#pinkcopy

flesh still stings from the caustic winds that'd clipped his cheeks that afternoon. turbulent winds ravaged the pacific palisades, diffusing a myriad of wildfires unremittingly through urban landscapes until 118's timely mediation. “ yeah? it's only cause the camera on my back was broadcasting in 4k. and you know what... it's probably cause buck wasn't there. ” the shrug of enervated shoulders is noncommittal, only the action though, because the half-smile that trails it is suitably modest in response to the earnest recognition directed his way. it's not the first time he receives a kind remark from janna or her newsroom, and it's likely not the last time he'll abandon it. not that he doesn't concur that what he does isn't stirring or awe-inspiring, but he doesn't do it for the recognition, he does it to help others, and he likes to ensure that that's what comes across in the wake of a perilous and grueling day. a ( her ) saccharine smile and whimsical tone both make it rather challenging for eddie to resist however, one could say he's charmed, and he'll proudly admit that her cool honey hair looks prettier by the day, even through a screen.

and here she finally comes :  the shape the zephyrs take when they dream of a daughter. the nymph’s approach was quiet as the hush between gusts to meet dionysus and their pantomime. ❛❛ euoi !  ❜❜ they cheer, ❛❛ is that the sound of heaven fluttering ? i must have prayed well. ❜❜  with their dark hair clung in damp curls around their face, and their lips stained to the brim, as though they'd been kissed too hard, @pinkcopy rightfully asks : are you drunk ?

the wine god grins, his wild teeth glistening. ❛❛ still ? perhaps. i was in the velvet bottom of celebration when these unlucky few found me. ❜❜  he gestures towards the pirates, all enraptured within their work or conversation, oblivious to whom he'd been speaking to -- within the grips of his heady tendrils, the fools would only see and believe what he wanted them to. ❛❛ they thought me some sleeping prince. easy coin in eastern ports. i’d welcome a ride back home to phrygia, but i still have work to do in greece. might you slow this thing down for me, janna ? ❜❜

You know who says it's all fine if you know who sunscreens him up as long as she comes out on the boat w him :)

a twilight sky stretches like bruised silk over pasadena hills, warm and humming above the wedding reception’s fairy-lit garden. he's poised stiff-backed near the edge of the crowd, fingers tucked into the pockets of black slacks as if they could hide the pulse thundering through them. he chuckles at something buck's said, too loud, far too forced, the sound not quite reaching his eyes — because his eyes continue to drift there. to her. janna, standing in a dress that catches the golden lights like it knows exactly where to hit, laughing a little too brightly in her date’s shoulder, like she hadn’t vanished like smoke all those months ago, like she hadn’t confiscated the air with her upon departure.

he tells himself he isn't still watching. that the clench in his breast isn't anything but leftover scar tissue from the injury. but god, she's always a storm — beautiful, wild, and gone before he can ever find shelter. now she's returned, striding toward him with a smile like she hadn’t ripped something out of him he hadn’t even admitted he had to give. when she proposes a dance, the request plunges jaggedly into his gut like a knife with no mercy. he'd blinked — then offered a ghost of a smile, one hand dragging down his cheek as if it might hush the static emerging under skin.

smoke coils through the air like a living creature, clinging to every breath, every tremble, every unspoken fear that passes between them in the wreckage. eddie crouches low beside her, his gloved hands steady even as the chaos of collapsing concrete and screaming metal thunder around them. his helmet's tilted back just enough to reveal the steady weight in his gaze — not pity, but a vow carved into the lines of a man who had already seen too much loss. her voice, laced with indisposition, shatters through the sirens and groans of a dying building.

THEY'RE BOTH MEN OF BLUSTER, IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, SEPARATELY TOO ABIDINGLY STUBBORN TO EASILY SURRENDER THEIR POINT. darcy's steadfastness appears to arise most often from a rigid set of values and an immovable faith in the degree of his own sense of logic. simeon's, of course, comes from little other than a fiery petulance and commitment to remaining contrary, with which he'd allegedly been born – if his mother is to be believed. ( " wailed like a banshee like you wanted to be put right back, " she's said with a heavy but fond sigh, " like you'd decided to come into this world and changed your mind immediately. " ) more than anything, he does not like to surrender his point, no matter how ridiculous he may know it is. for all he can be bright-eyed and soft, simeon can also turn and plant his heels behind the fort of his own opinions, his own way, as though he'd grown roots there. darcy is the sort of man people expect to be immovable ; simeon, on the other hand, often surprises with his resolve.

he doubts his patron is surprised by it anymore these days.

sim scowls from where he stands halfway across the sitting room, arms crossed over his chest and jaw set. he knows that the impression of his askew cravat and half-unbuttoned waistcoat – which he'd half torn away from himself in frustration upon entering the room – lessen the effect of his displeasure, but he doesn't care. he's determined to give darcy the fight he'd incited by plucking sim directly out of his scandalous party. it matters little that he'd practically invited the interruption, knowing perfectly well he'd been warned away from his flamboyant displays and utterly ignoring the cautions anyway. if all dear mr. darcy would admit to caring about was his family name, then sim would not hesitate to make himself a disgrace to it, if that's what it takes to snatch the young lord's attention. he's a demanding sort of man, grasping jealously at every ounce of his attention that he can when he yearns to be the center of somebody's focus. and as much as he'd refused to admit it, he wants to be the center of darcy's.

" oh, don't simeon me, " he bites back, even as he feels a heat settle into his bones from the very tone of his patron's voice. despite himself, sim must swallow back a tightness in his throat that briefly makes it difficult to draw breath. " I am quite serious, fitzwilliam, if you are so embarrassed by me, then it would be foolishness to expect your patronage to extend beyond the theatre season, would it not? "

the performer must pull his eyes from the other man then as he feels his face begin to heat beneath the strange softness he senses in darcy's gaze, one he might risk interpreting as yearning if he isn't careful. he knows better than that, doesn't he? simeon learned long ago that only fools live on such dreams. even if he were delusional enough to think that's what darcy wanted, he could not possibly believe he would do something about it.