bow down.

“You know, if anyone says there isn’t art in a good nude then they’re lying.” Waverly remarked to whoever was closest as she set her phone down. “Like there are some hella trash nudes out there. It’s all about the angles and the eyes.”

“Fascinating,” Ronan deadpanned in a voice that asserted it was anything but. “You must impress a great deal of people with your insight on this particular subject.”

Amelie was feeling awfully nostalgic lately. Whether it was her remembering things from back in France, or things that had happened on the island, she was just… remembering everything. Even if it was as small as a smile that someone shared with her, or as big as her and Noah kissing atop of a roof top, she was thinking about everything.

She was walking around when she stopped in front of the canteen, a smile on her face. There were memories associated with here, too. Memories from her very first day on the island. Amelie felt a presence behind her, prompting her to turn and give the person a smile. “You know, on my very first day here, I managed to sneak into the warehouse… I was so different back then.”  She told them, a quiet laugh sounding from her.

“Reminiscing has its own queer pleasure, but why would sneaking into the warehouse be an attractive idea?” Ronan asked, perched atop a vacant barrel that had been stuck near the canteen. He unscrewed the lid of his silver flask, filled with water, and took a swig as he sized up the blonde before him. “And why would you want to?”

    Resting in the cool sand of the beach, Leland was scribbling away in a journal, muttering under his breath in the newest foreign language he was intent on learning. The beach felt so vast it was easy to find a secluded spot and claim it as his own. When he wasn’t needed in the kitchen, the cook used his free time to relax and study, a hobby that most may not find relaxing but it did the trick for him. However, his journal snapped shut when he heard someone approaching. There was nothing shameful written in it but he had always been a private man. He looked up to see who it was, offering his usual blank stare and silence which meant he would not speak unless spoken too directly.

Ronan needed a cigar and a shot of whiskey. Badly. The latter was currently unavailable to him, as he traipsed about the uneven sand of the beach, breathing in the salty air and trying to find a bit of solitary space he could find for himself. As he made his way along the beach, he spotted a shock of familiar dark hair; a figure scribbling something in a journal, which snapped shut promptly at his arrival.

“Skittish, aren’t you, Rosier?” Ronan asked with an arched brow, pulling the small cigar tin he kept on him out of his breast pocket. He flicked the lid open, withdrawing a cigar and sizing the Black Trident’s cook up from his perch. “Hiding pretty little letters in that thing?”