slow down

Virgil’s drifting along the sidewalk, taking the long, striding pace of someone with somewhere to be. Somewhere important, maybe– someone else with a keener eye might say he has the marching gait of someone in a panic, terrorized to the beat of a metaphysical drum. The ripple of sound strumming his nerves that keeps him stiltedly aware, with a far off look to his face that stutters into a flickering moment of terror as he stops when he hears a voice– a voice addressing him. 

“Oh–” he looks down at the dog, who stares up at him with an insistent, nosing curiosity that softens his face’s tenseness and gives him a reason to smile. A cue he takes to finally look at his addresser, “Nothin’ wrong with being too friendly.” a pause, and a flicker of recognition finally prompts him, “You’re Eli, right?”

eli grasps the leash with a trained swiftness-- it’s not the first, nor anywhere close to the last time he’ll be chasing after the beast. with a few calming pats on the head, magnus has evidently found himself satisfied, plopping down on the ground with an old man’s huff. still, he can’t seem to help but dig his nose into the stranger’s shoes, tail wagging with controlled eagerness.

Virgil’s drifting along the sidewalk, taking the long, striding pace of someone with somewhere to be. Somewhere important, maybe– someone else with a keener eye might say he has the marching gait of someone in a panic, terrorized to the beat of a metaphysical drum. The ripple of sound strumming his nerves that keeps him stiltedly aware, with a far off look to his face that stutters into a flickering moment of terror as he stops when he hears a voice– a voice addressing him. 

“Oh–” he looks down at the dog, who stares up at him with an insistent, nosing curiosity that softens his face’s tenseness and gives him a reason to smile. A cue he takes to finally look at his addresser, “Nothin’ wrong with being too friendly.” a pause, and a flicker of recognition finally prompts him, “You’re Eli, right?”

eli grasps the leash with a trained swiftness-- it’s not the first, nor anywhere close to the last time he’ll be chasing after the beast. with a few calming pats on the head, magnus has evidently found himself satisfied, plopping down on the ground with an old man’s huff. still, he can’t seem to help but dig his nose into the stranger’s shoes, tail wagging with controlled eagerness.

francis wasn’t what she considered to be a serious person, she laughed when there was tension, and her hand would clam up when anyone told her ‘they needed to talk’ but with darcy she was usually the more serious of the two. expect now the roles felt reversed and she couldn’t tell if this was the build up to some kind of elaborate joke, or if darcy was actually about to tell her something important. either way her hands felt sweaty, digits searched for a space to occupy now that they were no longer hanging onto her cigarette. the sound of blood rushing filled her ear drums, adding an annoying hum to the background of everything darcy was saying. “uh huh,” francis nods, she’s following along with what he’s trying to say but still not sure where any of this is leading. “my brain only tends to do that when i’m giving someone bad news, or telling secrets. so either you’re about to do one of those or… deliver a joke with a super long, and agonizing build up?” her face is contorted into a look of worry and confusion, trying to hold in the endless stream of word vomit that often accompanies her nerves. “i promise that i’ll at least try not to freak out, but you better tell me quick ‘cause you putting it off is starting to give me anxiety. just spit it out, please.”

he won’t look at her now, his lips pressed together in something beginning to resemble a frown. the thing is, it’s not about her anymore-- it’s about the way that he can feel himself slipping. memories of the other her slink into the base of his skull and work their way up in black tendrils, stimulating every sense until here’s there.

you gotta fuckin’ talk to me, cass--

the cigarette ashes further as he breathes in puff after puff, still silent, still thinking. he looks concentrated, yet somehow distant. he smells the way she was, the way she just felt so fucking right all the time. he can feel the skin she was always so worried about. he feels bad, really, for the way his mind drifts. he tries to push it out-- to think of better, newer,  memories-- but one more manages to snake its way up to the forefront-- loud and nagging.

i can’t do this without you

i can’t do this with you

he snaps out of it with a long blink, a deep breath, and a harsh sigh. stamping out the cigarette, he looks at francis with a clear mind.

2001 / FT. Eli ( @g00eyw0mb )

The paper calendar hanging from the neck of a crooked nail is the window of the half passing year. Year of the snake, two of them coiled in repose above the tabled field of days crossed and still yet uncrossed. They sleep through the afternoon sun billowing through the display window, letting the bright coiling of their skin be cured into a pale, brassy sheath for shedding. It will never happen for these permanent animals— existing to fade, reminding him to let up with the hours that wanes past him in their forgetfulness of him. 

After awhile of existing outside of time, he’s learnt to be a good neighbor.

It’s 5 pm, so he’s reminded to temporarily forget the gutted jewelry box on the front counter. He leaves the bag of tools unrolled and the wind-up throat-component exposed like an upturned metallic beetle, and the vivisected porcelain ballerina in a permanent croisé to rest on the jade, velvet cloth set beside it. He’s turned away to sort through the shelf rack when the shop’s bell chimes, ringing in a new hour when someone comes in.

It’s a good hour, when Vito recognizes the face. Familiar, and in a flickering moment when the sun dims, he remembers the same face, a small boy interposing the one in the present. Without a name then, until now when he smiles and calls him, “Eli,”. He wraps a cloth around his hand, “It’s good to see you.”

it's the hours, now, that he's counting down. a waiting game with the suitcases already packed. he knows it’s almost time-- he’s been checking his watch endlessly, since the day began, and before then it was the calendar, before then it was the paperwork he’d been given. looking back on it, eli has realized very recently how much of his life has been spent waiting for something. sometimes, anything.

he has a practiced posture when he approaches, but as soon as he sees a familiar face it relaxes-- never quite slumping. the shift is subtle. he feels his mouth pull into a smile, unintentional, but welcome nonetheless.

“It’s good to see you too.” his palms come together, brushing against each other-- hands cold. you know what they say about that. his lips press and purse-- he can’t quite spit out what he’s trying to say, because it feels like a lie.

closed: @g00eyw0mb​ location: idk anywhere!  the world is their oyster

Sometimes, it all gets to her. The heaviness she’s taken on as a response to try and provide closure to those that deserve it, a way to atone for her own sins she didn’t commit and receive her own happy ending, it’s a burden she happily bears. But, sometimes it all gets to her. Flashes of nasty photos, blood spatters that make no sense, the smell of earth beneath her feet, Micah’s stomach turns as her feet hit the early morning ground. She does her best to out run the images, to outrun the cold, but the eggs in her stomach are turning with ever step she takes until she finally stops to try and breathe. 

A shitty green Toyota van passes her by, the flash of blonde hair and unmistakeable dick tattoo in the drivers seat stops everything. The rest of the air is sucked from her lungs, but this time it’s in joy rather than disgust. “Darcy!” She calls, taking off full speed in a futile attempt to catch the van. “Darcy, wait!” Smile so wide it’s splitting her face she ignores the burning sensation in her muscles and her lungs, picking up speed as the van slows. 

y'know that feeling when you wake up in the morning and it just feels like something is gonna happen? darcy’s been riding that all morning-- waiting for that moment to strike and assure him that, once again, it’s always best to trust his gut.

it’s when he sees someone chasing after his car that he thinks eh, maybe not.

pulling to the side of the road in a harsh stop, he prepares himself for... whatever. the thing about small towns is that people feel entitled, because it’s their town, and blaring explicit music through the streets is impolite and darcy is immature-- or whatever. so, no, it’s not the first time he’s had someone on his ass about something. he prepares himself for a moment before opening the door and stepping out, waiting to hear a shrill voice complaining about--

it’s micah.

closed: @g00eyw0mb​ location: idk anywhere!  the world is their oyster

Sometimes, it all gets to her. The heaviness she’s taken on as a response to try and provide closure to those that deserve it, a way to atone for her own sins she didn’t commit and receive her own happy ending, it’s a burden she happily bears. But, sometimes it all gets to her. Flashes of nasty photos, blood spatters that make no sense, the smell of earth beneath her feet, Micah’s stomach turns as her feet hit the early morning ground. She does her best to out run the images, to outrun the cold, but the eggs in her stomach are turning with ever step she takes until she finally stops to try and breathe. 

A shitty green Toyota van passes her by, the flash of blonde hair and unmistakeable dick tattoo in the drivers seat stops everything. The rest of the air is sucked from her lungs, but this time it’s in joy rather than disgust. “Darcy!” She calls, taking off full speed in a futile attempt to catch the van. “Darcy, wait!” Smile so wide it’s splitting her face she ignores the burning sensation in her muscles and her lungs, picking up speed as the van slows. 

y'know that feeling when you wake up in the morning and it just feels like something is gonna happen? darcy’s been riding that all morning-- waiting for that moment to strike and assure him that, once again, it’s always best to trust his gut.

it’s when he sees someone chasing after his car that he thinks eh, maybe not.

pulling to the side of the road in a harsh stop, he prepares himself for... whatever. the thing about small towns is that people feel entitled, because it’s their town, and blaring explicit music through the streets is impolite and darcy is immature-- or whatever. so, no, it’s not the first time he’s had someone on his ass about something. he prepares himself for a moment before opening the door and stepping out, waiting to hear a shrill voice complaining about--

it’s micah.

LOCATION: a parking lot outside of a small community center

YEAR: 2021

AGE: 30

it’s kinda like when you hold the door open, and then another person comes, and another, and you really gotta decide when you’re gonna just let go of the fuckin’ door already. darcy’s never been good at that game-- too polite, or, as some people have said, too nice. so, the conversation is choppy, interrupted--

"Hold on--”

he steps away for a moment. one could overhear it’s good to see you, man and you did good tonight and maybe first time always fuckin’ sucks. the exchange is quick, but ends with a firm handshake that somehow turns into a hug-- a pat on the back, a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. you promise? darcy asks, cause i’ll cry if you don’t, dude. a good spirited laugh resounds.

​:

the ash collects on the end of her cigarette, hand angled back as she holds it away from her face and over the ashtray that’s sitting on the arm of the couch. dark eyes had been following darcy as he paced back and forth, his nervous energy contagious, causing a lump to form in the back of her throat as she narrowed her gaze. she wants to just ask him what’s on his mind but worries that she might be opening a can of worms she won’t soon be able to close again. instead she takes a drag from her cigarette, sucking it almost completely to the filter before stamping it out into the tray to her right and standing. darcy is shivering when she reaches him, her hand holding onto his forearm gently as she pulls him closer to her, traces of concern all over her face which is analyzing him much more closely now. “yeah,” she gives a nod, “and i love you. now would you please tell me what is going on with you?” dark irises flicker up and down his countenance, the nervous lump in her throat sinking to her chest, causing it to tighten as she reaches her finger over his cheekbone. “i can tell you’ve got something going on in that head of yours, something that’s bothering you. i just want you to know that whatever it is… we can talk about it.” 

he takes a long drag straight into his lungs-- and for a second, he feels nostalgic for the days when it stung still. the headrush, the giddiness that came from his first cigarette... that came from the first time he tried anything, really. at some point, it all stops being about fun. he flicks the cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, his free hand coming up to rub at his face. he’s gotten so thin, lately.

these moments of clarity come few and far between-- and usually with something attached to them. today, he’s realized what’s been bothering him.

“It’s not--” he pauses. his hand drops. his eyes dart around the room before fixating on a pile of laundry.  it’s not a big deal, he was about to say-- but he knows he’s got to get it out eventually. "Look-- uhhh-- you know when you gotta say something and you don’t have any fuckin’ clue how to say it? Like your mouth stops working and--”

you’re putting it off

“--and your brain gets all fuckin’ messy... stops working.” like his brain isn’t always messy, these days. loud, dulled only for shorter and shorter periods of time.

there’s a kind of satisfaction that comes from the way the pumpkins flesh gives way to the sharp edge of the saw in her hand. she’s already begun to carve away at the shapes that’ll later become eyes when she glances over at darcy to give him a smug, satisfied smile. “i’m well aware that i’m the shit, thank you.” the look on his face gives him away, he’s thinking, and he’s thinking hard. it’s a surprise to francis that there isn’t steam coming from his ears but she can definitely see the gears turning from how he’s looking at his pumpkin. “i’ve never seen it but i’m getting a pretty good mental image from how you’re describing it, it sounds really cute. might’ve called you a genius for thinking it up if i didn’t know you were plagiarizing someone from twitter, of all places.” no, francis wouldn’t pass up on an opportunity to tease him, it was too much fun. “guess it could be worse. you could be like one of those middle-aged ’home is not a place it’s a feeling’ moms who gets all of their ideas from pinterest.” 

"Yeahhhh..." he mumbles-- still listening, but he’s never been a master of multitasking. the first cut is already crooked, but darcy is absolutely sure that it gives it some character. the second, cut, however... well-- he’ll fix it. “Yeah, yeah...”

there’s something in these moments that gives him a feeling-- a fullness, almost, that flutters his heart and sits coiled up warmly in his belly. the years have taught him that to try to fill it is to scare it away, so he’ll call it a nice surprise when it pops up.

a few cuts careful later and soon the window is shaping up. he gets on his knees, squishing some of the aforementioned guts under his him, to assure that everything is straight-- though not quite what someone would call neat and tidy. the thing about darcy is that he’s never been good at neat and tidy.

LOCATION: a borderline filthy apartment that a younger darcy calls home

YEAR: 2017

AGE: 26

he has a fucking hangnail again. they happen almost every day-- and no, he won’t stop fucking messing with it. call it nervous energy-- because a lotta shit is happening right now. he could use a little bump, but his pockets are empty and his check (fat, by his description) doesn’t come in until tomorrow. whatever’s left of his stash was smoked a few hours ago, so he’s settled for a plastic cup of something pulled from the front of the cupboard with a little juice mixed in.

his scarred and shaking hands (it’s just cold in the apartment-- the AC’s broken, or something) fumbling for a crumpled up pack in his pocket. he manages to get one out, jaw shifting back and forth with the effort of such a simple action. sparking up is muscle memory, but something about it feels wrong. everything feels wrong. he’s got a lump in his tightened stomach. his chest feels empty. light from the open window illuminates a gaunt face, reddened eyes sunken in.

NAME: Darcy [REDACTED] Caine

MEANING: From an English surname that was derived from Norman French d'Arcy, originally denoting one who came from the town of Arcy in La Manche, France.

NICKNAME: Darcy

GENDER: cisgender male (he/him, any)

HEIGHT: 6’

AGE: 31 || october 1st

ZODIAC: scorpio

SPOKEN LANGUAGES: english, some ASL

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

HAIR COLOUR: bleached blonde

EYE COLOUR: blue

SKIN TONE: tanned, often sunburnt

BODY TYPE: lean, but muscular

ACCENT: chicagoan

VOICE: ryan gosling

DOMINANT HAND: right

POSTURE: somewhat slumped– casual

SCARS: too many to count; bridge of his nose (was broken multiple times)

TATTOOS: again, too many to count, most of them small-medium without theme, many stick-and-poked; a dagger under his left eye, a heart under his right eye, a dick ejaculating towards his face on the left side of his neck, a rat on the inner side of his right ankle.

MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S): tattoos, by far

CHILDHOOD.

PLACE OF BIRTH: chicago, illinois

HOMETOWN: chicago, illinois

FIRST WORDS: he doesn’t remember, duh

SIBLINGS: n/a

PARENTS.

PARENT INVOLVEMENT: both his birth and adoptive parents have passed away

ADULT LIFE.

OCCUPATION: ranch hand

CURRENT RESIDENCE: a worn down apartment in babylon

CLOSE FRIENDS: mutt stanislaw, francis rhineheart, anyone who talks to him

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: single(?)

FINANCIAL STATUS: he makes decent money, but wouldn’t call himself rich

DRIVER’S LICENSE: yes

CRIMINAL RECORD: extensive

VICES: everything (once an addict, always an addict), cigarettes, vaping

SEX AND ROMANCE.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: panromantic

PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE: as vulnerable as possible

PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE: submissive

LIBIDO: high

TURN ON’S: ???

TURN OFF’S: ???

LOVE LANGUAGE: physical touch, words of affirmation

RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES: often, explosive, rushed

MISCELLANEOUS.

CHARACTER THEME SONG: tantrum - ashnikko

HOBBIES TO PASS TIME: fighting, driving

MENTAL ILLNESSES: undiagnosed; can’t afford a psychiatrist

PHYSICAL ILLNESSES: old injuries from fighting, sinus issues, wrist issues

LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED: that’s not a real thing

PHOBIAS: sinking back into addiction

SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL: fairly confident in his appearance, but lacks confidence in his identity

VULNERABILITIES: he is extremely sensitive

darcy was only seven years old when a very nice policeman sat beside him, who had tears in his eyes when he told him that his parents were dead. there was no easy way to do it– darcy doesn’t blame him for breaking.

his new parents were kind people– kind enough that at times, he could almost forget that there was a life before living in a lavish home with a maid who taught him sign language.

despite his parents’ best attempts, darcy found himself amongst the wrong crowd nearly as soon as he hit high school. weed, booze, and spray paint cans littered his lavish room– velvet couches matted with spilled monsters and… well, whatever the fuck else.

two weeks after darcy’s sixteenth birthday, his parents told him that chicago was no longer their home– and when they said babylon he slurred sounds like bad luck, man.

two weeks after arriving in town, a younger darcy found his first dealer. it was easy– way fuckin’ easy, man. that’s when he thought maybe this place isn’t so bad.

two years spent in babylon and an introduction to meth later, darcy found himself meandering back to chicago. one very long, solo road trip later, he realized that there are a few factors that adults find important: shelter, money, and food.

darcy doesn’t talk much about the next four years of his life

come to think of it, he doesn’t talk about much until his twenty-ninth birthday. he’ll tell you that it was the greatest and worst night of his life. the biggest party he’d ever thrown and the worst fallout he’d ever been witness to. want to know the details? ask someone else.

whatever happened, it got him sober. attending meetings, holding a gavel from time to time, giving strangers hugs and a little coin with a butterfly on it. recovery isn’t linear, he tells people.

“nothing will ever be as bad as that video of the guy sticking it to a hot pocket, that one still haunts me.” eyes roll, a sound of disgust punctuating her thoughts about the once viral video as she stabs her small plastic saw into the pumpkin. as soon as she begins to carve she stops, vexed, curious about where he might be going with that thought just before he gives up on it. “i think i’m just going to make it look really pissed off, like it’s full of angry bees.” francis looks at him. “what are you thinking about doing? please don’t tell me a poop emoji either because i’ll flip this fucking table right now.”

"Tried it." he mutters-- not quite loud enough to hear. call it a self-reminder-- you can never forget what you’ve done, you motherfucker. honestly, it’s one of the nicer regrets to pop up around this time of year. “Hehe, bees. I like that shit-- you’re funny.”

francis is wielding the plastic handled saw that came with the pumpkin carving kit that she’d gotten from the pharmacy on her way to darcy’s that night. debating on whether or not she was was going to go classic or do something that required a little bit more creativity she began chewing on her lip, contemplating. “probably,” eyes flickering in his direction. “but if i come over in the next day or two and see you carved a fuck hole into that thing we’re gonna have problems.” her hand was waving around the little saw as she spoke, eyes narrowing in his direction as she pointed it at him. “that pumpkin was meant as a wholesome present, not a device for your strange sexual curiosities.”

"I dunno man, maybe it feels good. There was that Reddit guy with the cantaloupe and shit..." a beat, another slap of guts against the paper plate. looking down at the hole, he shrugs his shoulders. he’s about to open his mouth again when another thought catches him-- “Not like, shit--” but he gives up on the sentiment entirely just as quickly.

francis is wielding the plastic handled saw that came with the pumpkin carving kit that she’d gotten from the pharmacy on her way to darcy’s that night. debating on whether or not she was was going to go classic or do something that required a little bit more creativity she began chewing on her lip, contemplating. “probably,” eyes flickering in his direction. “but if i come over in the next day or two and see you carved a fuck hole into that thing we’re gonna have problems.” her hand was waving around the little saw as she spoke, eyes narrowing in his direction as she pointed it at him. “that pumpkin was meant as a wholesome present, not a device for your strange sexual curiosities.”

"I dunno man, maybe it feels good. There was that Reddit guy with the cantaloupe and shit..." a beat, another slap of guts against the paper plate. looking down at the hole, he shrugs his shoulders. he’s about to open his mouth again when another thought catches him-- “Not like, shit--” but he gives up on the sentiment entirely just as quickly.

location: a run down apartment that darcy calls home

darcy has never considered himself great in the realm of arts and crafts. anything detailed like that, really-- god forbid you ask him to fold a fuckin’ fitted sheet. it’s like his brain turns off, and not in that nostalgic way. right now, he’s fumbling with the innards of a pumpkin, squishing viscera between his fingers-- but he wouldn’t call it viscera, he’d call it,

- && “Too long” they chuckled and nodded. “Just like I said” letting out a soft sigh, they just looked at Eli. Nea didn’t like the fact that so many years had passed since the two of them last spoke or even saw each other. But life went on and so did friendships. Either they survived or they died and that’s just part of everyday life sadly. 

“New faces, old faces. New stories, old stories. Sometimes I wonder if anything have actually changed”

“Does anything ever? I’ve seen a lot of things over the years, yet I find myself hearing the same things over and over-- seeing patterns, jumping to equivalent conclusions..." he shakes his head gently, a dramatic exhale escaping before a small smile returns to his lips.

- && “Too long” they chuckled and nodded. “Just like I said” letting out a soft sigh, they just looked at Eli. Nea didn’t like the fact that so many years had passed since the two of them last spoke or even saw each other. But life went on and so did friendships. Either they survived or they died and that’s just part of everyday life sadly. 

“New faces, old faces. New stories, old stories. Sometimes I wonder if anything have actually changed”

“Does anything ever? I’ve seen a lot of things over the years, yet I find myself hearing the same things over and over-- seeing patterns, jumping to equivalent conclusions..." he shakes his head gently, a dramatic exhale escaping before a small smile returns to his lips.