no church in the wild.

He picked up the menu. Mouth almost watering at the thought of some food. “Eggs…” he muttered, too tired to realising he was reading aloud. He put the menu down and gazed up at the girl. “I’ll take a full English, extra eggs, some of those American style pancakes with maple syrup, and some brown toast, with honey and jam, thanks.” He nodded. It was a lot of food for only one man, but he knew he needed it.

“-Oh and yeah, it’s Zeke, and you’re Jemima right?” he smirked, pretending that he didn’t just read the name, though he had a rough idea of what her name was, he didn’t want to embarrass himself by getting it wrong.

✧  .   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝙸𝚂  𝚆𝙷𝚈  𝙷𝙴'𝚂  𝙵𝙰𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚂  𝙰𝚃  𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃  𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃  𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈  𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴  in  town  that  sells  food.  her  smile  grows  as  his  order  increases,   and  she  has  to  interrupt  several  times  to  ask  him  to  slow  down,   pen  moving  furiously  across  paper.  " —  honey  and  jam."  she  speaks  aloud,  enunciating  each  syllable  carefully  as  she  writes.  "got  it."  she  bites  back  the  urge  to  comment  on  just  how  much  food  she's  putting  in  for  him,  but  is  certainly  quite  impressed.  jemima  glances  down  at  her  apron  and  smiles.  "congrats  on  being  able  to  read  my  nametag."   it's a  somewhat  snarky comment,  but  leans  more  playful  than  anything.  "it'll  probably  take  awhile  for  the  kitchen  to  get  all  of  that  out.   i  can  bring  stuff  out  as  it's  ready  or  —  you  can  go  back  to  sleep  while  you  wait,  if  you  want.   i  don't  mind.  it  happens  more  often  than  you'd  think,  actually."  it's  typically  their  older  clientele  who's  guilty  of  this,  however. "long night?"

wide doe-eyes observe silently through the large windows of the studio with a simple fascination,  always having been so enamoured by the intense talent of ballet and the ballerinas that she watches now  —  but never having been quite confident enough to pursue it herself,  despite her papa’s encouragement.     soft,  wonderous expression shifts into one of a slight and gentle frown at the thought ;     corinne’s life had been so completely thrown off track when she lost her father the past year,  it was still a deeply tender wound to think about him.     one she was still struggling to live with.     but she was trying,  pushing herself into her studies and being the very best she could be,  for him.

✧  .   𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾  𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺,   𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝙰𝙽'𝚃  𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙿  𝙱𝚄𝚃  𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁.  early  and  with  some  time  to  spare  before  her  first  class,   esme  pauses  outside  the  dance  studio  with  a  smile.  she  watches  the  other  woman  silently  for  a  moment  before  speaking,   not  wanting  to  interrupt  her.  "they  have  to  have  an  owner  who  loves  them very much  first,"  she  offers  gently,   easily  able  to  follow  and  tap  into  such  a  dreamy  train  of  thought.  "but  that's  a  problem  easily  solved.   you  know   — "  it  might  not  be  her  place,   but  she  can't  help  but  make  the  offer.   "it's  never  too  late  to  learn.   despite  what  they'd  have  you  believe.  i'd  be  more  than  happy  to  sign  you  up  for  our  adult  beginner  class, if you'd like to come inside.   i'm  one  of  the  teachers  here.   for  ballet,  as it would happen. but for ballerinas much smaller than yourself," she jokes with a warm smile.

For as long as he could remember, Zippity Doo Diner really did have the best coffee. He tried to be sensible and frugal, but sometimes he just had to give into temptation and get the coffee. Today was one of those days and he hadn't been paying that much attention when he went into the room.

He'd had plenty of failed romances, most of the time ending amicably enough, but not all of them. Seeing his ex, he knew he wasn't caffeinated enough yet to deal with this, and realising there wasn't time to get outside he quickly ducked into a booth. A booth someone was in already... ok this was all just making an argument to make coffee at home.

✧  .   "𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴  𝙶𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚃𝙾  𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴  𝚃𝙾  𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙻  𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷  𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚄𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈." she  chastises  luiz  calmly  without  even  looking  up  from  her  breakfast.  esme  seemingly  has  one  of  those  faces  that  causes  people  to  readily  confide  in  her.  the  music  shop  and  dance  studio  share  a  lot  of  customers,  and  the  overlap  leads  to  small  talk,  inevitably.   dark  eyes  flick  up  to  her  unexpected  companion  —   truthfully,  glad  of  the  company.  this  was  a  bit  of  exposure  therapy,  and  around  when  her  food  finally  came  out,   the  anxiety  and  regret  starting  kicking  in  —  and  she  raises  her  english  muffin  to  her  lips.  "i  don't  mind,  though.   stay  as  long  as  you  like."  she  pushes  a  dish  towards  him.  "help  yourself."

there’s no subtlety to the way she startles when she realises who stands before her.     faye can’t remember where these deep-seated feelings come from,  too mentally flustered by not only her work but these weird dreams that continue to tell stories of magic too.     though she knows that when it came to marcus prince,  she often felt a sudden rush of distrust over anything to do with him.     a weirdly protective feeling,  she realised once before,  though she can’t put her finger on exactly why.     it certainly wasn’t over herself.

which is why her chipper greeting only blossoms once able to focus again,  shoving down the brief urge to kick him out of her home-away-from-home   (  which wasn’t too far away anyway,  her apartment just upstairs from the tailor shop.  )   and instead waving a hand at his flattery with a coo of amusement.     “  well,  somebody’s in a wonderful mood today !  ”     faye notes idly though voice still cheery,  familiar with the casual chatter of working with the public and slipping into that persona with too much ease.     how odd to mentally compare this woman with the girl she had been in high school,  though buried in confusing feelings just as much.

✧  .   𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙵𝙴𝙰𝚁  𝙸𝙽  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙴𝚈𝙴𝚂  𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽  𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙶𝙽𝙸𝚉𝙴𝚂  𝙷𝙸𝙼  sends  a  fiery  rush  of  adrenaline  surging  through  his  veins.   god  only  knows  why  she's  so  afraid  of  him,  but  the  feeling  he  gets  inside  these  four  walls  —  it's  something  primal.  animalistic.   pure,   unadulterated  power  down  to  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  he  smiles,  and  there  is  no  warmth.  "your  beautiful  face  always  makes  me  smile."  his  eyes  are  cold  but  his  words  are  dripping  with  honey.   it's  not  a  lie.   not  technically.   sometimes,   the  truth  is  so  much  more  delicious.   "i'd  like  to  order  two  custom  gowns  from  you,  actually.  also,  do  you  make  suits?"   he  glances  around  the  counter,  speaking  quickly.  "they're,  uh.  is  there  a  chair  anywhere?  they're  all  for  this  thing  at  the  theatre.  i  heard  it's  supposed  to  be  something  ultra-formal.  so  it's  mine   —   the  suit  is  for  me."  he  chuckles.   "obviously."  duh.   "then  the  first  dress  is  for  my  lovely  girlfriend,   and  — "   he  sucks  his  teeth,  face  momentarily  a  mask  of  exaggerated  unpleasantness.  "the  other  is  for  my  son's  mom.  i  think  it's  important  she  look  her  best  too.  right?"  it's  an unusual situation.   so  transparently  a  power  play  rather  than  a  gesture  of  actual  affection,  but  he  dares  her  to  question  him.

✧  .   "𝙵𝚄𝙽."   𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙿𝙸𝚃𝚂  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳  𝙾𝚄𝚃  𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷  𝙰  𝚂𝙲𝙾𝙵𝙵,   his  tone  dripping  with  poisonous  disdain.   "you  mock  my  pain."   ciaran  takes  another  sip  of  his  drink,  bleary  eyes  staring  sightlessly  ahead  at  the  swirling  mass  of  fabric  and  sweaty  bodies.   "por  qué  estoy  aquí,  luiz?"   he  asks  miserably  after  a  silent  moment.  "do  you  hate  me  so  much,  to  put  me  through  this?"  the  deep  wound  of  a  victim  complex  shines  in  his  wide dark eyes.  "everywhere  i  look,  all  i  see  are  reminders  of  just  how  far  i've  fallen."  he  swallows  hard,   and  the  rum  stings  the  back  of  his  throat,   behind  his  eyes.

the sheriff's office is not a place that jasmine is well-acquainted with. the perfect, responsible daughter has never ended up here after a wild night, nor reported any kind of crime or spoken as a witness. not when her father would never allow such a thing. being here, now, with no dad hovering over her shoulder, feels so alien to jas in a way that's both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. but she takes a deep breath, sits straight in her chair and meets the sheriff's eyes.

✧  .   𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝙰𝙽'𝚃  𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙿  𝙱𝚄𝚃  𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃  𝙱𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺  𝙰𝚃  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙵𝙾𝚁  𝙰  𝙼𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃.  it's  not  something  so  ridiculous;   it  wasn't  unheard  of  for  a  pet  to  be  stolen.  though  it  was  likely  for  a  ransom,   rather  than  pure  amusement,   and  thus  typically  only  happened  to  horrible  little  dogs.  "your  cat?"  he  repeats.  seeing  her  face,   he  chuckles.  hazel  eyes  crinkle  in  a  reassuring  way despite his rough edges.   "i'm  sorry,   you  just  caught  me  by  surprise."  he  leans  down  and  pulls  a  desk  drawer  open,   reaching  for  the  notepad  inside.   "i'm assuming you have a reason to suspect — your cat is in danger."   meeting  jasmine's  eyes  once  more,   he  clicks  his  pen.

Perhaps he should have admitted that he was haunted by his own mystery phantom, but the fact he woke up with a feeling he’d almost describe as heartache… how did he explain that? He supposed he hadn’t seen the point. Gaston’s dream was a woman of beauty, whilst he didn’t even know what his looked like. Even now he had no reason to think it was the same woman.

Besides if he thought about that too much, it meant he might have to start putting any thought into why he dreamt of Gaston shooting him in the back. If he thought there was even a risk of that, he’d hardly be friends with the man, let alone let him inside his house like this. Well admittedly he hadn’t let him in, but still not the point. It just wasn’t something he wanted to give any thought to, it was too ridiculous.

“You know, they say that your mind can’t make up faces, and even the people you dream of, they’re people you must have seen. Are you sure you don’t recognise her?” that would be the logical starting point. He might keep his own solitude, but he knew the same wasn’t true of the other man. It was possible she was somewhere in town. Though with this level of… well obsession, he was sure Gaston would have found her by now.

Yet something about that sent a shiver down his spine. Like a memory of a dream, one he couldn’t quite grab onto. Beauty was found within. He didn’t know where that had come from. That was a life Adem had lived, and Cenk no longer remembered any of it. Only flashes when he tried to sleep. Only a dream of being a beast, a dream he tried desperately hard not to think too much about.

Though he supposed the question double backed. If he was having similar dreams then was he going mad? Admittedly he thought he might be, but that had more to do with the feeling of heartbreak he felt every morning when he woke up. In love with a figment of his imagination… what was wrong with him?

✧  .   "𝙸  𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳  𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁  𝙷𝙴𝚁,"  gaston  assures  his  friend  with  a  sharp  look.  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  he  attempts  to  settle  back  into  the  couch  more  comfortably  once  more.   try  as  he  might,   though,  this  thought  process  isn't  some  pesky  insect  he  can  just  wave  off.  this  has  consumed  much  more  of  his  waking  time  lately  than  he'd  ever  admit.   cenk's  words  quiet  him  again,   falling  into  a  thoughtful  daze.   truthfully,  he'd  been  so  fixated  on  trying  to  discern  the  nature  of  the  dreams,   or  even  the  source.   he'd  never  investigated the possibility  that  this  might  be  a  real  person,  not  in  a  serious  way,   much  less  someone  he  was  liable  to  run  into  on  the  street.  "i'd  never  considered  that,"   he  murmurs,  hazel  eyes  boring  a  hole  into  the  floor.   he  blinks  himself  back  into  his  body,   and  eyes  focus  on  cenk  once  more.  the  idea  had  occurred  to  him  before,  but  he  had  discarded  it  just  as  quickly,   regarding  it as  wishful  thinking.  fantasy  and  imagination  were  never  rewarded  in  his  childhood  home.   but  hearing  cenk  validate  that  little  shred  of  hope  which  had  stuck  in  the  mind's garbage  disposal   —   —   —  —  "i  suppose  i  would  —   pursue  her.  why  else  would  i  be  having  these  dreams  if  we  weren't  meant  to  be  together?"  it's  the  only  thing  that  makes  any  sense  to  him.  the  thought  of  being  in  love  is  intoxicating  to  him.  however,  it's  still  only  that  —   the  idea  of  being  in  love.  in  both  lives,  gaston  has  had  the  odd  love  affair,  particularly  in  youth.   and  he's  loved  many  of  them.   the  few  people  in  his  inner  circle,   he  loves  very  deeply.  in  his  own  way.   but  gaston  has  never  been  in  love.  the  closest  relationship  he  has  is  with  —   —   light  eyes  wander  back  to  the  man  sitting  opposite  him.  tenderly,  still  half  lost  in  thought,   he  traces  cenk's  shape.   eyes  linger  on  eyes,   lips,  shoulders,  hands.  absently,   the  corners  of  his  mouth  curl  with  fondness.  two  boys  became  inseparable  close  in  their  ruined  childhoods,  bonded  forever,  made  to  wear  the  same  iron  mask  of  infallible  strength.  but  they  could  be  soft  with  each  other,  in  the  quiet  and  dark  moments  when  it  seemed  as  though  the  whole  world  stood  still  in  their  absence.  this  is  what  tenderness  feels  like,  he  thinks  in  this  moment.   this  ferocious  warmth.  if  i  know  love,   it  feels  like  this.   "do  you  think  it's  possible?  that   —   the  girl,   that  she's  real,  i  mean."