#elio.

it's his mothers birthday party. an annual affair which sees their back garden overflowing with the entire town. naturally, elio has grabbed a bottle of his mothers finest champagne, and snuck off to his bedroom. sits by his window watching as even the tamest of people embarrass themselves whilst under the influence. he loathes them all. every single one of them except — " get out, " he insists, hearing his bedroom door creek. only when he turns to see grace does his demeanour change. " oh . . . it's you. " his tone softens out of habit alone, corner of his mouth lifting upwards. " are you bored without me, or is this you attempting to find a bathroom ? there's at least three on this floor. "

when: 'tis the holiday season (unspecified)

where: chairos art gallery

from the moment she'd moved to town, the gallery had captivated her. the open windows, the way the sunrise caught the glass in a cascade of yellows and orange. and, not long after she noticed it, there was a resident. lights that were left on, the paintings that appeared after a day without passing by. she didn't know what was happening, but she knew she wanted the space. it was one of the clearest thoughts she'd had in months— potentially years.

the artist himself was somewhat less clear of a figure as she saw him standing on the first floor. the door was unlocked, easy for her to push open. unobtruded, though she would have preferred unobtrusive, as it seemed to catch his attention. she tried to think of a greeting, falling just short of polite as she finally said: "it looks much better than it did last week."