It took them a second, to process what was happening—not because they didn’t recognize Griffith, they did, just… there was a way in which seeing a familiar face in an unfamiliar setting rendered the entire experience unfamiliar, everything just out of joint, as if Afric had gone and moved all their furniture an inch to the left, or like seeing their primary school teacher at the shops. It had never occurred to them, in some strange way, that Griffith existed outside the university library. That he didn’t just… cease to be when Cian wasn’t there, watching him exist. 

But there he was, at the front door to Cian’s apartment, and Cian had answered it, barefoot, messy-haired, in pajama pants and an oversized jumper, still half-bleary with some mix of hangover and sleep. And they had invited him in with a little yeah, Griff, course, before fully processing that he was there, their mind only clicking into place as he crossed the threshold into the apartment.

The apartment which was, all things considered, a fucking mess. They’d spent yesterday working on the floor by the couch, their papers and books spread out across the coffee table, six or seven different half-empty stained mugs of cold tea and a few crisp bags scattered there. Their room was worse, they knew, hadn’t been cleaned in weeks, clothes on the floor, some theirs and some not, but they had mercifully thought to close the door on their way out, the only thing to assuage their momentary panic at worrying if Griffith—kind Griffith, put-together Griffith, who always looked about three hours more well-rested than Cian did and usually had homemade baked goods—would judge them for the absolute mess their life had very recently and very suddenly become.

     ‘Sorry, er… for…’ they started, and then gestured around, leaving the mess unsaid. ‘Here, let me just—’

They shifted into motion, shoving the chip bags into the most empty of the mugs, picking up a few mugs at a time to get them off the floor and table and hopefully into the sink, though there were enough dishes in the sink that that probably wouldn’t really solve the mess problem all that much.

     ‘Right, ah— Hi. Hello. Clearly I wasn’t expecting company, but… it’s good. To see you, I mean. Are those lemon bars?’

Griffith bit back a grin, not sure how they’d take it, but he couldn’t help his own flare of amusement when Cian opened the door and presented him with their just-out-of-bed look - soft, scruffy and eyes unfocused - clearly a touch out-of-sorts as they invited Griffith into their apartment. 

Griffith tried not to wince the moment he stepped across the threshold - so, there was a place that could be even messier than Zion’s - but unlike his slob of a best friend, there was an organized chaos to Cian’s apartment. Haphazard stacks of books, an assortment of papers scattered about with empty mugs of what was probably coffee placed strategically in easy-to-reach locations. Something that resembled Griffith’s own desk after a grueling final - a fact he told himself repeatedly, like a mantra, as his own fingers twitched with the need to pick up and clean. He was already enough of a nutcase after all for coming to visit unannounced. 

“No need to apologize, I didn’t give any prior notice, after all.” Griffith’s words were strangely formal, as if he was suddenly just realizing how awkward it was for him just to come to their door with a plate of baked goods in one hand and not well-thought out but good enough intentions in the other. 

“Here-” Unable to suppress the urge any longer, Griffith easily manoeuvred the precariously balanced mugs from Cian’s arms into his own, replacing them with his cling film wrapped plate of goodies. “-as an apology for coming over without asking first, I’ll help you clean up.” 

Griffith tells himself he is being excessive, counting the days he hasn’t seen them in the library, hunched over a thick tome, a stack of several unopened ones right at their elbow. They liked to sit at over at the far back, near the window that faced the open courtyard, where the sunlight spilled over onto the wooden tables, outlining the words and drawings carved into the grain by the hundreds of students before them. 

He recalls the first time he’d met them, heading over to that quiet corner when the rest of the library was occupied. They had grey shadows underneath their eyes, the beginning of a stubble on their cheeks as Griffith lightly tapped them on the shoulder, to ask permission to share a table. They startled badly, like a bird pushed into abrupt flight, and Griffith caught sight of the book they were reading. A treatise on the Fae and the role they played in ancient Irish culture. 

From then on, on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, Griffith would find himself gravitating towards that table, their initial exchanges only consisting of ‘hi, may I sit here again?’ and ‘thank you, no problem’. He caught them glancing once in his direction, eyes bright with curiosity, before they flushed and hurriedly buried their nose back into their book. 

It took, like it did in most of Griffith’s friendships, him baking and offering a loaf of banana nut bread to break the ice. 

Cian, after that, warmed up to him surprisingly quickly (or at least, he thought they did). Griffith would call them friends, though many would think them mere acquaintances at best, for could they really build a stable relationship on a handful of days spent sitting quietly next to each other, only a smile, some sweets, and short but meaningful conversations exchanged between them? 

Evidently yes, for Griffith at least, as he found himself standing outside their door, tart and freshly-baked lemon squares in hand, squaring his shoulders before ringing the doorbell. 

He might have bought it, the weight of being entirely forgotten would have sank into his veins and trickled there like poison, if not for the familiarity between them. Thorne had watched, only with a hint of sideways glance of course, as Griffith flickered about with all the air of disinterest in anything outside the norm, trying so hard to grip onto dismissal of his presence. Trying far too hard, as it was, that had given him away more than once. He found a hint of smug amusement in it but just as much pointless effort; how circular it all felt when Griffith was trying to avoid the idea of avoiding him to make the point that he wasn’t attempting to. 

It hadn’t used to be that way. Thorne didn’t care to admit that with changes came more trouble, some self-damning truth to the fact that a great deal of the world Griffith seemingly knew now was an ugly one that Thorne was a part of.

If Griffith was disgusted with whatever he might have learned about him though, he assumed, harsh words and demands of distance would have been the reaction more than skirting the edges of interaction. 

He was slowly growing tired of that game, the interest in it unraveling at the seams the longer he observed and the deeper the memories dug into him. Griffith was someone new and still the same, time kept trying to take that resolve from him but he wouldn’t allow it; quite the asinine battle to fight with himself. 

There was something of interest though in the encounter, it fell into the new realms of clearly not his business but that did nothing to keep Thorne from observing. Nothing suspicious in that, no underlying motives to be read; people stared at altercations all the time in clubs. It was part of the reason, at times, to even go; drunken spats. 

It didn’t even cause the edge of his lip to draw back across his teeth, not more than a tiny amount that hardly counted, or his fingers to tap the edge of his glass restlessly. Griffith could handle himself perfectly well; wasn’t that part of what he was out to flaunt? 

He didn’t care all too much if he were being obvious at that point, Thorne watched with a lift of his brows and gathered curiosity. The thought crossed his mind and traveled to his fingertips as they curled around the small glass that, if he wanted to, it would have been a clear enough shot to the lumbering disaster’s  head. He toyed with the idea, set it aside for the moment. Not his business. He didn’t have to like it though. That itch crept up the back of his neck, the one he could never really trust, whispering the most delightful ideas and promising the sort of excitement he thrived on. 

Besides, it was concern; he might have done the same for anyone he knew. It was a crowded club, surely too crowded to pinpoint a single person. All logic enough, Thorne decided, because he required very little logic at all to chase those destructive possibilities.  He didn’t feel bad in the least flipping the object off the counter, really it was the snap of fingers at Griffith’s collar that did him in and made the decision so he couldn’t be blamed, and felt more accomplishment than regret in flinging the small glass with reasonably honed aim at the target he mentally painted on the back of that thick skull. 

Unable to resist, he abandoned his seat to meander towards the scene with eyes glinted in the darkness and flashing neon around him. 

“Oh, there’s the bartender.” He couldn’t even hide the edge of a smirk at his lips with the words as the evening was taking a far more entertaining turn. “I seemed to have lost my drink and need another.” 

Griffith was caught between horror and amusement, watching the glass crack against his assailant’s head, dazing him for only a few precious seconds before his fury showed up in all its horrible glory, born from the imperviousness of one completely smashed. 

His grip tightened spasmodically on Griffith’s shirt as he twisted his body to glare at the interloper, a feat of coordination quite impressive for a drunk that Griffith had to hand it to him. He could feel Thorne’s gaze like a brand on his skin, couldn’t help but watch as he lazily sauntered up to the pair, as if he had all the time in the world. His eyes were still the same, lit from within, a destructive, magnetic force, that consumed, obliterated every rational thought in Griffith’s head. 

Suddenly finding himself quite pissed off, Griffith’s other hand shot out, hitting his attacker’s elbow at just the right point, destabilizing his hold and wrenching himself free. It was a clean, precise move, and on another occasion Griffith would have patted himself on the back in a rare show of self-praise. Instead, his gaze zeroed onto Thorne, knowing it was useless to pretend ignorance anymore, when he stood only a few, achingly short steps away from him. 

All the Fae were lovely creatures, yes, some whose beauty was too unearthly to even belong to this world; Thorne’s was anything but that. It was visceral, all sharp edges and deep hollows, the dangerous trickster smiling at you from deep in the woods, body long and lean. Griffith felt himself stiffen, his movements suddenly mechanical, the perfect ease he’d grown into falling away, leaving behind a gangly, awkward teen who was too tall, too thin, too everything. His nerves were torn to shreds and all he wanted to do was to scream in frustration. 

So instead, his expression turned cool, his voice like ice. The drunk stood forgotten between them. “Yes, that’s me. What’ll you have?” He turned to him, face unreadable, eyebrow arched as his lips formed words he did not think he could give voice to until he did. “Though if you think your attempt at saving my virtue will get you a drink on the house, you’ve got another thing coming.” 

If he wasn’t so completely stressed out, brain firing on all cylinders working out how to keep everyone safe, how to keep building their army, and how to track down the murderer all at once, this would’ve been a nice relaxing moment in its familiarity. Griffith cooking expertly, while he did the very little he could, setting the table a little rougher than need be this morning, out of his own impatience to say what needed to be said, fighting against the very real hunger growing at the smell of eggs. This sort of thing was nice, after all, and if it had all been like this they probably wouldn’t have had to make the choice to move instead of murdering each other over socks left on the floor.

“Thanks, arsehole,” he scoffs, although the gratitude is genuine. Zion lets himself have a few bites of food, mostly just to take his mind off of his own growling stomach, before getting down to it. Griffith, it seems, is on the same page. He rolls his eyes at the words very clearly chosen to push him, and instead chooses to plow forwards. “What I’ve got to say is that I’m not sure how thick the rock you’re intentionally living under is, but I’m here to pull you out of it.”

A pause, a regrouping. That’s not the way to go about this if he wants to stand any chance of his friend actually even considering helping out the cause. “What I mean is, things are gettin’ dire, on the other side. And they’re bleedin’ over into this world, too. A lot of people got their fingers in a lot of pots, and it’s time to start organizing,” he starts, a little more calmly. He knows Griffith will know what he means, not only in terms of what’s happening, but also the organizing in relation to Zion’s own history. And he hopes that it means he’ll consider hearing him out.

Griffith feels his stomach begin to unsettle as soon as Zion begins to talk. In response, he continues to shovel food down his throat, mostly to give his mouth something else to do instead of revealing the chaotic thoughts percolating in his head. He knows, despite Zion’s claims otherwise, how dire the situation was, what was at stake. His ability to soldier on despite the looming threat was more for maintaining a sense of normalcy rather than something born of stubborn ignorance. He does not say any of this, aware that Zion knows him well enough - despite his contrary words - to parse out Griffith’s motives for himself. After all, he wouldn’t have gone to Griffith if he thought he had no hope in convincing the other man of his plans. 

“Organizing.” Griffith repeated, eyeing Zion across the table, cataloguing every jerking movement, the slight twitch in the corner of his eye - clear signs of exhaustion, and yet his fool of a best friend continued to march on. “Are we to be the troops then, and you our celebrated Captain?” And though his words sounded sarcastic, there was no real bite to them. By gods, if Zion did not believe Griffith would not follow him through hell and high waters, then he did not know him one bit after all. 

“What will you have me do, Zion?” Griffith cuts to the meat of the matter. “What will you have our friends do? These murderers, these killings - I know how to fight but I also know my limitations. How sure are you that we won’t be in over our head?” 

“Please tell me you have bacon,” is all he says in answer as he crosses the threshold, achingly grateful to be out of his flat and, hopefully for a few hours at least, out of his head.

The apartment smells like hot oil and strong coffee and he relaxes into it almost immediately. He makes his way into the kitchen on a whim, drawn by the warmth of the stove, and braces a hip against the counter before leaning over to dig around in his messenger bag. After several moments of very undignified scrounging and muffled cursing, he finds what he was seeking: a carton of orange juice and a half empty bottle of Champagne. 

He catches Griffith’s eye and raises a brow in question, lazily swishing the contents of the Champagne ‘round the bottle. 

“Not exactly top shelf, I’ll give you that, but it’s still got some fizz left. Think it’s too early for Mimosas?”

“What kind of person do you take me for?” Griffith fired back easily, his lips curling in the corners as he followed Oz into the kitchen at a more sedate pace. He crossed his arms, leaning lazily against the counter as he watched his friend rifle through his bags for a good few minutes, both amusement and affection dancing in Griffith’s eyes. 

Nothing else mattered to Griffith more than the few souls he called his friends. He was taught from an early age that blood ties only amounted to so much - the little time he spent with his birth family was either him working himself to the bone to gain their acceptance or running off to the woods for hours on end  when he began to realize he never could. This is why his chosen family - Zion, Oz, Aoibheann, Ide, (and fine, you could include Afric as well) - was so important to him. Some part of him just wanted to bundle them up and lock them away from the world, feeding them good food until they fell asleep in a contented pile on his couch.  

“Cheeky bastard.” Griffith shook his head, but his grin was all teeth as he grabbed a couple of glasses and thunked them down to the table, right next to his spread of bacon, pancakes, and eggs. “You certainly know how to liven up what was supposed to be a serious conversation.” 

He hears the familiar grumbles from the other side of the door just before being pulled inside himself, with a rather annoyed greeting. Fair, sure, considering the time, but it’s not his fault that he’s hardly been able to sleep a wink himself since the hunt became official, and their work became a lot more real. He lets himself get manhandled into the flat, and Griffith should also be thankful for that, too, knowing full well if anyone else tried to do it, they’d receive a nice, fat kick in the arse.

“Why the hell would I be here if I didn’t have a good reason? Nah, I just came round for a bit of breakfast, that’s it,” he scoffs. As soon as he’s in, and the door is closed, though, he pulls himself out of Griffith’s steel grasp, and straightens his shirt, immediately pulling his bag off and letting it fall haphazardly near the door. There’s a normal chain of events that happens whenever he comes to Griffith’s place, a sort of habit since they went their separate ways after nearly killing each other over how to load the dishwasher one too many times. First, throw his stuff down, then look around to assess his friend’s mess. Not even his mission gets in the way of that, as he stops and glances around the flat, but that gets interrupted by another push towards the kitchen, and the flow is broken.

Zion lets out a very audible sigh at the idea of having to wait to get into things, but that’s only outweighed by the rumble of his stomach hearing the word food. Maybe breakfast and a conversation wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

“You can multitask, Griffith,” he notes pointedly, as he hops up to sit on the counter. “Business and breakfast. You hear about the hunt?”

His first instinct was to parrot his words back in an irritating tone, “You can multitask, Griffith.” but one look at the exhaustion that lined Zion’s face, the sallow cast of his skin had Griffith biting his lip and getting down to work. He liked to cook, found it soothing - the sound of cracking eggs beneath his fingers, the sizzle of oil as it hit the pan, the scrape of his spatula and the smokey flavour that fills his mouth as he samples the food. He watches Zion out of the corner of his eye, weariness waring with impatience, and he adds a second helping of food onto his plate. 

“Here you go, princess.” Griffith places plates of steaming food onto the table, giving a small nod of thanks to Zion for setting the table. Sometimes, he misses things like this, starting off his day with another presence filling up his space; one that knew him, intimately, without words, a melding of like minds and dispositions. Though they had thousands of petty disagreements, the decision to move to separate apartments had not been easy on the two of them. Till this day, Griffith finds himself crashing over at Zion’s and vice versa every few weeks, their individual units just an extension of a shared home. 

“So-” The clink of cutlery and flatware, Griffith adjusting his chair slightly, the scrape of wood against wood. He bites back a smile slightly at Zion’s look of exasperation, knowing exactly how to push his best friend’s buttons, before continuing “-I call this meeting to order, then. What do you have to say for yourself, Zion?” 

He had freshly ground coffee brewing on the pot, the scent and sizzle of oil as it hit the pan comforting. The smells and noise of a kitchen in use gives Griffith a sense of groundedness that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He recalls, just for a moment, the long talk he had with Zion a few nights before, hours whittling away until the dawn peaked through his parted blinds. He convinced Zion that he convinced him in turn, but in truth he already knew he had to see his plan in motion before he could commit himself wholeheartedly to his friend’s entire scheme (though commitment to the friend in question was already a done deal). 

He asked Zion who else he’d already looped into this, and the answers filled him with a sense of dread. He texted Oz the next day, more out of whimsy than anything else, because if he were being completely honest, he did not know what to say to the other man. It was more for his own need to care and to comfort; to build on budding camaraderie that would certainly help Griffith face the next few taxing days. 

He felt him as soon as he arrived at the door, his awareness kicking in like a sixth sense. Griffith paused to wonder, for a moment, about when it started responding not only to Fae but the humans whose lives were wretchedly entangled in their world. Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, so he could keep track of those he gratefully considered his friends. 

early morning, june 24, griffith’s apartment, dublin       ( @gcriffith​. )

There’s no way around it. With the search for the murderer suddenly turned into something a whole lot more official, too many hands in too many places, and not under their watch, things are dire. More feet on the ground is a good thing, of course, there’s no arguing that they’re more likely to catch the bastard with a dozen more sets of eyes looking out seriously, but if there’s one thing Zion has learned, it’s that more people, mean less organization. It means more room for mistakes, more room for things being royally fucked.

Now’s the time to put his money where his mouth is, and do that fraternizing that he insisted to Ailis wasn’t his strong suit. Because if they were going to manage it, they needed more people looking out in their way, under their instruction, not running around like chickens with their heads cut off looking for things they didn’t fully understand.

In his mind, there’s only one place to start, and that’s with the one person in Dublin he’d call a real friend. The one seer he would trust with his life, if push came to shove. So there he was, banging on the apartment door, at just barely an appropriate hour, trying not to psych himself out over how the hell he was going to go about any of this, knowing Griffith’s feelings on this sort of thing.

“Open up, sleeping beauty, we need to talk,” he calls, giving the door another good hit before pausing to listen for signs of life.

Griffith has come to a staggering conclusion while stumbling out of bed; one that he thinks he should have come to realize a long time ago, if it weren’t for silly sentimental feelings of friendship and affection.  

Zion De Paor was a fucking ass. 

“You better have a good reason for this, De Paor.” Griffith hisses as he opens his door, grabbing the other man by the shirt front and hauling him inside. He apologizes mentally to his neighbors, couldn’t help but think back to the time when they had the same neighbors and mentally apologized to those people too. While he took the brunt of the impact, being Zion’s roommate back then, he couldn’t discount their own experiences living with this train wreck of a man in the same damn building. 

Griffith, despite his outward irritation, feels the beginnings of dread creep up as he drags Zion inside. He’s not an idiot, nor is he an ignoramus. For years he’s tried to separate his life from that of the Fae, but recent happenings have underlined the fact that for people like him, it’s near if not completely impossible. He did not tell Zion about the sheer, helpless rage that enveloped him the moment he heard about them, the deaths, the killings. Zion had enough on his plate without having to deal with Griffith’s whirlpool of emotions. His first instinct to help, to protect, was immediately countered by his finely-honed sense of self-preservation, of caution. He knows how selfish it is of him to want to gather his friends close and make sure they’re safe, damn the rest of the world. He cannot tell these things to Zion, not yet, so he settles for shoving him towards the kitchen, muttering that he’ll prepare them some food before he gets down to detailing his so-called plan.  

Because knowing Zion De Paor, there already was a plan. 

At this point in his life, he was something of a nocturnal animal by pure need. After all, even the activities he had been a part of before falling down the proverbial rabbit hole had been better suited to the cover of darkness. So it was more rare to find him up and awake during the day than in the middle of the night, all in all. A celebration like midsummer, that was difficult. Get up before sunrise to be there just as the light is breaking, then keep alert all fucking day into the night hours when he’d usually just be getting started. So to say he was a bit discombobulated was maybe an understatement. 

Trying to sleep when he normally did his best work had fucked him over even worse than expected, and by the time he heard his fourth alarm go off, he was already going to be late meeting Griffith. And he already knew well enough that was going to be an earful in and of itself. 

It took more time trying to decide what sort of arms he might need to have with him in case things went sour, than actually getting himself ready, slipping on his normal attire of black on black on black, leather jackt and combat boots at the ready. 

Luckily, though, it didn’t take long to get to their agreed meeting place, and sure enough there he was waiting, seemingly already having begun his night by the looks of the wine bottle in his hand. He marched straight toward him, nearly knocking over an already wobbly group of girls heading the opposite direction in the process, paying it no mind. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, only fifteen minutes late, and he’s already resorting to drinking straight from the bottle,” he shook his head, giving Griffith a punch in the shoulder as a greeting. 

“Ow! That hurts, you ass!” Griffith shoots him an offended look, rubbing his shoulder though the pain had already receded to a dull ache. He was by no means a slouch in the physicality department, but Zion knew how to fight whereas Griffith prefers to flee. He still thinks he’s the smarter of the two. 

“You’re late.” He points unerringly at Zion’s face with a finger despite his beginning inebriated state, the rest clutching the neck of the wine bottle. He takes another swig, grimacing slightly, before turning to face his friend fully. “You’re late.” He says again, to emphasize, not only because he couldn’t find any other words at the moment. 

“Some nice girls gave me this bottle of wine-” He sloshes it pointedly in Zion’s face, blinks, thinking to himself that there was much more inside of it a few minutes ago. Huh. “-while, you my friend, couldn’t even make it on time to our meeting. Which we set days ago.” Griffith was working himself up into an indignant fury, which would have probably been a lot more convincing if he wasn’t half leaning on Zion’s shoulder for balance. 

She bobbed her head a little as she listened to him make his excuses. An early class indeed. “Yes, but Midsummer doesn’t come every day, does it? So what if you’re late, or hung-over, for one class?” She tried to keep her smile enticing but lighthearted. Despite her desire for everyone to always be having fun, Aoibheann didn’t like to force those around her into her plans. Just…convince them. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she countered with certainty. “I always have the most fun when all my friends are around me.” She didn’t say it, but it was also important to her that there not be only fae at this celebration. While she adored her discovered heritage, there was still something of her that pulled toward the more dual nature of her being. Seers, like Griffith, who were human but no doubt entrenched in the Otherworld, were of paramount importance to her.

And, of course, too, he was her friend and she would like him along, to have a good time.

“Can’t you come for just the littlest bit? Have a bite, one drink, dance with me.” That winning smile one last time. If he still demurred, she would drop it and let him go home to his bed and his early morning.

Griffith bit his lip, torn. While part of him was too tired to muster even the slightest effort at interacting with other people, the other part  did not want to leave Aoibheann out on her own. While he knew she was Fae and could mostly likely handle herself, she was also, oddly enough, a friend and if there was one thing Griffith stood by, it was that he always put his friends, his chosen family, first.

“Alright, but if gets too wild, I’m going home.” He didn’t care that he sounded like a grumpy old man, at the end of the day with all the thoughts and worries clamoring in his head, sometimes he truly felt old beyond his years. He narrowed his gaze slightly as he looked at her, trying to convey his seriousness with expression alone. “I mean it, Aoibheann.”

The moment the promise leaves his lips, he feels as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders. Alright, if he was going to let loose and have fun, then god dammit he’s going to have fun. “So, what did you have planned for tonight?” Griffith turns to her, raising his brow in challenge.

time:: june 21, evening location:: the loophole tagging:: @gcriffith​

Strictly speaking, Aoibheann is not sober. How can she be expected to be, with Midsummer coming to a perfect peak? There has been wine all day, in the loveliest of flavors, and while Aoibheann has had plenty to eat and enough water as well, that doesn’t rule out the fact that she has been drinking a truly absurd amount wine. So, when she rolls into Loophole, she is on the far end of tipsy but that’s not terribly uncommon for this locale.

The club is dead, which is a rare event, but it makes sense. The majority of their patronage is celebrating at the Stone Circle, of course. Which is why she’s come to the club now, to drag her friend Griffith into the festivities. He’s meant to just be finishing up his shift and Aoibheann catches sight of him making motions to leave just as she crashes in. “Griffith!” she all but shouts, arms up. The crown of Welsh poppies that she donned at the start of the day has grown haggard, falling apart in places, and she has to tilt it up from her eyes to see him properly. “You’re missing quite the party, love. Come, come. Come one. There’s a bonfire, Griffith. You have to come and welcome in the solstice.”

“Hey.” Griffith tried to muster up a smile at the sight of Aoibheann but it fell right short of his eyes. He didn’t want to be rude - he spent most of his days trying not to be, after all - but he honestly couldn’t muster up any effort this time. He just wanted to home, straight to his apartment after his shift. The best decision, he figured, to steer clear of the crowds of revelers that were drawn to the places past the safety of their iron city (which he had no business even knowing about.) Yet the moment he saw Aoibheann, he knew she spelled trouble.

And trouble was the one thing he truly had to avoid.

“I’ve got an early class tomorrow.” Griffith felt the lie leave his lips without much thought, then winced at how unconvincing he sounded. He was gifted in wordplay, being a law student and the risk of entangling with the Fae made sure of it, but his mind if not his body was tired, spent. If he “Hey.” Griffith tried to muster up a smile at the sight of Aoibheann but it fell right short of his eyes. He didn’t want to be rude - he spent most of his days trying not to be, after all - but he honestly couldn’t muster up any effort this time. He just wanted to home, straight to his apartment after his shift. The best decision, he figured, to steer clear of the crowds of revelers that were drawn to the places past the safety of their iron city (which he had no business even knowing about.) Yet the moment he saw Aoibheann, he knew she spelled trouble.

And trouble was the one thing he truly had to avoid.

“I’ve got an early class tomorrow.” Griffith felt the lie leave his lips without much thought, then winced at how unconvincing he sounded. He was gifted in wordplay, being a law student and the risk of entangling with the Fae made sure of it, but his mind if not his body was tired, spent. If he were being honest, a little wine and a night spent on the right edge of tipsy sounded like good, old-fashioned fun. He just couldn’t afford it.

He circled the block once, twice - where the hell was Zion, he promised to meet him here at this time -  dodging drunken revelers, either alone or or small groups. The way they clung to each other, exchanging laughter, soft whispers, and intimate touches - a press of lips on bared skin, the graze of ungloved fingertips - Griffith did not know whether to shy away or to be envious.  

He’s long denied himself that type of companionship, in favor of being discreet, inconspicuous. He tried to present an overall good-natured front - solid, dependable, affable - without truly having others delve down too deep into his past and psyche. It was safer. 

It was isolating.

“Ah, this shit is so fucking depressing.” Griffith spoke aloud, more for his own benefit really - at least he still had himself to talk to. Then his attention was diverted by the sudden eruption of laughter right behind him - perhaps in response to his self-depreciating monologue - and a chorus of greetings as a trio of girls marched into his line of vision, the one in the center stepping perilously close, right past his comfort zone.  

A poof of dark curls and limpid grey eyes, set in a small, fine-boned face. He knew this girl. Too rich for his blood, kindhearted if a touch irresponsible, the type of person who trusted that her parents would bail her out of any and all situations. 

“Here Griffith King-” She slurred his name, slightly. “-like you say to us, it’s on the house!” She laughed, a little hoarse, before shoving a bottle of unopened wine into his hands - the really expensive kind. She gave him a sloppy salute before wobbling off on dangerously high stilettos, her friends a giggling trail behind her. 

Griffith watched them go off with a raised brow, bemused.