#shutteredfocus

It was easy to forget that Mark had friends outside their little gang of eight. After all, most of his time was spent in the loft they both shared with Roger, and any time that wasn’t spent cooped up inside, he was usually wandering around the city, looking for things to film. While she couldn’t account for most of the time he spent outside of their apartment, Piper had always kind of assumed that his wandering was an independent venture. This was partially because it was a rare that she, or any of the rest of them, tagged along, and partially because of the assumption that he didn’t have anyone else who would join him on his little excursions. Mark had a certain awkwardness to him that made it hard to imagine that he’d reach out to strangers on his own, so, it probably was a generally fair assumption to make that he wouldn’t have some secret friends that they all knew nothing about.

Unfortunately, she turned out to be wrong. Not that she could stay particularly upset about it, given the fact that this revelation came with an invitation to go screw around at Coney Island for the evening. The promise of funnel cake was enough to heal any wound. 

Although, as she’d found as the night dragged on, it didn’t seem to dull the sting of being all but abandoned by her friends. Roger and Mimi had wandered off on their own almost as soon as they’d walked through the gates, Maureen had dragged Joanne away when they’d passed a striped tent labelled, “PSYCHIC,” Collins had promised to go win Angel a giant teddy bear from the midway, and most recently, Mark had gone off in search of a tolerable port-a-potty to use. Which left her alone with this man with a vaguely familiar face that Mark had cited as his reason for dragging them all out to Brooklyn, trying to save them from standing in silence for however long it took Mark to take a piss.

Julian can’t contain his laughter as Nate assesses the situation. A hand’s raised delicately to cover his mouth, his impossible smile, as he averts his eyes from the table. It’d been rude to stare in the first place, he knows. But, it’s given Nate the chance to show off his charming humor, and so Julian is freed from regret. 

“I told you,” he shifts his fork over his plate, dividing his food into neat little piles without actually taking a bite. His appetite for the day has yet to kick in. His nerves aren’t helping as he basks in Nate’s company, butterflies running rampant in his stomach. 

“The poor fellow. Perhaps we should pick up his check.”

The young baker exchanges his fork for his drink--a half-glass of warm chardonnay. He raises it in modest toast to his company--his date--as his smile softens at the corners.

casual    conversation    has    become    almost    necessary    for    the    elder    man.    his    brain    works    like    a    writer’s,    making    mental    notes    &    studying    the    people    around    him    as    if    life    was    one    large    lesson    he’d    been    privy    to    get    into.    a    new    conversation    with    a    new    person    is    seen    through    a    different    perspective    than    it    had    been    a    few    years    prior,    now;    what    was    once    an    obstacle    is    now    a    job    requirement.

“    neither,    ”    he    replies    simply.    “        i    relate    to    neither    &    so    my    thoughts    don’t    fall    into    either    category.    ”    a    shrug    overtakes    his    body.    “    it’s    more    of    a    critique    on    the    baby    boomer’s.    they    were    supposed    to    have    been    apart    of    the    progression,    but    i    find    more    regression    happening    wherever    they’re    involved.    you    know--children    must    be    seen,    not    heard.    teenagers    should    be    responsible    &    worldly,    but    they    shouldn’t    speak    about    things    that    matter,    such    as    social    issues,    gun    policies,    or    anything    political.    that’s    too    serious    for    their    hardly    developed    brains    to    wrap    around.    things    like    that;    it’s    mad.    ”

“i swea’ y’all som’ else. it don’ matta whea’ i is: i find a white boy someplace, an’ it don’ take but twenny seconds til i find out they’ont make no kinda sense.” 

in all fairness, this thought had been a staple in camille’s thinking for more years than she could count--even from her days as a tiny schoolgirl, kicking the ones who tugged at her hair, or chasing the ones who knocked her crayons from her hands. this truth of her experience might have been jarred loose a touch by gin on this singular evening--making it slip from mind to mouth with even less of a filter than usual, but it could be argued that it would have found its way past her lips in any regard, alcohol induced or not. it was sourced from a conversation point she’d been keen on discussing, after all.

50 Oddly Specific Headcanons (Accepting)

1. How does your muse feel about seafood?

In his main verse, he’s plain ol’ sick of it. As you can imagine, there is an excess of seafood in Rapture and he’s had his fill by now. In other verses, he likes it just fine. Hector enjoys dining out and isn’t averse to most classic seafood dishes--his favorites being lobster, oysters, and tuna steak.

19. Do they have any distinct voice mannerisms? (e.g. saying ‘like’ or ‘um’ a lot, stutters)

A permanent slur, obviously exacerbated by booze. He often blends words or consonants together, sometimes dropping them completely. For example, ‘It’s not my problem’ turns into ‘S’not m’problem.’

22. What is your muse most thankful for?

and sporting a very stylish beard.

   That hit home in a way Nate didn’t want to admit. He couldn’t depend on his foster families to keep him. There was always an invisible timer looming over his head, one that began the count down as soon as he crossed the threshold of their house. Since aging out of the system and moving into one of the rooms over Cornerstone Books, Nate lived a fairly solitary life. He saw Mr. C in passing, spent time with him and his coworkers during his shifts. But all his errands were done solo, and he spent a lot of time doing photography, shooting buildings in the city and sprawling fields outside the limits when sunset hit.

   He took a breath and steadied himself before looking at her, the kind Samaritan who stopped to make sure he was all right. The shakes had been bad before, and the tremors in his hands had stopped now after drinking a couple juice boxes. Though now, he had to wait before testing his blood sugar again.

  “Believe me. I know the feeling.” His gaze wandered to the ticking down timer. Fifteen minutes was a long time to sit across from someone and try to fend off small talk, and every second seemed to stretch out languidly to torture him. It felt awkward to keep her trapped here with him in his own personal diabetic hell. “I uh, appreciate you looking out for me, but I’ll be fine. Really. You can go back to what you were doing.”

  “It’s always hard to remember to take care of yourself when you hardly even remember that you’re...a person. The trouble is, you have much more serious consequences than I do when I don’t remember to eat.” Jenny forced a weak smile as her delicate fingers anxiously fidgeted with her hair, twisting one of the front pieces around her index finger. In all honesty, she had no idea why she was still talking, or why she was even still here. The man had seemingly gotten his blood sugar under control, so there was really no reason for her to continue sitting next to him. Sure, he hadn’t checked his numbers yet, but his hands had stopped shaking a few minutes ago, and she doubted that he needed her to be present to check his sugar levels.

  Still, her other option was to go home to her tiny, little studio apartment and sit alone at the folding card table she’d set up until it was time for her to go to bed. That hardly seemed more appealing than dragging this interaction out for a bit longer, regardless of how painful small talk was. At least it was a conversation with another living, breathing human.