#zack.

Cafés were such quaint spaces, Cleo found. The taste of coffee and other warm drinks did little to satiate the hunger within her, but she still was fond of the entire human ritual of ordering a drink, paying for it and receiving it. More than that, she liked how the shops were work places for the creative and non-creative. Doodled art on paper cups and people devouring whole books or writing endless sentences with potential. Sure, the laptop brigades sometimes made the places seem a little depressing, but whenever Cleo gleamed that the humans were not working on code or even an Excel sheet, she was able to forgive it.

Today she had ventured to A Latte to Love, a place she’d grown fond of for their nice syrups and the fact that it was in her neighborhood. The walk to and from it past the river was a great bonus, and she often took her coffee to go. Not today, though. Today she intended to feed.

It was like a chore she had given herself. A task on a to do list. She hoped the human approach would work. She’d go to the shop, help a human with their work and then leave to never feed off them again. She would not think of Harley, because Harley was not at all the type to go to a coffee shop for inspiration or work. He’d drank his coffee black and strong and often cold, as he’d forgotten it. Sometimes with some whiskey in it. 

She shook the thoughts from her mind, clutching her coffee cup with her gloves. She’d gone for some wintery syrup and plenty of milk and was looking around now for something to accompany it. A crude way of thinking of it, but that might also help. Eyes fell on a young woman reading in a corner. That could be interesting, though not all readers were also creators. There was someone scribbling in a notebook, but Cleo did not want to interrupt the fervor with which they wrote. And then there was a man who seemed to be about her appearing age, bend over a sketchbook. She moved to the table behind him, pulling out the chair and bumping it against his. “Oh!” The apology was quick to follow: “I’m sorry —” She hated herself and the performance of it. This had been easier when she’d been with the aos sí, constantly surrounded by artists who wanted nothing more than some inspiration. “That’s … what’s that you’re working on? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

—

While Zack’s more commercial art, the work he did for clients, had been going more than well, his personal creation was lacking. For so long, his portrait projects had kept him busy. There was always one in the series that he could go back to and find something to work on with it. But lately all he could do was stare at the pages or sketch utterly uninspiring mockups. His more multimedia ventures, though, had been exciting (especially when attempting them with Joel, of course) and so he had decided to sketch some abstract ideas in the form of those scrap sculptures.

So far, it was working. The rooibos tea he had ordered when he first arrived at the shop had likely grown cold where it sat abandoned at the one end of the table. His page was filled with sharp edges and joined shapes – both pencil renderings of pieces he had seen at Joel’s and imagined ones he made up on the spot. He was pleased to be generating something, anything really, but when he paused to look at the page, he couldn’t help but be dismayed. A bunch of sketches, that’s all it was, really. Just as he was resisting the urge to rip the page out and crumple it up dramatically, someone bumped into him from behind.

He was quick to offer the woman a smile, shaking his head at her apology. “No, no problem. I’m probably taking up too much room.” He nudged his chair in further under his table, as if to prove that point. When she asked about his sketches, though, the smile twisted into something less sure. “Oh. It’s… Well. Not much, if I’m being honest. I have a friend who makes sculptures out of scrap metal.” He tapped the corner of the page, where a small, rustic doodle of Joel in his welding gear peaked out. “I was just drawing some…ideas for that. Mostly just trying to warm up, though. You know, get the creative juices flowing.” 

Zack wondered if this woman was an artist herself (likely, there were always a few writers and drawers and other creatives around the coffee shop at mid-day) or if she had just asked as a way to start a conversation. He found he didn’t mind either way. “I’m Zack,” he offered, easy smile returning. “Are you an artist yourself?”

—

The artist was humble, making room for Cleo as if it was on him, that she had bumped into him. Never mind the fact that she had done it on purpose, that she had moved into this shop with the sheer intent to find someone like him. She found it endearing, the way he made his work seem little, as if it was nothing. Brushing his pencil strokes under the table as if to divert attention. She also found it sad. Art should not be belittled or thought of as something that could be spoken of this way, at least not when there was potential in it.

Humility was a trait that was lost on muses, she knew. Perhaps most fae. It certainly was still lost on her, even when she had lost so many other qualities she thought inherently muse-like. She hoped to coax something out of the other once she started her feeding, something more like confidence. So that the next time someone asked him on what he was working on, he would dare to boast a little.

“No, you're fine — I pulled my chair too hard,” she said, smiling guiltily. “Even a sketch can be much. It's the start, isn't it, of something bigger? The first step.” Her lips crept up at the sight of the doodle, another artist. “A collaboration … I love that.” She felt an itch within to meet this other artist, to see the two creative spirits dance. That's why she loved music, after all: it was so very often enhanced through people working together.

Cleo pulled off her gloves, placing them on her table. She was still standing, though. “I'm Cleo,” she offered. “And I suppose, but more of the musical variety. I sketch and doodle a little, though. More as a hobby than anything.” She looked from Zack to the art, then back at him. “I like this linework. Bringing something so three dimensional to live on the page must be fun. But you said you were warming up... for what?” She gave a look. “Something big?” A beat. “Would you mind if I sat?” She gestured at the chair across from Zack, rather than the one behind him.

—

The first step… Zack hoped she was right, that his sketches would lead to some fully realized project. “Maybe,” he said. “Sometimes I find I just sketch and doodle and can’t get myself to move on to something more.” His worry faded some as their attention turned to the doodle of Joel. “Yeah! It’s been really cool working with him. Just learning a new skill is exciting, but I think it’s been helping to…inspire me in my own work too. I dunno if it’s the same for him.” He would have to ask Joel – though the scrapyard owner seemed hesitant to consider himself a “real artist.” Whatever that meant. 

Cleo was a musician and that somehow fit, in Zack’s mind. He didn’t know the woman at all, but something about her stature and poise felt like they would belong to a musician. “Do you play an instrument? Or sing?” The musicians Zack knew tended to have a whole slew of instruments that they could play, as well as singing. “I have a friend who plays trombone. I think. One of the brass instruments, for sure.” He was fairly certain he had gotten Ishan’s instrument of choice correctly. “He’s the DJ for the midnight radio show here, actually.” While not a musician himself, Zack was happy to have another friend who was musically inclined. It meant he might just expand his tastes even further. 

He gestured to the seat, extending the offer to her. “Just, my own projects. I’ve been working on these portraits that are also part collage and part abstract. So they take some sketching and planning and fiddling, is all.” He didn’t mention that he hadn’t been making much progress on them at all. It felt like admitting too much – at least, it was to him, when he knew that the reason was feeling disconnected from the people he was trying to portray. He didn’t want Cleo to think he was being withholding, though, and so he flipped to the page where his current work was. On it was the plan for his Wynne portrait: pieces of their face interspersed with ribboned plaits and wildflowers. Turning the sketchpad so Cleo could see, he explained, “This is the one I’m working on currently – or trying to. It’s of my friend, Wynne.”

—

“I get that. There’s something nice about just doodling away. Whenever I partake, I tend to sketch the people around. The ones walking through the streets, and such.” There were plenty of scraps of paper behind Echo’s counter that she had put ink on, only to discard it at the end of the day. It was good to keep the hands busy when the mind was such a dark place, she knew. Not that it wielded anything worthwhile. “It must be. Do you get to work with powertools? I’m a disaster at them, but it seems like a really physical way to work on art. Must be fun, I bet.” Cleo hoped to see more of these scrappy sculptures. She did not doubt she would: she usually found her way to art quite well.

She nodded as she sat down. “I levitate towards string instruments. The violin was my first, but I’ve ventured further. I play some guitar, some bass …” She cut herself off. The list of instruments she played well was long, which made sense considering the years she’d had to learn them. It wasn’t like she could explain that she was over a hundred and fifty years old, though. “Oh, and the autoharp. That one I’m fond of currently. I can hold a tune, but I usually leave the singing to others.” She smiled widely. “Ishan? That’s nice — I know him too.” That was the treacherous yet interesting thing about small towns, wasn’t it? Everyone was closely connected.

She listened to him talk about his portraits and did not expect all that much, though that was mostly due to how he spoke about them. When he showed off the pages, she felt herself relax a little at the sight. “Oh,” she said, sighing a little. “I love that — yes. Not done yet, right? But I can see the potential in it.” Not just see. Cleo could feel it oozing from the page and rising like steam from the other. “You have to finish it. When you’re … done warming up, that is. It would be a waste not to.” And to waste art, well it was quite the transgression. One Cleo had made more than she liked to admit. “I could help, if you want?” 

—

He had heard that one a lot from other artists, just sketching the people around them. Zack had never been good at that. Or, it hadn’t been good as a warm-up for him. He got too invested in each face, the story he made up for them in his head. That was why he tried to stick with drawing the people he knew. It was more complex (and hurt a little more, often) but he felt better suited for it. He was happy when the conversation turned back to the scrapwork sculpture. That was an endeavor he actually felt he was making headway on. As a new skill, there was so much more to learn. “Yes! At least with a welding unit. I was terrified the first time I picked it up. But Joel, my friend, he’s a great teacher. And he’s been a welder for, like, decades, I think.” With someone else teaching him, Zack might not feel quite as safe and supported. Joel, though, had an easy, experienced air about him.

Cleo’s list of instruments sounded like those he had heard before – a single type as the expertise, like Ishan with his brass. Cleo clearly gravitated toward strings. “Autoharp?” he asked, curious. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that. Is it like the electric version of a harp?” That would be hardcore – he could imagine such an instrument as the centerpiece to some outlandish metal band. And Zack was delighted when Cleo knew who he was talking about immediately. “Yeah! Isn’t he great? He’s been helping me to expand my musical taste. I mostly listen to the same artists and albums over and over. He’s gotten me to try some new ones out.” He made a mental note to ask Ishan for his favorite bands with an autoharp – he was bound to know at least one.

The approval from Cleo, even though she was a veritable stranger, sank into Zack like a balm. When he turned his eyes back to his work, it was with a kinder outlook. “Yeah… I think it’s almost there. This is just the plan for it, though. The finished piece will be different kinds of multimedia.” He ran one finger down along the braids. “Like, these will be ribbons. And…” He trailed off, struck with a sudden idea (harvest fruits, maybe. Something agricultural.), and so he was a bit distracted when he asked, “Help me? How do you mean?” Actually, she had already helped him, somehow. Talking to her and showing her the work so far felt like it had unstuck something in Zack.

— 

“Oh, I would have been too,” she confessed, laughing softly in spite of them both. Cleo did not much care to pretend to be someone she was not, at least in regards to power tools. In other ways she preferred to come off as something different than she was, of course, but that was not something to think of now. “Does he have a place where he exhibits these artworks of his? Or at least an online portfolio? You’ve really intrigued me. Art … well, it’s good to talk of, but it’s even better to witness. And your work too, of course, I’d like to see. Even if it’s in the early stages.” She was in part saying that to be polite, but there was truth to it too. Watching an artist in development was inspiring. It was something she would have made a meal of, decades ago. But she was not planning on returning to this artist for seconds.

“No … not exactly,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s more like a handheld, smaller version of the harp. There is an electric version of it too, which is what I’m currently fiddling with. But the auto comes from the way you play the chords. There’s bars you press down on the strings, that then produce the chords you strum with your other hand. It’s … very subtle. Sweet.” She smiled a little, thinking of the small songs she’d written with it. Just ones for herself, not shared — something she would disapprove of in all other artists, but which she allowed herself. She had failed in grander ways than that. “Well, if you are looking for any music recommendations, I always have some on hand. I run a local record store. It’s kind of my job.” 

She tried to imagine the finished piece and could see a large range of outcomes. Cleo was not planning on getting stuck on just one — she wanted to inspire the other to finish it in his way, with some of her inspiration weaved through. “Mixed media, that’s always a good way to go,” she said, nodding in approval. She swallowed, then shrugged. “It might seem a little …” She frowned, fishing for the right word. “New age-y, or holistic, or wishy-washy, but …” She reached out, placing her hand on his non-dominant hand. “But sometimes something as simple as connection can get us quite far.” With their skins touching, she felt the potential hum off his skin, into her own system. In return, Cleo offered inspiration. 

—

A bubble of delight inflated in Zack’s chest as Cleo expressed interest in Joel’s art. “He doesn’t, but he really should, shouldn’t? He runs the scrapyard in town, that’s how he gets all his material.” Though, he didn’t think that Joel would take kindly to some stranger showing up at his doorstep hoping to see his sculptures. The man had seemed exceptionally private, or at least careful, in the little time Zack had known him. “I’ll definitely let know that I’m not the only one who’s interested. He has some…confidence issues, I think, when it comes to his art. It might help to know that there are people out there who would like to see his work.

He had definitely never seen or even heard of an instrument like the one that Cleo was describing, but still it sounded interesting. And he could tell that she enjoyed it. There was a dreamy smile on her face that Zack found comforting and tender. “Oh, that’s awesome! No wonder you’re familiar with Ishan, then.” It made sense that the owner of the local record shop and one of the DJs for the local radio would know one another. He could easily imagine Ishan flipping through the boxes of records in Cleo’s shop, searching for an esoteric album that only about one hundred people in the world had ever heard of. And it seemed like Cleo was just the kind of person and proprietor who would have such a find on hand. “I’ll have to come in sometime soon.” Not that Zack had a record player, but he was sure Cleo sold other formats as well.

He was open to something “wishy-washy.” After all, the fact that he could control fire out of thin air, probably seemed pretty out there for most people who weren’t acquainted with supernatural matters, but there was. Her hand on his, like her smile before, was comforting, tender. Easy to relax under. And maybe there was something to Cleo’s theory about connection, because he quickly felt that familiar buzz under his skin. It was like pure discovery when he put his pencil back to the page, one idea flowing into the next. Before, it was like his guilt was a smooth layer of glass over his art, making the design and idea untouchable. 

In that moment, though, he could punch past his own ego to see the potential of his art. The pain and rumination were still there, but they took a backseat, where they never had before. Once the basic outline of Wynne’s portrait was finished, Zack didn’t stop. He jotted notes off to the side, about the materials he would use: ribbons, flowers, dried fruit. It was like he could think of nothing else but this project, and every thought he did have was useful.

—

Cleo made a mental note about the local scrapyard. It wasn’t a place she would usually venture out to, but she would do so now. She might even use her computer to try and find out a method of contact before showing up, even though she preferred a spontaneous visit. “That is a really great way to repurpose all that is brought in to such a place. Making art through recycling is such a quaint trend we’ve seen, I think. We have an abundance of materials on this planet of ours … it is great when people find ways to repurpose it.” She nodded. “Please do. And I understand. Showing your art can be much like baring your soul.”

It did seem logical for her and Ishan to be familiar, she agreed. Cleo tended to get along best with humans who took a liking towards music, after all, as that left plenty of common ground to speak about. There were no other subjects she could quite talk about as long as music. “You certainly should. I’ll find you something nice to listen to.” She considered asking the other for his word to come by – that was how she had ensured a few returning customers, after all – but she decided against it for now. She was already going to feed off him.

The touch was electric. Cleo almost only touched humans when she fed off them, which was so few and far between that she had found a whole new definition for the term touch-starved. As she felt Zack’s creative spirit start to flow through the touch, entering her own system, she ensured to offer him whatever he needed. She let it open ended, not pushing him in one way or another with his design — she was curious to see what he would do with her fae energy.

She watched him outline the portrait, the paper filling with not only a design but ideas as well. Her lips curled in a smile, satisfaction filling her along with the life force that was passing from Zack to her. She gave something to him in return, of course, and the proof of that was on the paper. She was happy she had taken him as her charge for the day. There was nothing on that paper that much reminded her of Harley — he had not been a visual artist at all. But even so, as she witnessed the fervor with which Zack was writing and drawing, she felt herself reminded of the periods where Harley was completely taken with the creative magic she’d bestowed on him. Cleo took back her hand, curling her fingers into a fist. With their touch broken, she ended her feeding, too. Her jaws were glued shut. Something had been accomplished here, but she still ended up at the same place she always returned to.

—

When Cleo lifted her hands from him, it was like some spell had been broken. Zack blinked, almost out of a dream, and looked up from his pad for the first time. The sketch of Wynne was complete, and there was a column of cramped writing, thoughts and ideas to push the design even further. Not only that, but there were small sketches down in the corner of the page – the start of portraits of Emilio and Kieran as well. It was almost like someone else had taken up residence in his body and done the work. He remembered little of the process, only the fervor and focus remained in his memory.

“Wow,” he intoned softly. His tea was surely cool by then, but still he reached for a drink. “You weren’t kidding about that connection stuff, huh?” He gave a little laugh and looked from Cleo back to his sketchpad, admiring the design. Zack was not quite as self-conscious with his art as when he had started things, but there were still times that he hated all that he produced. This was not one of those times. It was like every decision he had made with his art was the correct one. He took another drink from his tea, hoping even the herbal blend would perk him up. Maybe he had just focused too hard on his art, but he felt tired, suddenly. 

He scrubbed at his eyes until he saw spots and then offered a smile back to Cleo. “I’m not entirely sure what you did, but thanks. That was…” Something plucked at the back of his mind. Something that reminded him, in some way, of those rare times with Kieran. The faun would use whatever magical wiles were at his disposal to spin Zack up and up and up. But this wasn’t that, he was sure. Whatever he had felt was different from the euphoria and bliss with Kieran. He was just confusing how exciting it had been, to get such a burst of creativity.