#isaac001

Location: Bowie’s home

Bowie stands barefoot in front of the stove, standing balanced with one foot atop the other as they tend to the simmering pot of red beans - smoked sausage, ham hocks, bay leaves and all. Wooden spoon in hand, they stir, watching how it all swims together. They stir, and they stir, and they stir. A mindless motion that gives them something to do while their thoughts carry them far away from their kitchen. Thoughts that are all centered around Isaac, the honored dinner guest this evening. But he’s so much more than that, isn’t he? Bowie sighs, chewing at their bottom lip. 

It’s easy, normal even. Familiar. And incredibly close. But only because the two of them are virtually best friends with knowledge of the most intimate parts of each other. That’s what they tell themself. That’s the only reason. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Bowie had once loved him with a depth that even felt foreign to the ocean. A love so limitless, it even seemed impossible for the stars to comprehend. An all consuming kind of love that happens once in a lifetime. Twin flames are what they are - a bond far stronger, far more powerful than that of soulmates. But things happen. Life gets in the way and it goes on. Right person, wrong, awful timing. And New Orleans, where their love story sparked and eventually burned out, was a lifetime ago - at least that’s how it feels now.

Just two reasonable exes who eventually ended up in the same town an hour away from home. The Universe is a funny thing and a cruel mistress, but there is nothing to stress over. Bowie is simply a friend cooking dinner for another friend. It’s that simple. But they’re pulled from their thoughts when they feel his presence first before hearing him, a smile growing on their face as he draws nearer until he’s looming over them at the stove. Laughing, Bowie gently pushes him away. “Boy, if you don’t get from by me and my pot before I cut ya ass. You know better. Move,” They say teasingly with a faint smirk, their brows arched while they look at him with one hand frozen en route towards the knives.

It’s so easy, and that’s what sometimes makes it so difficult.

@isaacxmarshall​

Sawyer had never been much of a reader. In school, he'd never given a second thought to the lines on the pages in front of him, or what they might mean. But prison had altered his perspective. Most nights, he hadn't been able to sleep and a worn out book had been the only shred of entertainment he could find during the quiet hours. In the process, he'd rediscovered the same classics that teachers had tried to throw at him in school and had developed a new appreciation for all of the world building, character development, and underlying messages he'd never even tried to see years ago. Now that he was out, Sawyer was looking for a new title to dive into, hoping it might help with his ongoing insomnia.

It wasn't lost on him, how odd and out of place he looked, strolling up and down the rows of books wearing a leather cut and reeking of exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke— bikers weren't exactly known for their taste in literature. But he was determined to find a title that could hold his interest, at least for a few days— he just wasn't sure where to start. Slowing to a stop beside the person closest to him, Sawyer cleared his throat and gestured to the shelf in front of them, "Got any recommendations?" Cutting a small smirk, he shrugged his shoulders and leaned in, almost like he was letting the other man in on a secret, "I'm kinda new at this." But he figured that part was glaringly obvious. "Don't even have a library card yet."