𝘮𝘺𝘵𝘩 𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 .

DOROTHY'S HEAD WHIPS towards the sound of the voice , noting its unfamiliarity , taking a wary step away from the unknown individual and putting her bike between her stature and his own . her jaw tightens further , teeth aching from how hard porcelain was being pressed against itself , breastbone lifting as she took deep drags of impending evening air to keep herself grounded . as he spoke , she gave him a proper once over — looking for any indication that he were a figment of her imagination as opposed to a real person . her sanity was fickle , ebbing and flowing like the tides , not to be trusted in the realm of consistency .

did she respond ?? dorothy often found interacting with her hallucinations made them all the more REAL , but she just couldn't help herself ; sometimes ( most times ) she couldn't tell the difference . as his sights redirected themselves to where she had been staring , her own gaze momentarily shifts — coming to find that whatever she had thought she had seen across the way was now gone .

" time is easy to lose track of , " dorothy speaks , voice level as she attempts to stabilize her rapid intakes of breath , disguise her panic ( could he smell it on her ?? ) . a look back to him , an investigative cock of her head , eyes floating up and down his unfamiliar build before finding his gaze ;

" — as are most things that aren't real . "

she rolls the wheels of her bike forward and back , brown eyes momentarily transfixed on the swaying of frayed ribbons . a limp shrug of her shoulder , both dismissive and secretive in nature . " i thought i saw something , is all . one can never be too careful . "

peter  doesn’t  flinch  when  she  whips  around.  he’s  already  seen  her  —  not  just  seen,  but  noticed,  in  the  way  that  only  someone  like  him  bothers  to  anymore.  he's  always  had  a  quiet  sort  of  arrival  anyway,  the  kind  of  presence  that  slips  in  between  shadows  —  soundless  at  first,  only  a  shift  in  the  air  and  the  crunch  of  gravel  underneath  his  boot  to  announce  his  appearance.  the  dusk  breathes  through  his  hair,  golden  and  soft, and  still  he  stands  there,  hands  empty  posture  open.  a  deliberate  stillness settling in the darkness. 

“you  know,”  he  says  lightly,  almost  like  it’s  a  joke  between  them,  like  they’ve  done  this  before.  "usually when i'm sneaking around at night, no one seems to notice. made pretty good friends with the shadows these days. so, should  i  be  flattered,  or  worried that you caught onto me?" his  weight  shifts  back  on  his  heels,  arms  still  folded,  but  the  sharpness  in  his  stance  has  dulled  into  something  looser — watchful,  not  hostile.  the  corner  of  his  mouth  twitches  like  he’s  caught  between  a  grin  and  a  grimace,  unsure  which  way  to  lean.  moonlight  presses  against  the  edges  of  his  jaw,  limning  the  hollow  angles  in  silver.

fabletown  is  a  small  pond  and  faye  thinks  herself  a  fish  too  big  for  it  ━━  so  it's  no  surprise  that  every  time  the  fibres  of  their  being  are  laced  with  a  kind  of  boredom  too  overwhelming  to  ignore,  people  around  feel  the  shock  wave  of  it  (  and  more  often  than  not,  the  aftermath  is  less  than  good  for  a  couple  of  unfortunate  souls  ━━  it's  a  wrong  place,  wrong  time  sort  of  situation  and  with  something  enticing  enough  for  faye  to  do  something  about  it  ).  peter,  even  with  all  the  history  that  they  share,  might  become  a  victim  just  like  anyone  else.  to  be  fair,  he  approaches  her.  "and  you  are  far  too  dramatic,  peverell."  a  name  foreign  on  her  tongue,  even  with  all  the  decades  of  use  ━━  he  is  peter  pan,  the  boy  who  refused  to  grow  up  and  she  his  trusted  companion.  that  is  how  the  story  goes,  isn't  it?  "please.  we  see  each  other  every  damn  day."  a  chuckle,  a  head  shake  and  a  sip  of  a  beer  that  warms  with  each  second.

every  word  exchanged  still  feels  heavier  than  it  used  to  be.  an  abandon  of  their  home  and  company  left  behind...  faye  knows  better  than  to  believe  all  is  well.  as  much  as  she  hates  it,  actions  have  consequences.  "i  have  my  hobbies  and  i  can  guarantee  none  of  them  will  ever  be  knitting.  have  you  tried  it?"  eyebrows  raise  and  mischief  paints  itself  on  faye's  lips  as  their  blue  eyes  meet  peter's.  then,  the  offer  of  a  sip  of  her  beer.  "genius  is  right."  a  jest,  even  if  there  is  no  lie  to  be  found.  "the  day  has  just  begun.  don't  cheer  just  yet,  peter.  i  might  just  take  your  wallet  next,  see  what  secrets  you've  been  keeping  from  me  and  the  magic  mirror."

peter  huffs  something  between  a  scoff  and  a  laugh,  the  sound  catching  in  the  back  of  his  throat  like  it's  snagged  on  something  sharper  on  the  way  out.  “you’ve  got  some  nerve  calling  me  dramatic,”  he  replies,  fingers  dragging  along  the  shape  of  his  jaw.  “you’re  the  one  holding  court  with  a  lukewarm  beer.”  his  gaze  drifts  sideways,  scanning  the  street  like  he’s  expecting  the  curb  to  crack  open  and  swallow  him  from secondhand  embarrassment  —  or  maybe  just  to  avoid  looking  directly  at  her,  that  familiar  gleam  behind  her  eyes  already  pulling  too  much  out  of  him.  “and  no,  haven’t  tried  knitting.  not  big  on  hobbies  that  involve  stabbing  myself  repeatedly."  he  already  had  enough  blood  on  my  hands. 

there’s  a  beat,  followed  by  a  reluctant  shrug,  the  cigarette  behind  his  ear  shifting  as  he  tucks  his  notebook  tighter  under  his  arm. peter's  hand  reaches  out,  hovers  over  the  beer  like  he  might  take  the  offer,  but  instead,  they  flick  the  can  lightly  with  two  fingers.  not  enough  to  spill,  just  enough  to  annoy.  “you  want  my  wallet,  sweetheart,  you’ll  have  to  dig.  not  much  in  there  but  an  expired  id  and  an  old  bus  pass.”  his  brows  crinkle in amusement as he suddenly leans in closer, his voice just above a murmur. “but  if  you’re  that  desperate  for  something  to  do,  you  could  just  say  you  missed  me.”

DOROTHY SAW THE WORLD IN FRACTALS , crafted of imagery based in her imagination as well as the semblance of reality the rest of the world seemed to claim . the impending summer wind was thick with condensation , a blooming fog awaiting a downpour to wash it away , and the evening breeze feathered across her cheeks as she stood on the side of the road with her palms gripping the handlebars of her baby blue bike . worn and aged tassels protruded from their grips , flittering strands of ribbon flicking against her wrists . dorothy was staring at something , beady eyes narrowed into thin , concentrated slits . something was across the road . something .

someone ??

her breaths quickened , sternum blooming with each shallow intake of air , jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ground together . the muscles beneath tawny skin twitched , not even a wisp of brown hair ( fallen free from a loose braided plait ) striking her eye enough to deter her leveled glare . a shadow shifted at her feet , however , managed to catch her attention . she looked around , desperate to find its owner ; " you shouldn't creep up on people like that !! " she reprimanded the unknown . her bike was drawn closer to her , grip turning knuckle white as she held on for dear life , straightening her spine and lifting her chin . " you'll frighten them . and there's a curfew , you know !! " her voice shook , looking around , and despite being aware of the rules herself , she didn't move . she spoke smaller then , with timid crack to her words ;

" you ought to get home . "

peter  peverell  doesn’t  walk  like  someone  who  belonged  to  curfews  or  clocks.  he  walks  like  someone  who  is  always  halfway  between  staying  and  vanishing,  like  he's  on  borrowed  time  and  hasn't  decided  whether  or  not  to  give  it  back.  his  hands  are  in  his  pockets,  shoulders  slightly  hunched  from  the  weight  of  a  worn  satchel  slung  over  one  side,  like  he  hadn’t  meant  to  walk  this  far,  but  did  anyway.  he  stops  a  respectful  distance  from  dorothy’s  bike,  still  a  few  paces  from  the  reach  of  her  tassels,  and  tilts  his  head  slightly,  dark  curls  half-shadowed  by  the  low  orange  spill  of  the  setting  sun.  “i  didn't  mean  to  creep.”  he  admits,  shifting  his  weight  back  a  step  as  he  absentmindedly  rolls  up  the  sleeves  of  the  too  big  sweater  that  hangs  like  a  shadow  around  him. 

blonde  sits  on  the  sidewalk,  beer  can  in  hand  and  forearms  resting  on  each  knee.  exasperated  sigh  after  exasperated  sigh,  faye's  hazel  eyes  take  in  her  uneventful  surroundings  and  their  grip  tightens  on  the  half-empty  can  burrowed  from  trip  trap's  stash.  boredom  is  dangerous  ammo  for  someone  as  restless  as  faye  ━━  every  stone  on  the  sidewalk,  every  brick  on  every  building,  every  drink  left  unpoured  serve  as  a  reminder  that  there  is  nothing  to  do  around  a  place  like  fabletown  (  not  unless  she  wants  to  spend  more  nights  in  jail  and,  although  the  sheriff's  company  isn't  as  bad,  the  sleeping  arrangements  leave  much  to  be  desired  )  and  nothing  truly  every  happens  either.

if  you  ignore  the  murder  and  the  constant  thread  of  exposure,  faye  supposes.

another  sigh,  another  sip  of  an  already  warm  beer,  nursed  through  what  feels  like  an  hour  of  merely  existing.  even  the  prospect  of  newfound  company  feels  like  a  curse  to  faye,  muscles  aching  for  something  more  than  walking  around  and  mind  begging  for  something  to  entertain  an  already  numb  brain.  the  would-be-fairy  doesn't  even  look  up  from  the  empty  spot  their  unfocused  eyes  seem  glued  to  as  the  footsteps  gather  close  and  closer  to  her.  "i'm  not  a  sharer  so  if  it's  beer  you're  looking  for,  you  can  keep  on  walkin'."

peter  slows  when  he  sees  her,  doesn’t  stop  right  away  —  just  enough  for  his  stride  to  falter,  for  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  to  hush.  no  surprise  finding  her  like  this:  sun  going  down,  attitude  rising,  one  foot  on  the  edge  of  a  bad  idea  and  the  other  barely  planted  in  whatever  counted  as  rehabilitation.  he  squints  down  at  her,  cigarette  tucked  behind  his  ear,  a  notebook  wedged  under  one  arm.  the  picture  of  reluctant  responsibility.  “you  wound  me,  darlowe.”  he  drawls,  tone  dry  as  the  sidewalk  she’s  baking  on.  “not  even  a  hello  before  you  threaten  to  hoard  your  shitty  beer ?”  peter  crouches,  not  to  sit,  never  quite  that  relaxed,  but  enough  to  put  himself  just  in  her  line  of  sight,  forearms  balanced  on  his  knees,  mirrored  like  mockery.  his  eyes  skim  the  can  in  her  grip  before  they  flick  up  to  hers.

“you  know,”  he  says,  glancing  around  like  the  scenery  might  surprise  him, “most  people  at  least  pretend  to  find  hobbies  that  don't  involve  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  road.  you  ever  try  knitting ?”  followed  by  a  little  shrug,  not  judgmental,  just  peter:  half  amused,  half  weary,  all  blunt. “but  hey,  if  scowling  at  pavement’s  what’s  keeping  you  from  torching  another  mailbox  or  charming  a  guy  out  of  his  wallet,  who  am  i  to  stop  genius  at  work ?”

      a slimy thing, waffling about and bouncing from one corridor to another, eyes on the action as always. if there was one thing fionn couldn't miss, it was a show — comedies or tragedies, both equally as entertaining to a lone sprite, itching to get a firsthand view at the next sensation that sweeps their quaint little town. it's about time, he'd assert, after days of droning boredom, the cabin fever was bound to settle in eventually - fionn just didn't expect it to be so soon. " what a shame, " a tone decorated with dramatization, cutting through the undercurrent of empathy that was, albeit, genuine, but it was hard to tell with him.

peter  doesn’t  look  up  right  away.  a  cigarette  hangs  loosely  from  his  mouth,  a  set  of  keys  absentmindedly  jingling  in  his  grasp  so  obnoxiously  that  it  might  as  well  be  a  ward  against  conversation.  but  of  course,  it’s  fionn.  peter  exhales  through  his  nose,  not  quite  a  sigh,  not  quite  a  laugh.  “you  ever  get  tired  of  the  sound  of  your  own  voice ?”  he  quips,  the  words  curling  lazily  in  the  air  along  with  his  breath  of  smoke.  “actually,  don't  answer  that.” 

her frown is almost permanently in place ever since she heard the news. did she know the victim? no. did she still feel sympathy? yes. she's just made her statements, and has decided to sit down on the steps in front of the woodland apartments. it's a cloudy day, the sun hiding, and she's glad that it's not raining. mali's pulling her hair over her shoulder, fingers instantly tangling into the thick black strands as she looks up towards the sky, wondering if the weather will actually match the mood of the day.

she perks up when she hears the doors open, and her head swings around to look at the fable who had just appeared. "finished your turn?" she asks, giving them a small smile.

belin  tugs  her  sweater  tighter  around  her,  the  late-afternoon  chill  sinking  into  her  bones  the  way  grief  sometimes  does  —  quiet  and  insistent,  without  asking  permission.  the  door  clicks  shut  behind  her  as  she  steps  out,  heels  soft  against  the  stone.  at  the  voice,  her  gaze  cuts  toward  mali,  and  she  offers  a  faint,  answering  smile  —  the  kind  that  doesn’t  quite  reach  her  eyes  but  means  well.  “for  now,”  she  says,  descending  the  last  few  steps  until  she  settles  beside  her,  not  too  close.  “i  think  they’ve  had  their  fill  of  questions  i  can’t  answer.”  her  hands  smooth  absently  over  the  front  of  her  skirt,  as  if  there’s  something  to  straighten,  something  she  can  control. 

“i  didn't  know  them  either,”  she  continues  after  a  beat,  softer  now.  “it's  just  hard  to  wrap  my  mind  around  it  all.  it's  just  such  a  tragedy,  isn't  it  ?”  she  admits,  the  words  escaping  without  much  resistance. 

belin  doesn’t  smile,  but  there’s  a  softening  in  her  posture,  a  gentle  tilt  of  her  head  toward  vasilisa  that  suggests  something  close  to  understanding.  “i  used  to  say  the  same  thing,”  she  murmurs,  eyes  suddenly  alight  with  remembrance.  “that  i  liked  a  good  party.  a  drink,  a  dance,  the  hum  of  voices  not  asking  too  much  of  you.”  she  glances  toward  the  doorway  as  if  it  might  spill  over  with  more  guests  at  any  moment,  then  back  out  into  the  dark.  “but  somewhere  along  the  way,  they  started  to  feel  like  performances.  not  just  mine,  necessarily.  everyone’s.  the  rehearsed  laughter.  the  careful  anecdotes.  the  costume  of  it  all.”  the  scenes  drift  across  her  memory  like  a  faded  reel,  all  graceless  and  worn  —  champagne  glasses  clicking  under  chandeliers,  silk  hems  brushing  marble  floors,  the  sound  of  someone  else's  joy  draped  like  perfume.  but  it's  vasilisa's  question  that  brings  her  out  of  her  trance,  her  lips  forming  to  generate  a  tsk  noise  as  she  shakes  her  head  slyly.  “now,  i'm  going  to  need  a  lot  more  of  these  if  you  want  me  to  spill  my  secrets.”  she  gestures  to  the  flute  clasped  in  her  grasp,  lifting  it  just  slightly,  the  bubbles  catching  faint  starlight  as  if  they  too,  might  be  listening  in.  it's  a  practiced  deflection,  polished  smooth  with  use.  “still,  i  can't  fault  anyone  for  needing  the  smoke  and  mirrors.  some  of  us  just  prefer  the  quieter  corners.”  a  pause,  and  then  more  dryly:  “and  better  conversation.  sometimes  i  find  myself  thinking  i  would  rather  talk  to  a  brick  wall  than  some  of  the  other  guests.”  the  words  slip  out  with  a  low  breath  of  laughter,  a  rare  moment  of  honesty.  “and  what  about  you ?  what  would  you  rather  be  spending  your  evening  doing ?” 

This was one event that Vasilisa would never understand. Today had never felt like a day of celebration to her, how could it when in the end the adversary had decisively won. Why revel in their hasty retreat to land where they had to conceal all that they were. Still she would make an appearance, more out of obligation than anything else. 

It wasn’t long before she slinked away to an empty balcony for a bit of fresh air and a quick smoke. Vasilisa didn’t partake of the vice often, it was dependent on her mood and the melancholiness she felt now called for it. Smoke curled into the night air as she took a drag. The smell reminded her of her father, long gone by now. He had a pipe he would smoke and would let her take hits when no one was watching. Old memories absorbed her as she leaned against the railing staring out into the night. The sound of footsteps behind her startled her out of it. “Shit.” She muttered under her breath as she snubbed out the cigarette. Vasilisa typically didn’t like for people to see her smoke, a stupid insecurity about maintaining an image of herself. “Didn’t expect anyone else to come out here. Probably should have since it’s not a bad place to escape the party.”