he kept his eyes on the clock for the past few hours, becoming more concerned as time went by. jason knew they were safe. they always ended up coming back safely. however, there was always a slim chance things could go south and he knew that. it was only when he finally watched them entering the room, a sigh of relief escaped. instantly, he was cleaning up any cuts or wounds the other had before inquiring softly, “are you okay?” his eyes looked up toward them, hands pausing for a moment. “do you want to talk about what happened?”

         “ ’m fine. ” he responds, a reflex, the words spoken just a touch too quickly to be believable. jason should be used to it by now — people in camp had a tendency to downplay injuries, and nine did it more often than most. “ could’ve been worse. ” he adds, and it was true, too; losing most of their supply haul to bandits was a heavy blow, but it was a small mercy that the group returned mostly unscathed. they could’ve come across a horde, nine thinks. someone could’ve gotten bit. someone could’ve died. this was one of the better outcomes, and yet — “ they got most of the bandages. good chunk of the meds, too. ” he says, quiet. he can’t find it in himself to meet the other’s gaze, spine tense with something that can only be described as shame. “ sorry we couldn’t bring back more. ”

" just leave me the fuck alone. " dismisses, shrugs away harshly. he needs a second to breathe after the very vocal clash with his father. " whatever you're trying to do right now, i don't want it. "

         “ ego could use some work. ’m not here for you. ” it’s stated plainly, and they’re lighting up the pre-roll clutched in their hand by way of explanation, leaning their weight against the double doors to close them. it wouldn’t take much time to move to any of the other balconies on the floor — to find one that didn’t reek of white boy angst — but as with most things, lira simply couldn’t be bothered. “ your old man looked like he was having a blast down there. ” she states, if only to dig into the wound, just a little. “ what’d you do this time? ”

tate  didn’t  know  why  chase  was  still  here.  what  else  did  he  want?  “shut  the  fuck  up.  shut  the  fuck  up,  shut  up,  what  are  you  doing?  what  the  fuck  are  you  saying?”  and  it  wasn’t  even  rhetorical  at  this  point.  chase  was  actually  still  talking,  rambling  some  nonsense  about  leonardo  dicaprio  and  even  turning  to  the  poor  customer  next  to  them—which.  okay.  tate  had  grown  up  with  people  pinching  his  cheeks  and  calling  him  a  carbon  copy  of  fuckass  leonardo  dicaprio,  and  even  he  didn’t  think  that  was  a  compliment.  surely  he  looked  better  than  some  freak  who  exclusively  dated  models  with  underdeveloped  frontal  lobes.  tate  stared  at  chase  for  a  long  second,  completely  over  it.  “and  you  look  like  megamind  with  your  big  ass  head.”

         it should’ve been offensive, probably, and for most people it would be — but chase has never really operated in the realm of ‘ most people ’ , much to his friends’ chagrin. as it is, his response comes in the bark of a laugh, hands clapping together in amusement. “ wait, actually. like i see it, man. i see it. ” he leans across the counter, pushing into tate’s space and locking his gaze onto the other at an angle. “ what’s wrong, tate? no bitches? ” he asks, brows furrowing slightly to emulate the meme; and he lingers, just a few beats too long, before rocking back onto the balls of his heels. he whips out his phone then, taking a sip of the drink in his hand that had mostly gone unnoticed up to this point. “ y’know what, i’m renaming your contact. ” and he does just that, oblivious to the grumbling patrons surrounding him.

          stefi brushed a curl behind her ear, smoothing the chalk dust from her lavender cardigan as twelve energetic four-year-olds in paper-crown 'olympian' headpieces had just emptied into the hallway toward their loved ones. her head lifted toward the door, and she found herself walking toward a particular person, their appearance a pleasant surprise. "you're picking up early," she said, though she didn't mean any harm. she didn't mind the days she stayed behind, reading from the stack of picture books to their little one until they arrived at late pick-up. "again." she raised a brow, mock-accusatory. "are you trying to steal my favorite little chaos goblin before we finish our shape collages?"

         “ what can i say? i’m a man on a mission. ” comes the reply, and it was true, too — he’s not exactly used to this, to being early, to being present, but he’s trying. yet another thing he needed to learn now that he’s traded speed for what lies beyond the track. “ lately it’s all been miss guerrero this, miss guerrero that. pretty soon my son’s gonna love you more than he loves me, and i can’t let that happen. ” he adds, but there’s no real heat behind the words, just humor and teasing. his eyes roam past her and into the classroom, locking onto where billy’s focused on his work before turning his attention to the teacher once more. “ but if you’re doing art, i’ll hang back and let you finish up. kid’s an artist, y’know? got it from his dad. ”

          they were fighting again. this time it was over a towel in the laundry hamper. or maybe an old text. nico couldn’t remember. details got blurry slippery fast, like water over tile. his knuckles went white around the ceramic mug, fingers squeezing until he half-expected it to burst in his hand. the argument had eaten the morning, clawing from bed to hallway to kitchen, and now they were locked in a standoff across the table. nico didn’t remember how long they stood like that, trading glares and venom over cereal boxes and various condiments. maybe ten minutes. maybe a century. "are you sulking or are you actually going to say what’s bothering you?"

         what wasn’t bothering her, at this point? it was fine, at first. fun, even. when the drugs stop hitting, she’s been known to chase after the next best thing — and that had been nico, for a while, but that was never meant to last ( not with her ) . she can’t even remember how this all started, trying to grasp at the butterflies and the laughter from those early days only to come up empty; and when she looks at her hands, all she’s left with are the fights they’d picked but never quite finished, waxing and waning as old arguments sparked anew. “ i have no idea what you’re talking about. this is how i always act. ” it’s not exactly a lie, as of late, with good days being outweighed by the bad — and she doesn’t even look up, doesn’t even eat, instead poking at her cereal aimlessly. “ sounds like you’re projecting, honestly. if something’s bothering you, just say so. no point ruining my day off. ”

stifling a yawn, natasha walks towards the booth in the corner of the diner. there’s only a few patrons at the diner, most of them dozing off into their pancakes. the waitress walks forward and stops in front of the table, taking in her next customer. “welcome to cal’s diner. i’m natasha….blah blah blah…what do you want to order?” tilting her head, she holds up her notepad. “though i wouldn’t order the fruit salad. it’s been out for awhile.”

         it takes a beat and then two for the other’s words to register, and jules blinks a little dumbly at the waitress before shifting in their seat, turning their attention to the menu that was handed to them — seeing but not quite comprehending. “ no fruit salad. got it. uh... ” she’s not exactly eloquent past midnight, the last syllable being drawn out in an attempt to stall. “ is there anything you would recommend, or? ” they ask instead, for lack of a better option; truth be told, jules can barely form a coherent thought, much less decide on a meal — they weren’t even hungry, is the thing, only striding in to kill time.

" i, um . . . " brows furrow, posture straightened as he examines himself in the mirror. can't explain the way it makes him feel inside. sure, he looks exactly as they predicted. wealthy, prolific, convincing enough to make it into the country club with ease. " i can't explain how, but 'm thinkin' i look more like spongebob than some fancy schmancy. " chuckles out, brows furrowed in closer inspection. " what d'ya think, blondie ? " / @gckko

         “ spongebob? what does that even mean? ” she’s laughing around the words, smile evident despite the incredulous little sound. she doesn’t spare a glance just to try and see what he’s talking about, not yet, preoccupied with swapping out her earrings — but she looks over when he asks, moving to stand in front of him. “ it’s... decent. ” she says, taking the outfit in as if she hadn’t been the one to put it together. “ something i’d see in a country club, that’s for sure. ” it’s an important distinction. she doesn’t particularly like this set of clothes — not on beau, not on anyone — but it was pretty much perfect for what they’d be doing today. “ this might be a little too much, though. ” she decides after some consideration, reaching for the sweater that was draped across his shoulders and holding onto it for the time being. “ better. ” she declares, smiling. “ just have to figure out your alias now. any ideas? it has to be something you’d remember to answer to. ”

I won’t play your psychological games

         “ listen, i know for a fact that you’re not above playing dirty. ” he says by way of explanation, calling to mind all the times he’s had to bail her out of fights — and it’s not like she needed any protection, never has and probably never will, but he wasn’t going to leave her to fend for herself. sometimes he wonders if that’s what led him to this profession in the first place. “ at this point i’m surprised you haven’t lost a toe. grab two of those for me, yeah? ” he’s nodding to the other side of the chips aisle, indicating one of the higher shelves just to tease.

         “ i mean, of course i know you can take care of yourself. it’s just — ” here she pauses, grappling with the wording. “ do you always have to do stuff that’s kinda risky? what happened to just, i don’t know, staying in every now and then? don’t you get tired? i mean, i was on tour for five months and the band was up to something different practically every night. pretty sure i’m gonna be cooped up for the next two months at this point. ”

         “ i can’t even tell if that’s a metaphor at this point. ” she doesn’t even look up as she speaks, busying herself the joint she’s trying to roll. “ but if you actually have one, knock yourself out. watch as the powers that be take my side and tell you that a nonzero chance barely counts. ”

Mary Oliver, "Blue Iris." Devotions