#kennedy.

☼ –– @kmcrgan​ !

festive hearts beat in time with upbeat pop music –– and while a slightly less intoxicated nour might make a passing critique at the dj’s safe options, this green-clad lad steps and swirls his way to the bar without a care or criticism in the world. even as the barkeep crafts his umpteenth gin, nour’s shoulders rotate; his toes tap upbeats against hardwood floor. and with a new drink in hand, he follows post malone’s lead, tracing circles on his way across the room, tossing in a few fancy combinations alex taught him during one of their dusk hangouts.

and that’s when he sees him. kennedy. their eyes lock, mid-spin. nour might choose to glide away, pretend someone’s called him from over his shoulder... but his mind’s not crystalline any more. 

         With a job as demanding as the one that Calvin obtained, it was very rare that there was a moment of peace during his free time. Or heck, during his time at all. Even if he was technically off the clock, that hadn’t stopped his phone from buzzing or his badge from being a beckon call to whatever crisis the station seemed to have. Reported crimes, cold cases, old school paperwork… it never ceased to finish when the clock turned five, or when Calvin had already mentally checked out. Still, the cop had managed to be one of those rare cases that always kept on top of his schedule. Always punctual, always on time — so, for once in a blue moon, Calvin was behind in the piles of files stacking up on the corner of his desk that simply required a glance over and a signature, though couldn’t seem to get a moment of quiet when he was locked behind the door of his office. Packing up around noon that day, he opted for a bit of a breeze on his sun tanned neck and to ditch the tie while his pen hurried across dotted lines, ending up at the freelance area of Blue Clay City Park. With his leg bouncing and one resting on his knee to give him a makeshift desk with his lap, Calvin glanced up briefly for a break. His eyes had grown tired of staring at the same wording for quite some time. They skirted around the park, bystanders whizzing by in the hot summer weather, until they eventually landed upon the honey haired woman who’s name came across his desk far too often. At least, far too often for someone her age. The case of her father had been one that had gone cold but he had heard about since he had arrived at the station, and one that was now fresh on his desk. He debated on saying anything, a first for a talkative man with some grit to him, wondering if she were to recognize him once they had maintained some eye contact.

Believe me when I say I never thought I’d ever say this, but I think the cure for this weird work funk lies outside of King’s cuddles and a good book. All suggestions, plans, and remedies are very much welcome! Thank you in advance.