#*para.

the sky undresses for sunset, the once blue now freckled with heat and leaking gold. shadows gather around her ankles, jasmine-speckled and dazed with pollen. when the breeze stirs, the trees quiver in their trunks: winged seedlings spill from their branches, carrying blossom and honeysuckle in their arms. in this light, cricket dances along the floor of her new room, the one she shares with her roommate: the term sounds funny, to her. she flashes scarlet a wide grin, glancing out the window as the sun continues to set. “this is exciting, isn’t it?” she says, spinning on her toes as she arches her throat toward the ceiling. the two do not get along; the last time they spoke, they argued, and since they’ve been in the room, there hasn’t been much in the way of conversation. however, cricket’s starting to feel the itch at her tongue, and she casually disregards their previous hostilities in favour of something to say and do. “old crumbling building that still stands strong in an eerie, abandoned town? i’ll put money on there being ghosts hanging about. i think maybe i’ll go for a walk, once it’s dark - want to come?”

beyond the open window, sunset bathes the motel grounds. a gentle breeze drifts along apollo’s shoulders, burdened with the the last bits of heat from daylight. he presses a weary hand to the back of his neck, muscles coiling at his touch. his shoulders are taught with exhaustion, pulled tight like leather over bare bones. the thought of something warm to drink crosses his mind - he could boil water and herb and lemon - but fatigue thrashes too deep in his bones, and he simply collapses upon the bed in the room of the motel. just as he does, the door opens; he lazily rolls onto his side at the sound. “cora,” he groans, half a greeting, half a beckon. slowly, he sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “i dumped my stuff on this end, but this bed’s a little lumpier than the other one; so if you’re willing to save me from a bad night and share...” he trails off, winking sleepily at her.

when she skips through the camp, her palms are coated in pollen and the sticky sap of flower petals. she picks dried twigs from her hair, peeling a leaf from her jumper. cricket tugs at her dark curls, her palm shaking through it as they loosen the tangles against her shoulders, and sighs. there’s always so little to do when camp is made for the night - so quiet, so still. she’s taken to finding ways to entertain herself, these days; not all of them are polite, and not all of them are safe, but they’re just enough to keep her fingers from itching.

today, however, her need for extravagance is marred by fatigue; so instead, she entertains herself with just a few little flowers. spoilt, wilting flowers, dying or already dead, a bouquet she goes to tuck like an omen one of the group member’s bags - smelling of rot and decay. she arranges the flowers carefully, humming idly and working at an unworried pace despite being so open to view at the scene of the crime. she knows the bag belongs to one of the more uptight members within the group (and she’s hoping for something of an interesting reaction); but that person isn’t around, right now, and no one else seems too bothered with what she’s doing.

until, of course, she hears a set of footsteps behind her. the owner of the bag isn’t due back yet; she assumes this is someone else. cricket stiffens without turning around, already plastering her typical, dazzling white grin onto her lips before saying. “no, this isn’t mine, but i’m not taking anything! not even browsing; just leaving a gift.”

she’s restless, right now; cricket leans against the tree trunk with a knuckle bit between her teeth, her other hand tap-tap-tapping against the bark. everyone’s all fired up about going to rescue their friends, but all of a sudden, she’s found something else to worry her. she’s watching him from a distance, watching his blue eyes and subtle scowl, a face she knows all too well. she hasn’t expected to ever see him again, not since that time; but now is as good a day as any for her to be proven wrong. (she’s surprised by the amount of familiar faces she sees in this camp; to this day, she’d thought reunions were a myth.) cricket saunters over with a spring in her step; careless, carefree. “wow-ie. is that you, fitz?” she greets, the mononym she knows him by like a familiar weight on her tongue, “i’d been so sure you were dead.”