samira exhales and a trail of smoke escapes between her lips, the cigarette now resting at her side. every day, she thinks people are over what happened to her and every day she is proved wrong by yet another boring tabloid magazine that has nothing better to write about — samira has half a mind to take a lighter to the stand and burn it all down but she knows prison would not be a good look on her.
the feeling of being watched sends a shiver down her spine, the '08 survivor far too familiar with the feeling. samira looks towards where she thinks the other is at and is met with a pair of curious, child eyes instead of judgemental grown ones. the woman smiles ( even if it doesn't quite reach her eyes ) and takes another drag of her cigarette as her eyes keep themselves glued to the child's.
for the first few moments, it was cute. after half a minute, it started to annoy samira. she is not blind to the way the mother of the kid looks at her, either, no doubt aware of who she is — just like everyone in this fucking town. her smile now disappears, leaning down to talk to the child at their level. ❝ if you keep staring, little girl, i might have to eat you. ❞ samira knows the weight those words carry, especially with the rumours that can never leave her and the rest of the survivors.
the sound of the child's cry is music to samira's ears and she smirks, even as she looks at the mother's expression — a mixture of anger, shock and fear. samira watches as they hurry away from her, a small chuckle resounding before she takes another drag of her cigarette.
her eyes meet a passerby's, not even aware of how long they'd actually been there. ❝ kids, am i right? can't even take a joke. ❞
OPEN STARTER ( 2 / 4 taken ) ━━ middle of the day, on a sidewalk
Overnight shifts are both a blessing and a curse. Some of the most interesting calls come in the night, the red-orange lick of flames lighting up the inky black sky. He focuses better at night, can feel the difference he’s making with every callout. The curse is that he often comes off them equal parts starving and exhausted, leaving a very small window in which to run errands. Once he’s home, it will take an act of god to get him out of bed the rest of the weekend.
He’s loading the last of his laundry into the back of the jeep when he overhears Samira. He knew her through his brother, not well but that rarely made any difference to him.
“They’ve got no imagination,” Theo calls out, voice low but carrying enough for her to hear, amusement threading through the words. He leans back against the trunk, eyes flicking to the mother, who’s still glaring, and back to Samira. “I think, by dare logic, that means you have to eat her now.”
The parent scoffs, but he just shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Once you’re done with that, I’ve got about an hour before I pass out, and I’m feeling burgers.” His teeth flash in a crooked grin. “If you promise not to eat me, I’ll get you one.”
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the night still felt almost too young to belong truly to itself. something that was now stretching out with every hour that was yet to burn in absence, or presence. maddie stepped out from her break and slipped back behind the bar as though she had never left, settling into the role she wore perhaps too easily. the feline curve of her smile wound its way back into place, her eyes brightening just enough to catch and keep the necessary attention, and an open ear that remained offered to whatever strange confessions or fleeting little amount of joy came her way.
there was still time before close, plenty of it honestly, and she moved as she needed. shoulders brushing past the other bartenders in an easy form of familiarity whilst her hands worked on instinct alone, barely needing to register the orders as they met her. her laughter broke through the haze of the process where it mattered, even almost something real at the right moments, whilst her gaze skimmed the room in a quiet form of awareness, ensuring the space remained as it should.
eventually, the night softened just for a moment. the crowd thinned, and the noise dipped into something quieter as if the hush had been called upon by will alone.
and maddie tipped the bottle in her hand, topping off the glass of one of the last stragglers still by the bar without a draw of attention to it. her hip rested lazily against the counter now, posturing loosening now that it was possible. a brow arched in an invitation, subtle at best, but still there, and her voice followed easily.
“penny for your thoughts, love?” maddie reached for another glass, pulling it towards herself without a second thought. “last call on charity.”
“bold of you to assume i have thoughts.” the bar wasn’t far from the station, and theo didn’t have anywhere else to be. there was a sort of calm that came with people-watching. the ebb and flow, how conversations were almost cyclical, the same questions garnering the same answers. weather, sports, dinner.
he didn’t mind, though; he was content just watching. his camera sat on the counter beside his glass, just out of reach of the condensation. nothing quite picture-worthy had happened yet, but there was still time. “isn’t it crazy how we’re all one step from catastrophe?”
“there was this lady the other day— old, practically ancient— called us out to fix a lightbulb. while i’m up there, she goes ‘i’ll put the kettle on.’” the grandmotherly types liked to do that when they heard his accent. he never had the heart to tell them he preferred coffee. “i hear the gas clicking, so i look over — and she’s smoking. just… fully lit blunt, standing in the middle of the kitchen like it’s nothing.”
“so i tell her, ‘you know that’s kind of dangerous. open flame, gas stove— boom.” he mimed a small explosion with his hands. “and then she offers me one.”
he chuckled, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “i took it for later, obviously. makes you think, right?”
THE WARM SMELL OF SANDALWOOD COLOGNE AND SMOKE, CROOKED SMILES ACROSS THE ROOM, LATE NIGHTS AND TWISTED SHEETS, FRESH-PRESSED OXFORD SHIRTS HANGING BESIDE FADED BAND TEES, AND MISMATCHED SOCKS.
[ redford ] ☓ [ playlist ] ☓ [ aesthetic ]
&. BASICS
full name: theodore arthur hayes
nicknames: theo, t
age / D.O.B.: 30 / 07.05.1995
sexuality: heterosexual
place of birth: whitchurch, hampshire, united kingdom
tattoos: a small letter 'e' on his left upper ribcage
relationships: brother to bennett hayes
&. PERSONALITY
zodiac sign: taurus
mbti: enfp-a – the campaigner
likes: live music, spending time outdoors, classic movies, art museums
dislikes: laziness, tobacco
secret talent: he's pretty good at playing the piano
hobbies: collecting old vinyls, running, boxing, fishing
prized possession: his mother's 'the queen is dead' album – it sits proudly on a shelf in his living room
fears: the shadow man
five positive traits: outgoing, charismatic, loyal, confident, competitive
five negative traits: impulsive, guarded, stubborn, impatient, nihilistic
&. BACKGROUND
tw: kidnapping, child abuse, familial death
theodore could never say he had a normal upbringing— but then again, doesn’t everyone have whole stretches of their childhood that they can’t remember?
there was before, and there was after. and in between… there was music.
“ now suzanne takes your hand, and leads you to the river. ”
he knows the facts the way you know a song you’ve heard on repeat. a father who loved him, a mother who taught him piano, guiding she all hands across the keys until the notes felt like words. a brother who would always be there for him.
he doesn’t remember when it changed, not really. when a playground gave way to the back of a van, when a father wasn’t a father. he was a helper, wanted to be useful. he would hold wrenches when his father asked, not understanding the task, but happy to be included. and he loved dogs.
so when the man said that he’d lost one, it was instinct.
“bennett, can we help?”
“ what the hell am i doing here? i don’t belong here. ”
unlike his brother, theodore never felt abandoned. not in the way bennett did. the letter — the one that shattered him— never quite landed for theo. it didn’t make sense. their mother wouldn’t give up on them, wouldn’t test them.
she loved them.
but he was so young, reason didn’t catch up with logic. he didn’t fight it, waited with quiet certainty that things would make sense eventually.
they never did.
“ look up to the shadow man. he won’t bend for the devils plan. ”
their “father” was different. the stench of tobacco and something stale clung to his clothes. he didn’t express his love in a way theo was used to. his affection came with a rough hand clapped on the shoulder, a grip that rested a little too tightly, a look that warned more than it reassured.
curiosity wasn’t rewarded, questions were punished.
there were long swathes of time that are gone — repressed, his therapist would later explain. seven years of masquerading as someone else, of being douglas. ‘it’s all a game, dougie,’ his “father” would say, crouched to his eye level, voice almost conspiratorial. ‘whoever tells the best story wins’.
so, he became a storyteller. he drew truths from the crate of vinyl records in their living room, half-remembered lyrics, familiar melodies. he got good at it, found comfort in a life more whimsical than the one he inhabited. truth blurred at the edges until it was something flexible, something he could shape to survive. to keep his brother safe.
“ am i my brother’s keeper if i could save another who then be your redeemer? why should i save my soul if i never get to keep it? ”
when he was twelve, he remembered falling. a sharp clap between his shoulders near the top of a staircase, the sickening weightlessness that followed. a broken arm. a concussion that left the world tilted for days.
no hospital. no doctor. just a sling and a bag of frozen corn pressed to his head. “you’re fine,” shadowman said.
so he was.
their escape existed in fragments. one last glance at the cabin, trees rushing past, the cold bite of night air, bennett’s hand gripping his wrist. for a while, it felt like camping. they took what they needed, slept where they could. bennett handled the parts theo didn’t understand, the same way he always had.
until one day, bennett didn’t come back.
a police officer came instead. her voice was soft in a way that didn’t make sense. too calm, too welcoming. theo tried to run, but twisted the wrong way — pain flaring sharp and hot through his still-tender arm. hands, careful but firm, guided him somewhere he didn’t want to go, the backseat of a patrol car.
and then he was in a hospital room with bennett, being fussed over in a way that felt foreign. it felt like something from before.
something he wasn’t sure he still belonged to, that he deserved.
“ take me out tonight, oh take me anywhere. i don't care, i don't care, i don't care. ”
when their mother arrived, theo stared at her as if she was a ghost. she hadn’t stopped caring, she loved them.
a story he’d told too many times and suddenly didn’t know how to stop. she hadn’t stopped caring. she hadn’t given up on them. she loved them.
the truth settled differently this time. he let it.
he testified on his thirteenth birthday, knows he cried when he spoke of the horrors his brother suffered at the hands of the shadow man.
he knows that much. how he identified the cabin, told the story of his arm that still throbbed in the cold.
he cried when he spoke about bennett—about what had been done to him, what he had endured. the words came easily then, grief and anger spilling over.
when it came to himself, though, something in him… stepped aside.
he listened. he answered. but it was distant, detached, like recounting something that had happened to someone else.
shock, the journalists called it. dissociation, explained his therapist. theo just called it easier. his mother took him to the zoo that afternoon. he wandered off to see the giraffes. after that, bennett never left his side.
oregon was a welcome change, a do-over. there was a quiet house on a quiet street with neighbors who didn’t stare. their parents, their real ones, doted on them. bennett was there, always. where bennett needed proof of his safety, theo craved freedom.
he wanted space to grow, to exist. life beneath his brother’s thumb, while a supportive comfort, was stifling.
“ these changes ain’t changin’ me, the cold-hearted boy i used to be. ”
he moved out shortly after his eighteenth —much to his brother’s chagrin—
chasing something that looked like normalcy. an apartment. a place at the fire academy. routines he could hold onto.
he graduated top of his class, eager to run into danger instead of away from it. he could help people, carry them through their worst days. work as a team with his brother.
after all, he’s survived worse.
sleep comes in fragments. nightmares flood the gaps his memory refuses to fill; faces without features, music playing from somewhere he can’t see, the feeling of being watched, even in empty rooms.
he doesn’t like small spaces, likes the smell of tobacco even less. his memory still plays tricks on him, what douglas likes bleeding into his days as theo. he threw out every orange shirt in his closet after a nightmare revealed that the shadow man preferred him in it.
more than anything, theo wants a normal life. not the kind he invents or performs. a real one. something steady. something quiet. something where he can be himself.
so he smiles, carries himself with a devil-may-care attitude. when he’s asked a question he can’t answer, he laughs and blames it on ‘technology’. he’s convinced himself he’s survived the worst of it — that life unfolds without a specific plan, doesn’t defer to fate.
all that exists is now, and he’s determined to make it count.
bold which habits your muse has
nail biting | throat clearing | lying | interrupting | chewing the ends of pens | smoking | swearing | knuckle cracking | thumb sucking | muttering under their breath | talking to themselves | nose picking | binge drinking | oversleeping | snacking between meals | skipping meals | picking at skin | impulse buying | talking with their mouth full | humming/singing to themselves | chewing gum | leg jiggling | foot tapping | hair twirling | whistling | eye rolling | licking lips | sniffing | squinting | rubbing hands together | jaw clenching | gesturing while talking | putting feet up on tables | tucking hair behind ears | chewing lips | crossing arms over chest | putting hands on hips | rubbing the back of their neck | being late | procrastinating | doodling | shredding paper | peeling off bottle labels | forgetfulness | running hands through hair | overreacting | teeth grinding | nostril flaring | slouching | pacing | drumming fingers | fist clenching | pinching bridge of nose | rubbing temples | rolling shoulders
&. HEADCANNONS
theo has a long surgical scar running the length of his left pinkie up to his elbow from his time with his kidnapper. it didn't heal right and had to be surgically corrected once he was returned to his mother. his wrist still aches, especially in the winter, but he'll never admit it.
he's a himbo loverboy who just wants to help. maybe not the smartest tool in the shed but life put him through the wringer so... it is what it is.
he keeps a polaroid camera with him at all times. he takes pictures to remember the good times, and the photos line the walls of his apartment.
he has a bad habit of risking too much, pushing too hard, driving too fast. expect to find the doors and roof off his jeep the second the weather is warm enough
at first, theo wanted to be a paramedic, but quickly realized "you have to know shit". so he opted to carry an axe and fire hose instead.
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“I guess by now I should know enough about loss to realize that you never really stop missing someone-you just learn to live around the huge gaping hole of their absence.”
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