strange clouds

They have to hand it to him, he’s nearly as quick tempering his shock, choking down the flight or fight response that’s clear in his eyes, as the best of them. A few more times taken completely off guard and perhaps he’ll be something close to unreadable from the get-go. Practice makes perfect, after all, even humans tend to need much more practice than anyone else.

And immediately, they’re playing a game. The grin on Katurian’s lips only wides as he takes the flower from them, inspecting it carefully. This is a funny little insight into who he is, completely accidental. Here he is, surrounded by flowers, plucked from nature, so close, and yet still separate. They have to wonder if he realizes how apt a metaphor for his life his job apparently is. Not a surprise this is what he was drawn to, even if he had no clue of his gift when he chose. 

A bark of laughter, a little too loud, but in a pleasant, satisfied way, leaves their lips at his assessment, his acknowledgement. They don’t speak, though, instead focusing on watching him as he goes about his business, taking flowers from other arrangements to create a bundle of them. They can feel the nerves wafting off of him, and perhaps this is one of the few times they nearly feel bad for the unnecessary trouble, when what they’re searching for is so simple. But they’ve never been one for coddling. All they can offer was seeing more than others.

And they see something in him, as much as he probably doesn’t want that to be the case.

He returns at last, and he makes the mistake of catching their eye as he moves back behind the counter. And there’s something there, perhaps something he doesn’t even realize they can see. All of the questions, and answers in his eyes, only he hasn’t let himself see clearly, fully yet.

The shoe drops, and he asks the question before he can stop himself or think the better of it, and maybe, just maybe their sharp grin softness ever so slightly.

“You’re so sharp, aren’t you, Oslo?” they say, voice tinged with something like fondness. “Do you know what gardenias symbolize, to my sort? There are dozens of meanings, of course: purity, love, clarity, trust, intuition, hope. Price has very little to do with my choice.”

They don’t clarify. More fun to let him guess which until it becomes clear.

“You’re right, I’m not here to buy a bundle of flowers that I could conjure up from the ground myself. I know this suit looks expensive, as it is, but it’s stolen,” Katurian shrugs. “I don’t have that much of your money, and I don’t much feel like putting in the work to take from another human all for the flowers. I’d be happy to make a trade for them, though, since you’ve already done the work. I could give you something like information perhaps, or a good word with my Queen. A favor owed, jewels, rare flowers for your beautiful work? Or a token of my fondness?”

“It’s Oz.” 

He’s not sure how Katurian knows his given name (he never introduces himself as Oslo - not before he knew the Fae existed, and definitely not now) but, admittedly, it’s not that much of a leap. Only a few things “Oz” can possibly stand for, after all. 

So. However they came about the information - not a surprise, but still unwelcome. 

Names carry power, here. More than, perhaps, anything else. He knows that, and he knows that Katurian knows that he knows that, so mentioning it now means either one of two things: a subtle threat, or a warning. He can only hope its the latter. 

He doesn’t miss the evasion, despite how smoothly it’s delivered. Katurian obviously came here for something other than small talk and overpriced luxury blooms, but whatever it is, they’re not ready to divulge it yet. It’s always a game, with them. A test. An ebb and flow.

They offer up a seemingly large amount of personal information but it’s largely redundant. The flower knowledge, the stolen suit, the lack of human currency. All pawns, pieces of information given over willingly to placate, to build a rapport - but they really reveal nothing. Not why they’re here or what they want. It’s clever, no doubt. A tactic used in police interrogations and hostage negotiation, built on the principles of deception and misdirection - on gaining and abusing trust. And, though Oz wouldn’t exactly call himself “sharp,” he’s also not stupid. 

Refusing to be drawn in by the bait, he choses to return to his work rather than push the issue. If they want to tell them why they’re here, they will. If not, they’ll take the flowers and go - a win for him, no matter how it shakes out. A win that can (will) be accomplished without him giving up anything unnecessary.

Oz carefully ties off and packages the bouquet, wrapping it in a protective layer of brown paper before sliding it wordlessly across the counter. He looks up, meeting Katurian’s gaze again, jaw set in defiance as he fiddles with the iron ring on his index finger.

“A favor, then. Collected at the time and place of my choosing.” 

Favors, for the Fae, are almost as powerful as names. More like contracts than acts done out of the goodness of their hearts, they’re definitely more valuable than jewels or gold. And, because they are not handed out lightly, and Oz would be a fool to let an opportunity like this pass him by. 

“Unless you have a better offer.”

Time: June 26th, 8AM Place: Griffith’s Apartment @oslowhitman​

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. 

“Good morning, good ol’ Oz.” Griffith greets him with a grin, gesturing grandly as he opens his front door. “Welcome to the land o’ Breakfast.” 

“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?”

She’s so tired she almost doesn’t know what to do with herself, during the hours shes at home and alone with nothing to do except try and catch some fitful type of rest. Her mind is so full, that’s the problem. When she tries to lay down and relax, it runs a mile a minute instead. Makes her fidgety, makes her antsy and half-trapped in the walls of her own home. 

It’s just that Afric can’t stop wondering. She can’t stop making plans. She’s high on too much coffee and working to gather too much luck from where its owed to her. She’s full up of pondering and half crazed plans, full up of information about The Dagda Institute that she doesn’t know how to parse, yet.

It’s the worry, as well. The fear every time someone she cares for walks out on the streets of Dublin. She’s scared that one of them will be next, that it’s all they deserve after sticking their noses in other peoples business. 

Seeing them tends to calm the aching of it in her chest, set her back towards something easy and almost relaxed, unfurling some of the worst of her panic in favour of the warmth of friendship instead. She could take or leave the fair folk with whom she makes her many deals, but she’d give her life for her true friends, her clan of misfit seers and changelings. 

She already feels herself lightening just at the news that Oslo is on his way over, a feeling only intensifying when she hears the knock on the too-thin wood of their shitty apartment door. She moves to open it, and levels Oz with a sympathetic look when she catches a glimpse of his face. He looks as run down as she feels. 

     “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” She inclines her head and moves aside, gives him room enough to slip through the door and in to the apartment proper. “I’ve the kettle on, if you want some tea.” 

Oz grunts a halfhearted greeting as he slouches through the door, but not before he catches her eye and offers her a small, grateful smile. 

He makes his way over to the couch and all but collapses onto it, tossing his bag into the corner. At the mention of tea, he actually groans. The sound comes out a little muffled from where his face is smushed into the cushions, but he figures Afric gets the point. 

For a few calm, quiet moments he drifts, comforted by the familiar sounds of Afric puttering around in the kitchen. Her apartment has always carried a certain cozy, lived in quality that can instantly put him at ease. In a way, he’s almost a little envious. His own modest flat, while possessing a certain charm of its own, has never felt like.... much of a home, really. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t spend enough time there. (Or maybe it’s the fact that it’s always empty when he arrives. That he has no one to share it with.) Either way, these days he much prefers mooching off of the kindness of his friends instead of going home - if, for no other reason, than to keep himself from being completely alone with his thoughts. 

By the time Afric returns to the living area, most of the tension he’s been lugging around with him since early morning has drained away, leaving him pleasantly hollow. Like a cup, waiting to be refilled. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and levels her with another half-smile.

“Has anyone told you lately that you’re a Godsend? Because you are. People should write sonnets about you, or something.” 

cafe flux / july 1st / @oslowhitman​

The human world is so strange to her. Full of mystery. Full of distasteful things she’d rather return to the abyss. Oh, how she misses the land as it was. Back when it was all sea foam, endless dirt and endless trees that she could watch grow. The city seems like such a beast to eyes like hers, to a girl that has done everything she can to avoid humanity and the world of their making.

The cafe is common ground, somehow, for a meeting like this. Part of her world. Part of his. A boy named Oz, playing detective. He’s lucky, really, that she has a soft spot for humans with noble intentions. He’s part of that little crew, it seems, helping in an investigation so far out of all of their depths. All in the pursuit of peace, of knowledge. 

She’s a girl in possession of grand truths. She’s sure she will have to speak of them to many people, tell it to faerie and to humans alike. 

The pastel and peaceful interior of the cafe is much like an alien planet, so many things warring to catch her attention. The colours, the scent of baking and colourful mugs full of coffee, of all things. She glances around with eyes, too wide, before she focuses in on a boy clearly laying in wait. He has the aura of a damaged soul. Fiadh is good at spotting people who have seen more than their fair share of hardship, and her heart softens.

     “Oslo?” She asks, when she reaches his table. Her voice honey-slow and gentle. “I heard a rumour that you’d like to talk to me.” She reaches out, the slow offering of a hand, should he feel any desire to take it. “I’m Fiadh. Very pleased to meet you.”  

He senses her before he sees her. 

It’s still, after almost two years, a slightly off-putting sensation. His skin tingles and his mouth goes a little dry and a nagging sense of wrongness tugs at the back of his mind, as if to say “One of these things is not like the others.”

He’s not sure, now, how he got away with ignoring it for all those years. How he was able to simply brush it off as his imagination or lack of sleep or an alcohol induced fever dream. In any case, it’s apart of him now (as it was meant to be, supposedly, from the beginning) and, today, he’s grateful for the warning. He’s always on edge around Fae, but first meetings tend to be worse. 

He doesn’t know a lot about Fiadh, beyond what he was told by Katurian and the few other people he’d spoken with so far, but the general consensus had seemed to have been that she wasn’t overly malicious or otherwise hell bent on a crusade to wipe out all human Otherworld inhabitants. 

So. That was a start, at least.

She’s quiet in her approach. Almost demure. Exceedingly elegant and seemingly harmless. He reluctantly takes her hand (more than a little taken aback by the decidedly human gesture) and offers her the empty seat at his table, all the while maintaining a careful distance. “Yeah, that’s me. I appreciate you coming on such short notice.” 

He resettles himself in his own seat, slouching back in a show of faux confidence, and nods in the direction of the counter. “Did you want anything? On me, of course.” 

It’s not a rarity for them to venture out into the human world. Perhaps there is a part of them that they’ve long tried to silence to necessity that wishes it was a rarity, but there’s no use in lamenting that which can’t be helped. And it really, truly can’t, especially not now.

It is rare for them to venture out into the human world without the cover of night. Not because they’re particularly worried about standing out––they’ve perfected a false humanity, a little more polished than any human could ever be, but all that does is win them information, adoration in this world. But more so because the sort of information they usually seek is best traded in neon clubs, liquor flowing, bodies pressed close moving to deafening bass.  

But desperate times, etc. and etc., so on and so forth.

The problem is that now they’re not the only one out looking, searching for anything that might bring a solution closer. People are scared. And when people are scared, they’re rarely helpful. Even their patience wears thin as the afternoon slips by without anything but the stench of human desperation, human fear clinging to their perfectly pressed suit.

Just as they’re considering heading back, venturing out again once the moon is high and their domain is flourishing, they catch a glimpse of potential in a shop window, head bowed low, just barely visible through the flowers in the window.

Patience is a virtue, after all. 

Katurian slips into the shop, only making half the effort to temper the grin on their lips at the familiar face at the counter of the flower shop. Absent-mindedly, they swipe a gardenia from a display, and move to the counter, setting it on top of his sketch. The boy with endless hidden potential here, hidden amongst the flowers, how appropriate, they can’t help but think.

“Oh, hello,” they croon, tapping the stem of the flower with long fingers, “How much for a dozen of these?”

The voice is both familiar and jarringly out of place. 

Oz jerks his head up from his notes, startled, and has to still the immediate impulse rising within him to take a step back. 

He’s not sure why Katurian, of all people, is on the other side of his counter, grinning like a cat that’s caught the canary, but there is one thing that’s becoming glaringly apparent as the seconds tick by - he should have closed early, tonight. 

Between one moment and the next he’s outwardly composed himself - steeled his spine and his nerves. He moves slowly, but with obvious purpose, clearing his planner out of the way before silently taking the proffered bloom, inspecting it with a keen eye as he hedges for time. 

(They’re not supposed to be here. The Fae aren’t suppose to know where he works. Where he lives. They’re not supposed to get this - they already have everything else. His mind, his security, his peace. They aren’t supposed to get this, too.)

“€138. You’d be better off buying the entire fuckin’ bush,” he answers, before adding under his breath “Should’ve known you’d have obscenely expensive taste.” 

It’s as much of an acknowledgement as they’re going to get.

Without warning, Oz stalks out from behind the counter, giving Katurian a wide berth as he heads for the small work station on the other side of the shop where he’s already got a few bouquets pre-cut and arranged. He’ll have to break up several arrangements to piece together what Katurian wants, but he should have enough. Whatever it takes to get the Fae out of his shop. 

He’s hyper-aware of every move he makes as he works, highly conscious of the curious eyes following him. (He doesn’t want to know why they’re here. What they want. They asked for gardenias and, because it’s his job, he’ll get them. But that’s it. He doesn’t want to know anything else. He doesn’t.)

By the time he heads back to the register, bouquet in hand, he’s practically buzzing with nervous energy and unasked questions. For the first time since Katurian entered the shop, Oz chances a quick glance at them as he slides back behind the counter. Their gazes catch and hold. 

Just like with every other Fae he’s encountered since he was forced to accept the sight, what he finds in those dark eyes is a mystery - clouded with layer upon layer of deceit and guile. It’s alarming, to look upon something so seemingly human and find not an ounce of humanity.

“What are you really doing here?” Fuck. Ah, well. He’s never been that great at self-repression, anyway. “Call me crazy, but I find it kinda hard to believe you came all the out here for some flowers.”

There’s a book open on the table in front of him, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee by his elbow, but the only thing he can seem to focus on is the way the clouds are shifting outside the window - twisting and undulating like a serpent shedding its skin, preparing for a new beginning. 

More rain on the horizon, then. 

Oz heaves a sigh and sinks further down into the stiff wooden chair he’s claimed. He’s at his usual secluded spot, wedged into the corner of the building, behind the last set of non-fiction stacks. It’s quiet. Peaceful. This far back in the shop, the noise from the other patrons is deluded to a soft murmur. The only other sound is the comforting hum of the ancient AC unit overhead.

He’s been coming here for ages, now. Ever since his first year of university, when the campus library still seemed so daunting - too crowded and competitive and loud. At this point, The Gutter is more of a security blanket, than anything. A safe haven. 

Somewhere he can let his guard down, even if just for a few fleeting moments.

Oz forcibly returns his attention to the tome he’d grabbed from the folklore section earlier. He flips a page or two, scans a couple paragraphs as he chances a sip of his now stone cold coffee. He’s not really looking for anything in particular, honestly. It’s just.... habit. To come here and research - about Fae. The Otherworld. 

Knowledge is the only armor he has. The best way he knows to keep himself safe. In the beginning, after Aoife, the only thing that kept him sane was this corner table and the publications he’d consume here. Back then, he inhaled ever scrap of info he could get his hands on - whether there was any truth in it or not. Anything was better than nothing, then, and he wasn’t willing to risk skipping over something on the off chance that it was purely fiction. 

And all that studying did yield some results, in the end. 

He fidgets with the plain, iron ring on his index finger, turning it round and round as he reads. That was the first, and best, thing he learned: iron. The one thing, it seemed, that stayed consistent throughout all the legends. He went out and bought the ring on a whim, one afternoon, and he’s seldom taken it off since. 

He knows that, in all likelihood, it wouldn’t offer that much protection if a Fae were truly intent on harming him. It mainly exists as a reminder - a promise to himself. That he’ll never forget who he is and what they are. A line, drawn in the sand. 

He takes another sip of coffee. Grimaces. Contemplates heading home. But, instead, his eyes drift once again to the landscape outside the window. To the dark, foreboding sky overhead. 

“I think we’ve had enough fucking doom-and-gloom lately, thanks,” he murmurs to himself.

The walk to Afric’s isn’t long, but he drags his feet anyway. The messenger bag thrown over his shoulder weighs him down with every step and, the farther he gets from home, the more he longs for his bed. 

Ever since the party, since these murders started, he... hasn’t been sleeping. Not really. He catches cat naps here and there, but every time he tries to get some real rest, he’s plagued by the same nightmare. The same distant, uneasy feeling. He’s tried over-the-counter sleep aids. Meditation. Counting sheep. Nothing’s seemed to help. If anything, he feels worse (and he’s sure the bags under his eyes are a glaring testament to that.)

He spends his nights staring up at the ceiling, weighing his options. To stay. To go. To turn a blind eye and pretend none of this is happening - watch the Otherworld, and all it’s inhabitants, burn from afar. When it’s laid out like that, the choice seems obvious. Easy, even. But... nothing, nothing, about this has ever been (or ever will be) simple. The reality is, he’s already involved. 

He may not be a Fae, but he’s as close as a human could ever possibly get. His fate and theirs is intertwined now - his and all the all the other mortals unfortunate enough to possess some tie to the Courts.

If he chose to feign ignorance, to look past the violence and the killing and the fear mongering, there’s no guarantee he won’t be next. That Griffith or Zion or Alfric won’t be targeted right along with the Seelie and Unseelie and Solitary Fae that have already been slain. And that’s something he just... can’t stomach. Because unlike the faerie population, the Seers haven’t done anything to deserve a fucking death sentence. None of them asked for this. They didn’t chose it. They’re all just here, treading water, finding their own ways to try and stay afloat. 

He doesn’t care what happens to the Fae, that much is true. But he does care what happens to his friends. And if he can do anything to help them, to stop this, he will. Because his own survival depends on it. (Because it’s the right thing to do.)

By the time he makes it up the stairs to Afric’s landing, he’s dead on his feet. He leans against the door jamb and knocks, resting his head against the cool wood as he waits. 

The shop is quiet. 

Outside, a fine mist is falling, painting the city an opaque gray. The few people brave enough to face the dreary weather pass by the shop without a second glance, collars turned up against the wind. 

In the grand scheme of things, the lack of business means little to him. In fact, the quiet is something of a blessing. He putters around, alone with his thoughts as he tackles the considerable list of tasks his manager left for him to accomplish before closing. 

It’s rote, methodical work. Familiar. Soothing. (Water. Weed. Clip. Sort. Arrange. Package. Present. Rinse. Repeat.) For once, he doesn’t have to think. Doesn’t have to try and stay ten steps ahead. Doesn’t have to hide or deflect or feebly plan some misguided form of defense that’s sure to fail. He can just... exist. Here - with the smell of earth and loam heavy in the air, dirt caked beneath his fingernails and smeared across his cheek. Here, with the silence. Here, at least, he’s safe. Normal. 

Free.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

The afternoon passes comfortably. On the last leg of his shift, he’s sat behind the counter with his planner, drawing up the preliminary sketches for an exorbitantly expensive arrangement (some local beauty queen’s sweet 16 decorations, apparently) when the bell above the door chimes.

“’Lo!” He calls without looking up, tapping the pencil clenched between his fingers against the countertop in idle contemplation, brows furrowed. “If you need anything, just shout.”