i need a stiff fucking drink.

     even in the wake of her acceptance, summer has to swallow down her protests. even as she winds her arms around his neck for balance, even as she buries her face into his shoulder. this incident wasn’t accomplished neatly. his top is sure to be ruined – but then she makes a noise that might have been a laugh if it didn’t sound so wet. she latches onto the conversation’s welcome change in direction, sniffing loud and ugly, voice muffled by his shirt.

     ‘ what – what about both? ’ 

COMPLEXITY

vocabulary :     ◼◼◼◼◻

emotion :     ◼◼◼◻◻

sentence structure :     ◼◼◻◻◻

PROFANITY

frequency :     ◼◼◼◼◼

creativity :     ◼◼◼◼◻

watchfulness :     ◼◻◻◻◻

( BOLD   ALL   THAT    APPLY ) :     arse.  ass.  asshole.   bastard.   bitch.   bloody.   bugger.  bollocks.  chicken shit.  crap.   cunt.   dick.   frick.   fuck.   horseshit.  motherfucker.   piss. prick. screw. shit.  shitass.  son of a bitch.  son of a whore.   twat.   wanker.

( GIVEN   PROPER   RELIGIOUS   CONTEXT ) :     christ on a bike.   christ on a cracker.  damn.  goddamn.  godsdamn.   (bloody) hell.   holy shit.  jesus.   jesus christ. jesus h. christ.   jesus, mary and joseph.   sweet jesus.

THIS   OR   THAT?

contractions or enunciation ?   straightforward or cryptic ?   jargon or toned ?  complexity   or simplicity ?   finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind (depends on the person/conversation) ? masculinity, neutrality, or femininity ?   formalities or abrasiveness ?   insult or injury ?  praise or   equivocation ?   frankness or lies ?   excessive or minimal hand gestures ?  name-calling or magnanimity ?   friendly or blunt nicknames (again! it depends!) ?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS

do people have a hard time understanding or hearing your character ?   almost always /  frequently / sometimes  /  rarely /  never

does your character’s point come across easily when they speak ?   almost always  / frequently  /  sometimes  /  rarely /  never

would your character initiate conversations ?   almost always  / frequently / sometimes  / rarely  /  never

would your character be the one to end conversations ?   almost always /  frequently  / sometimes /  rarely /  never

would your character use ‘whom’ in a sentence ?   yes /  no   / only ironically

your character wants to make a counterpoint. what word do they use ?   but /  though /  although  /  however  / perhaps  / mayhaps

how would your character pick up the phone ?   hello  /  hey  /  hi  /  yellow  /  yo  /  yeah  /  [name]  /  what’s up  / who is this  /  what do you want / can i help you?

how does your character end conversations ? walk away  /  ask if that’s everything / say that that’s everything  /  give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here  / remain quiet / they don’t

how does your character address others ?   titles /  first names  /  surnames  / full names  / nicknames

what social class would others assume your character belongs to, hearing them speak ? upper /  middle /  lower

in what ways does the way your character speak stand out to others ?   accent / vocabulary  /  tone /  level  /  politeness /  brusqueness  /  it doesn’t

     she laughs without noise, a huff of air through the nose. a gleam of pearl shines from between both lips. how she manages to walk backwards and keep her eyes on him and not trip over the errant boxes is beyond reason, but she does it with the casual grace of someone who knows her own space, the kind she’s lived in for years. ‘ i – ugly? ’ that scoff is audible, a faux thing of derision at the notion. ‘ is someone talking shit? ‘ even as she jests, summer points at a small, haphazard pile of wooden pallet boxes. direct, she will. 

     ‘ do i need to swirly some stiff-assed, white-collared bully? ’ 

he follows close and carries his side of the conversation without ducking his head for physical labor. one box up, then deposited where she leads him, and he’s smiling without reservation. they may as well be tucked into bed and sharing heat and stories on a slow morning, he’s so glad to be here.

     it takes effort to subdue a flinch, as if she expects something harsher, something crueler. but no – lesley is steadfast in his refusal to wash his hands of her, and the touch of his hand is gentle enough to lift the dam, to usher in a downpour. her mouth twists, her shoulders shake. her tears sound as soft as thunder. summer leans into the touch as if she deserves it, ( she knows she doesn’t. ) and she makes the useless attempt to rub her palms into her jeans before reaching for him, too unsteady to do much else than finally, hesitantly nod. 

         ‘ i got you, ’ he says, folding himself into the small space she offers. you got you, too, he thinks as he loops his arms around and lifts her with ease. now that he’s seen what he’s seen, to carry her feels something like an insult — like summer’s smaller than she’s proved (or smaller than he’s seen her from their early days, as she’s always been a grand thing from where he’s stood).

     ‘ well, sure there is. ’ 

     her hands slip down to settle somewhere around waist-level, giving him a gentle squeeze at the–very welcome!– press of his mouth. the proximity allows her breath to fan across his face, nose brushing against his. ‘ section two, page three hundred and forty-seven of the i say so handbook. ’ and if it seems as if she’s gearing for another kiss … instead, summer twists out of his hold and jabs a pointing finger in his direction, affably coy as always. 

     ‘ penance is doing some heavy lifting for me. ’

les makes a smooth motion of tapping the end of his nose and pointing his finger ahead, mirroring summer without intent; his eyebrows do their climb (the corners of his mouth, too) in time with it. the only thing he can bring himself to be halfway crabby about is the warmth she takes from him with each step away.

     ‘ lesley, i don’t — ’ 

     he hasn’t gone. he hasn’t left. does he not see, does he not realize? ( it isn’t the end that’s brought about her fear. she’s embarrassed, she’s – she’s – oh, how terrified she is to lose him. this isn’t a tie in the washing machine. this isn’t cranberry juice on a white shirt. this is blood in the cut. this is the darkest part of a world she has never wanted him to see. ) 

     she hiccups and swallows down the sob that sticks in her throat. there’s a glimmer of wetness on her cheek when she finally lifts her head, a drip of saline – a smear of crimson when she drags the back of her hand across it. her gaze shoots back downward almost immediately, as if the eye contact is liable to shatter her. the brick is sharp and cold against her back. she wishes she could sink into it. her voice is small, ‘ please. ’ 

     she doesn’t know what she’s asking for anymore.

all the confirmation he needs is in her inability (unwillingness?) to hold his gaze. no matter if it’s wrong, if he’s jumping steps, lesley shifts so that he’s able to drop to one knee and shuffle closer. he wets his thumb and reaches out to clean some of the red from her cheek.

     she’s hiding. 

     hiding from the weight of words yet to come, the weight of a gaze just come to light – the weight of a deep, dark red that has settled into the lines in her hands. the silhouette of a body strikes a harsh line beneath the streetlamp. ( she doesn’t seek out pain. she doesn’t seek out evil, she doesn’t seek retribution by the slight of her own hand. the body isn’t human. the glint of a fang, the shuttered lids of too many eyes – ) her hands are hot, warm like a vat filled with liquid fire. she’s only thankful he missed the boil-over. 

     ‘ you need to go home. ’

         ‘ summer. ’

he’s frightened, though not by her; by whatever event brought about this end. is that a mistake? should he glimpse the body, the blood on her hands, recognize the gravity of a demand so out of character, and fear summer?

lesley crouches before her and lets his hands hang limp over his bent knees.

what’s that? — too easy, too obvious. greenlit by mom? — they’ve always played this game better than that. nah. he can switch dad off a minute.

         ‘ you start mixing precious metals and we’re done, ’ he says instead. ‘ i never could bring myself to regret mine. ’ there’s a scar, which he’s always claimed to be the result of a bee sting. ‘ the bleached hair. that was the crime. ’

this is my roundabout way of letting you overly tolerant, lovely people know that he sounds like d/anny k/aye for now, so you’re going to have to imagine him swearing up a storm instead of doing this. having been born and raised around where i set lesley, dk has a similar accent, even if it slips into that old hollywood transatlantic sound from time to time (i don’t mind this for him, either).

lyra thinks those boots might be more fun for him than he’d ever care to admit. her arm snakes around his waist, her firm stance on all of that not happening being made quite clear. “sure, but the surveillance cameras, or kids with phones, you might end up going viral, hon.” a squeeze. “and not in the good way.”

         ‘ is there. a good way? ’ lesley had his 15 seconds of internet fame, years back, when his name was nearer relevant: video graphics, dedicated pages, an auto-tuned version. the works. he smiles about it now, but now he takes himself a hell of a lot less seriously; he was the office nightmare until it died down. 

(he was always the office nightmare.)

her nose is deep in the new lavender she’s planning on adding to the garden when she’s joined by him. him. lesley lesley lesley. she’s still in a rosy haze with every reminder that he’s here, he’s hers, he’s— him. 

the physical reunion (relax, it’s been five minutes, ten at most) brings a wave of serenity over her that no lavender plant could ever attempt to do. “we’ll have to make do.” lyra turns her head, thanks him with a lingering peck to the cheek. “and i thiiiiiiink we’ve covered all our bases.”

the shift in her shoulders loses her some credibility.

his hand joins hers on the push bar at the back. definitely doesn’t lock their goddamn pinkies.

         ‘ they were out of the cinnamon-sugar, ’ he says. ‘ what i miss? ’