seeds for sale!

Still, though, they picked this place for a reason. They haven’t been here since before Fred essentially disappeared for five whole years, and knew it would be a hit not just for the nostalgia factor but for the potential of a sighting or two— which, though frightening, they know she secretly enjoys.

“So maybe that means this guy is a romantic,” they reply with a shrug, a little tense themself as they sit there refusing to turn around. It’s not like they’ll be able to see what Freddie’s seeing, anyway, even though they’re the one who found the stupid grimoire and dragged the chalk along the boards. Romantic. Is that what this is? They sure hope so, because they’re a little clueless on how to get any closer.

She places her own free hand atop Ken’s, although her eyes remain glued on the spot. It’s a touch to say thank you for being here, thank you for always being here. And that brief contact—that connection, that warmth—is enough to bring the figure fully into focus.

And what she sees… well, she wouldn’t quite call it romantic. His face is a mess of gore, centralized around a massive gash on his jaw. In her absolute state the last time she’d seen him, she’d failed to notice the near dent in his chest, outlined by a smattering of blood on his white linen shirt. And with the safety blanket of Ken’s presence—alongside the bravery that comes with a few more years on the planet—she feels confident enough to meet his eyes.

What she finds is something soft, sincere. Maybe a little scared.

Her body deflates, shoulders falling and a long-held breath escaping between tight lips. She meets Ken’s eyes for a moment—a look to say that this is OK, that maybe they should try and see for themselves—before looking back toward who she now recognizes as nothing but a boy.

Quentin both flushes and hides behind a large palm while a weak sound escapes around the edges. “This is a horrible idea,” they lament, fingers pressing into their eyes like they might claw them out but think better on it and leave their eyes where they belong.

It’s a great idea. Horrible but great.

“Alright,” they square their shoulders outside the tent and give Freddie one firm but definitive nod, “Let’s do it. Wait–” they take hold of Freddie’s hand, because, obviously, couples hold hands. Their hand encompasses hers like an oversized jacket. “Okay. Ready.”

Q’s resolve is about as strong as a stalk of wheat when they step through the thick curtain draped entrance. Immediately they’re swallowed by the thickness of incense and smoke, curling through the air so palpable they can’t help but sneeze and it shakes the very marrow of their resolve.

Perhaps it’s simply because Miss Fortune really is made of magic but she knows immediately that they are not romantically involved. Really, any stranger passing by would be able to tell. Q’s never been good at falsehoods. Lies sit uncomfortably in their gut and unsettle it so the point of actual physical discomfort so they can’t sit still at all the entire reading. Miss Fortune, thankfully, didn’t seem to linger on this and alarming, or rather, thankfully, skipped the misfortune of their lie and instead dug straight into the actual  meat of their friendship. Pulling truths out like a divining rod with such striking accuracy that by the time it was all over and Q holds the curtain of the tent open for Freddie to pass through, their face is about two shades paler than it was upon first going in.

And said so nonchalantly, too, like this is just another easy breezy day. Like these absolute soul reads were barely scratching the surface of her abilities.

Freddie observes Q's bumpy arms through a slightly fuzzy gaze, before moving her eyes to meet his, life drained from her expression. "I'm right there with you." Then, with a loose hand wrapped around Q's wrist, she pulls them both toward a newly vacant bench, plopping down with a soft thump.

Her body immediately falls into a slump, and she takes a beat to run back everything that was just dropped on them like a spiritual anvil. Miss Fortune had said some very pointed things about Freddie consistently taking more than she gives, and always thinking about herself first and foremost—hit a little too close, felt a little too real. And a couple of other, much kinder things about Q's warm, generous nature potentially leading them to be taken advantage of, and well... well, Freddie's feeling guilty but also a bit indignant about it all. Like, are her flaws that obvious? ....Does she take advantage of people? Of Q?

Shit. She really needs a minute to think about this.

They’ve never actually seen the horse guy. But there’s a distinct, impish quality to the air in this busted old house that has them hesitant to call it anything other than haunted. Freddie’s grasp is as playful as it is necessary. "Been a long while," Ken notes, the quirk of their brows hardly shielded through the candlelight, the clasp of their hands gentle but firm, like they're tethering each other to earth. “Never know who might show up… Or maybe someone even followed you back here.”

As if on cue, there’s a crrrreeeeaaaakkkkk of a distant door, and they scoot in just an inch or two closer, mentally blaming it on the wind even though their eyes are meeting Freddie’s with a twinkle of who was that lingering in their gaze. She hasn’t noted any presence yet, at least not out loud. Do you see me? They wonder, brief and almost lugubrious, sitting on the floor of this rotting shell like a fool for you?

Honestly, she's not sure if she'd ever come back here if Ken wasn't with her, setting up the candles and holding her damp hands and providing reassurances. As much as Freddie finds a sense of purpose in honing these skills, in discovering these long-lost people and unearthing their stories, it's still, frankly, terrifying. (And Ken's not wrong about people following her—there's a ghost in her bedroom that was not there before she left town—so there's always the worry that she'll tug someone out of the house and into the world, let loose in the Springs.)

All that to say, this is still mostly an excuse to sit, knees knocking in the dark, and enjoy the closeness that's harder in the daylight.

Then there's the crrrreeeeaaaakkkkk, and the hairs on her arms are popping up, seemingly one by one, trailing up toward her head. There's a feeling of cold, almost liquid, traveling up her spine. She meets Ken's eyes for a moment, reading that look of recognition—someone is here. When she looks at the candles that surround them, the flames are bobbing gently, up and down, but none have gone out.

And her eyes are most certainly bugging.

There's a figure, vague and misty, hovering by the doorway past Ken's shoulder. It hasn't fully materialized—just the outline of a body—but it's broad enough that she knows it's a man. But she's got faith in Ken's sonar. It can't be Leland. So either George or the farrier or, she guesses, someone new.

Almost unconsciously, she squeezes Ken's hands tighter. Comforting. Grounding.

"That's a great point... sweet cheeks," she returns, smiling ear to ear. "...Dude, I really think she might buy it. I hope she tells us we are gonna be together forever."

And then they are standing in front of Miss Fortune's tent, draped in multicolored velvets and silks, smelling warm and aromatic—sandalwood and jasmine. And she's suddenly feeling a bit nervous, because what if she does tell them that they are meant to be? That would be a real upheaval of self.

But, y'know, Q is objectively good-looking. It could certainly be worse.

There's a voice from within the tent, low and mysterious: Step inside.

“Thanks, Fred,” she does an exaggerated bow before holding the shield out to show her. She was headed to relieve Huck at the booth, but playing hooky for a few minutes never hurt anybody (she can already feel The Look waiting for her when she finally saunters over).

"Shit, thanks, Tan!" She returns the exaggerated bow, yellow foam petals bobbing with the movement. "Pulled this one out from the archives. Think I last wore it... damn, probably when I was, like, sixteen?" God, that makes her feel old. OK, less focus on the process of aging, more enjoying the final hurrahs of youth. She sticks her arm out for her festival companion. "Now let's get goin' before the kids scoop up all the good prizes."

After a quick romp over to the games—although the festival feels endless, the town square really isn't all that big—she's posting them both up in position to scope all the available games (and, most importantly, all the available prizes).

with: freddie ( @calicoegg ) & quentin

Quentin mans their family's booth with a warm and ready smile to every approaching visitor. Their younger sister is nowhere to be found, as per usual, and their two mamas are chipper and chatty as per usual. All in all, it's all going as per usual. The Rain of Petals Parade comes by every year and the Hennessey family deals with it in stride, passing out coupons and vouchers for wine tasting and selling their more popular vintages straight from the booth with an extra corkage fee for those eager folk who want to dive right into their purchases now. It's all jovial and lively and Q has to be chased away from the booth by their mama, insisting upon their taking a break to go and do something foolhardy and not be stuck helping them the whole time.

They lumber over to the first familiar face they see and loudly issue a hushed plea to their direction paired with a closed fist for a bump in greeting, "Save me from my mama, Freddie. She's out to give me a stitch if I don't go off and do something. How about you and I sniff out that fortune teller I heard about? Reckon they're the real deal?"

Still, their booth is set up right next to Happy Apple's, and the bright smell of lemon is wafting in the air. And the weather is perfectly temperate—a final hurrah before the summer heat fully sets in—meaning she's not sweating her ass off in her sunflower costume. And she's already done her fair share of helping out, convincing town children that if they spend some of their loose change on circus peanuts, they will be whisked away in the night to join the circus. So she's earned a break, and Q arrives at the perfect time to take it.

"Hm... Nope, I banished Leland with my brain waves. Reverse sonar," Ken says as they finally take a seat, a hand lazily shooing the dust away from their face with a soft "pfffft" before Freddie's all but tossing the box into their hands, and Ken can already sniff out that they're not just any ol' brownie before they've even fully opened the lid. "Shit, man. Thank you," they chuckle softly, taking a moderate bite out of one of them before closing up the box dutifully and with quickness. "Mmm. Save the rest for tomorrow," they mumble, mouth full. How they're not chocolate'd out by now, they have no idea.

Maybe it's just because there hasn't been a Heart Day that really hit in a while. Ken had almost been convinced they'd lost their taste for sweets altogether (besides honey, of course, which is essentially part of their bloodstream and vital to live). But as their fingers momentarily run over the cute little drawings on the box, the brownie just tastes even better, as if it's the sweetness they've been seeking out all along.

“Definitely the horse guy.” She doesn’t even have to think about it; a lingering mystery will always be more interesting than visits from the ghosts she already knows. He’s nameless, with the only real piece of information being that he got his head bashed in by a working horse, likely in the burgeoning days of Bleeding Hearts. More than his name, though, she’s wondering why he still lingers.

There’s a lot of talk in the ghost-hunting world about “unfinished business.” Spirits hang around because there’s something they have yet to do—some cause or mission they must undertake before they can leave the mortal coil. Freddie has always thought that was bullshit. George was old as balls when he kicked the bucket; what kind of unfinished business could he possibly have? Making sure there aren’t any kids on his lawn?

But being back in this town after so many years … well, she thinks she gets it a bit more now. She has unfinished business of her own. (… Hopefully she doesn’t ascend to the heavens after she’s made things right. Although that would be pretty romantic in its own way.)

“You remember him, right?” She takes Ken’s hands into her own, gives a small squeeze, unsure if she’s feeling her own sweat or Ken’s. Or some intermingling of sweat, which is kinda sweet. “Tall, young … all legs and arms and then that massive gash in his head." There’s a slight grimace at the thought. She’s seen some rough stuff, but that was particularly gnarly. "I’d like to figure out why he’s still hangin’ around.”

When Freddie agreed to hang out after Molly's run in at Thistle & Thread earlier in the week, Molly was delighted find that they were up for meeting her at Honky Tonk Records. Molly knew she had been there a million times - Freddie probably knew the stock just as well as those who worked there. But Molly was in desperate need of a new record and she had discovered, through a short but insightful chat, that Freddie had the taste in music of someone who had grown up right alongside Molly, despite the near fifteen year age gap.

Though Molly found quickly that didn't make much of a difference when it came to friends. Post divorce she was nervous as hell about making friends - and even more so upon her move to a completely new place. Her inner circle in Nashville had been fairly homogenous in terms of age, mostly because of the fact that her and her ex-husband had gone to school there and made friends together along the way. So at first it felt strange to connect with younger people but she had grown more comfortable. If anything, maybe she could offer some wisdom.

Not that Molly is that much older than her, really. It certainly doesn’t feel like it, living in a town that is trapped in a bygone era. And, even more so, being a person who is trapped in a bygone era—the mountains of old media piled in her bedroom would make anyone think she’s a decade older than she actually is. (But the plushies on her bed would give up the game eventually.)

Still, she was thrilled that Molly asked her out. (OK… not like that. Although she wouldn’t be opposed.) It’s rare that a regular customer—of any age, really—invites her to hang. Of course, it had all began with Molly hearing Freddie’s playlist over the shoddy old speakers at T&T, Dreams by The Cranberries coming out slightly warbled but still recognizable. Freddie isn’t nearly as much of a music nerd as Ken, but when a pretty lady compliments her playlist and asks her to hang out and talk about music… well, how is she possibly gonna say no?

She’s thumbing through the B stacks, searching for Never for Ever, when she’s pulled away, as if summoned by the demon Morrissey.

“AND IF A DOUBLE DECKER BUUUUUUS,” the notes are far, far off from what they should be, reverberating off the walls of the tiny shop, “CRASHES INTO UUUUUS...” The last note is held for much longer than is necessary, then there’s a brief pause before she continues on like nothing even happened.

The house, however, is the same. To Ken, it's really more gross than scary. It's clearly been flooded a few too many times, as the wood is all crusty with lichens and, in certain parts of the floor, still a bit damp. Not to mention the bugs, but that's nothing. Ken thinks they could ward off a whole scorpion with a gentle pat and some kind words, at this point. It's really the raccoons they're worried about. One: they're evil. And two: their clattering and chattering often makes Freddie think the ghosts are really coming for her.

The floor creaks loudly underneath her weight as she lowers herself, but the sounds aren’t any bother to her now. Any threat this house presents fades away when she's here with Ken. The ghosts are real; there's no question about that. Miss Adeline, farmer George, creepy Leland, and that farrier who'd been taken out by a swift kick to the head. (Still nameless, unfortunately.) And the stink of mildew is certainly real, sticking to her clothes long after she's left. But the rotting rafters and the lingering spirits can’t touch her when she’s got Ken by her side.

Of course, she knows Ken might not fully believe her stories—she knows them well enough to see the slightest glint of skepticism behind their eyes when Freddie mentions a new addition to the cast of paranormal characters. It doesn’t bother her much, though, because at least when they’re around, it doesn’t feel like the spirits will whisk her away.

Ken is really the only person she feels that way with.

Fuck. The heat prickling at her skin has only intensified. At least now she can blame it on the candles.

“Nice, but grumpy.” She nods, eyes flitting around for any sign of him. “But in that typical old man way, so not really threatening. Just…” There’s a moment, lip pulled between teeth, and then she finds the word, finger pointing up. “Crotchety.” Another nod. “He got real mad when we accidentally broke that china cup, remember?”

As Ken continues setting up the candles, she leans back on her hands, peering up at the way the candlelight dances on the ceiling, making even this rotted building look strangely beautiful.

She snaps out of the daze once Ken has plopped down across from her, releasing a small puff of dust. “I’m just hopin’ we don’t see Leland tonight. That guy sucks.” Massive understatement—he was toeing the line of legitimate threat. Luckily, she’s only seen him once, and he was not about to ruin her Heart Day—

The bulkiness of Ken's fraying backpack is apparent the second they begin their trek across town towards the infamous, dilapidated house on Briar End. The night's slow breeze washes away the sweet stickiness of the day, dusk easing into nothing but moonlight the longer their busted ass, decade-old vans pad against the dirt road. It's almost weird not just skating around, but they're sure they'll prefer shoes once they're inside that beloved old piece of shit house.

Besides, they're stuck carrying Fred's Heart Day present and definitely don't wanna be caught dropping it. Hers is a little extra special, with more chocolate on the inside than all the others, and a subtle glaze of the dreamsicle honey she'd enjoyed so much. No way it's getting crushed between everything else that had been quickly and unceremoniously stuffed into the main pocket of their bag. Chalk, candles, lighter, tape player, tapes. The essentials.

It’s an easy list. One they came equipped with every time the two of them used to spend sprawling afternoons after school here. And this certainly won’t be their first late night excursion. But it’s been a few good long years. Ken’s anxiety is familiar, hopeful, and stomach-flipping, and it’s nothing to do with the property.

Her list has always been snacks, drinks, and weed, to round out the essentials. Everything has already been pulled out of her ratty plaid backpack and arranged neatly on the floor. Today, however, she also comes toting heart-shaped weed brownies, made with hearty dollops of Ken’s autumn honey infusion, lending them a spicy, earthy flavor.

And, yeah, maybe she’d snuck a little bite… or two… before she headed over, and it was starting to hit as she sprawls out on the dusty wooden floors. And, yeah, maybe she’s already seen Miss Adeline out of the corner of her eye, floating through the foyer and up the stairs. It doesn’t take long to start seeing the residents—this house reverberates with spiritual energy. That’s why so many late teenage nights were spent surrounded by candles, seeking information from the long-dead occupants of Briar End. (But, mostly, stealing quick, longing glances in the dim of candlelight.)

The flutter in her stomach begins to become more about the incorporeal company when she hears a rustle outside. Thank the goddess. And so she assumes position, settling in the darkest part of the room and making a spooky face—which leans less scary and more constipated.

The light flashes on her and she gets the exact response she wanted—a flurry of giggles, accompanied by, although she can’t see it in the darkness of the room, a small scrunch of their nose.

Freddie’s description of her current ailment, however, has piqued his interest. Perhaps he should’ve also sampled the goo, just to know firsthand… It’s too late, now, crusted up into a doughy sculpture on his desk. From stress ball to paperweight, the false advertisement versatility of Mr. Scammahorn’s deliveries remains unrivaled. Stomachaches? Sour taste? Freaky dreams? This sounds like a job for one of his many elixirs.

So she just watches him scrape the rest, scrap the gloves, and trod over to his shelf of potions. At least, that’s what they look like to Freddie—full-blown witches' brews, stored in glass containers of all shapes and sizes. She gathers that she will likely be drinking one of these.

(She hopes it’s the one that looks like bubblegum.)

Unable to ignore Fred’s yearning expression toward the chilly drink any longer, he passed it along to her, “Consider it a thanks for today’s route, huh? Speaking of which, I need to stop by Thistle afterwards n’ pick myself up some groceries if you wanna hitch a ride."

She is genuinely interested, though. Her only real venture outside of Bleeding Hearts was her college town, and it seems pretty unlikely that she’ll be heading back out into the world anytime soon. (Not that she minds, with people who keep her from ever wanting to leave again.)

“Oh, shit, dude, that blows,” she says, after swallowing the massive wad of potato in her cheeks. “I would’ve liked to see ‘em!” She pauses to grab another fry, actually swiping up some ketchup this time. “Y’know, I hope the new owners are at least takin’ some cool pics on it.” She punctuates her point by pointing the ketchupy fry at him. “And that they appreciate the pics you already got on there, yeah?”

And then the coveted float is being pushed her way—just pure kindness, after he had a long drive home, after she just housed half his fries at Mach speed. She looks at him with genuine adoration in her eyes.

“Dude…” There’s a moment, eyes darting between him and the float, where the expected small-town hospitality overtakes her selfishness. “I… I can’t take your float.” She pushes it back to him, shaking her head. “You haven’t had one in weeks—you gotta replenish."

A quick pause, “ahhh,” and a downward glance at her tongue reveals that it is a normal shade of reddish-pink. Whew. (Would’ve been kinda sick to have a purple tongue, though, even if it meant making the trek out to Grampleton.)