𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊!

despite knowing it was just about unneeded at this point , sage didn't mind joining their friends out. what bothered him was that it left him with adrien , and adrien clearly didn't like him. sage never did very well with being disliked - always wanted to be in everyone's favor. you can't win over everyone , but he was convinced that by the time they were released from chaperoning their love bird friends , he could get adrien's mind to change. " well , if it makes you happy you can give me the whole list , but i can't possibly figure out why the list would be so long. " eyes looking at the other with a sense of longing , like he'd do anything to be liked. for someone with such an insufferable-at-times personality , it was bold of sage to assume he could be liked by most. " i mean , honestly ? " a pause , body leaning forward slightly. " yeah. it does bother me. " but he didn't know why. " we're forced out here like what , every weekend ? and every weekend you're miserable and it drives me crazy. " sometimes it's all he could think about. " i just . . . why ? what did i do ? "

having his bluff called and this frustrating, fawning look to answer to for it — adrien would appreciate sage’s methods if they weren’t so annoying. and effective! fucker. a smirk flickers across adrien’s features, but he muscles it down and darts his eyes up in a half-hearted eye-roll. “you should learn to leave well enough alone, chouchou." maaaybe adrien’s projecting. maybe envy over sage and the way he is and all the gushing their friends had done over him makes adrien intent on checking sage’s ego, unwarranted as that may be. their friends have surely told sage about adrien, right? that he’s prickly, a provocateur for fun, would probably shrivel up and die if he lost the upper hand. even now as sage leans in, adrien wastes no time in mirroring him, quietly thrilled that sage doesn’t seem keen on taking his advice. from here, he’s better able to note the set of sage’s mouth, the funny look in his eyes. adrien can’t help himself; he smiles, saccharine, and says, “pretty thing. you think too much. i just don’t believe you.” but adrien falters, blinking hard as he considers what sage has said. as quickly as it’d come, his smile goes, replaced by a bored frown. “who's being over-dramatic now?” he huffs. "like you're my biggest fan. why do you keep coming if i drive you crazy?" 

"burger might fix it. i'm a simple man." for a guy that's pouting so bad, he sure is playing a lot of footsie with him. "quit your job. get a better one." these aren't serious suggestions, he's still playing, but god, is he tired of this work excuse. this dude and his damn job. it's like he's married to that radio station. "and tell me the story anyway? what do you know about me. maybe i love stories." he doesn't, he famously doesn't, but whatever keeps omar talking to him, here, present.

left to each other again, omar heaves a sigh and cups a hand over kelsey’s knee, jostling to get him to turn this way please please please. “but i like my job.” yeah! omar loves the radio station! that job’s awesome! “you could tune in at night if you miss me so much.” all starry-eyed and rosy, until he’s pressed for the story. then he falters, a minute glitch in his good spirits. it’s one thing to lie about a work emergency, a dead phone, traffic. it’s another to lie at length. and right to kelsey’s face? this feels like a trap. it’s not. is it? he swallows, puts his smile back on. “somebody was trying to take something that belonged to somebody else.” a wannabe villain had botched a corner store robbery. “i stayed to talk with them. reason with them, y’know?” shockjock had dropped in to do the right thing. “we argued a little.” there’d been a few physical blows, nothing that’s left a visible mark. “they saw it my way in the end and gave it back.” a well-executed zap to the limbs had stopped them, and the measly $200 had been returned to its rightful register. a plate is dropped off beside them, and omar looks almost too glad for the distraction. he plucks a fry for himself. “and they all lived happily ever after.” ehh. "heroic, right?"

ash just shakes his head and resists getting into why it's not. he honestly doesn't even remember why adam had said at this point. ash is so focused on getting into bed and getting his outside clothes off so they're not touching his sheets too long. his limbs feel so heavy as he pulls his shirt off before laying on his back and pushing his too tight jeans down. a huff escapes him like it was heavy work as he lays sprawled out on his bed. his minds still a little bit hazy around the edges but he's not nearly as fucked up as he was when he called adam in the first place. ash can't even remember and he was probably crying and singing whatever tlc song fit his misery. ash turns his head and takes in the sight of them looking around his room. all his photos and memories with his friends on the wall. the alter where he's about to put adam's picture and get a etsy witch over here to make them love him. normal behavior. he's pleased when the mattress sinks under adam's weight next to him. ash for his part does keep his hands to himself even if he really wants to roll over and touch them. it is a compliment because the last thing ash wants is to be simple. he ain't ever trying to be a mans peace he'd rather drive them all crazy. adam's different though. "i think i call you because i want you when i'm scared. when i don't got a grasp on my shit i know that you will." he's never admitted anything like that before and it's making him feel sick. "i'm sorry for doing that to you."

habit would have adam drinking in the sight before them, have him hedging one soft touch and then another, until he has enough to shut his brain off and fall into something rough and sweet. tonight, however, adam plays the role of caretaker — it’s not new to them. in fact, they feel most themselves when they put the guise on. they can use it to stall on answering, can avoid eye contact to prioritize pushing ash’s clothes out of his way and into a well-intentioned pile on the ground. in truth, they hang off his every word, barbed by the honesty in it and bristled by the apology. adam’s terrible with sorry. terrible with fear. terrible for ash. and if they were better at the first two, they’d be able to say as much! but selfishness stirs in them, keeps them hanging on to what’ll surely end badly. he stills, processing, with his brows furrowed and his lower lip pressed tight between his teeth. “i worry about you,” he admits after a moment, eyes fixed on a photo on the wall. adam talks to the ash there instead. “sometimes i think that's something i do to you. like i hold you back with it.” they pause to reel themself back in, chagrined by how much they’ve said as they try to flex the unrest out of their hands. “what is it that scares you?”  

he's still too afraid to initiate a touch, and that's why he sets the rocks down on the bathroom counter instead of in adam's hand, as delicately as though they were really his eyes. "yours," link states as he wobbles back, back against the wall, hand grabbing at the inside of his elbow, gaze wary on adam. then, the floor. he's telling himself no and he's sitting on a question, but it's about to fall out anyway. stupid. he can't help himself. not for the first time tonight, he feels two inches tall: "...can i hug you? before — before i lay down and ice it." pause. "all of the... it." body parts.

adam surges forward, but their touch is delicate; one of their arm wraps around links torso, mindful not to press into bruises but purposeful as they pull him into their chest and splay their hand over his side. his other arm angles to serve the hand he curves over the back of links head, fingers in his hair. when words have been too difficult, they’d always had touch. now adam pours everything they haven’t been able to say before tonight into how they hold link, chin tucked into his shoulder, as this will surely be the last time they’ll ever get to be this close. dense and with all potential for disaster, a neutron star collision. "not enough ice in the world for what you've got going on, link," they mutter, turning their head to press a taut, pained smile into his temple. "but we can try. you ready?" for bed. for whatever comes next.  

"they're good at judging you cause you make it so easy for them." myles does not need omar throwing it back in his face that he talks shit about his friends choices. that's supposed to be something sacred. a ritual with your boyfriend to talk shit about your friends and to talk shit about your man to your friends. the circle of life. he would like to be more mad at omar but he's so endearing myles' cuteness aggression takes over instead. the second omar starts going on myles groans loudly as he reaches out for him. his hand coming up to pinch his cheek. "you are annoying. my friends are right." myles scolds him but there's that familiar grin on his face that tell everyone myles loves it here. "you should. you should tell them you have plans otherwise you'll get dumped. they'll understand." or they won't care and capitalism will win again. "maybe next time you'll let me know that you're late instead of having me sitting around looking so fucking stupid." he says it like it's nothing. tone a little airy as if he doesn't mean for it to hit. myles wants it to hit. "you don't think you killed my vibe? you're so cute." he feels wired as he reaches out for omar. "not tryin' to hit the club. want to go back to yours." he needs to fuck omar to sleep and snoop expeditiously. "you gotta start making it up right now."

finally, myles graces omar his touch, and it’s all he can do to level himself with a hand on the bar, lest he fall forward into the other’s space and take more than he’s allowed right now; he’s not fully out of the doghouse yet, is he? “i’ll make it up to your friends,” he’s offering readily, “drinks on me next night out.” pauses to really consider this. remembers, cruelly, that the radio station’s pay is what it is. “just, y’know. pick your two favorites.” myles has a point - often does! - and omar groans in the back of his throat, a mixture of guilty admission and a plea to be spared. “i know, i should’ve texted. my phone died. couldn’t find a charger. no change for a payphone. there’s an angle to this where i’m the one whose suffered most; lemme find it.” lot of jokes for a vibe-killer, huh? he trills his lips, dares to reach out now to catch myles’ hip and jostle him closer. “we can go back to mine.” in the back of his mind, omar combs through the state he’d left his apartment in this morning - nothing incriminating out. maybe a spare mask he’ll have to kick under the bed but, ideally, myles’ll be too distracted to be looking at the goddamn ground. “yeah, okay. i’m so sorry, gorgeous, i’m the worst, i don’t deserve you … tell me when you’ve had your fill.” if ever! 

fingers tremble and pinch at tissue, delicately tossing it into the bin, moving onto the next one. "i thought — i thought a lot of things," he explains in a continued whisper, eyes wet, face too, teeth bearing down on his lip as he cleans another portion of scraped abdomen. "doesn't really matter what. i'll work it out in therapy. you gave me the chance to talk it out and i just couldn't, man. but — but you didn't do anything wrong, at any point. if i don't get another chance to — to apologize, to explain, you need to know at least that. i've left you filling in blanks long enough. the truth is that i — i wanted to get worse. i wanted to just give up. didn't want help. i didn't care how bad it got, and made anyone who did care sorry for trying to stop me from letting it get there. you, most of all. and you didn't deserve it." — and then, he's quiet. that's all he has, and he already feels like it was all overstepping, all unwanted, all unnecessary, all too little, too late. and, he's more sober than he was thirty minutes ago, but this is still a pretty shitty first-aid job. he definitely should've let adam take a look. he drops his shirt without dressing it, tired, defeated. he thinks about putting jacks ( item ) in jack's ( person ) shoes this sunday, after brunch, where he's going to tell his entire family that he has a drinking problem and he'll be going to rehab — probably with a mimosa in hand. he thinks about how what adam really deserves is a break, and how if he had just gotten over himself, maybe he could've given them it.

“you’re my best friend.” immovable, speaking steadfastly before the guilt can stop them. “you’re- i know you don’t think so, but i think you’re the best person. the most good. i think, if i hadn’t known you growing up, i would’ve been worse off.” it feels like they’re closing in on themself with every word, so he speaks a little faster, a little clumsier. “if something. hm. if something happened to you, if i never saw you again, i- i wouldn’t know what to do with myself. you’re so important to me.” heat floods their face and every instinct in them screams, begs, demands them to stop talking, this is too much, the dam, the dam is breaking, stop stop stop. “you were a dick. you were awful. you were mean. and you were hurting.” adam sighs and it shudders, shakes with emotion. they cross their arms, uncross them. squeeze their eyes shut, open them again. they look at link’s neck, his red cheek, his eyes. they think back to how link had slurred down the phone and kickstarted hope in adam's system. how link used to trip over his own ramblings, fascinated, and adam had felt well just to listen. how the dappled lights of the aquarium tank had danced over link's face that first day, and adam had been conquered by it. “i miss you.” i’ve finally said my piece. i should’ve said it sooner. 

clients with rapport are the best kinds of clients. for all the color in edith's life, at her core, she is kind of, well, lonely. she always has been. finding connection day to day and spreading her art? it is a win-win in her eyes. and, yes, as profound as she is, even the brief respite of human connection can calm down an unsettled brain. "i can tell," declares the tattoo artist, a finger going up to tap her temple in response. "it's my sixth sense. i know when people are troublemakers." of course, there are outliers. she didn't inherit any sort mediumship abilities from her parents, but edith is a pattern recognizer to her core. people will claim she's good at reading vibes, and that remains semi-true, but really, she can read a person moments after meeting them. "and i trust you to not. the same way you trust me. no pets, though. so maybe i'm just letting my guard down." she has a moss ball. maybe that would make for a messy transportation. "yeah. crystals. herbs. they make some salves and soaps, too. they read tarot, they read tea leaves. you know, all that. they're definitely little cuties." being raised like that, it's given her a larger appreciation for the metaphysical. it's obvious in the environment around them, colors and icons dot the room in a way one could say is whimsical. "see? you're being brave. you've made it all the way through the first part. what do you think?" she turns the sketch around to show off to zoey, flowers in the way she described with edith's artful twist. "i can change anything you'd like."

letting ones guard down early — edith is zoey’s type of person. it’s so stuffy, isn’t it? to be beholden to, like, paranoia dressed in expectation’s clothes. she laughs, devoid of the nervousness she’d come in not so long ago. “oh, i hope you don’t come to regret it.” but zoey’s harmless, really. a little bit naive, maybe. asinine, if you’re not charmed by the way she goes on and on and on, and not many are. “i love that stuff. the tarot cards and, like, palm-reading. anyone who says it’s bullshit is bullshit. and if it is? literally who cares. it’s fun! ugh, you’re so lucky.” envy, sure, but there’s syrup on it. she straightens with edith’s presentation, and her eyes go wide as saucers as she takes in the drawing. all it’s sure lines and loops lend to a dynamism zoey would never in a million years have been able to put into words. “that’s so freaking cool,” she gushes. perhaps a little forward when she reaches out to pluck the pad out of edith’s hand to have a better look. maybe even a little ridiculous as she positions the page over her forearm, like it’ll help to picture the piece on her skin. “don’t change anything. i love this.” she admires quietly, eyes alight. finally hands it back and, when it’s out of her hands, she smacks at her forearm expectantly. “alright, picasso. ink me up.”

qianyu tried not to show how overstimulated she was as the punch from someone's cup was cascading down her dress. this was just great, the icing on top of the shitty cake she'd had all day. she was busy wiping off the front of her dress that she didn't hear the other person come up beside her. "oh shit!" she said, jumping a bit when they tapped her shoulder. "sorry, I was so focused I didn't hear you." she gestured at her dress with a sigh. "guess i'm just destined to not have a good time at this wedding." she said with a laugh.

“heeey, it’s chill, i come in peace,” ricky says with his palms out in early surrender. from his left hand hangs a rag, pilfered from the reception hall’s kitchen. he eyes the growing stain on her dress warily, then holds the rag out like a consolation prize. “my aunt gets a little too excited at stuff like this. i’d say i got lucky that you took the blow over me, buuut you’re probably not in the mood for jokes about it yet, so … let me know if that changes.” in the other room, a wedding reception carries on in full swing. somewhere in there, ricky’s sister sweeps around the room in a white gown shaped like a cupcake. out here, ricky kneels to try and dab the punch stain out. he scoffs, rolls his eyes upward until they meet hers, and chances a grin. “weddings are awful, aren’t they? i thought i was going to die of old age during the vows.” 

" all of this feels a little over dramatic , don't you think ? " despite the other's feelings being very , very clear about him , sage was somehow still convinced that he could win them over. " what reason do you even have to hate me so much ? i think you're projecting or . . . or something. "

“over-dramatic,” adrien echoes flatly, already frowning before he’s reached the final, sharp c at the end. narrowed eyes cut away, like he has the upper hand by not deigning sage the eye contact. he looks toward the bar, where his friend and sage’s friend carry on with their moony-eyed cat-and-mouse game. tonight is no different than the weekend before, and the weekend before that, going back, what? three months now? why they still feel the need to drag adrien and sage along respectively when they can clearly manage date night alone eludes him. part of him suspects this is an attempt to pair the spares. which, god, would be easier to cope with if they’d come back to the table with his drink already. still looking past sage's ear, adrien answers, “just one reason? what will we talk about the rest of the night then?” at least adrien thinks he’s funny. he rests his cheek against his palm and slowly shifts his stare back to sage’s face. “does it bother you that i don’t like you?” something spiteful and edged in the twitch of his mouth now. “do you need to be liked?”

"party animal. i was reasonable. i didn't put the roofie in my drink myself." ash explains as if anybody asked. he lets adam guide him out of the car and acts a little more drunk than he really is. he leans into them heavily and remembers every line of their body against his. it makes his stomach flip and he moves towards his place like a limp noodle so adam will keep touching him. he doesn't even know what adam is asking what he minds about but he just shakes his head. he hears the familiar jingle of his keys and frowns at how sweet adam is being. this is what ash wants even if he can't have it. "that's not a compliment." ash laughs anyway as he nudges them into his doorway. it's a little cramped because his place is small and he hopes that his roommates are dead to the world or out. "come in" he holds onto adam as he gets out of his boots and kicks them clean across the front foyer. "i can't see." he complains as he tightens his grip on adam. "come get in my bed please. just for a little bit. i'll keep my hands to myself." obviously not.

adam winces at the reminder, but resists the inclination to say more. they focus on the tasks at hand: get ash home, deposit him in his bed, and pretend there’s a way back from this. “it’s not?” he asks rhetorically. it’s nice that ash laughs even when adam isn’t funny. nice like a sweet ache, like working a sore muscle. traipsing through the space toward the bedroom door — they’ve been here before, sure! adam just remembers it going smoother last time! he kicks the door open and cringes at the sound it makes when it bangs off the wall. when he finally does slough ash onto the edge of his bed, adam’s able to take a step back and look around the room. they’ve never taken the time to observe, figured that the less they knew the better. now they admire personal effects and how they look in the streetlight peeking through the blinds. the invitation draws his eyes back; his brows jump, lips twitching toward a smirk. “i’ve heard that before.” deliberation here looks like adam shifting their weight uncertainly, then giving in and dropping onto the corner of the mattress, enough space between for plausible deniability. "i think you're hard to figure out, ash. that's a compliment.”

"i'm gonna—i'm gonna put my two weeks in tomorrow, and... use that two weeks to—well, my fish, i have to take care of my fish, there are seventeen of them, someone has to feed them, um... and maybe prepay some bills, um —" — the floor tiles look like the ocean again. it is literally so hard to form sentences this inebriated, but he's trying his best, okay? he's really trying. "inpatient—" the word slips through his lips like water falls through hands, head nodding, insistent. "gonna do inpatient, i think. last week, i thought i'd try outpatient, but, the — i don't know, i don't think that's— i went out tonight because i had a meltdown at work, i don't think continuing to work there is a good idea if i'm going to... fix... it." there is more than a small part of him that's prepared for adam to not believe any of what he's saying. he wouldn't blame them for it if they didn't, but he hopes that they do; it's the first time he's gotten this far in the plan, and he'd known it was the plan the second he decided to bring them into it — the second he sent that plea. before that, the silence came in so many waves of months because he hadn't figured it out yet — he didn't have the plan, and he wouldn't open this door until he was sure about it. he doesn't really believe in himself that it'll work, that he'll get fixed — not at this point in time — but they'd said: figure it out. find me when you do. he's finding them.

“you had me, man. you had me and you made me sick, wondering what the hell was going on and when i became someone you couldn’t talk to about it.” shut up. he huffs, glowers at the ceiling light. “i do hope you get better, link, and cop on that you can be hurting and still hurt others. you don’t get a pass just because your hurt is louder and you say sorry after.” shut up shut up shut up!!! adam’s expression twists, shame and embarrassment a grim cocktail in their blood. they close their eyes and take a deep breath; the way their face falls back into staid place is practiced. now they look at link dead-on, expectant. “do you want me to look at …?” they gesture to their own middle, in the same spots link had alluded to some scrapes and bruises on himself. "bed's ready whenever you are."  

a laugh bubbles from edith, deep from her stomach. it's a loud, short cackling noise. it catches her off guard as if she didn't realize it comes from her, but this is something edith can relate to plenty. "profound, right. i've done plenty of very unprofound things. but don't worry, i'm actually a pretty good speller." drawing and writing came far easier than speaking most of the time. "unless it's for the joke. i can get behind that." she's done a couple meme tattoos to her and the client's enjoyment. at the end of the day, what edith loves about it is the absolute freedom. isn't this a form of autonomy? decorating yourself however you want, being however you want. she's been lucky to have had a family to be so supportive of her endeavors, but she's witnessed enough of the opposite to know just how jarring it can be. she hopes zoey's visit goes alright. "well, if you need to run from your family, you got my number." her apartment is opened to all who wish to escape. it's her safe place, she is more than happy to share. "oh. yes. it's just my moms. they live across the country, though. they are very colorful people, they own an occult shop," she tells zoey, nodding towards a picture of them hanging higher up amongst the prints and flash sheets scattered amongst the walls. "yup, they do. they've had a bunch my whole life. probably where i got the hunger for it. i used to color theirs' in with markers."

the laughter, abrupt where it bursts in-between, rushes zoey with a sense of pride. its best to quit while she’s ahead, she’s learned, so she sits back with her weight held on her palms behind her, humming acknowledgement as her attention wanders to the tiny bottles of ink on a cart close by. for all her fretting coming in, she’s having a lovely time at her tattoo appointment. then again, she hasn’t set her eyes on a needle yet - the real test of her impulsive bravery. her eyes flicker back over with the offer, surprised rumination coloring her features; surprised to have, like, earned it, but also surprised to find herself putting it in her back pocket, just in case. “that’s nice of you,” she remarks lithely, “but how do you know i won’t, like. i don’t know. throw your furniture around or - you have pets? put your pet in my purse and take it home.” her fear-mongering loses it's silly, stupid heat when she lights up, leaning forward. “seriously? that’s so cool. that’s, like, crystals and stuff, right? i have a tiger’s eye in my purse now. literally the size of my fist. i thought it'd help to, like, feel brave for this today.” zoey’s metaphysical knowledge only goes so far as the first result in a google search, but she’ll take any string of connection here. she follows the invisible trail to take in the family photo on the wall. “they’re cute.” looks back to her artist and grins. “how we lookin’ now, artiste?”

↻ Typhoon Family 태풍상사 (2025) — Episode.13 | Love Beyond Fear    ⠀

"let me?" myles tips his head to the side squinting towards omar like he might find this perpetual excuse of his. he wants to be mad and he wants to put the other out but he can't. he likes him too much. there's too much at risk and it's all become something bigger than intended. "your ass ain't changin' especially not for me. you know my friends the ones were supposed to meet half an hour ago say you're not a good guy." myles points out. his friends do talk shit but he doesn't even care enough. they're not immune to ain't shit men cause the group chat goes crazy every single time one of their significant others act out. "i forgive you every time. you know i'm a bird for you baby." myles grins with all his teeth. he likes that pleading look in omar's eyes. he wants to always be the one to put it there. myles tries to keep that tight expression on his face but there's no fucking use. "it's always hectic at the end when you need to meet me." myles feels better when omar's touching him. when their gazes meet he can only shrug. "my friends are all at the club now. i don't wanna go to the club though." myles shakes his head. even if he's trying to bring omar out to meet them the universe seems to have other plans every time. he finally remembers he's pissed and swats omar's hand away. "act right. ima need you begging on your knees."

a damning indictment, one that makes omar grimace with - finally - shame. “look. i’m sure your friends are good people. but from the shit you’ve told me about what’s-his-face, i don’t know that they’re really the best judges of character.” even so, he can see where his tardiness looks really bad to myles’ friends. would look back to anyone else, too! myles must have something mad going on inside him, to continue to give omar grace. another damning indictment, but not for omar ... “a pretty bird,” he croons, syrupy as he clings myles’ goodwill and teeters into his space like he wants something, “want to let you fly around my place, knocking shit over and squawking at me” stupid, silly, nonsensical in a way omar hopes can draw a laugh. “i don’t plan it. it’s unlucky. trust me, i’d love to tell them to figure it out on their own.” maybe it’s wrong to say - bad superhero! omar finds it hard to care right now, caught up now in the pissy look on myles’ face. unfortunately, he loves it. grins at it, like a fool. “hey now. that’ll come later. promise.” he cocks his head, takes careful stock of the look on myles’ face. “you sure? you love the club. don't tell me i've killed your vibe."  

"we don't really talk," edith replies, with a shrug. it's nothing with malice, mostly he went his way, and she went hers'. "it's alright, though. i don't even mind my worst bits." this took a long time to come around on, making peace with her regrets and insecurities. but they are what they are, just a small part of what makes edith a whole. she lets out a small laugh at the other's reaction, a quick hook of her pinky with zoey's, and listens intently as she explains. "ah," she says with a nod. "many such cases. the beige monochromatic lifestyle is slowly becoming a pandemic. i was lucky to avoid it pretty massively." anything about light and color, it was all first taught to her by her moms, both incredibly colorful individuals in their own regard. she knows she's lucky to have that support. it only aids her further in her art career. edith nods with solemn recognition, the sketchpad has been idle in her hands the further she gets sucked into the conversation. "oh, yes, i don't need to imagine, i lived it. i actually don't tattoo names on people." anymore. she's learned from her mistakes. "we've come a long way, with tattooing, i mean, if you totally hate it, we can laser it off, or cover it up. but i like to think that it's only as permanent as we are, and we're not really permanent at all." she's not going to be gloom and doom about it, but a lot of the reason she loves her tattoos, even the ones she hates, is because they're a representation of her life. to her, she's a gallery wall until she dies. "they're gonna change and shift. we all do, don't we? and i think that's terrifying to a lot of people." finally, she returns to the paper, sketching off vibes more than specifics. "i don't think so. but i'm maybe the biggest supporter of fighting the beige agenda. so let's knock your mom's socks off."

all the color, the vividity of edith’s portfolio, had been what caught zoey’s wandering eye on social media in the first place. she beams appreciatively now, glad to have been heard through the winding noise that bubbles out of her mouth constantly. wide eyes go even wider with the notion of lasers, but it’d be a lie to say zoey doesn’t feel a nudge of relief; permanence is a scary thing! and zoey’s a bit of a chicken. even now, she shudders, shakes her head. “god, i’d rather you misspell some crazy-ass name on me than go under a real life laser. but that’s - mmh. you really know your stuff. little miss profound.” left to roll these new ideals around in her head as edith returns to the sketch, zoey swings her legs back over the side of the chair and watches on absently. she considers the beige storm coming to her next weekend, how she’ll have to play her part for forty-eight long, grueling hours; astute with a straight spine and long-winded observations clattering behind a stiff smile. awesome. at least there’ll be something pretty to look at, just down her arm. the impermanent permanence of it feels less daunting now. zoey almost lets edith work in silence to the end of her sketch — almost! “you close with your family?” just - okay. sure. “do they have a bunch of tattoos all over too?”