everywhere, everything

The  Summit's  bar  was  quiet  before  happy  hour  -  a  few  businessmen  taking  calls,  weary  travelers  winding  down  beneath  low  brass  fixtures.  Santiago  sat  half-shadowed  at  the  far  end,  a  pour  of  bourbon  turning  amber  in  the  low  light.  The  glass  soaked  up  the  gold,  swirling  slowly  as  he  marked  the  rim  with  a  thumb  -  a  mechanical  gesture  -  absentmindedly.  He  was  thinking,  though  he  wished  he  wasn’t.

It  had  been  a  day  of  frayed  patience  and  shallow  victories.  A  dozen  voices  pressed  for  his  time  when  he  needed  only  silence  -  meetings  that  went  beyond  their  value,  contracts  that  seemed  almost  ready  to  collapse;  it  was  the  kind  of  day  that  settled  DEEP  in  the  bones  -  the  kind  he  hadn’t  felt  in  months.  It  wasn’t  the  work  itself  -  he  loved  the  chaos,  created  his  empire  with  it  -  but  like  any  job,  there  were  days  when  the  weight  of  it  all  felt  like  a  vice  jammed  between  his  ribs.

He  exhaled  slowly,  longingly.  The  ice  in  his  glass  was  melting,  watering  down  the  bourbon  bite.  But  he  tilted  it  back  anyway,  let  the  burn  carve  through  his  throat  and  pool  warm  in  his  stomach.  None  of  it  mattered  -  not  the  bar,  not  the  drink,  not  the  city  that  pulsated  outside  the  big  glass  windows.  Hell,  he  could’ve  been anywhere  else  in  the  world,  and  today  would’ve  felt  the  same.

Still,  his  dark,  burnt  hues  shot  up  when  someone  came  near.  “Please  tell  me  you  had  a  worse  day  than  mine.  I  need  someone  to  suffer  with  me.”

Today, that anger had driven him into the Summit's Bar. He'd been told once that drinking alone was a sign of alcoholism, so he made it a point to not do that. Or, at least, to do that in the company of other people. Loopholes!

Just as he slid into his stool, a bone weary voice sounded to his right and he looked over, offering up a wry laugh. "That's probably a safe bet," he said, plucking up a cocktail napkin and idly twisting the corners of it like it might calm his nerves. "What's the plan? Wallowing or drinking until we forget why we started? I'm good for both."

The grass is always greener, isn't it? Until you find out it's not.

He'd had too much therapy to get into this just now, so he let it pass. It was way too early for philosophy in terms of both time of night and bourbon consumption and, probably, pretty precarious between the two of them. He may have been late for that realization, but he'd had it eventually. All he wanted to do was change it. But, he supposed, it was easy to be the one seeking change when you weren't the one whose life had just turned upside down.

"That's gotta be what, like, middle shelf?" He quipped, accepting the flask and then the corner of the blanket. It was still cold as fuck but, honestly, he felt a little better. He let his eyes glance over the landscape as they rolled along, inching closer to their destination. He sighed and finally just committed to asking for something, hoping it wasn't too much or too pushy. "I, uh, know this was really weird as far as activities go. Thanks for coming. Now that we've mostly survived this, Kate's out of town for a few more days if you want to grab some kind of a meal sometime. We're obviously not the same, and I didn't live with Monica before we got divorced so circumstances were not the same, but I don't think I had a meal that wasn't liquid for stretches, so... anyway. The offer stands."

There were plenty of reasons why their relationship was rocky at best, but right now, Murph was the shit stirrer. He needed to rein himself back in.

So, maybe that was why he huffed out a laugh at Simon's quip, this one with a tinge of actual humor. He sucked in a breath and then let it go, along with the tension he wanted to take out on every other aspect of his life except the part that deserved it.

Which, of course, is why Simon seemed to unknowingly one-up him once again and raise the white flag, offering understanding and experience for a situation that Murph would swear on his life he was completely alone in. Even still, he wanted to dig his heels in, insist that Simon had no idea. But his eyes swept the footwell of the carriage as he nodded silently, sitting with the weight of it all for a few seconds.

He looked up finally, his shutters coming down if only just. "I could probably survive a meal with you," he hedged, even as one side of his mouth curled a little in a peace offering sort of half smile. "I mean, it'll probably be a close call, but I'm willing to take my chances. And if you step out of line, just know I keep a bag of marshmallows on me at all times."

“Oh, my bad,” Amara said, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to ruin the moment with logic. Won’t happen again.” Her lips quirked into a smirk, catching the almost conspiratorial look he gave her. An unspoken we’ll keep this between us, and, well, she could appreciate a good inside joke, even with a stranger.

At his so-pleased-with-himself comment about Admurphation, she let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Bold of you to assume I’d be out here blindly supporting a brand without knowing the CEO.” She tilted her head, as if appraising him. “But, now that I do have the context… I don’t hate it. Got a real cult-following potential.” Her smirk widened. “Might want to slap a ™ on that before someone else capitalizes on it, though.” She smiled brightly at him, and extended a hand. “I’m Amara, by the way. Figured if we’re out here building brands and forming secret pacts, you should probably know who you’re dealing with.”

As his attention shifted to her, she quirked a brow at his observation. “You think so?” She leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table. “Maybe I just have a trustworthy face.” A pause.“Or maybe people just need the right excuse to spill their secrets, and I just happen to have a face that says, Go on, I’m listening...” She tapped her fingers against her chin, pretending to look all innocent before flashing a grin. “Either way, I won’t question a talent. Gotta lean into the strengths, right?”

But a meaningless conversation with a perfect stranger about nothing in particular felt like a breath of fresh air. And now he was, if not glad that he'd come, then at least not disappointed with his choice. "You're so right. Admurphation definitely sounds like one of those names that would be snatched right up. I mean, the chances that it hasn't already are so low."

He laughed once a little dryly, shaking his head at himself. He wasn't the charming, make-friends-with-everyone-he-meets type like Simon and this comfortable back and forth with someone he didn't know was definitely not where his strengths lay, but he wasn't not enjoying himself. And he couldn't say for sure, but he didn't think she was either. He shrugged, though, lips turning down a little. "I think you just know the right questions to ask. Definitely a strength."

It wasn't their fault. It wasn't anyone's fault but her own that she was alone and miserable on a day meant to celebrate love. She'd had love - a perfect, passionate, silly, safe, indescribable love. She'd found her partner, someone who would always be on her team, and she would always be on his. They were each other's rock, and each other's priority, and they had everything that this day was supposed to be about. And she'd fucked it.

So now the pink and red cupcakes made her nauseous, and the pink and red streamers were blinding her eyes, and she was trying to dodge thoughts of him, but it was like trying to dodge raindrops in a downpour. He was making fun of the streamers with her, and smushing a cupcake into her face, and he was buying her flowers, and making her dinner, and kissing her under the stars, and he was everywhere, all the time.

And even when she couldn't get rid of him, she wished he were here.

That's probably why she saw him out of the corner of her eye. Of course, she'd run into a man who looks just like the love of her life on Valentine's Day. Of course he'd be the same height and build and would be wearing the same cologne and would be buying the same brand of beer that Murph drank. The universe was exactly that cruel.

She was wondering whether this trip was even worth the wine she'd come for, when he said her name.

And it was his voice. And she looked up, and it was his face. And the universe hadn't just given her someone who looked like the love of her life, it had brought him here, to this pink and red grocery store on a February Friday, a million miles away from where either of them belonged.

"Murph..." she said back.

She remembered meeting Simon last week, and searched the memory for whether he'd mentioned Murph visiting. He hadn't, she was sure.

"I... didn't know you were in Chicago," she said. Which was a stupid thing to say to the love of your life on Valentine's Day when you haven't seen them in six months, but... what are you supposed to say?

His memory had preserved her to perfection and his eyes drank her in greedily, like a man on the verge of fatal dehydration, committing to memory the taste of a single drop of water he might never taste again. There had been so many nights in the six months since she'd left that he'd spent awake, conversing with her ghost, trying on conversations he never thought to have until she was gone. Saving up words like he might be able to spend them one day.

But he couldn't think, he could only look. Could only seem to stand there and blink and wonder how in all of the places and times in the world that they wound up right here and now, standing somehow too close and too far. His heart clanged madly in his chest, throwing itself against his ribs like it might leave him too.

And then he blinked one more time and shifted the weight in his feet, reined himself back into his own body. "I live here," he replied dumbly. But it begged the question what was she doing here? Had she known he was here? Had she come here for him? Was this the world's most unbelievable coincidence? He needed to know. "What are you doing here?"

Maybe someday they would get into it, fully. But that day wouldn't be today. He'd never meant to be the primary cause of such a wedge between them, but it wasn't going to change in an instant.

In the same spirit, he was content to be the butt of the joke. "Oh, we think that's what will follow me for eternity, out of all the available options?" He shook his head. "Maybe I'd be better off in an unmarked grave. A shallow one for good measure. Or cremated, scattered to the wind. Invisible."

He had no idea why people called him dramatic, or how he'd ended up getting lost in sometimes fatalistic literary fantasies. Truly.

Ah, here was the time for his joke. He actually hated this joke. That wasn't going to stop him.

"Nope, saving it for later. Maybe it'll turn into a beard slushie. A booze-i-cicle?" Whatever you want to call it." He barely made it through the comment before he took another sip, much smoother this time now that the carriage was in motion, even if that motion wasn't as smooth as, say, a vehicle of some kind.

He was just about to accept a corner of that blanket when his brother suddenly pulled it away and made him reconsider not wearing jeans lined with something or some kind of long johns. Samuel was definitely not giving him the fucking blanket; he wasn't stupid and he didn't run on faith.

He passed over the flask anyway with an eye roll, remembering his role as little brother almost immediately. "Good faith trade, my ass." He couldn't stop his next words, though they were laden with something years in the making. An acknowledgment, maybe, at least. "Just take whatever I've got. You can have whatever you want."

"Simon Bloom invisible?" he asked with a bitter-tinged laugh. "That'd be the day." Perhaps it was because Murph's own life had crashed and burned around him and he was still standing among the charred and smoldering remains, but the drama frustrated him. Maybe it was really because misery loved company and for as hard as he tried to pretend otherwise, he was miserable. But it felt like Simon was making some sort of play at being this tortured artist. He wanted to be doom and gloom but he'd been stitched together with attention and glory.

Okay, now he was being dramatic. Even in the safety of his own mind he knew he was laying on the woe is me a little thick, so he drew it back, rolling his eyes at Simon as he snatched the flask and took a rather large sip— okay, several— before handing it back. "Mmmm, tastes like altruism," he quipped, pausing for a beat before un-burritoing himself and offering up a corner of the blanket.

She hummed thoughtfully, tapping her fingers against her cup as she considered his argument. “Alright, I’ll give you that—sometimes indulgence is self-care. But honestly, I feel like that’s a slippery slope. One second, you’re treating yourself to an extra shot of espresso because you deserve it, and the next thing you know, you’re justifying buying a ridiculously overpriced leather jacket because life is short.” She raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a playful grin. “Not that I’m speaking from personal experience or anything,” she added, almost too innocently.

His stage whisper made her grin wider, and she leaned in slightly, mimicking his exaggerated secrecy. “So what you’re telling me is, you do like attention, but only the right kind. Not the everybody’s watching you kind, just the exclusive, good eyes only kind.” Amara gave him an exaggerated once-over, as if mentally placing him in a high-end club where you had to be on the list to get in. “I get it. Very curated, very VIP. Almost like a members-only club, but for admiration.” She took a sip from her cup, savoring the warmth before continuing. “You’ve got your brand down—now, if only I could figure out my own.”

A scoff of a laugh sounded somewhere in the back of his throat. Her observations were, again, right near the mark without touching it. And again, he had no intention of untangling the complicated web of his need for attention and why he never sought it out. "Exactly," he agreed with a firm nod. "I was actually thinking of looking into merch. Could call it Admurphation." He was pleased with his own joke for just long enough to realize that he hadn't actually introduced himself yet. That was probably key information for her to appreciate his joke, too. "I'm Murph, by the way. There's some missing context for you."

The conversation shifted to her and so did Murph's attention, head cocking a little as he considered her and her words. "I think you've got a knack for getting people to open up without even realizing it. Maybe that's your brand."

Good thing he wasn’t paranoid. That line of thinking would keep him up at night. Also, they basically never mentioned Kate, for probably good reason, so he had a moment of doubt about mentioning her family, too. Probably best to just move along. Nothing to see here.

He arched an eyebrow, smirking at the brother burrito as they settled into the carriage. He was probably a little smug as he pulled the flask from his coat.

“No idea. It might be eternal. Or maybe there will be a hot chocolate bar with those little marshmallows at the end and you'll finally have your chance to ruin me,” he quipped with a shrug. He uncapped the flask and took a swig, jolting a little as the carriage started moving and spilling into his beard. He thought about making a saving it for later joke, but he decided to save that for later, too. He shook the flask. "I'll share mine if you share yours."

Like his brother falling in love with his ex girlfriend before she had even been an ex.

Discussing his brother's unfortunate marshmallow allergy, though? Totally fair game. He gave a soft snort, still wrapped up tight in his blanket. "The mighty Simon Bloom, taken out by a handful of mini marshmallows. We'd have to put it on your tombstone. You'd be mocked into the rest of your eternal afterlife."

His eyes narrowed on the flask in Simon's hand, the way it sloshed temptingly. He glanced down at his blanket and considered the trade. And then it dribbled into Simon's beard and Murph found himself pleased at the universe for offering a little bit of Murphy's Law to the other Bloom for once. "You trying to pickle your beard or what?" The quip was only a buy for time while he decided how much of his upper hand he wanted to give up.

After a long, drawn out moment, Murph unwrapped himself from the burrito and held out the excess for Simon to take, snatching it back before it could trade hands. "Make a good faith trade and give me that first," he said, nodding to the flask.

Amara smirked, clearly entertained by the philosophical question that he posed, though she gave it a moment's thought before replying. “Self-care, for sure,” she said, her tone light but knowing. “Indulgence is when you start eating a whole pizza just because, but self-care? That’s when you take a few bites, savor every one, and justify it with how good you deserve to feel.” She gave a little shrug, her smile playful as she added, “I like to think of it as a fine line.. don't you?”

Smiling thoughtfully, the brunette took a moment to size him up with a friendly but gentle curiosity. “Hmm, based on what I’m getting from you so far… I’d say you’ve got a good balance between laid-back and put-together. Maybe something classic but with a little twist — like a nice jacket, something that could take you from a casual day out to a more polished look without trying too hard. Maybe in a color that’s not too bold, but still eye-catching. Something like a deep charcoal or navy.” She gave a soft shrug, her eyes bright with humor as she added, “You strike me as someone who likes a bit of style but doesn’t want to scream for attention. How’d I do?”

He had to admit he was curious about the impression he'd left her with. He'd felt so far removed from himself for months that he wasn't even sure he knew this new version. He nearly laughed at laid-back and put-together. He couldn't think of two things that described him less most of the time. The rest of it, though? That felt pretty accurate. "Well, I am a dark charcoal and navy kind of guy. And I say I don't like attention, but I think I do." He said this last part in a stage whisper, as if it were some secret only meant for her. "Overall, not a bad take considering we've known each other for less than five minutes."

though I know my heart would break i'd tell them put me back in it

Amara glanced over at him, amusement flickering in her eyes. "See, that’s exactly how I end up with way too many scarves. Just a little indecision, and suddenly I’ve justified buying both. It’s a dangerous game," she mused, running her fingers over the soft fabric of the scarf in her hand. "But I do like the way you think—bold is tempting. Though, in my experience, the bolder the choice, the higher the chance it ends up collecting dust in my closet while I reach for the same neutral piece over and over again." She sighed, as if burdened by the trials of her own shopping habits.

Her gaze flicked toward the gray scarf he had his eye on, and she smiled. "Low-hanging gray, huh? Real risk-taker over here." She gave him a once-over, taking in the way he was half-buried in his jacket like it might save him from the Chicago chill. "Though, considering you look about two minutes away from freezing solid, I’d say any scarf at all would be a step in the right direction. You sure you don’t want me to steer you toward something with a little more personality? You know, really commemorate your survival of the Midwestern winter."

It was easier to lean into the teasing, though, so he offered a put-on sheepish smile. "Am I that obviously not from around here?" He laughed, scoring a hand through his hair. "But sure, I'll bite. Based on nothing but this thirty second conversation, what do you think suits me?"

Which he didn’t. This was just shorter than a meal and could also be considered baby steps.

His brother's next comment about a Santa kink let loose, and a riot of completely inappropriate replies immediately and sorely tested the strength of his brain-to-mouth filtration system. Good thing he hadn’t consumed the flask of bourbon tucked inside his coat yet, or the system would’ve broken down in the face of such immense pressure. Lest he horrify the person who could hear the whole conversation, or the innocent horses, he narrowed his eyes and bit his tongue for just long enough he was sure to proceed safely.

“You have nowhere near enough of a beard to fill that kink for me. I don’t even have to try it to know that's true. ” He swatted at Samuel’s arm. “And do we really want to start the evening off with kink shaming?” He nodded his head toward the carriage. “Age before beauty.”

At the mention of a beard, Murph's hands smoothed down his chin before they settled on his hips, gaze cutting back toward his brother. "I'm not shaming you," he stated simply, eyebrows raising high up his forehead in innocence before the barest curl hinted at the corners of his mouth. "Your Jewish ancestors might, but not me. Never me." Not quite the truth, but he didn't put up a fight as he climbed into the carriage, reaching for the complementary blanket and sliding it over his lap.

It was big enough for two, but he curled up in it like a burrito. That's what Simon got for insulting him. He got cold legs.

Once they were both situated inside, Murph found himself feeling restless. Not quite trapped, but not not trapped, either. He just missed the walls of his ugly, gutted house and being in public for any prolonged period of time just brought a wistfulness that was impossible to ignore. And, as they inevitably always did, his mind would steer itself right back to her.

"So where does this thing go?" he asked abruptly, as if the words might cut off the ones inside his head.

Things were gradually getting better between Bloom and Other Bloom. Not that Simon ever referred to them that way. He'd had just enough therapy in the depressive phase after his divorce to begin understanding how the family dynamics had probably fucked both of them up. It was a direct route to the invitation, when Sam's own marriage had ended, that led to this moment.

With Kate preoccupied and unable to attend, things there always a touch on the awkward side in terms of them as a threesome (not that kind), it seemed like the perfect time to plan an activity. Not too short, not too long. Sometimes dinner was too long. But if it was something off-beat enough to pique Samuel's interest, maybe it'd get him out of that goddamn broken down house for a minute or two.

Plus, Simon had never been on a sleigh ride and, while an unusual thing to do with his brother, it would've been even worse to go alone. And he wouldn't have bet on it being Samuel's first one, but maybe it would be a nice, shared collective first.

(He needed a project to channel his thoughts, because they were overdoing it.)

He shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting curbside slightly before their scheduled time, making small talk with the carriage driver while he waited.

As he came up behind Simon, he eyed the sleigh with a health dose of skepticism. "What's up next? The tunnel of love?" Murph asked as he came around to Simon's side, just enough amusement in his voice to keep the brothers from going on the defensive. "Before we get on this thing, I just need you to promise me that we're not testing out some sort of weird Santa kink." He thought about adding that he'd need to wait for Kate to come back home for that, but wives (and thereby ex-wives were strictly off limits), so he didn't do that.

The crisp autumn breeze carried the scent of spiced cider and pine as Amara stood near a vendor’s stall, two scarves draped over her arms —one a soft blush pink, the other a deep, rich red. Both were beautifully hand-knit, warm, and impossibly cozy, making her decision all the more difficult. She had been standing there for far too long, weighing the options as if the right choice would suddenly reveal itself.

Letting out a small sigh, she turned to the person beside her, lifting both scarves. “Alright, I need an outside opinion,” she admitted, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Pink or red? Subtle and classic, or bold and statement-making?” She glanced down at them again before shaking her head with a small chuckle. “At this point, I think the vendor’s about to start charging me rent..”

It was possible he was being a touch dramatic, but he paused outside a vendor selling scarves and other warm accessories he hadn't thought to adorn himself in before he'd left for the day and considered his choices. He'd hardly made it to the second row when his attention was drawn away to the woman next to him.

There was nothing about him that screamed fashionista, but he could give it a fair shake. His laughter hummed in his throat at her comment as he eyed her options. "I'm sure you could compromise and just buy both before the negotiations get too heated. But for the sake of your wallet, I say go bold." His eyes shifted back to the row of scarves he'd been considering for himself. "Or maybe don't listen to me because I was aiming for a low-hanging gray."