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it's only there, standing on the doorstep, blinking a little, that mia realizes she must look like a fucking mess.

her hair's pulled up in a messy bun, just sort of clipped up as best she could manage in the middle of blearily stumbling around to make a breakfast of overcooked eggs and burnt bacon. bacon shouldn't be allowed to burn with how much fat is in it, but it does and she manages it at least once every two times she makes it. it's one of the only days per week she actually takes off from, well, everything.

busking isn't easy. it's standing outside as long as the weather permits. people don't empathize and toss a few dollars in a violin case if they see you sitting. that means you're not desperate enough to need it or whatever. so she stands, and her ankles ache and her feet protest and every pair of shoes she has never seems to last as long as they did when she was a kid.

so on one day off per week, where she catches up on laundry and cleaning and everything except grocery shopping, mia doesn't really put herself together. that's for people who have a lot more money than she does. akira always looks kind of put together. even when she looks upset, or sad, or almost angry, she still manages to look more put together than this.

i'm embarrassed, she thinks, and then her gaze falls to the bag in akira's hand.

"you got me ice cream?" she manages after a second, incredulous. "it's—hey, it's fine that you didn't call. i probably wouldn't have answered anyway.

akira brings food out of habit. her father — her... best friend, the only consistent company she's been graced with for the majority of her life — had always been moving. never rushing, but always moving with such intense purpose that akira often took a backseat. food changes things; you sit together and drink from the same pot. you slow to an almost-stop. you talk, you take a minute. you breathe, finally.

she steps inside after being welcomed, sets the plastic bag on the nearest surface and looks around without reservation.

dialogue prompts from grief is the thing with feathers by max porter.

come and sleep in my bed.

i won't leave until you don't need me anymore.

you've done something bad. i can tell.

men are rarely truly kind, but they are often funny.

you remind me of everything i've ever been interested in.

i lie about how you died.

you sound like a fridge magnet.

there's grief and there's impractical obsession.

go back to bed and let me deal with this.

how can you laugh about it? it's so sad.

ghosts do not haunt, they regress.

i'm not a performing monkey.

i never called you a motherfucker.

a gone dad is a gone dad ever.

i feel nervous about feeling cheerful.

are you being good?

don't worry about doing stuff or not doing stuff. it doesn't matter.

moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people.

any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project.

should we think about moving on?

you're not alone, kid.

how do you know when you've found something worth picking at?

just be good and listen to birds.

she doesn't trust it. she thinks there's vegetables in there. and too much butter. it probably just needs salt, but.

she drove for hours by herself and still missed the famous west coast sunshine. she always thought of it as a permanent thing but now that seems silly; seems like a frayed and unhinged daydream. with her feet on eden's rug she starts to think how the world is the same pretty much wherever she goes, which is both comforting and terrible to know.

but penny leans back. and she settles in. and she is almost held, here, so it has to be better.

she plucks the cigarette out of their hand. parts her lips for the smoke.

with the space, and the trees, and the hot springs, and all the rest of it.

they rest their arm atop penny's shoulder, closing the distance themself. the cold's a good excuse; the fire, the blankets. they uncap a bottle of wine with one hand, taking a swig before offering it to penny in exchange for the cigarette.

and now we are forced to ask the real questions: did this man try to explain the concepts of death and decay to a toddler.