#thread tbd

— ☾ —

Michel Renella was known for throwing the gaudy neo-20th century parties of babylonic ambition everyone hated but went to in droves. 

This time, Renella and his triad were playing a filmed sensual surrealist enactment of Flahooley over a Sherwin Williams High Reflective White monolith flanked by gold-flecked rose marble pillars, part of Michel Renella's awful penchant for anything art deco revival (like the brown and pink carpeted stairs and split-levels) completing the absurdity and tastelessness of the whole pad and affair. 

Luckily, the silent and runny off-color production of Flahooley was accompanied by one of those big brass bands. They hired a singer who could simulate Yma Sumac's vocalisations and startling range—her right to the golden headdress. 

Ben had quietly planted his frame on something he was not supposed to sit on, watching the salmon-saturated projection of a wannabe actress twirling her wrists and sashaying from resin plaster to marble, resin marble to plaster, the singer's golden voice glissading through his right ear; Birds was the song, and she tittered and cried like one. Castanets thudded against his left ear in competition with the flourishing party chatter. The film no one was interested in watching skipped between the wannabe actress dancing and flashes of burning baby dolls, then the it-girl genie shaking her tits. And who should step through that hokey image but Steven Grant? 

"Look, it's the sheik." 

A few ferns away stood a man costumed, again, in poor taste, as a heavily, you know, made-up Rudolph Valentino, but they both knew Ben was referring to Grant. 

Grant who was like a different guy every time Ben saw him. He could swear, on God, who he wouldn't, so he'd swear on his Ma, the love and bane of his life, that Grant was about three different guys in a tan button-down, a three-piece suit, or the t-shirt with the little scarf. 

Ben rose to approach him not two moments before Michel Renella shrieked, "Get off my Noguchi, you giant shitting fuck—!" 

The giant shitting fuck to Renella, swaggering Grant's way without turning to look at the sculpture he’d defiled: “I'd sit on the furniture, Nella, but you don't own any." 

"So," Ben said when he met his mark. Flashing one of his coyer angles, though, his insuppressible sour grin gave the guise a double edge. "Grant. I heard you're producing a movie or something. How?" 

One of Nella's catering can-can dancers swung by on legs as long as Ben was tall, and he plucked a glass off her tray.  

"Have a drink," he implored, pushing the flute into one of the magnificent Steven Grant's magnificent hands. "That's nice. Go on. Give it a good knock-back. Now tell me about your amazing lives. My mistake; I mean life." 

Ben grinned and pressed Grant's shoulder. 

          jaerim.

          it’s the real reason why she’s even retracing a path full of memories, full of stinging jabs to her insides that she was never trained against. in a meeting not so long ago, she eagerly took on the challenge, telling her parents that she would once and for all end the hunting party against him. she would take him out herself, no matter how long it took.

          having acted on a whim, she realizes coming to the base of the mountain is an unlikely spot to even begin her search. why would the spot she used to meet her sister at be important to him? to the person who clearly ended up never caring about her or her sister? she’s continuously grasped at straws to even begin to understand any of his actions, and every time it only brings lava to her veins.

          yet it’s this magma that brings hayoon to the base of the looming mountain, scarred with  history. she tilts her face up to the summit, feeling the mist gloss over her face, inhaling for what she hopes will be a sense of calm to the unusual nerves residing within her. and then, her ears pick up footsteps. a rustle. and immediately she’s gripping the dagger holstered at her side as she whips around toward the noise, approaching slowly. she smirks to herself, a dry breath of a laugh escaping.

          “ look, whoever you are -- you’re doing a terrible job right now, ” she declares to the figure she spots, cast in shadow. she doesn’t register the familiar frame she’s taunting. “ if you’re looking to pick a fight, i’d be happy to send you running. ”

❝ please, just for one night, will you lie down next to me, we can leave our clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up. ❞ (for canon barri)

fallesto: continued from x

Would it be cruel if he turned and left her? She had already poured her heart out to him and he had remained still as a rock and did not answer her cries to him. She had come to him with her heart in her hand and he had coldly turned his back on her. He had his reasons, countless that he believed were honest and true. He had told her once and would not tell her again. What she felt for him would pass in time, it was a fleeting moment and nothing more. Young love that was placed upon him by mistake for the adventures they have had and the long journey they had shared.

The hour was indeed late as he glanced down. He was tired, so tired. This ruling as hand of the queen was more tiring to him that any formal training ever was. He wished he could be out there again, in the streets shoulder to shoulder with the men patrolling at there side and if not with them - then out further with the search parties that have been sent out to find the queen. Anywhere but here would be more ideal, but he was hand of the queen and his duty was to rule in her place.

“You must have gotten lost on your own way to your chambers, again. Next time I will make sure you have an escort so you find it this time.”

He slowly would shake his head from side to side. She would not leave his chambers and he was not going to force her. Her request was innocent enough and it would only cause more harm to her, giving her mixed signals and confusing her feelings, but he was tired, too tired to argue with her again and make her cry before sending her away. He would walk forward and do as she asked, he lay down on the bed beside her, clothing on as he just stared upwards.

@fallesto (Barristan)

She had hated herself even as the words left her mouth. It was nigh pathetic, coming here and practically begging -- when he’d already been more than clear that he did not return her feelings for him -- begging for just a small piece of him, whatever he was willing to give.

Like a dog whining for table scraps. 

She’d come to hate this place -- the strange food, the unrelenting sun, the language that she still struggled to grasp. The Yunkish armies were at the gates, the trade ships had been blocked from coming in and out of the bay, and the Sons of the Harpy were wreaking havok within the city walls. The city had been just barely kept under control when Dany was ruling, and now that she was gone -- it just seemed hopeless. For the first time since leaving the Riverlands, she wondered if she had made a grave mistake.

It had not helped matters that she had alienated her only friend in this place, to have put herself in a situation where the only person she could seek comfort from was the one who had broken her heart in the first place. 

She held her breath as he chided her, and waited for the inevitable -- he would tell her to return to her own room, he would tell her he didn’t want her here. But even as he shook his head, he walked toward her, and lay stiffly on the bed beside her, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t know which would have been worse, being ordered out of the room, or this, having him so resigned, only here with her because she’d left him no other choice. 

What was the saying -- you made your bed, now lie in it?

“I must do your hair one of these days,” Talia insisted, relaxing into the comforting touch of Danerys’ fingers running through her hair and undoing the braids she had weaved in this morning. She had not allowed anyone else to do so since her mother, not like anyone ever asked. Talia toyed with the hem of her skirt, twirling an edge between her fingers. “When you spoke to that man today, what did you say to him? I’m not versed in knowing multiple languages like you. I had only been taught the common tongue.”

“I’d adore if you did. Missandei is good at it, of course, but I’ve always thought Northern braids were beautiful too.” Her touches were gentle as amethyst hues flickered over the stilled frame of the female, a small smile crossing her lips at the question. It was true the dragon Queen spoke several language – how could she not? Many of her armies did not speak the common tongue, and those who did were not particularly affluent in the skill. “I was speaking dothraki to him. I asked him if he had ever seen snow before.” For a moment, she watched the female. “I can teach you a little if you wish.” // @fifthbornforrester

<< Yorkville, New York, New York >>

Sunlight didn't wake him; breathing did. The measure of another body's life and warmth. The shape and weight and delicate muscle of another leg resting on his leg; leaner and shorter than his; pleasantly warm. 

He'd been dreaming—Ben thought he'd been dreaming, and he sighed, and the fireworks behind his hot red eyelids left on him the impression of its pleasantries. The next gala was a year away, and he'd made it through this one; he even felt well-rested. 

Then he opened his eyes. He opened his eyes to a smooth brown shoulder, well-shaped, taught with lean muscle, and smelling of cinnamon. That was nice. 

Then he saw the tattoos, and he scrambled. He recognized the cryptic bands in an instant and, in that instant, realized the body he'd made a fetish of belonged to Rashad. 

Ben's heart leapt, as he would have if he didn't feel crushed by shame. Instead, he peeled himself from the sheets and slunk out of bed. He was naked, which could only mean one thing. 

Clutching the doorframe and his—you know—Ben backed out of the master room. His stomach lurched. 

Had he...?

He woke up and found Rashad in his Manhattan apartment, in the master bedroom, with the candlestick and the Hiroshima Mon Amour poster. 

No, he hadn't found Rashad; he'd committed a crime. How had it happened? Ben couldn't remember. He must have coerced—or been coerced—maybe it had been mutual, a double murder of sorts. 

It was true he kept Rashad sequestered from some of his friend groups—Marci, Ian, and Tihan—his peers from Edinbrough—his friend group from Columbia—but Ben kept all his friends in compartments. And he and Rashad had always been friends. Really good friends since prep. What if...

When the room started spinning, Ben decided to forgo thought. He stumbled into the guest bathroom and threw up. Not hungover, no. Sick to his stomach with discomfit, sure. Yes. Great. 

Ben then performed his supposed daily ritual as though the cleansing of his body and the particular order of each task would protect him—ward off the yips or something. He brushed his teeth in the shower. He shaved. When Ben's back was scrubbed raw, he toweled off. He ran argan oil through his hair and glowered at his reflection. He'd decided to stop thinking, but if Ben were thinking, he might have thought this was more than he'd do if he were actually going outside. 

He looked okay, though he was sweating at his temples by the time he switched off the bathroom light and trudged into the penetrating living room light illuminating thousands of dollars worth of Pakistani carpet squares, the art deco armchairs. He'd forgotten about those. 

Ben quickly pulled on whatever clothes he could find, anything that smelled all right, wandered over to the fridge, and rubbed the perspiring bulb of French-pressed coffee on his face, all over the slope of his face. 

"Mmm, gross," he muttered, pouring himself a tall glass. "You're gross." 

He poured Rashad coffee from a different carafe and added a splash of milk. A glass in each hand, he crossed the hot living room. Slowly, as if he were wading through a vast mangrove to wake a sleeping prince. What would the prince be like when he awoke? 

Morning rose twenty storeys from the Manhattan streets, blaring with yellow taxis and ripe lemon sun pouring through unadorned floor-to-ceiling windows. At the edge of his bed, Ben stopped and sat. The bed groaned on his behalf. He glanced at the sleeping Rashad and took a deep breath in. "Uhhhhhh." And a deep breath out. "Huhhhhhhh..." He licked his lips. He swallowed. He did everything but wake him.

Rashad really resembled a prince, too, his hand drawn over his brow, his long, ringed fingers looped in the melodrama of his hair. Eyes... 

Nope. No. 

He had to stop himself. Ben never had that voice he imagined most people did, the Jiminy Cricket, but he knew he had to stop dreaming. Rashad was royalty. He lived in a realm of rare artifacts. There was a palace, tradition, and expectation. Then there was Ben. He knew *this* had to be stopped. Now. Before someone got hurt, roasted, canceled.

"Uh." Ben swallowed before reaching for Rashad's arm, his hand just brushing his skin. "Hey-y…"

—☾—

New York City was a good place to disappear completely. Historically, Manhattan was the mythical megalopolis where people came to create themselves in Their image fading into ghosts and withered gods over time by choice or natural selection. Ben told himself he was back in the Apple temporarily. He was in public transit purgatory until further notice. That was all.

On this muggy, pre-fall day in limbo, Ben was on his way to 'pick up Rey from work,' though Rey, being both the mechanic and the one with a valid driver's license, ruled the wheels. Ben was a tolerated, eternally grateful passenger. Since his license had been suspended, Ben joked that he'd sold his car to a really talkative guy named Greg Arias. 

In all seriousness, he had.

Rey wasn't waiting outside Salerno's Body Shop when he rounded the corner of Ninth. A quick look inside the vestibule led to an awkward exchange with her boss, and when Ben shrugged through the open door of her supply room, he didn't find Rey there.

That was fine.

Ben then sloped into the main shop, Hell's Kitchen's largest industrial carousel. As he scanned the floor, a funny feeling crept up his shoulders, placing him in a chokehold. Not funny-ha-ha. Funny-uh-oh. Something was going to happen—but Ben usually had the sense that an anvil was about to drop on him any second, so, slouching, he took his leave, figuring he’d text Rey later. Or possibly tomorrow. Or in a year, when he renewed his license.

At the very moment Ben shuffled toward the front gate, he spotted a mechanic he'd never seen before, and stopped dead in his tracks. She had big red hair, wore an oversized logo t-shirt knotted at the bottom, and the air of a person ready to go home hours ago. The woman was also instantly and eerily familiar, which Ben hated. He preferred the possible reality (now lost and gone) in which the woman was a stranger. Usually, Ben would hang under the flag brackets and wait out her exit so he could lope off undetected, but he couldn't ignore the impulse that told him she was a ghost, like him. A ghost he knew.

Ben smoothed the hair on the back of his neck, his body locked in reverie. A matte orange Mustang rose on the lift behind him like a silly set piece, and Ben was a doubly silly prop hanging from limp strings. Then those strings snapped, and the shop spilled back in full color, its bite of machine music and chemical fumes eating at his senses. Though it couldn't have been happening, it was; the red-haired woman was real, and Ben recognized her. She was one of the twins.

Ben swelled with memories, memories of glowsticks in dark wardrobes, fortune-telling games with autumn leaves; a sprig of golden-yellow horse chestnut meant good luck. Did they ever remember? Those lonely nights? The games with Reagan and Shiloh, too, though she joined in less often. 

Shiloh was a bit different. Reagan took to dancing and music; her sister took the china clocks apart and put them back together again. She’d been the more private sister, and Ben and Shiloh could be quiet together.  

One day, he never saw them again. The twins became whispers, ghost stories told around solipsistic urban bonfires. Twins were haunted, they said. It was that simple. 

How much time had passed? Ben stared at the twin, open-mouthed. She stared back at him.

In the rise, the rush of feeling in his chest, the quickening pace of that blood-pumping organ under his ribs, Ben couldn't tell whether he was looking at Shiloh or Reagan. For a moment, Ben was convinced she was Reagan, utterly enthralled until reality backhanded him. Reagan was...

"Shiloh?" 

Ben froze as she did—the name, it'd just sort of slipped out.

Shiloh’s face moved. She recognized him. And that wasn't good, apparently. Maybe she heard about his 'little accident' in Singapore. Maybe she didn't remember him at all. She dove into the Ninth Avenue rabble like merfolk. And Shiloh let herself be swallowed and hustled along, surely in hope of losing him in the stream of people, but Ben, who knew the rhythm of all crowds like the hammering of his heart, who, with a modicum’s assertiveness, could push his way through, and didn't, just couldn't let her slip away, couldn't let it go. 

Occasionally, one of his shoulders would slam into someone going against the flow of traffic, and so as he hurried to catch Shiloh, he waffled between calling her name (which drew far too much attention but seemed fundamental to their situation) and apologizing to hapless pedestrians.

"Sorry—

Shiloh, hold—

Excuse me

Uh, okay…

Sorry, please move, sorry—

Shiloh, wait

P—Ow

oh my GODfffmnmOVE

Shiloh!

Wait—"

Finally, Ben caught Shiloh's wrist in his big, hot mitt. Held fast, though his grip felt clammy and weak, though she glared at him, alarmed, maybe angry? She still hadn't grown into her eyes. Ben hadn't grown into one or two attributes he wasn't going to name.

"Just wait."

—☾—

He rambled home one day to find it altogether changed. When Ben was a child, his hometown was one you'd drive right through and miss, 'you didn't watch the roads or the trees. Everyone called it North Wetyin back then.

North Wetyin, in the tradition of probably all backwoods villages, was more like five or eight miles out from the bustling North Wetyin of 30,000 strong. At least, he remembered it being eight or ten. Today it seemed like five or less, like the boonies suddenly came into a lot of gambling money and turned a blind drunk eye as city developers ate their way into the trees, swallowing distance. The real name was something like Wetsprings or Westwood. Something lost to time. 'Lot of trails lost, too, but that didn't put him off walking them.

Forty-five minutes through a dog-friendly path, something Ben and his Dobermann could ease into, and he stopped to breathe in the piny air. Off a guarded ledge, a shaded dome, all kinds of green. More trees than he'd seen in a decade. He felt gnarled and big, getting old, like the cedars and firs.

A little ways off was a gulley so lush Ben almost missed the valley closure signs. D.O. reminded him with a low growl. Ben tilted his cap in a way that said, 'Just a look,' and D.O. hung back in a way that said, 'Your funeral, bucko.'

He just had a look—couldn't help it. The flowers drew him, these white frilly poles, sprays of curling mango-hued leaves. Invasives, maybe. His eyes drifted onto a boulder shaped sort of like a head. D.O. growled, then yipped, loud enough to ruffle a few feathers up in the trees.

"Quiet," Ben grunted. But all right. Look had.

Just as he began to make his way back, the mossy head-shaped boulder moved; it turned the whole way left. Turned on a neck thick as a redwood and so close, Ben stumbled a good dozen steps back toward D.O., boots scuffing the poor man's asylum of the cleared path, feeling like he was falling the entire time.