weathervanes.

The carefree nature that Mal sported in seemingly every minute of his life had always been enough to put Tatum in a good mood. She never had room to worry if she was around him and even her parents felt comfortable with their daughter spending hours upon hours with him. As she strode along with him at a casual pace, the blond gained a small frown on her face when the realization behind her words hit. Mal wouldn’t know what it’d be like to say a phrase like the one she’d coined while being completely shitfaced, because he simply couldn’t. “Shit, I didn’t mean to like, you know–,” she paused briefly, her hand flitting towards Mal’s direction. “I didn’t mean to bring attention to it. I say stupid shit, you know me.” Tate let out a deep sigh and, as she re-linked her arm with her friends’, allowed her head to slightly rest on Mal’s shoulder as they walked. “I’ve been out of it lately. Maybe the pie can fix it.”

He shifted his expression into the direction of sunny, looking over at the blonde with little malice or disturbance settling around in his features. She hadn’t meant it, he wasn’t offended. Like a raincloud getting shoved over with a gusty sort of wind, the feeling left and he dipped over to press his lips to the crown of her head. “Don’t be silly,” he amended, “It’s fine.” His spine straightened and he curled in a breath, it was funny, for someone who wasn’t capable of housing an addiction to nicotine, he found himself starved for cigarettes nearly all the time. “What’s spooking around that head of yours?”

Out of habit, as if a hook had snared against ribs, a thin form closed what distance was wedged between the duo; the swell of her shoulder pressing against his. A large portion of her had expected her question to simply to bead at and roll off his frame, returned with a toothy grin and easy remark. Alternately, his confession snipped sorrow from it’s root and weighted it to lungs; something that coaxed the blonde to swallow thickly. Light features visibly soured, brows kneading as she peered up at his features through inky lashes, “I wish you didn’t feel that way,” Perhaps she had taken for granted her home built of ashes; how she had not coughed up and choked on the soot. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Mal.” A flaxen figure swivelled, relocating for the curve of a stomach to press against the folded seat, slender fingers twisting, the melody of popping knuckles joining each motion. “If you could–” She paused, a timid breath tricking from a parted mouth– Many topics were of territory for the duo, but she wasn’t certain if this was; if her curiosity was worth the potential infliction of pain. “What else is possibly better than not being affected by toxins?” Too heavy, perhaps, lightened by a coiled grin and: “Think of all the drunken mistakes you’re avoiding. No DUI’s, idiotic tattoos, or list of pre-wed children,” The side of features were rested to his stomach, pale tresses haloing seraphic features, “You seem to be the real winner, Kavanaugh.”

His arm raised, curling around Pearl’s shoulders like the tail end of a question mark. Mal tipped his head back, resting his skull against the seat, shifting until he found a position that put his bones at ease, glancing over to catch the way his companion’s features had dipped almost into pity. His exhalation was audible. Her admiration felt illy placed, like the glimpse of blue bird over a funeral and for that he smiled grimly. Within his ribs his heart was a heavy thing, beating limply against the bars of the cage that they lived. “I’m glad you think so,” he returned, willing to let the topic drift free like a helium filled balloon that was unwittingly released— somewhere in the atmosphere it would meet destruction. Mal hadn’t been thinking of his ability, but now it clung to the sides of his mind in the way that grit doesn't always seem to want to flush straight down the drain. “Why do you think we got these? Why us, why fire, why this?”

“Please don’t ever kick puppies,” Tatum answered, scrunching her face up slightly at the mere mental image of it. “You’re one of my favourite dudes in this godforsaken place and if you happen to do anything – anything at all – to a cute animal, I have to start a war. And I’m bad at those. So don’t.” This was her favourite part of hanging out with Mal - she could forget whatever was going on in her life and just talk. Mostly about nonsensical things, things that meant absolutely nothing no matter how eloquently it was formulated. But Tatum needed that every once in a while. “You just want to go to Dolly’s so you can take advantage of my Dolly’s Diner Discount Pass.” She paused for a bit as the two of them strolled forward. “Well, that’s what you would do if I had a Dolly’s Diner Discount Pass. Shit, imagine saying that five times when you’re completely wasted.” 

“Never fear,” he announced, spinning the blonde with confidence, lengthening his stride and allowing her to stroll along. “I’m not actually a psychopath. The town has taken my spirit—“ Mal adopted the tone of a dictator, booming and declarative, “But it will never take my soul.” Punctuated with a laugh, anyone walking near by would have just drawn up the conclusion that he had had too much to drink; Tatum surely knew the impossibility of such. Her chiding made him elongate the snicker, shoulders lifting and palms presenting themselves in surrender. “Guilty. It’s the most edible pie in town, except that doesn't seem to be much of an award.” Her throwaway sentence made his smile lose it’s shine, but still the blond bared teeth. “Dolly’s Diner Discount Pass.”

The listless regulation hung between them, its authority wasted between the pair. Whatever dignity it had left was abandoned when Gabriel returned the cancerous stick between languid lips, faintly snorting at their company when they distorted the rule. “What a hatter,” he mumbled with the unlit cigarette as he retrieved the packet and passed it along. Reaching into the concealed pocket of his blazer, he pulled out the solid brass Zippo; slicking back the cover and lighting the tip. Even the smallest of gestures from the sempiternal soul beckoned to be captured. Oddly enough, the lighter was the only ‘flashy’ item to his name; dating back to the 1930′s and was now worth a staggering quintuple number when he only purchased it for a couple of bucks. With tendrils of alabaster smoke spilling past his amused lips, he resisted to roll his eyes and elevated a brow instead. “I cannot regard you as anything less, nor should you, yourself.” Overgrown child? He thought to himself, entertained. “Rhetorical was the key word, Mr. Kavanaugh.” 

“Madder than anything Lewis Carroll could dream up,” Mal cooed, stealing the word and making it his own. He was a fickle being, tossed so easily between pleased and inwardly pensive; his soul was struck as many colours as a calico. The lighter didn’t go unnoticed, boys who grow up without nice things seem to develop a magpie’s addiction to them, dark eyes sought out the shine, even though his fingers fumbled to pluck a cigarette for his own. He didn’t steal, he knew better, but the envy swallowed him up; making his features flush red when he dipped in for the flame. The blond inhaled, filling his lungs with fumes before he exhaled, the nicotine lying dead against his tongue. Perhaps the only thing he was doing was beckoning cancer a little closer, but still he grinned. “Sometimes, I think that you call me sir and mister because you forget my name.”

His motions coaxed lips to peel back, revealing a lustrous grin, a quiet laughter spilling from her mouth; a lyrical noise befitting a muted appearance. “What wonderful company,” Pearl mused, words airy– the beam adorning his features stirring the beat of wings to lungs. A door parted and she crawled into the back, a routine long since crafted; pupils having known the wagon’s slate-hued lid better than the worn surface of a bedroom’s ceiling. Though long-limbed, Pearl was thin– children had taunted that she was merely skin and bones in adolescence, the blonde simply murmuring something about the flame within feasting in response. The curve of a spine pressed to taut leather, gaze cast downwards at the flames fumbling up slender fingers to protruding knuckles, “Have you ever wished you were different?”

He waved his hand in the air, letting his long fingers tangle with the invisible things that played there. Often he likened the things that lived in the corner of one’s plane of vision and the things that tucked under the darkness of a sagging mattress to the secrets that the residents of Colby Harbor kept so tightly bound to their chests. Malachi tucked into the car, shoving the blonde over to make space for his own large form, tall legs folding and unfolding until he found a position that he deemed to be comfortable. He made a face at her question, looking over at her and finding genuine curiosity there, instead of the desire to provoke. “All the time.”

“Jesus christ, have you not gotten on board with that franchise?” Mal caught the lack of recognition in his companion’s eyes and balked, pressing a hand to his chest. “Remind me to bring you a download one night, you’re missing out.” He had thought his reference clever, but instead he swiftly carried on his chattering, hoping to engage the unengageable. “What’ve you been up to all night?”

“Hey, don’t be presumptuous, champ.” He said, tipping back the rest of his beer with one gulp. He smiled sweetly back at Mal as he sat his cup back down on the greasy bar top. “I’m up to no good, somewhere nice doesn’t exist there.” He paused for a moment, for his own dramatic sake. “Yet.” Mal could take what he wanted from that. He wasn’t completely sure what would fall in his path tonight, but he knew for sure it wouldn’t be something that would suit Mal. He actually wasn’t even sure why he still affiliated with the man anymore. “I’m just askin’ for good barkeep conversation here, pal.”  

“So basically you’re gonna do a Pokemon Go adventure,” Mal said drily, chuckling into his glass before washing down David’s theatrics with a splash of foamy beer. “Hope you find that Haunter.” One of the crimes of his job was that he wasn’t given the opportunity to sit, though he was encouraged to make conversation-- the blonder of the boys found himself bent over the  bar propped up on his elbows more often than he’d of preferred. His spine was going to suffer, but he set the glass down easily. “Oh, right. So, tell me about your bitch of an ex-wife.”

Callum gave half a shrug, “Wouldn’t be a trouble, but all right.” He didn’t want to make Mal feel uncomfortable, and he sensed that eye contact tended to make him feel so, so he directed his eyes to the front as much as possible. Still, when Mal took the Bible, turning it over, Callum couldn’t help but study his hands. The way they reached for it, like there was something in it that he couldn’t get from just hearing about it. He hoped perhaps Mal would soon find what he was looking for, if not in the book, then in this place, and if not in this place–some other kind of sanctuary in the world. Another beautiful, safe place. The comment was surprising for Callum. It was fitting, it was true. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You were.” It was a pure comment, the kind that children made. The kind that pure, innocent souls made. Callum could recall at least five children who cheered for their own names when he read out the Apostles’ names, exclaiming when they heard the ones for which they were named. And here was Malachi, making the same kind of comment, and it softened Callum even more to him. “Your mom chose a good prophet,” Callum encouraged. Then he became quiet, wondering if he should press. He decided he would. “Was your mother raised in the church?”

It wouldn’t do much for the delicate balance that existed between them in that moment if he dropped the sacred text in his grip as though it’s touch scalded him— that seemed to be a joke reserved for the more cynical, David would have laughed. Instead, Mal tucked the bible back into the ledge in the seat in front of him, thoughtfully keeping it close to the songbook for mass that would inevitably be held later in the day. Often, he wished for blue eyes, the clear kind that were almost see through; one could almost name the intentions in such a hue, but instead he looked over at Cal though dusty blonde lashes and with his own dark ones, wondering what it was that the other male thought of him. His spine straightened, tightening like a belt, he regretted bringing up his mother. Childhood lessons had told him nothing of the Malachi that he had been named after, though, he never quite asked either, woefully scribbling the spelling nightmare into worksheets and etching it into concrete graffiti style. He preferred to be his own prophet. “I dunno,” came his delayed response to Callum’s question, punctuated with the shrug of his bony shoulders. “I doubt it. She doesn’t really seem like the type.” Part of him hoped that the other boy would put two and two together and sort who his parents were, the flash of embarrassment as he named them as the town drunks, settled down on stoops and inside bars, shooting their livers into oblivion—that would be worse than a moment of pity and the conversation veering sharply elsewhere.

Biting back his smile, “Perhaps not.” Flattery was never a forte he picked up, despite his years. In truth, everything and anything could be interesting had one bothered to take the time and look. Fortunately, time was nothing he ever had to chase, but unfortunately, it was taking an interest in others is what he no longer had the heart to partake in. To word it simply, Hemingway was a drunk and could only find faith in people and distill his mind at the bottom of a bottle. He believed that the writer did not have the interest to find an interest in others; something he easily related to. “No good?” He evaded the first comment just as he did his new drink. Pulling out a packet of Luckies, he chuckled. It was more of a breath, hardly existent and evaporating just as it touched the air. “Do I look like someone that would be up to no good?” He wondered aloud as he placed the coffin nail between his lips, before trailing it away. “Stifle your tongue, sir. It was rhetorical.” 

“You can’t smoke in here,” Mal said idly, a comment he was used to pointing out as the old timers tucked their own cigarettes between chapped lips and cracked open their tinder boxes to light up. Part of him wondered why it was that they rejected the idea of using a Bic with such vehemence, the other was certain that they liked the sting of fire against their callused fingertips when the match burned down. For Gabriel, he pushed over the dying tealight that sputtered weakly on the bar’s surface-- the six hour lifespan of the little candles was all that old man Evers was willing to invest in the hole in the wall dive bar. “Unless you’re willing to share with the barkeep,” Malachi noted, a glimmer in his eye lighting what the candle could not. “Why d’ya call me sir? I’m basically just an overgrown child.” He took a mouthful of his own drink, chattering in the way that he usually did, “Also you look straight up like a comic book villain brought to life. We need to get you a hoodie or something to complete the imagery.”

“And damned if they aren’t special,” he said with a sharp smile. God, they were all just treading water, weren’t they. The tide of magic had pulled back to reveal a much deeper, darker ocean to drown in. Sebastian supposed it was fair, in a way: the weight of their golden childhoods, their gifts, a town soaked in prosperity. Blessings never left you unscathed. “A toast to Rickards, then.” Seb could feel the dark water lapping around his feet even in the honeyed light of the bar, but he still lifted his glass. What else could you do but grit your teeth and swim? “May all your fries be greasy.”

He laughed at this, genuine for the first time that evening, the sound ringing like the bell above the church Callum loved so much. Music from the jukebox seemed almost depressing after you’ve heard it everyday for your nine hour shift, even if the tunes were supposed to have come from a more jovial time, Mal enjoyed the break in company to drown out the crooning. At Sebastian’s prompting he plucked up his glass, the condensation collecting in this hand as he tipped the edge of an already chipped vessel against the other. “And may all your moles be malignant.”

“I’ve never actually seen you aggressive and you eat quite a bit of it. Don’t know if I’d believe that one,” Tatum answered slowly, sifting through her brain to see if any bit of it remembered ever seeing Mal any more than disgruntled. He usually wore his smile pretty often. Their arms linked and Mal’s activities within the bar discarded for now, Tatum made her way towards the exit and towards fresh air. “I’m glad you’ve got time to hang out with lil’ old me. I can use some social interaction that isn’t linked to Dolly’s.”

“For all you know, I could be one of those guys who kicks puppies when no one’s looking,” Mal said sagely, leading the blonde through the dingy bar and out into the almost equally dingy Colby streets. Any anger he possessed was internalized, Malachi Kavanaugh preferred to take his frustrations on his own, flirting with harm but always sliding by without a scrape. “Technically I don’t, because I’m still on the clock-- but for you, there’s always time.” He snuck a look over at Tate, finding himself pleased that she too was smiling. “We could go there actually, I’m hungry for pie.”

There was only so much sitting still Morgan could take before she started to get restless. Toes jiggling inside her running shoes, and fingers tapping against the empty glass, she forced herself to stay still. If she was going to be someone outside her athletic ability, then she needed to stop listening to the urge to move every damn second. She used Mal’s ridiculous question to keep her busy. “A snitch…a snitch is small and really annoying. And golden. So… not like me at all, sorry.”

“Need an Adderall?” The question was offered as a joke, he was certain she’d snap at him for it; but the way that her body seemed to refuse to take to calm made Mal snicker, a boy who had long learned that there was virtue in silence. “You almost got me there, but I’m not quite small.” Three inches over six foot when one pulled him from top to bottom and stretched him out, he grew like a weed that refused to die, growing hardier and hardier after each attempted extinction. “I missed the game tonight, how was it?”