enjin succeeded in showing through action, he often failed at in communication. 

(You had witnessed, eavesdropped, and been on the receiving end of this many times. One time you almost pissed your pants after two of his hookups bumped into each other at the club -- neither of which knew about the other, both of which Enjin had seen in the past week with the bruises on their necks to match. You had no sympathy, and neither did Bro or Gris. A man was only subject to the consequence of his actions.)

“Gramma! You knew the stitches guy, and ya didnt tell me—!” August was near whining. Your lips twitched. Seems like there was someone who could rival Alice’s volume. 

(Part of you wondered if he did it so his grandma might not feel so alone. The original Trashsweep, your mentor, had told you about how Alice became so loud. Her volume wasn’t a choice, and you knew patients often avoided her. You couldn’t fathom that a woman who made it her life’s work to solve a terrible disease didn’t want to help people -- that maybe it was saddening to be avoided when your passion and profession were to help people. God, you couldn’t think too hard on that, or you’d cry.)

“Ya already met!” Alice barked, diving into her pockets to dig out a stethoscope. You know the drill and straighten. 

Undoubtedly used to his grandmother’s work, August manages to stay quiet the whole time she listens. He doesn’t make a peep or even move too much as she feels your pulse and counts your bpm like second nature. With your head stuck straight forward while she works, you’re stuck watching August. You can’t see his eyes behind those goggles, but you watch as his body leans to look at you around Alice. 

Long, pale blond strands swish as his head starts aimed low and rises -- a once-over. While you knew that from very different contexts, you still registered the body language. Your lips twitch into a small smile. His head cocks (not unlike a dog, you realize), and his hair sways lower.

“Yer kinda—“ August starts, but the end remains a mystery as Alice slams a hand back and into his stomach. The tall man flutters back, hands cradling his gut as he gives a choked puff of air. “Gramma!”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m workin', brat,” Alice barks out, though she’s putting her stethoscope away. Her beady eyes turn to you, “You’re as shitty as always.”

Well, can’t argue with that. You huff even as you smile, thoroughly unbothered by the verdict as your feet sway gently in the air. All you offer her is a polite (because you are well aware of how anal Alice is about respect), “Sorry, ma’am. I’ve laid off on the smokes, mostly.”

August’s body tilts to one side at your words, like a melting clay figure. You tilt your own head at him, mirroring his earlier action. Instead of being rewarded with an answer, he only smiles wider and tilts farther. The pose makes him looked prep to fall. You fight the urge to tilt even more to see if he will. Enjin puffs a breath beside you.

 Alice moves to the medicine cabinet for what you know to be your inhaler and supplements. You make a point to open your mouth before August can, “Was he here during one of my visits?”

It made sense — especially if it was a long time ago. Your first few visits to Alice were foggy. You learned that treating asthma down on The Ground was trial and error. Your first few visits were painted in a haze of low oxygen levels and lethargy. 

August let out a low “oooooh”. The blond was listening, then. Neither of you had deviated from your weird, tilting game of chicken. You really wish you had some eye coverage of your own, because the staredown  with August’s goggles feels unfair. 

Alice huffs, “Somethin’ like that. You were both kids.”

That seemed to be that, then. You hum at August, “Well, guess neither of us remembers that, huh? It’s nice meeting you, though — again, I guess.”

Pleasantries. You didn’t have a reason not to be polite. Not that you needed one to be mean, either, historically speaking. You ignore Enjin’s mocking coo at your side. You knock your boot a little harder into the side of his leg. 

August, however, is staring at you. Or, you assume he is, at least. The goggles kept fucking with how you were reading his whole -- vibe. Eyes were the window to the soul and whatnot. Luckily, like with the once-over, August seems to choreograph his movements to an obvious degree. His body angles to bend forward and a fraction closer to you, like you were an ant rather than a person, “But I’d remember you! Your face,” A gloved hand makes a vague gesture to you, “ And the rest of it, too. You’ve got a vibe!”

‘Rest of it’ is vague. On one hand, you have half a mind to think maybe this guy might be hitting on you. He just doesn’t really seem the type, frankly (with his energy, you really can't tell if it's personal appreciation or just enthusiasm as a whole). You know what it feels like to get hit on, versus a general compliment. If this guy was a designer, an artist, you suspected it was the latter. 

(Also, because you understand exactly what he’s saying. He had a vibe, too. Logically, you couldn’t really imagine forgetting someone this fucking loud either. Yet, the world works in mysterious ways, and minds are fickle. You know all about that. You let the skepticism go easily.)

All you can do is shrug with slightly warm cheeks (because it was flattering, especially considering it was a two-way street), “I used to dye my hair a lot, and my attitude was pretty shit back when I was younger. ‘Specially when I had to visit the doctor. Probably for the best we didn’t really meet. I’d’ve pulled your pigtails.”

Your words are lazy. Was it flirting? Maybe a little. In that odd, roundabout way that took most people a minute. The messy train of thought was as follows: boys bully girls they like — pulling pigtails — you were mean and a terror and would have given him hell. Despite your odd flirting, you don’t look much like you said anything out of the ordinary. There’s no bashfulness or awkwardness on your face as you sit there on the med-table, feet kicking lightly. 

August’s head dips to the side sharply, like a dog hearing a whistle at a frequency too high for human ears. Pearly whites appeared in a stunned, pleased grin. You got the distinct impression that he understood the tangled compliment. The red tint to his ears might have given him away.

Your smile is downright smug.

…

Eventually, you made it out of the infirmary. Enjin seemed much more interested in August trailing you two out than you did. You hardly glance back at the (literally) lumbering man. He’d apparently decided it was vital to hold his arms out in front of him — you don’t know if it was to grab at either of you or simply for the fuck of it all.

“I’m out,” you drawl, voice flatter than the pleasantry in the infirmary. 

“Aww, that’s a lie,” Enjin coos in that particular tone — the one that had panties on the floor or hands meeting his cheek with violent passion. His words are aimed at you, but his eyes are on August. You don’t glance behind you.

“On my momma.”

“Your momma?” You ignore the hoarse voice behind you. 

You’d said your piece to the designer. You’d also talked to a lot of people today, had more than your fair share of auditory stimulation, and not a drop of alcohol for any of it. (Yet.)

“You hate your momma,” Enjin wags a finger at you, then back at August, “they’re lyin’.”

“Not lyin’,” you correct, slowly maneuvering to the writing on the wall. You were trash at navigating this godforsaken building. Enjin’s no help, as usual. He liked to watch you get lost before stepping in. “I’m gonna get home, drink some wine, and read —“

“So sophisticated.” The word is purposefully broken down in mocking cadence -- so-phis-ti-cated.

You turn on your heel to give Enjin a flat look, but your eyes only meet the stitch of overalls and a snug white shirt pulling over pale, lean muscle. From your lower peripheral, you could almost make out the bottom of the white shirt. Loose overalls peeped at the shirt’s cropped edge.

Oh. 

Looks like August had moseyed up quite close behind you. 

Huh, your head slowly tips back to meet orange goggles. Your brows furrow and create a wrinkle between your brows. “You know, I typically charge people if they’re getting that close to me from behind — and I’m a lot drunker. Can I help you?”

“Oh, this is good,” and a wheeze from behind August (who looks like Christmas came early, which is somewhat alarming) has you trying to lean around the man to glare at Enjin. God, you had been lying about being done for the day at HQ, but now you aren’t so sure. Going home to your dust scented shop and bed was sounding better and better. And wine. 

(Truly, it was more like moonshine. You traded with someone once — a favor from you for their booze recipe. Your shit memory and wonderful knack for finding dark, cool places often left things steeping for far longer than the recommended amount.) 

“Yes!” 

You pause. Well, at least the guy had honesty going for him. You don’t interrupt. 

“I wanna trade — you said that was part of it! Gimme some of that sick ass thread and—“ he drew out the last word, hands up a he waved them in a general whatever motion, “I’ll make you a rig!”

You already have a rig. One you designed yourself, so it wasn’t the best, but still. It wasn’t like you went to no-man’s land a lot, but you aren’t shocked he assumed. You do have ‘giver eyes’. He probably thinks that shit’s up your street. 

Still, you aren’t against it. There isn’t a whole bunch you’d say no to in terms of deals, so long as something was being offered. Plus, if he gave you a better designed one with your stellar materials, then you could just sell your shit one that you’d made yourself. You’d be up a business deal and down a few asthma attacks. 

Speaking of — you stare (dumbly, you’re sure) as a gloved hand shakes your prescription bag. Not hard, but enough to rattle the contents. This little shit fucking pickpocketed you — what the fuck? 

(You couldn’t quite reconcile that this guy’s Alice’s grandkid. Alice, who’s such a stickler for respect, didn’t seem the type to let such behavior slide. You’re confident he got his ass popped black, blue, and red all over when he was kid.)

When you snatch it back, he doesn’t fight you. He does talk. 

“You got asthma, so that’d be hella helpful! And my rigs’re the best. Plus, you gotta be kickin’ some ass if you got those eyes, or if you’re just--” Another vague wave of his long arms, and now you’re starting to think it’s a physical attempt to look for the right words, “there, on the scene, it’d help! I haven’t made you a rig, or I’d know ya, and I don’t, yo!”

You’re preoccupied staring him down as he yaps like he’s getting paid for it. That deal you thought of earlier, the one you didn’t even let yourself think on too deeply, comes to mind. Would it be creepy? Your eyes squint harder as you try to decide, and unbeknownst to you, it looks a lot like you’re glaring August down to an early grave.

“August, I think you’re about to get your ass beat if you don’t shut up, dude,” Enjin (as the afternoon had gone) interrupts only when it seems absolutely necessary. August’s mouth snaps shut after a few more words you don’t register, and from your proximity, you hear the click of his teeth.

“I’m not gonna beat his ass,” You argue, not even trying to look around August to Enjin anymore. 

No, because you’re busy staring August down, which does not reaffirm your statement in the least. You take the time to look at the designer closely, and now that you’ve caught on that you look pissy, you do derive some pleasure from the fact it might be a little nervewracking. 

Except August doesn’t seem even a little bit on edge. He looks as dialed up to 12 as you do sometimes. 

He’s tall, yes. His shoulders are broad, but not anything like a linebacker. He’s lean, but you see how the sleeves of his shirt hug his biceps. Muscles and tendons move under pale skin -- the kind workers have and genetics give, not the kind from fighting. He gave the vibe of someone with freckles, and you’re vindicated when you see the faintest dusting of them. Less clusters and more like distant constellations. He’d likely have more if The Ground got more clear sunshine, you realize. Your eyes rove up toned arms to a slender, equally toned neck. The choker all cleaners have sits snug at his throat, and you find that distracting and a great source of contrast. 

His face is already angled down to you. His heavy, thick blond hair is a curtain that shades his elfish face. Elfish isn’t quite right though, because his features aren’t as sharp as you thought. His jaw is a little more square. His brows are thick and straight. 

Your eyes meet orange lenses again, and you can now make out the shape of heavy lidded eyes. Unfortunately, that is what makes your brain stem burn -- your ears, the back of your neck, and the courage you had shrivels up like a grape under the sun. 

Because his eyes are the sharpest about him. They’re unmoving on you, watchful, and you can’t even hold eye contact long enough to try to see if you can tell what the look in his eyes is. Focused and unbothered, likely. 

“Well, maybe they don’t want to beat your ass. That face isn’t really saying I want to beat your ass, more like—”

“Shut the fuck up,” You absolutely bulldoze over Enjin, but your voice cracks. You thought the situation couldn’t get worse. You stand corrected. Your face is stinging with heat, traveling from the apples of your cheeks to your throat to disappear under the collar of your shirt. 

Now, apparently, it’s your turn to ramble, as you devoutly move your eyes around the room but not on August. You’d always been good at eye contact to listen, but you evaded it like a bandit when you were being listened to. “I’m not going to beat your ass. Yes, we can trade, and, I mean,” Your eyes squint, like obscuring your vision is a haze of dark lashes might make glancing at August easier. 

But your deal shrivels up again, because no, people do not ask strangers to model for them. That’s weird. That would be creepy, and it’d be weird because he’s doing it for thread -- You deflate with a sigh. 

(You miss how August leans with your sigh, eyes even more intent than before.)

“A rig is fine. You can stop by for some thread next week, or Enjin can grab it from me. 10 spools. Deal?” “Mm,” August’s lack of immediate agreement is noticed, and your eyes automatically move to him. He’s back too peering, careened over you. You do not back up into the wall out of sheer hatred for cliches. “What were you gonna say? Because you totally had a look on yer face, and I get that look! So,” the ‘o’ is drawn out, his eyes on yours, “What’s up, babe?”

(If you’d seen behind August, you would have seen the absolute enraptured expression on Enjin’s face. The man looked one more word away from putting his hands over his mouth. You’d seen elderly women less interested in what tea was goin’ on. Absolute shithead -- he’d always been an awful fucking gossip. You’d argue if anyone said you were worse.)

Oh. Oh. 

A beat passes. You might have spoken if you weren’t factory resetting. 

(You called people ‘babe’. Other people called you ‘babe’.  You were not mentally prepared for that word making an appearance after your mortification and from the subject of said mortification.)

August seems to take that as a sign to keep going, “‘Cause I get that face when I wanna draw somethin’, or like I see somethin’ really--” He only waves one hand this time, faint, and a breeze wafts your hair, “Hot, or tight, or just nice. So you totally have somethin’ you want from me, yo!”

You had snapped a hand up in a universal ‘stop’ motion after hot, but he didn’t notice. The ‘yo!’ rings in the hall. 

You’d always had a problem with getting called chicken. You never backed down if people clocked your shit outright. And, well -- he noticed. So maybe asking wouldn’t be weird? 

You’re entirely ready to weigh the pros and cons of falling to your base desire as an artist, but then you see his eyes again. August looks patient, really, head cocked with platinum blond strands almost creating a privacy curtain and those lidded eyes not moving from your face. 

(“This shit is getting so good,” Enjin mutters from a distance, slowly working a hand to his choker. Semiu would eat this shit up.)

It’s his eyes that make you blurt out, “I want you to model for me.”

There’s maybe half a second of silence after your words, then --

The efficiency of this was debatable, but people at least chalked it up less to her and more as a family thing.

Because he started this so young, he actually did just naturally start projecting 24/7.

Only really becomes aware of his volume if Eishia gets overwhelmed. The two made their own hand signs for when Eishia goes nonverbal.

Family man, literally would set the world on fire for his sister or gramma.

That being said — August is lowkey kind of a pacifist. He doesn’t really fight and rarely gets involved. This tends to make people forget he can.

He has been in a few fights, mostly when he was younger and people would pick on Eishia. Despite the fact he's always been tall, he fights like a little shit. Hair pulling, biting, throwing things -- the works.

The biggest disagreement he and Eishia have is about volume. While he'll be quiet in private if Eishia gets overwhelmed, he's loud on principle around people. The reason Eishia got bullied so much was because of the volume of August and Alice.

bro does not believe in gender norms at all. Think 'Dress' by Charlotte Sands.

Used to be mistaken for a girl before he hit puberty. People often thought him and Eishia were fraternal twins. Certified pretty boy.

Actually has no current piercings, aside from impulsively piercing his ears when he was 13. They're too much commitment for him, since occasionally piercings don't 'go with the fit'. Has a fuck ton of fake piercing jewelry.

(The flipside of this is that he has had piercings or given himself them if a fake looks weird, but Eishia got tired of healing them for convenience.)

Ambidextrous! He was a lefty, but he learned to use his right after stabbing his fingers way too much when first learning to sew.

Negative spatial awareness. Can and will bump into things and people.

Awful at interrupting and talking over people. He doesn't mean to, but he jumps ahead in conversations and tends to blurt out his thoughts or questions. Gets especially bad if he's interested in a conversation.

This man is queer. Like, terribly queer. Certified girl, gay, and they kisser. Definitely operates somewhere on an asexual spectrum, but simultaneously has not given it a single thought. Does not think it's maybe a little unusual to be less interested in sex and more interested in capturing how someone might look during sex. Bro would be bricked up because it's an artistic experience.

Can do make-up! Doesn't do it because he breaks out easily, and the feeling of it "makes him itch". Sensory issue, my guy. Shaves really regularly for the same reasons.

Actually doesn't like drinking! Had one memorable experience with someone saying he mellows out and "is tolerable, for once". He cried. After that, he stopped drinking out of spite and some lightly unacknowledged insecurity.

(This was also one of the few times Eishia has ever seen her big brother cry. Eishia doesn't know if he remembers her hugging him after he came through the window crying. She'd stayed up after leaving it unlocked for him. They were both pretty young -- August was 15, she was 12.)

Alice is their maternal gramma. While both siblings resemble their mom (blond hair, lean, general facial features), they have their dad's eyes (pink).

August was 7 when they died, with Eishia being 4. August remembers them both. Eishia doesn't.