ASTER WRITES ★ !

location ; the bus

Sunny tapped the seat beside him when he saw Leon enter the bus at his stop. The place was particularly empty, end of the warm week sort of situation, with very few people coming and going and mostly staying home - or opting for a better airconditioned car rather than the bus which was either broken or just didn't do its job well.

Lucky for them, the fact that there weren't many passengers meant it was actually pretty cool. He was good with the heat either way - and too broke to buy a car.

"Leon, hey, how have you been? Been a few, have you been busy?" Though it was more likely that their schedules didn't line up. Sunny's job mostly ran from the afternoon till late at night, going wherever the Vitelli business wanted him to be, mostly at events or on dates with important people. He was dressed impecably once again, with a purple silk shirt, tight black jeans, and matching purple converse.

the tension eases the moment he hears his name. it's sunny,"hi." a small smile finds him as he makes his way down the aisle, the violin case resting comfortably against his shoulder. slipping into the seat beside him, he carefully tucks the case between his knees so it won't shift when the bus pulls away.

"i think our timing's just been... off." his gaze drifts toward the window as the city begins to slide past. it's easier than trying to explain that routines have become difficult lately—that familiar places don't always feel familiar anymore.

"a little busy, too," that part, at least, is true. work. hospital visits. trying to settle back into a rhythm that no longer fits together quite as neatly as it once did. he smooths an absent wrinkle from the cuff of his sleeve before looking back at sunny, "how about you?"

his eyes flick briefly over the silk shirt, then down to the purple converse. the corner of his mouth lifts another fraction, "you look nice." a beat. "what's the occasion?" familiar faces, he realizes, have become something of a comfort lately, and seeing sunny—bright as ever, dressed like he'd stepped out of a magazine instead of onto a city bus—feels unexpectedly grounding.

No, what took most people by surprise was just how threadbare it was. She hung no posters from her walls, did not decorate the halls with nonexistent family photos. At most, her single landline ( not even a cordless ) had a few stickers they’d picked up from the grocery store and concerts, but little else that made the space uniquely Daisy. 

Other than the mess. Of course.

Those who knew her would be surprised to find her at home with the moon. Despite not being a creature of the night, she still had many nighttime habits. Only by some miracle was she at home when someone knocked on their door. A stranger, Daisy thought. They should have tried her phone first, to see if she was even at home, rather than show up unannounced. The moon still hung high - she should have been on the street, in the casino, at work, maybe getting a facial; anything was possible at three am in Sin City. Instead, they were home. In their robe, watching reruns of Golden Girls and answering their front door. 

❝This had better be something good,❞ They muttered. ❝If you’re not bleeding out or throwing up, you’re about to wish you were half dead,❞ She said as the door swung upon.

That is when they saw the blood.

therefore, cause remained stubbornly loyal to effect.

if one were interested enough in conducting a proper post mortem—and siddharth briefly considers that he might qualify for that—they would've arrived at several complicated conclusions, slowly becoming evident to the battered entity now.

one: antagonizing the leadership of a particularly unpleasant vampire coven had, in restrospect been an error.

two: assuming hundreds miles would discourage creatures of crossing state lines for vengaeance demonstrated an optimism entirely out of character

three: relying on local vampires to display a loyalty beyond immediate convenience had proven, once again, futile

four: he really needed some fucking friends.

he files these observations away accordingly in their neat little folders, though none of it proves particulary useful now. it wasn’t necessarily ideal: the amount of blood he could feel draining from his face, then the trail of it that followed him home to those conventional apartments. by morning, the desert would oxidize it all, turn it brown and disguise it as something else. las vegas excelled at that. evidence rarely survived sunrise.

his building finally comes into view, close but his door not close enough.

despite the fact that he had been a vampire of nearly a decade, his healing abilities could still take their slow time, but that wasn't necessarily the issue. the issue was the fact that he was too weak to hold himself up. he needed more blood.

he tells himself proximity is the only deciding factor, as he crashes onto her door. her door being closer to his, that is. but that's a matter of opinion at this point. his knuckles meet the wood with considerably less authority than intended, dragging rather than rapping.

thankfully she's home.

inside he can hear the television chattering away, four elderly women arguing with a cadence only lifelong friends seem capable of possessing. he catches fragments of laughter. a familiar theme song.

the golden girls. ironic.

"amusing, your choice of words..."

one bloodied hand finds her forearm for balance. crimson fingerprints bloom against her skip and leave their imprint on her forearm to match the streak of blood upon entering.

"long time no see, hot wheels."

gravity begins negotiating its own terms, however, and the collapse into her arms isn't as graceful as it is when their on the rink.

Her assumption is only furthered when Nari begins to speak about her son. The feeling of deserving a child, rather than the other way around, is something she has only heard about a teaspoonful of times in her career, let alone in her life. It's not only the statement itself, but it's also the tone she has when she says it. An airy trait, a genuine sense of enrichment and adoration laces every word and delivers it carefully.

Sophia can only assume; she treats her son just as gingerly as she speaks of him.

It puts a blush on her cheeks, the tenderness of it all, the softness over someone who carries themselves with posture and stature carved from marble. Her eyes fixate on Nari's face, trailing the covers of her jaw and lips. Delicate. Her stomach scribbles, TV static or butterflies she isn't sure which but she chews on her bottom lip all the same as the other woman continues to speak.

To say she's enamored of her current conversation partner would be an understatement.

"I would agree." Her own tone was soft, finally removing her gaze from the other, turning to the bar to see if she could get away with another drink before turning back to Nari. "Loaded question." Sophia chuckles, but drifts her vision off into space for a moment as she tosses it around.

"It looks like... Getting home to the sun coming through my window." An image she finally lands on, a tangible experience. "My apartment has a lot of good light, which is rare," A note worthy of mentioning. "But especially in the afternoon, I get enough that it makes my apartment look so dreamy. Romantic even." She drawls out, eyebrows raising a bit as she looks Nari over again.

"I take my shoes off, wash my hands, and just breathe for a few minutes. Take it in." A pause as she thinks, her expression changing to bashful.

her attention lingers upon the younger woman's face. the warmth gathering beneath her cheeks—likely owed as much to the alcohol as the crowded room. the unguarded way her eyes wander over nari, as though searching for something worthy of admiration rather than merely finding someone to speak to.

curious.

she had long since grown accustomed to occupying people's attention. respect was expected. courtesy was routine. admiration, however, was another matter entirely. it had become surprisingly rare to encounter without calculation hidden beneath it.

she finds that she does not dislike it. the realization arrives with the quiet persistence of something she had not realized she'd been missing.

conversation drifts, as it so often does, toward hyunjae.

it always does.

she has often wondered whether her son grows weary of it—the endless concern, the habitual reminders to eat properly, sleep properly, call when he arrives safely. edward had endured months of the same relentless affection with remarkable patience, though whether that patience was genuine or simply practiced remained open to interpretation.

love, she had learned, possessed an unfortunate tendency to accumulate. it asked to be expressed, regardless of whether its recipient believed they required so much of it. she has never quite discovered what one is meant to do with the excess.

before motherhood, she would have dismissed such sentiment as melodrama.

now she knows better.

"there is a possibility," she says, the faintest curve finding the corner of her mouth, "that if you have children one day, you may discover i was understating the matter entirely."

her gaze follows the description of the apartment, effortlessly assembling the picture from the scattered details.

"a balcony," she muses. "that alone would have sold me."

she imagines shelves crowded with houseplants, leaves spilling toward the light. a chair tucked into the corner. a blanket forgotten over its arm. the sort of place that invited quiet mornings with tea and a novel one promised to read only a chapter of before inevitably finishing half.

"a home should encourage lingering," the thought escapes before she has quite decided whether to keep it to herself.

at the invitation, nari allows her gaze to travel across the room.

the evening has surrendered entirely to itself. music swells louder than necessary. somewhere in the crowd, edward has disappeared with the effortless predictability of a man who could occupy an entire room while remaining impossible to locate when required. she supposes he will survive another half hour without her.

"i would like that," she says simply, already turning toward what appears to be the nearest exit. "meaningful conversation becomes increasingly difficult to find as these days"

a glance slips toward her companion, touched by quiet amusement.

No, she'd make him collaps at hers.

"I suppose it isn't," she said, solemnly. But in her voice too there was the slightest hint of longing.

The annoyance grew, returned, pulled at her and pushed any lingering feelings of warmth towards Siddharth aside. He spoke and he wished. She almost wished he'd voiced that long ago, as if that would've made any difference. As if anything Siddharth could've done would've changed what was between them.

She hummed. "Well... perhaps I could find you a spot in my busy schedule, there would be blood, I don't think there could be anything else," she admitted. There had to be blood. She wished for there to be blood. But she wasn't sure if she was merely wishing for there to be because it would make things easier or if she needed there to be because else she'd start thinking the wrong direction.

She did not look away, even if she noticed that he did, her sharp gaze constantly trained on him, not wishing to look away. She wanted his secrets spilled in front of her, she wanted to see him miss a beat, to watch him lose his composure, but when he did she couldn't decide if she saw his real emotion or if he was still keeping himself in check.

His big brown eyes looked away before studying her again, and she wondered if she could drown in them. If it was possible to see them widen with surprise, or slowly slide close in exhaustion. She knew she'd seen it, but it was different now. Everything was different now. Now she wondered at every turn if she was being played or if she got through to the real Siddharth Desai.

And if she did. Would she feel absolutely thrilled? Or would she be disapointed?

Her breath was hitched in her throught. He echoed words back that she thought herself every moment she was in a room with him, but she felt annoyance at it. A loss of control, a loss of being the top dog in the room. He seemed to think of her secrecy and mystery as something that would never uncover itself because she would not allow it, because she held it so deeply buried that not even she could answer those questions.

She stepped closer, as if there was still space left to bridge between them.

She whispered, because she didn't want a single soul but Siddharth to hear.

"You're not much different, are you?" she asked. "Everything I want to know is kept hidden behind your beautiful brown eyes, and every time I think I've uncovered a layer, I find a lie instead. I think I know you, but I know I don't know the tiniest bit about you."

"But I too could spend all night studying you and I would simply be left with paranoia that nothing is what it seems."

"So." An inch closer. "Here we are."

"perhaps." the answer is quiet, and he almost bites his tongue. a tiny spot of blood on his tongue for fangs otherwise sharp enough to abstain. “the more i think about it, you never did have much patience for things that stopped belonging to you." she almost sounds as if she believes it, and for once sidd wishes to file her words into a lie. 

"i don't think either of us is afraid of blood." it’s an ironic jape for a vampire of his nature with unrelenting eyes stay on hers. "i think we're afraid of whatever survives after it."

there it is again. that familiar, inconvenient feeling. like the drugs- like fine powder sinking into gum lines, down this road before, into the veins and off with the palpitations, the nausea and dilated pupils. the same loss of control: dependency reclaiming its shape— as that wallowing disorganized brain thinks of nothing but how weak she makes him feel. and how he wishes gemma would detonate already, use her sharpened axe and tear him to pieces until he was nothing more but a fragment of her memory. 

and it curls around his ribs—that feeling— like ivy, tightening with every breath until even indifference becomes unachievable. 

he’d rather it be poison or hatred or fear.  fear has always been simple.

this is something far less cooperative.

gemma continues looking at him as though they genuinely believe there is a person buried somewhere beneath everything. beneath the restraint. beneath the measured withdrawal that has become so habitual even he occasionally mistakes it for personality.

most people eventually tire of digging, perhaps that is the problem—gemma never has —or perhaps it is that some part of him has never truly wanted her to stop.

her description of his muddied gaze lands strangely. he has never understood compliments directed toward things he happened to inherit.

still— his expression shifts. only slightly. 

"they aren't lies." his voice is quieter now, defensive and simply tired. "omissions aren’t lies,” the distinction must be known, whether it matters, he isn't entirely sure anymore. "i spent a very long time convincing myself that giving people less of me was safer."

his jaw tightens once. minimal.

"eventually you stop noticing you're doing it,” his gaze drifts somewhere beyond them before returning again. "then one day someone accuses you of being impossible to know."

another beat. "and you realise they're right." the admission hangs there. uncomfortable. irretrievable. he should stop.

instead— "the unfortunate part..." his attention lowers briefly to the narrow space separating them. hardly any. he makes no attempt to reclaim it. "...is that i do it all because i’m not good for you.”

He sighed. "Have you been in my head?" he asked, with a short and warm laugh. It had not thrown him off, if anything, it had warmed him to Siddharth. So he offered his hand in introduction, hoping it would be accepted. "Harsh," he said, then, as he was prone to do. "My name, that is, not the comment." He always did that, even towards people who he figured would know Harsh was a name. It meant joy or happiness.

He stood up quickly to give his order to the owner of the place, a few words in Hindi and they luckily didn't recognise him. But kindness went a long way. He threw in a "thank you, uncle," and returned to his seat.

With a chuckle, Harsh announced his agreement. He'd never out in the open. He knew most actors didn't. Few actually wanted to shine that belonged to being a celebrity, he worried it would make him absolutely unbearable if he did give into it. But he had great co-stars who loved their jobs but didn't like the attention as much. "No no, they chased me down the street, and if they'd thought I went in here, they would've showed up by now," he said. "So I think I'm in the clear. They're not... well, they tend to follow but give up quickly if they get the feeling their attention isn't wanted. I'm just not so great at saying 'no', so running felt like my only option."

Harsh frowned, not sure what the other meant. Concerned for anyone's safety? But he realised he hadn't been forward about what he did, why he had fans chasing him. He filled in the words that were left unspoken with his own experiences. "Mine? They're with way more people."

his attention follows harsh as he speaks to the owner. the hindi reaches him before the meaning does. so familiar that it loosens a memory from his core.

strange, the things capable of surviving neglect. languages. recipes. small courtesies inherited from people no longer around to correct your pronunciation, repeated often enough that they continue existing without permission.

he lets the thought pass before it grows ambitious. files it quietly alongside other things he'd once convinced himself were gone.

"i can barely fathom my own head," he admits, almost absently. "i wouldn't presume to navigate someone else's."

harsh returns with an explanation. sidd listens without interruption. “ah." the corner of his mouth shifts by almost nothing. "then i'm relieved for everyone involved."

his attention wanders back toward the street. nothing. no crowd. no faces pressed against the glass. no one watching, yet.

strange how quickly a café can become aquarium-like once people decide you're worth looking at. everyone enjoys the fish until someone remembers they can tap on the glass.

"people mistake access for entitlement."his voice remains even. "you feel guilty for disappointing them,” not quite a question. more the quiet placement of a conclusion between them, waiting to see whether they’d move it.

She went through the list, people she knew, people who meant anything, people who were important. There were many moving pieces all throughout Las Vegas, through all the layers of society.

Her attention fell on his job, and then she had a name too. She was good at remembering. Names, faces, jobs, and so forth.

Courtroom illustrator. She wondered if he paid attention. If he recalled the faces and the cases that were brought before him.

She decided he was important enough not to kill. A soft shrug, a quiet sigh, enough of a performance to suggest she was weighed under it.

"It's not easy, but in a city like this... you can never be certain. You must feel it too, do you not? The subtle danger beneath every conversation."

shoulders tighten beneath his jacket. it lasts only a second, gone almost as quickly as it arrives, but the memory it leaves behind lingers.

blood.

a growl that hadn't belonged to anything human.

the impossible certainty of opening a door twice because surely the first time had been a mistake. and it hadn't.

his stomach feels like it’s going to drop any minute now.  his fingers curl considerably tighter around the strap of his satchel. without consciously deciding to, he shifts his weight back half a step where the nearest streetlight falls. where he'd have to run if he had to

he’s even more aware of his exits now after everything that had happened with spencer. 

his eyes leave hers only briefly, "...i didn't." his voice comes quieter than before. "i used to think people were mostly..." forgiving, trustworthy, good-natured? he searches for the right word, his brow knitting faintly "...complicated."

he winces at the admission. the conclusion itself tasting wrong as it leaves his lips. he'd always preferred to believe there was something worth finding in people, some thread of goodness beneath the knots. "now i'm not so sure."

silence follows— “danger doesn’t announce itself, sometimes it smiles first." or in his very particular case, dresses up as a cowboy and dances on stage.

Siddharth always provided a challenge, the fuck-no attitude that got Benny’s blood boiling - in a good way. He liked it too when people made it easy, of course. Stella could always be trusted to fling accusations back into his face, maybe even slap or punch him. But when it was someone who stood their ground, pretended - because Benny thought everyone cared enough that words hurt sometimes - that nothing could get to them.

“Fuck, your bosses would love that, wouldn’t they.” He had hated working for Cyrek and the Cats. The lot liked to pretend they were tight but he’d never felt accepted in any way. Just another dealer who supplied Stella and would show up for a fight when he was asked. “Sure I’ll let them know who send me, might earn you an actual demotion.”

the word feels deliberately inadequate, but much easier than unpacking everything little detail that had happened between then and now: disagreements and likely another target on his back —easier than admitting he'd become something impossible to categorize, or someone to rely on. he supposes he'd always been better off alone. like every relationship before it, this one had unraveled and all he could summon was the absence of feeling. his attention lingers for a moment, “less paperwork and petty drama.”

the comment about expendable dealers earns a thoughtful hum, “every organization likes to believe its people are replaceable." a pause. “but then they become considerably less confident when they have to replace them." his gaze drifts behind benny’s head,

his head tilts. "tempting." a lie. "if i'm exchanging one, as you put it, fuck boy…" his gaze flicks briefly toward benny. "…for another…" another pause, “…i’m struggling to identify where it benefits me." he exhales smoke toward the fighting pit.

Dev Patel as Kid

location ; small time record shop that sells a lot of Bollywood music

Zakir had said they should hang out, and it'd made work of it. Romantic that he was, in his head, he'd called it a date about a hundred times. But he wasn't the giddy school boy who blushed and sputtered, he was the smooth talker who loved being in love. And thought he was amazing at it. No mention of the fact that he'd never had an actual relationship. He'd been a friends with benefits three times, though, had four almosts, and had fallen in love so many times he'd lost count.

His mother had always said that there was nothing greater than falling,and as a result, he fell. Constantly.

He waved when he saw Leon appear, shit-eating grin on his face. Then threw a hand out towards the record shop, presenting it to him. "I found it," he said proudly. "This place has everything, mostly second hand, but I've found so much that's Western, Bollywood, and from cultures all over the world. It's basically a treasure trove." Of course, his favourite music wasn't just the things he'd listened to as a kid. Zakir loved r&b and rap music, his uncle had brought home cds whenever he came to visit from the States, and it had been the main reason for him moving. But it wasn't just the music itself, but the lyrics, the use of poetry.

He found albums that had inspired him too, and he was excited to show Leon.

their grin is the first thing leon notices. it catches him completely off guard—a wide, unguarded grin that mirrors the excitement bubbling in his own chest. it's bright enough to make the cramped shop feel warmer, and alive in a way the afternoon sunlight never could. his stomach gives an unexpected flip and it’s not from nerves exactly. not embarrassment, either. just... something. and leon wonders to himself if this is how it feels to be seen. 

he can't help smiling back.

adjusting the strap of his messenger bag higher on his shoulder, he’s certain the cash he brought for this very excursion will be gone in no time. “i feel like we’ve been talking about this place for ages.” there is so much amusement in his voice, though his attention is already drifting past zakir and toward the window display, the rows of albums visible through the glass. a hidden treasure, it was even better than zakir described. “it’s almost too good to be true.” 

there is something almost strange about the idea of so many different pieces of people's lives existing in one place. every record had belonged to someone before it ended up here. someone bought it, listened to it, attached memories to it. then someone eventually decided to pass it along. it makes that warmth in his chest spread even more. 

"secondhand is usually my preference," he says after a moment. when zakir looks at him, leon elaborates, “older things have history." his gaze shifts back toward the shop. “like someone had to care about it enough to keep it." there is a quiet fondness in the observation.

once inside, leon lets zakir take the lead. he has never been particularly good at knowing what to ask for in places like this. too many options. too many directions to go. he watches the way zakir's eyes soften when they look around the store, and the almost reverent way they reach toward the nearest record without touching it. he’s overcome with a feeling he can't quite name but it’s familiar. it’s welcome. 

"i think that’s why i love secondhand instruments too." a small pause. his gaze moves over the records. “they remember things as well” he glances back toward them, a little sheepish as if realizing he has started rambling. "sorry." a beat.

"i just think this is already the best day ever.”

location ; two blocks from the Las Vegas Emergency fill set

Harsh was on a coffee run, not for any particular reason, but he was feeling especially done with his job today. And he felt bad for it, since he had no reason to do so. He had one of the best jobs in the world: he got money for pretending. And for being handsome, he knew that much. People wouldn't just let him do this if it wasn't that they thought he was handsome.

He'd gotten a coffee and a sandwhich from the local deli, nothing special, and after having had the most delicious Indian food for about a week in a row - he'd been inspired by a particular run-in - this tasted absolutely bland.

He was lost in thought - mostly about food and his next lines - when he noticed someone near who was staring at him. He knew what it was, but she wasn't coming any closer, and towards fans he felt not unkindly today.

"Can I help you?" he asked, charming smile on his face.

there are certain people the mind quietly files away beneath the category of impossible. not because they are mythical, but because they exist exclusively through carefully edited interviews, magazine covers, and the television that played in the kitchen each evening while dinner was prepared.

dr. jay sivakumar, it seemed, belonged firmly among them.

their housekeeper possessed an almost religious devotion to the medical drama. nari herself had absorbed the series less through deliberate viewing than prolonged exposure, wandering into the kitchen for green tea only to become inexplicably invested in fictional patients and the handsome doctor forever rescuing them from increasingly implausible disasters.

the distinction between actor and character had blurred somewhere along the way. which explained, perhaps, why seeing him standing in an ordinary café with a coffee and sandwich felt faintly absurd.

he looked... real. that, somehow, was the most astonishing part. his smile arrives first.

then their voice. she had been staring—how dreadful.

colour rises with humiliating efficiency as she lowers the newspaper she'd been pretending to read. it becomes a makeshift fan instead, accomplishing very little beyond advertising her embarrassment.

"oh." a blink. "oh dear." another, "i'm terribly sorry."

the apology emerges with unusual haste, polished manners momentarily overtaking coherent thought. "it's simply..." she stops herself before admitting something even more humiliating.

instead, the corner of her mouth lifts with quiet resignation toward herself.

"i confess you are so much more handsome in person." finally, a soft laugh escapes her, more at her own expense than his. "though i imagine being stared at by strangers has long since become one of the less glamorous occupational hazards. forgive me."

Praise, compliments, and other extensions of the two mean little to someone who isn't here to inflate his ego. Other than monetary gain that would go straight to his work or the laundromat, there was no true pleasure gained by being here. Maybe a different version of him existed out there that would've been starstruck, eager to please the wealthy that flocked and buzzed, a version of him that had something to prove. But this version of him showcased media crafted from pure enjoyment—not survival.

Clearly, however, something about his art or perhaps the brief sentences had struck a chord with Nari. That was her name right? If memory served, it was something close, perhaps Ari, but that didn't seem fitting. A memory of a ballet performance bill with dancers' names briefly flashed through his mind, and he tried to recall the name. If nothing else, her face has almost not aged a day since he'd seen her last.

Even as memory fades in his own age, too many to carry out all the stories he'd lived and told, she carries herself as someone he remembers. Only briefly from her performance and from moments caught behind the curtain, but it's similar.

and quite honestly, galleries possessed a superfluous rhythm. paintings were rarely experienced in isolation. one carried the last into the next until eventually it all blurred and blended together. 

his work did not fit into this equation, she realizes this as her attention settles upon the second piece. 

his apology arrives before she ever thinks to demand one, not that she would. she does not answer immediately and instead, she continues studying the painting, allowing the quiet to remain exactly as it is.

comfortable.

unforced.

"you've nothing to apologize for." her voice is gentle enough that it almost disappears beneath the low murmur of the gallery.

there was a particular sort of exhaustion reserved for people forced to occupy rooms that rewarded performance over substance. she knew it well—charity galas, fundraisers, endless dinners where everyone mistook visibility for importance; entire evenings spent pretending conversation was not simply negotiation wearing better clothes. silence had acquired an unfortunate reputation in those circles. people rushed to fill it, mistaking uninterrupted conversation for connection, as though the loudest voice invariably carried the greatest depth. nari had never found that to be true. some people thought most clearly while speaking. others only began revealing themselves once they stopped. "the people most determined to impress you generally have the least interesting things to say." her gaze returns to the canvas. "i prefer those who leave enough silence for someone else to think."

how tedious.

"silence has always struck me as considerably more honest."

she studies the brushwork before speaking again, almost as though the thought belongs more to the painting than either of them.

"besides..." the smallest trace of amusement surfaces. "i promise i play remarkably well with artists." only after a thoughtful moment does she glance toward him again.

“will you tell me about the inspiration behind this one?”  

but wait, he felt himself take a last breath. one second he's stopping dahlia from hurting others by getting in the way. and the next, he's frankly looking at the EMT and begging them with his eyes to save him. Or that was at least until everything went black around him. Spencer could see the lights of the ambulance and the blurred out faces of those trying to keep him alive. that's what he held onto as he fought just as hard to hang on. spencer remember though. he remembered the feeling of not being able to breath. he had died. flatlined. he heard the sounds of his beating heart go still as they took him off the ambulance. no. he saw it. almost like he was floating above his body and watching as the fought hard to save him.

yet, here he was, waking up in a hospital. was he saved? did they save him? his heart beat quickens as his eyes try to open so he can scan the room. the brightness of the room makes it hard for him to see. spencer's tries to lift his hand to shield his eyes, but he's hit with intense pain as he does so. he groans, trying to breath through it. yeah, he wasn't going to try to move anymore. it hurt too much. after a few minutes of blinking and trying to get his vision cleared, he finally is able to get a good look. his eyes were still watery, but spencer finally saw him; the guy that he had saved not so long ago.

"where...where am i?" he asks, throat feeling like it's on fire while his tongue tries to find anything to bring moisture to his mouth. "what...." he knew he was in the hospital. the smells and noises made that clear. "what happened? i...i..." he tries to talk again, but his voice stops as he goes into a fit of coughing. "no... please just water." this guy was kind enough to be here when he woke up. instead of thanking him, all he could do was cough out words that didn't want to be spoken. he didn't have water, so it took him a second to stop coughing. "i'm spencer. nice to meet you, leon." he says, his voice still scratchy as he speaks.

spencer turns his head to look at the other. he remembers him from that night. how ever long ago it was, he remembers. "how long....?" is all he's capable of saying until he breaks into a fit of coughs once again. "thanks for being here." he chokes out, looking at the other man with moisten eyes. "did i...i die?"

when spencer asks for water, leon is already removing his sketchbook from his lap and setting it down carefully. the peaceful portrait of spencer that he was working on is set aside for a moment. he’s careful of the monitors as he reaches for the plastic cup beside the bed, checking it almost automatically before pouring a little fresh water from the designated pitcher. one hand slides behind spencer's shoulders enough to spare him from straining against the mattress. 

"small sips," he murmurs. "your throat's going to be sore, they had- to" he waits awhile as spencer drinks, patient enough to let the silence do what words can't. "you needed the machine to help you breathe while they worked on you." it was so nice to see spencer without that scary intubation tube.

only once the coughing eases does leon reach bring the pitcher close once again for a refill. hospital light filters through the blinds in pale bands across the floor, catching on the untouched coffee beside him—cold now, forgotten hours ago. at spencer's introduction, something almost resembling a smile finds leon's face.

"...hi, spencer." a pause. "i wish we'd met under different circumstances." his gaze drops briefly to his own hands before returning.

"you've been here..." he thinks for a second, counting backward through sleepless visits that have blurred together. "...a few days, almost a full week."

the question he'd been expecting arrives sooner than he thought it would. did i die? leon doesn't answer immediately, because he wants to answer it carefully. "well ...yeah." his voice remains gentle with a twinge of regret lacing each syllable. "you did." another quiet beat. "but only for a little while." his eyes wonder across the flooring of the room as the guilt began to flood across his face. "i tried really hard to make sure your blood stayed in your body, but it was..." he can't force himself to look at spencer, it hurts too much. "it was a lot."

his fingers absentmindedly smooth a crease in his trouser leg. "but the paramedics got your heart started again, and were able to give you a transfusion" he leaves out the frantic compressions. the shouting. the blood. the feeling of spencer's hand slipping from his own.

but those memories don't belong in this room.

"they said you were very lucky." his expression softens, though the tiredness around his eyes never quite leaves, “so were the rest of us."

silence settles again— after a moment leon leans forward slightly.

a faint exhale escapes him, almost a laugh in how relieved it sounds, “I’m just..." he searches for the right word. "...glad you woke up."

only then does he realize he'd been holding his breath since spencer first opened his eyes. he lets it go slowly, “so... welcome back."

Then why hadn't they protected it more.

Kept in touch, ensured they had some way to contact Sidd. Instead Bez had chosen their own hopeless mission to find their mother across the pond. A mission that had never been fruitful. Either she was dead or she hadn't come here at all.

The comment was rough and quick and delivered without a smile, but that didn't matter, Bez' imagination made up for it: attaching the ghost of a smile from a young Sidd to the version now in front of them. And they laugh.

"Would've been nice for once," they quipped back, so quickly it almost took them by surprise. They're happy, suddenly, a reconnect they felt they'd been begging for since Sidd appeared in front of them.

Surprisingly it was Sidd who delivered the most sincere comment, and it pulled at their heartstrings and for a moment gave them pause. Their own words were sincere, tinged with nostalgia and relief. "It's good to see you too."

Even if, with Sidd's actual appearance, they had to acknowledge that the rumours about their old friend might be true too. And given their vocation, that would make things difficult. It felt like wishful thinking to be hoping the rumours were all false.

They had hallucinated their mother countless of times, but she they'd consider more useless than Sidd was. "I'd rather hallucinate someone I haven't seen in a long time than someone useful."

There was a long pause as Sidd explaned, things that Bez wouldn't have asked, because they would've liked to keep some things... uncomplicated. But they studied him for a long time. "What kind of shit?" Because how could they not ask. They were always curious, and they were also a detective. They couldn't help themself, even if there was probably nothing to gain from knowing, and they felt more certain Sidd might not wish them to know.

They took a deep breath. "I went back to the UK for my grandmother's funeral," they said. "I looked for you, nobody could tell me where you went. But it's my fault too, I should've kept in contact," they said. "Or reached out." Because they couldn't accept Sidd taking full responsiblity for it.

The matter of him being in the city was different. Perhaps they were a little hurt about it, and while it showed clearly on their face, they made no comment. It wasn't up to them to judge the reasons for Sidd keeping away.

They blushed a little, being called detective, by Siddharth of all people, felt awkward. They had words for cops back home, but Bez had promised themself to never become that, to work with the system to better the system. And becoming a detective had been part of that wish.

"Oh yeah, I got arrested and then they gave me the job, that's how it goes in America," they joked. Suddenly realising the craziness of their decision to come here, and where it had led to. How quickly things had happened and now they were forty-three and their bones ached.

They studied Sidd again. "How do you look so young?" Because courtesy of the ADHD, it was hard to let go of some things that bothered them.

it disappears almost as quickly as it arrived, but not before making him look several years younger, "you always did have questionable taste." somewhere beneath years of practiced restraint, beneath the routines he'd assembled so carefully that they almost resembled a personality, something gives. not enough to brea but to remind him there had once been a version of himself that laughed before calculating whether it was appropriate.

siddharth had spent enough time convincing himself absence became symmetry. if he stayed away, eventually people would stop reaching for the shape he'd left behind.

apparently not. he finds, rather inconveniently, that he doesn't know where to put that.

bez apologizes. and immediately— "no." the answer comes faster than anything else he's has said today. "don't." a pause. "it wasn't your responsibility to keep track of me.” it may have been that way when sidd was a brand new kid in the community, needing a friend, but those days were gone now.

his eyes drift toward the pavement. “and anyway i made myself difficult to find." another brief silence.

the news of the funeral lands harder than the apology. not because bez blames him, no bez was too kind. they don't tell him this to incur any sort of blame at all, and somehow that makes it worse. memory refuses to remain chronological and starts up again behaving like broken glass, catching light from whichever angle wounds most efficiently: their grandmother's kitchen. cardamom steeping in tea. the smell of onions softening in oil before anyone else had even woken. being a teenager and somehow always ending up at bez's house after school until somebody eventually decided he may as well stay for dinner.

she'd never asked whether he was hungry. she'd simply cooked as though the answer had already been decided. and then— the fact that he failed to fulfill the last duty he owed someone who treated him like family. it's an empty space where his heart once used to be, where he should have been standing next to bez during prayer. he feels the absence with unusual precision. he should have been there, instead he'd disappeared so completely that not even grief had been able to find him.

his jaw shifts once. "i'm sorry." the words arrive stripped of their usual engineering. no cleverness. no qualification. "i would've been there if i knew."

when bez asks what kind of trouble, sidd exhales once through his nose. he'd expected the question. he hadn't expected it to hurt. because detectives ask questions. best friends do too.

unfortunately, standing beside him is someone who has become both. "enough."the answer settles after much difficulty. "enough that leaving was the better decision." another pause. "for everyone." he lets that become the end of it.

the joke about detectives earns something that almost resembles a laugh. "efficient recruitment strategy." a beat. "saves paperwork." his attention catches on bez again. older. lines at the corners of their eyes. the slight stiffness when shifting weight from one foot to the other. time has been busy.

an unwelcome thought arrives before he can prevent it. one day— no. he kills it immediately. bez asks the question anyway. how do you look so young? his expression stills. the question he'd been avoiding since the moment they recognized each other. his gaze lowers briefly. when it returns, something inside it has become quieter. “maybe genetics." the lie arrives automatically.

practiced as he holds bez's eyes for another second. “…not sure.” a beat.

he hopes it’s enough. because explaining the real answer would require explaining why one of them has continued moving through time... while the other simply continues.