initial puncture

‘Wyatt from right here’. Nico made a mental note of that, nodded at the mention of time and family, and added a little note just under the guy’s name that no, he didn’t want personal questions, and that was just as fucking well.

“You gonna believe me if I said I’m here for family stuff too?” he asked, and though the question was as rhetorical as it was teasing, Nico shrugged his shoulders. “But that’s about it, more or less.” A beat. “Family.” And if he didn’t sound particularly excited intonating those three little syllables, he wasn’t going to elaborate much on that, either.

“There’s a little ‘change of scenery’ rationale there, too,” he admitted, giving the drawing he’d just made a brief glance before he flipped the sketchpad shut and set it off to the side, unfinished and incomplete. He leaned forward to reach for the handkerchief in his back pocket, then wiped at his palms and fingers without looking. “I write for a living.” And he could say I’m a New York Times Bestselling Author, but he kept that to himself for now. “Just finished a series and I want to start a new one, but I’m coming up short.

“I figure those cliches about moving to a small town for inspiration ought to be cliches for some reason. ‘course, I’m just as blocked as I was when I got here, so that could also just be a whole load of bullshit.”

His shoulders lifted, making it halfway through an excusable shrug. “People do funny stuff for their family.” Which was Wyatt’s way of saying, ‘yes, it’s completely believable.’ No matter how annoying or inconvenient it could be, the excuse of rushing off to aid in a family crises always seemed to be a valiant one -- and all too relatable at that. He was willing to say that it was even more believable than what came from the other man’s mouth next.

“You’re a writer?” Wyatt echoed with a soft intonation of surprise. His eyebrows raised just a touch, watching as the other shifted around and started to clean himself up, sketchbook set aside. “I would’ve assumed you were an artist.” Because, again, who really wanted to just hang out under the sun in a public park? “You’ve got a little schmutz there, too,” he pointed out, making a gesture to his own cheek by way of example of the smear of color that was on Nico’s face. His hand fell a moment later, shaking his head while glancing away to survey the park. “Maybe you should try heading up to Maine sometime. Living up there seems to work pretty well for Stephen King. But, as for Beaumont... I don’t know. I haven’t lived here since my twenties and I can’t say that there’s much that’s all that new or surprising -- inspiring.”

As much as he was still far from secure on her good side, Yolande had to admit that there was something weirdly… something about Wyatt and his sense of humor. Charming was a stretch for sure, but he had that witty, sarcastic edge that she actually appreciated. Unless it was aimed at her. She was glad to see him obey her and sit down, mentally noting that this was probably the longest they had gone without anything really awkward being said. Rather than tempt fate on that one, she stuck to her promise of checking on their dinner. As always, her time management skills left much to be desired, so she abandoned the kitchen and refilled her own wine glass, then offered the same for his. They probably needed it.

She kind of hovered around the dining area, still not fully able to relax with him but feeling proud that she had figured him out at least a little. “I don’t blame you,” she said honestly, fingers fiddling with the stem of her glass, “It’s kind of hard a lot of the time, and I don’t think it’s for everyone.“ Worth it, though, or at least she still wanted to think that it was. Despite the trainwreck of an end her marriage had met, she still wanted to get married again someday. “Never?” That was odd to her and kind of interesting. She was about to ask why but… that felt like an exceptionally stupid question as soon as it entered her mind. “Maybe I will invite you to mine if I ever need a new green card.“

“No,” came Wyatt’s automatic response to the gesturing offer of a refill. He even went as far as to reach out, letting his palm hover over the top of his glass, fingertips curling around the rim to drag it closer to himself. “No, thank you,” he reiterated, a touch more polite and all too aware that he was probably making himself out to be an alcoholic on the road to recovery. But, hey, maybe that could’ve been a convenient out when it came to his chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome. As Yolande continued to fidget rather than take a seat, Wyatt listened with an agreeable hum. “No, definitely not. Marriage isn’t for everyone in the slightest.”

He was still curious about the cause of her divorce and exactly how it’d all led her to America in the first place, but if it hadn’t been an appropriate thing to ask before, it certainly wouldn’t go over any better now, either. Instead, he found himself cracking a smile a moment later, a soft chuckle passing his lips. “I’d be honored.” A joke about green cards had to mean that he was in the clear, right? Wyatt shook his head, twisting the stem of his wine glass before letting it be and glancing back to Yolande. “I was supposed to go to my brother’s wedding, but him and his wife, Pamela -- you... you might’ve met her.” Probably, in some capacity during the week of argumentative funeral planning, but he couldn’t say for sure. He cleared his throat, “Anyway, they were planning the ceremony and all that, but they ran off and eloped instead. Fresh outta high school, just like that --” Wyatt snapped his fingers and settled back in his chair. “I’m still getting shit for never buying them a blender or whatever.”

“Not many have. From around here, at least.” Summer shrugged her shoulders very casually, wrinkling her nose for the briefest of moments. Nope, Blackpool wasn’t exactly the hottest tourist spot for anyone from outside the UK.”Exactly, that’s what I mean. Anywhere that’s all bars and casinos is to be avoided as far as I’m concerned,” she commented —- not that she was the greatest role model herself, of course, but she kept it well hidden. “Seems that way,” she responded. “How long have you been here?”

“Forever and ever.” Well, not quite. His words were a slight exaggeration, considering the more nomadic lifestyle that he’d adopted over the years. “I was born in Beaumont,” Wyatt carried on to explain, shifting as one of his shoulders lifted and dropped again. “But I left around the time that I started college -- to figure things out, y’know? Got a degree, got a job, wound up with a place in California. I usually only come out this way to visit family.” And, in a way, that was still why he was in town, although Wyatt was beginning to feel a little bit like he was treading water.

One hand came up, rubbing thoughtfully at the side of his jaw (with, it appeared, no regard for the colour that smudged into his stubble). “Yeah?” he asked, putting up some faintly curious tone to the word, only to continue with a slightly more sheepish, “Damn, is it that obvious I just got here?”

But man, if the guy didn’t just make this easy. This was the part of every budding friendship where you were supposed to stick your hand out for a handshake, but there was a look to the man on the bench and the phone he was tapping at that told Nico he probably wouldn’t appreciate having any of the pastel on his skin. So he offered a crooked smile instead.

“I’m Nico, from Nashville.” He winced slightly at the inadvertent alliteration, but recovered quick enough after with both his shoulders shrugging up. “Moved here to write a novel and I’ve been worldbuilding all day.” He gestured briefly towards the pad on his lap– worldbuilding, truly, at its finest. “Also, I’d shake your hand…” But you know how it goes went unspoken, emphasised by the lift of one colour-covered hand and the wiggling of all five fingers attached to it. “It’s good to meet you, though.

“You been here long then, I’m guessing? Or have you just been avoiding the right people?”

A huffing sound came from Wyatt, like a cross between a scoff and a chuckle as he let his shoulders roll. “Do you see anyone else sitting in the grass and sketching around here?” He countered lightly, using his words as an excuse to look around the sunny park. More often than not, the open field served as a shortcut through town or meeting place for teens and tired sports teams. It was weird to see anyone hanging around for long when most people came from their own ancient homes with mediocrely cared for front lawns. It wasn’t to say that the residents of Beaumont weren’t social, but Wyatt personally couldn’t imagine taking the risk of accidentally sitting in dog shit when sunbathing at home would’ve been much more comfortable.

“Nico from Nashville,” he echoed, amused by the wording. Glancing back with a slight squint against the gleam of the sun, he introduced himself, “I’m Wyatt. From right here.” He nodded, both confirming the other’s suspicions and excusing the lack of a handshake. Locking his phone, he shifted in his seat to lean against the back of the bench. “I was born and raised in Beaumont, but I’ve moved around a lot since then -- for work, you know? I’ve been back for about six... seven months now, I guess. Sorting through some family stuff.” Which was exactly where he preferred to leave that subject. “Nashville’s got a whole lot more goin’ on than we do here,” Wyatt ambled on, “How’d you wind up out in these parts?” 

That made her laugh too, as much as it shouldn’t have. Yolande had gotten in trouble far too many times for making inappropriate jokes about the bodies at work, but they never ceased to amuse her. So maybe he had rightly assumed that the joke would land, or maybe he had just gotten lucky. Either way, the whore accusations were slipping towards the back of her mind… though not forgotten, never forgotten. “Bone broth. I will think about doing that,” she joked back, “I will become the new Hannibal Lecter.” Not the best joke for the situation either, probably, but they were way past that point already. “Speaking of that, you should sit down while I check on the food.” She gestured to the table, much too close to the actual kitchen to be considered an actual dining section. But very practical when you had visitors that you didn’t quite trust.

The invitation to guess worried her a little. Wyatt didn’t really seem like the type of guy who was easily offended… but honestly, she couldn’t figure out what type of guy he did seem like, so it was still unsafe territory. She looked at him for a moment, considering her answer. “No, I don’t think you have,” she finally said, honestly, even. “And… I don’t think you have been out looking for a wife either — or a husband.” She wasn’t sure about that, either. “I don’t know if you are the kind of man who really wants to be married, but I don’t think you are.”

“Remind me to die somewhere else,” he murmured in return, already beginning to nod at Yolande’s instruction to take a seat. Wyatt may have misstepped -- severely -- with his ‘marriage for a visa’ joke, but it was good to know that they could meet on common ground when it came to black comedy. Bonding over dead bodies certainly hadn’t been what he expected when he accepted her dinner invite, but given their singular commonality of the funeral home, maybe he should have. 

Making quick work of the short few strides that it took to reach the dining area, Wyatt sat down and finally let his gaze wander. He watched Yolande in the kitchen for a second before his eyes ticked away, more curious to look around now that he wasn’t in the hot seat of being a probable asshole. Wine glass set aside, he listened to her hesitant assessment, eyebrows raising a hair when she finally came to a verdict; he wasn’t a divorcee. Apt and fair, really. “I don’t think I am, either,” he agreed, shaking his head as he looked towards the blonde. “But, no, I’ve never been married.” It wasn’t that Wyatt was necessarily scared of commitment, but rather the fully trusting someone else bit that he got hung up on. Being legally bound to another person was messy business. “Actually...” There was a thoughtful purse of his lips before continuing, “I’ve never been to a wedding, either.”

“Blackpool. In the UK.” Summer always added that part, never really knowing if someone would be familiar with the seaside town or not. “It’s not the worst, I suppose, but I do kinda call it a mini Vegas with all the casinos and slot machines lining the seafront,” she added, shrugging her shoulders. “You get a lot of people out on the weekends drinking, prime location for bachelor and bachelorette parties.” She nodded as Wyatt continued on. “Exactly. Makes it perfect really,” she chuckled.

“Well, I don’t know,” he started slowly, an eyebrow raising when he looked in Summer’s direction again. “I’ve never been -- to Blackpool, that is -- but Las Vegas does have its own reputation. Anything that’s even a slight knock-off of a place called ‘Sin City’ doesn’t necessarily sound all that family-friendly.” Wyatt shook his head with a touch of a smile, his words far from judgemental for once. “It seems like you made the move here for good reason, at least.”

Colour theory. Hard not to snort at that, but it made Nico sound like he was an artist, when he was less that and more a five year old who’d never quite gotten over the fact red and blue made purple. “Black could work,” he said easily, flipping the pad back onto his lap and tilting his head to consider it. “Yeah. Black’d make it look more like the fantasy vibe I’m going for” – he picked the black pastel up, swiping the pad of his thumb over the end of it in a brief swatch of consideration against his skin – “and you can’t go wrong with glowing plants…”

And so three strong lines were drawn in the empty space, harsh against the paper and thick with determination. Nico did a lot of things, but none of them were half-assed; even this, even here, even with something as simple as picking a god damn colour. Using the end of his middle finger, he smudged the oil pastel in, black bursting from the source and fading out like dark little dandelions.

“You don’t have to apologise,” he said, and though the sky wasn’t quite coloured in yet, he had enough of a reference to know it wouldn’t be bad at all. Nico leaned back, the pad still on his lap, and pressed his palms to the grass to keep himself upright. Then he turned and tilted his head up, the faintest smile on his mouth. “Seriously. It’s not a big deal.”

His tongue clicked, head tilting once to the side in consideration. “…unless you have some unspoken trauma from art snobs or something. In which case, you and me both, pal.”

He was surprised that his uncertain advice on color choice was even being taken into consideration, but Wyatt had no real reason to question whatever artistic choices that were made. The most that he could do was say a silent prayer as the other plucked up the soft black pastel and hope that he wouldn’t be blamed if the sketch came out looking like it’d just survived a charcoal fire. Not wanting to stare as the man got back to drawing and smudging, Wyatt hummed low and glanced to his phone again. “Yeah,” he agreed with a slow nod. “Glowing plants definitely looked like what you were going for -- kinda neon, too. Could stand to pump up the bioluminescence.” Talk about a triple word score with that one.

Admittedly, Wyatt was far more analytical than he was artistic. Hell, half of his degree had relied on his ability to track trends of financials -- he wasn’t exactly making trips to the MoMA in his free time. With a touch of a smile, he shook his head in reply. “I can’t say that I’ve been harassed by too many art snobs.” He looked back to the stranger before continuing, “Or that I even know any. But, around here? You should be safe from their critique.” Wyatt didn’t think that he’d seriously take creative input from any Beaumontite (Beaumontian?), even if it was the only option available.

“I’ll take crippling boredom over anything else, that’s for sure,” Summer answered with a causal shrug of her shoulders. “Where I work, where I spent my younger years, I wouldn’t want her growing up in either of those places.” She appreciated the small town living when it came to raising a kid. “There’s always someone looking out for her, that’s how it feels anyway.”

“Where were you before Beaumont?” He asked Summer, the thought of possibly butting in on a sensitive subject not even crossing his mind. Wyatt continued with an understanding nod, “When everyone knows everyone, someone’s got your back. If a kid goes missing around here, it’s like a grapevine; so-and-so saw them after school, they were spotted at the gas station, one of their friends just talked to them -- and before you know it, the kid’s getting dragged home by their ear while being scolded about missing curfew.”

Okay, the comment about his sister got her, and an involuntary snort of laughter came out. It annoyed her immensely that he had brought her guard down for at least a moment… and if she was being honest, she still wasn’t entirely sure if he was joking. Not that his sister had struck her as a whore, but it wasn’t like most people would hoe out in front of a mortician at work, anyway, so it was hard to say for sure. “I don’t actually bring the bodies home with me, Wyatt,” she said, her voice growing much less sharp now, damn him. “Except the one that is cooking.” A joking glance towards the oven, definitely an inappropriate joke but well, he was not exactly doing great on that front either.

“It was,” Yolande confirmed about her marriage, feeling just that little sting that always came with the mention of it. Nowhere near as strong anymore, though, thank god. She wouldn’t be crying over it in front of this weirdo, the wine would wash it away. At least he’d done a good job with that. “Have you ever been married?”

Wyatt let himself smile, the corner of his mouth curling upwards while Yolande barked a quick laugh and seemed to give up somewhat on her guarded stance. That was at least a step in a better direction. With a shake of his head, he lifted his hands in a jokingly placating gesture. “I’m done assuming anything about your life.” Even on the subject of dead bodies. “But I bet you -- or someone -- could make a killing selling authentic bone broth.” That was one of those hoaky health crazes that was all the rage now, wasn’t it? Wyatt took another testing sip of wine before he let his hands fall. He considered giving a straight answer when it came to his own marital status, but instead asked, “What do you think?” It was a question that certainly opened him up to well-deserved critique in retaliation. “Guess.” He shrugged. 

After two or so months living in this town, Nico was sure it must be some point of concern that he’d not yet made a significant amount of friends– or, at least, acquaintances, because he wasn’t a child. In any case, it was probably best he remedy that, and though his initial plan had been to buy people drinks at some of the local bars, he didn’t necessarily want to go through the motions of assuring whomever it was that, no, he didn’t want to have sex (not really).

So here he was at the park, seated in the grass with a sketchbook open on his lap. He had oil pastels with him, the tips of his fingers and sides of his hands stained with hues of all sorts, and seemed to be deep in concentration colouring whatever it was he was colouring.

Until someone walked past him, their shadow obscuring his drawing considerably and forcing him to look up.

“Hey,” he said, and fortunately there wasn’t a hint of irritation in there at all. Nico put the pastel back down into its place, lifted his hand to scratch at his cheek, and ignored the fact there was now a streak of teal lost in the stubble along his jaw. “Yeah. Hi. Sorry if this is weird, but I’ve been drawing backgrounds…” And a good look at his pad would show a luminescent, glowing forest at sunrise– teal grass and lilac trees and clouds the colour of cotton candy. “…but I’m not sure what I should colour the sky.

“So.” Nico shrugged his shoulders, lifting the pad up and showing what he had so far entirely. “What do you think I should make it?”

Not his best pick up line, he decided, but he was sure the bar for friendship wasn’t quite so high. Probably.

Wyatt wasn’t really the ‘sit around and wait’ type, but when it came to the molasses-like pace of Beaumont, sometimes there was just no avoiding it. Between his lack of handyman skills and the singular carpenter in town, he had no other option than to drop off the busted dining room chair and cross his fingers that he actually got a call in hour when it was done. He could’ve hung around at the small shop, but after just ten minutes of inhaling varnish fumes, Wyatt decided to stretch his legs with a walk through the park. Coffee was his next thought, gaze trained on his cell phone as he naturally gravitated towards an empty bench to take a seat. No sooner than he’d sat down, though, a stranger’s greeting caught his attention.

“Hm?” Wyatt glanced over, taking a moment to register the sketchbook in the other’s hands, realizing that he very well could’ve been in the way of whatever still life he was trying to recreate. But, to his surprise, it was an apology and much odder request that followed instead. His brows pinched together in a small squint, shaking his head a moment later when the work in progress was flashed in his direction. “Well, I was about to suggest blue...” Realism didn’t necessarily seem to be the theme here. Wyatt shrugged in return and offered, “I wanna say black, just for the sake of contrast, but I don’t know shit about art -- or, what, color theory? -- Sorry.”

Pushing her cart through the tiny isle of the grocery store, Frankie rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe this, couldn’t believe she was back here again. It was the little things. Driving down familiar roads, the songs the radio station played on the way over, hell. The town even smelled the same. Not that it was a bad smell – but still. She felt like she was stuck in a bad dream. Beaufort. She’d left it in the rear view a long time ago. But her dad needed her, so here she was. Back. Grabbing a box of frosted flakes and tossing it in the cart, the blonde went about her business as quickly as possible – all while hoping to god she didn’t run into anyone she might know. The sound of metal on metal grouped with the jolt to her upper body pulled her out of her own head as she realized she’d just crashed into another cart. Swearing under her breath, she straightened, trying to avoid eye contact with whomever she’d just crashed into. “Sorry…”

It was official: Wyatt hated grocery shopping. No matter the time of day or whatever singular item he was on the hunt for, he still managed to get stuck somewhere along the way. Whether it was retracing his steps to zig-zag through the aisles or glaring at nutrition facts, there hadn’t been any shopping trip that’d taken him less than an hour to get through. Maybe that was part of the ‘charm’ of being back in his hometown, though, forced to acclimate to the small town amenities (or, rather, lack thereof) that he’d long since grown out of. Even this time around, with a very specific shopping list in hand, Wyatt had found himself paused in the cereal aisle. He was weighing the pros and cons of wheat versus rice Chex when his cart was shoved forward, the clang of a metal collision ringing out in the otherwise quiet space.

“It’s okay.” Wyatt’s reply was quick and thoughtless, a mutter under his breath as he stopped the roll of his cart with the side of his wrist, hands full with cereal options. “They don’t exactly make it easy to get around in here...” Attempting to slide his cart further to the side only resulted in the harsh squeak of the wheels dragging, making him wince. “Sorry, ah --” Finally looking towards the other, he was hit with a vague sense of familiarity. “You alright there?”

Her brows furrowed as she listened to him try to talk his way out of what he’d said, a little unnerved by the way he was staring at her. “You’re not really making it better,” she told him honestly, not too impressed with the non-apology or the implication that if he did actually think she was a whore, she wasn’t even good enough to be working in a city. Better to just leave that one unsaid, though, she decided, washing it down with some of her wine. She did believe that he wasn’t trying to hurt her feelings… at least she was pretty sure she did, but she was still kind of offended by his words. “So do you run into whores in LA a lot?” she asked instead; probably not a much nicer thing to add, but well, he’d said it first.

“You also assumed that I didn’t know how to cook,” she pointed out, still remembering that comment from the grocery store. Hell, it was the whole reason he was there, and she had a brief moment of regret for her determination to prove him wrong on that count. “And your chances of seeing the treehouse aren’t looking very good right now, Wyatt.”

It was Wyatt’s turn to not know for sure if Yolande was trying to kid around or just being snarky, but regardless of the intent, he could roll with the punches. “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he started to answer. “All my best friends are hookers.” And, just to keep himself in that precarious position of possibly getting kicked out, he tagged on, “-- you met my sister, right?” The tilt of his head and uptick of his eyebrows proved that Wyatt was far from serious, but Ridley sure as hell would’ve still kicked his ass over that implication. He needed to work on better ways to defuse situations, because off-color jokes weren’t cutting it.

“Okay, that’s true,” he relented with a slowly bobbing nod. “In my defense, though, it’s just a little hard to imagine dead bodies and home-cooking in such a close proximity to each other.” Although, Wyatt still just wasn’t sure what to make of Yolande at all. She wasn’t exactly the generic picture of a mortician that he would’ve imagined -- and she didn’t read as a master chef, either. Treehouse squatter seemed like a reasonable possibility, since she mentioned what she was up to in the woods. “Anyway... I’m sure you had a beautiful and loving marriage. Before the divorce, I mean.”

A soft chuckle fell out of lips before lightly shrugging. “Guidance Counselor in a Middle School.” She replies. “I wish it was as simple. But, if I’m told to call the parents, I have to. And it really is a complete waste of time and energy. I’ve been trying to tell them that since the warm weather broke.”

“That’s really what a guidance counselor does these days?” He asked, a furrow of doubt wrinkling his forehead. “Monitor dress code violations?” Wyatt shook his head. “That makes you sound like a glorified phone messenger. You’d think the kids would have bigger issues going on that they need help with.”

As soon as she heard a response to her literal cry for help, Mick spun around to find out who her savior might be. And oh — he seemed interesting, at least. She eyed his movements, trying to decipher what he was loading into the back of his truck. “Bowling and cheap beer,” Mick scrunched her nose. It couldn’t be that bad, though, and there was always the possibility of free drinks. “Sounds like a decent night, I guess. You don’t happen to be hitting up Silver Dollar any time soon, are you?” She asked with a hopeful expression and pleading eyes. Her gaze faltered once more toward the trunk of his car, eyes narrowed on the supplies he was loading in. “You remodeling or something?” 

“As in sometime in the next ten minutes?” He quipped, a small pause accompanying his glance back towards the other before shaking his head. “Not likely. I usually go on Sundays. Less of a crowd, y’know?” It put the church going folks in church and tied up enough teens at home that they weren’t public nuisances. “-- Somethin’ like that,” Wyatt answered, loading in the last paint can. Along with the goods from his latest hardware store run, there was a pair of two-by-fours and an ancient toolbox wedged into the back of the truck bed. “I’ve got this old house that I need to sell,” he started to explain, “but there’s so much hideous fuckin’ wallpaper, I don’t think it’ll ever move. Puke green and fuchsia... not a very charming combination for a kitchen.”

     lana finally decided to step out after a few weeks of hiding around – she needed a complicated order of coffee and some carbs stat. however, she instantly regretted it, because as soon as she stepped into the coffee shop, dolly parton’s jolene began playing and her mind went right back to everything she was trying to forget. “do you think i should chop off my hair ? like, dye it pink and chop it off ?” she asked the person nearest to her. “i’m trying to decide my ‘i’m on a crisis but i’m saying i’m closing cycles’ bullshit and i’m thinking i should do something big.” the young woman mused. “or do you have any other suggestions ?”

Since he’d sat down in The Hideout nearly an hour ago, Wyatt hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. He’d easily ignored the ever-growing line for coffee and focused on his laptop, absorbed in catching up on work and using all the free wifi that he could get. There was a good chance that he wasn’t the one being addressed, but only halfway paying attention, he answered with an automatic grunt of a hum. “You should shave it,” he said dryly, leaning back in his seat while rubbing at his tired eyes. “Get a buzz cut,” Wyatt continued, finally looking over to register who was going through the crisis of identity. “Go full feminist anarchist with it -- that always sends a message.”