bite my tongue / 𝖇𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊

❀ *ﾟ jason momoa. 35. cis man. he/him. bisexual gemini. ⇝ looks like leif maivia blew in three years ago and never left. they’ve proven themselves to be loyal & warm-hearted, but being tempestuous & vain is their downfall. it’s only fitting that swim against the tide by the japanese house is playing when they leave their home in gargoyle garden apartments. rumor has it that they used to get into bar fights for a thrill in college, wonder if that’s why the instructor at the lucky cat fitness centre, semi-retired indie wrestler, and tour manager for vain rogues & the ghost orchestra moved out of their place in memphis, tennessee.

( i present.... the tiredest of the chaotic beans i brought to the table )

triggers: cancer, death, alcoholism, mentioned violence, mentioned car crash

LEIF + LYDIA ( @whiskeydrevms​ ) LOCATION: the lucky cat fitness centre, early evening. 

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐄𝐈𝐅 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃, 𝐈𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆. the sound of weights crashing down and the playlist of top 40′s hits, not that she was really paying attention, had fallen to a muted drone and she had wanting nothing more than for the world to open beneath her and just.. inhale her. yet, every time she blinked, the person she had considered a breath of fresh air stood directly across from her in all of his stupid glory. it had gotten easier since then, sure, but the surgeon couldn’t help the same startling feeling from coursing through her veins with a sudden jolt before she returned to whatever form of normalcy that they had created. not that anything about their situation was normal, doing the same odd form of settling down that the two of them were known for.. in the same town. the odds were extremely slim of that happening and yet? it had and just like everything else in her life, lydia planned on waking up, tying her shoes and heading out the door to save lives as she had learned to without him. after he left, that had felt impossible. 

she had come to terms with the emptiness that danced through her hallways, a new place free of her past and free of him. one thing that had remained long before leif had entered her life was her routine. when she wasn’t collapsed on her couch in whatever place her restless heart told her was home or at the hospital, she was at the gym. it was a sanctuary of course, where she could simply put her earbuds in her ears and focus on numbers, sets. 

1 person in a bed made for 2… 3 years since she had first thought she had seen a ghost… 4 years since she had packed her bags, hoping to leave him behind..

today was no different. after grabbing a cup of coffee from the caramel apple, saying hello to some familiar faces and watching the world go by, it was as if her car had drove itself home to change into her workout clothes before she found herself gazing up at the fitness centre. of course leif was one of the first people she had seen when she finally entered the facility, but that’s not what she was here for. she was simply like every other customer, there to punch the living shit out of one of the hanging bags. another option: run on the treadmill, hoping the machine would somehow lead to the courage to run far away from here. that’s what they were there for, right? right?! simply forgetting the way she somehow always knew when he was looking at her would do her just fine, which she started to do as she pulled her gloves over her hands. in what felt like a mere couple of minutes the clock had made a full rotation and there she was, still there. now drenched in sweat, she let out a sigh before taking a swig  from the bottle of water she had brought with her. there were few left in the space, the only one nearby just happening to be him. every bone in her body had told her to hate leif, but her heart simply couldn’t. something had told her want to spend the rest of her life with him, in sickness and in health, ‘till death do us part. that meant something to her and always would, no matter the internal battle that raged in her mind. 

she could tune it out. especially considering that the fight was just one of many happening behind her eyes. the green had gotten a little dimmer since the last time she had been in the same city as her ex, muddled by exhaustion and confusion. 

“long time no see.” she eventually found herself speaking, whatever attempt that was at a lighthearted jab. it was as if the words had simply slipped out without allowing them too, even if they were still cordial as the pair had been in the past couple years. it had been a minute since she had actually found it in her to go to the gym, opting more often to just go for a run. “how’ve you been?” of course she still cared, which was clear in her genuine curiousity. she had loved him enough to let him go. lydia always hoped the world was kind to him.

      a familiar icy cold grip clawed its way up and settled along the length of leif’s spine the moment he’d looked up from the client he’d been working with for the briefest of moments only to have time come to an absolute standstill the second oaken eyes landed on a set of greens that he’d never been able to forget. he’d known, of course, by now, that he and lydia had taken up residence in the same damn town. a karmic twist of cosmic irony that had gotten only slightly easier to swallow as months had turned to years. salem wasn’t so big that he could simply avoid her, though the trainer had taken every opportunity he could to do just that in the beginning. pangs of bittersweet phantom feelings were so much easier to quash that way, and it was those stubborn proclivities the samoan had carried since a teen in memphis with the weight of the world already pressing down on his shoulders that had allowed him to rebuild himself to a new normal after self sabotaging defense mechanisms tore his reality into a new one with the upheaval of the roots they’d been laying together. he thought she deserved the world, more than mess that was his life — but whoever said, ‘if you love someone, let them go’ clearly had never done such a thing and leif had paid dearly for it.

      survival was second nature to the tennessee native, spawned from the equal measures of loss and responsibility that had been inherited by leif the moment his mother had passed some twenty years ago and he’d found himself caught between parenting his younger brothers and their father in equal measure. his older brothers had been long since moved out by that point, got to turn a blind eye to the way grief and alcohol destroyed the remaining parent the three younger boys had. it had gotten him through his entire life; hardened and softened him all in the same breath. survival would get him through this chance counter because there was no other viable option.

      four years was a long time to hold tight to regret — but it still clung to the brunette’s psyche, pervasive when he lay in an empty bed and counted the equally empty spaces in his life.

      it didn’t matter. the course of a seemingly normal day, carried through in the routine he’d fallen into when not on tour. coffee and a run with his sweet rescue, persephone. laughter and greetings exchanged with fellow trainers and hair that never quite lost the sunbleached sheen towards the ends tied into a near uniform knot atop his head to keep the unruly waves at bay throughout his afternoon at the gym. innocuous in every way a day could be. unremarkable. and whether lydia was present or not, the towering samoan had a job to do, was still on the clock. and no amount of wheedling to heather that he had a headache was enough to get him out of the rest of his shift. it was great care to professionalism that he managed his way through, simply tuning out the knowledge that she was there to the best of his ability despite the keen awareness of her presence at the corner of his eyes as he worked his way through sets and the like with those that paid for his time with an encouraging demeanor and steady guidance. but as people dwindled their way out, he was running out of distractions just short of wiping down every piece of equipment. he wasn’t a coward, however, and regardless of the twist of varying emotions that surfaced when it came to lydia, cordiality had become something they’d become good at. and he could make good on that no matter what, that it was because it was her was a fact he’d keep close to his chest for the rest of his days. he’d yet to come across someone else who struck that chord in him that made him want to share his last name with them no matter who came and went from his life or bed since.

      ignoring mirrored exhaustion and confusion would be the best course of action. the easiest. a simple nod of the head as acknowledgement, perhaps a wave, would be acceptable from his end. i just want you to be happy echoed towards the back of his mind like warning siren; a reminder of the choice he’d made, effectively constraining him from being the first to speak.

[ tour bus. ] // @whiskeydrevms​

Did Cyrek dread returning to the dustbunny-infested, snack-molding, ripped-booth-seat of a tour bus, in the condition that he’d last abandoned it? Not exactly, but the day had to arrive that the punk had to prepare for another tour circuit, and plan carefully around Evren’s pregnancy and mark a cut-off point when he figured she would be due. The winter meant hiking up his work schedules, and he was adamant about the fact he couldn’t travel far, this time, until things settled down for the blossoming family gradually. Intrinsically, he had been a full-on brat through his texts to his tour, bitching and complaining why do I have to be the one to help clean the bus, you’re not my fucking parent, my hatred for you so fucking strong right now it’s written in the stars that I fucking made for you — poetic petulance spelled out in all-caps, to elucidate how much he didn’t want to be slinging old beer cans into a trash can, washing out the mayonnaise-coated fridge drawer in the rinky bathroom shower, and said texts were sent all while pouring a mug of black coffee into his to-go thermos, slinging some milk and sugar in haphazardly with a handful of ice cubes. Add in five minutes of choking down tomato soup that his wife insisted on him eating and planting a kiss, five or ten, on her lips before sending her off to Coffin Club for her shift ( stir in an extra five minutes for groping her titties while he had an ephemeral moment to spend with them before they’d pop out of her bra again in the new year ).

Needless to say, his presence was announced as loud and proud as ever, the punk’s spiked boot kicking the door open with gusto, thermos in one hand and three cans of Lysol coiled in his other arm. Flipping overgrown mop of ginger hair, straightened until unruly curls were no longer palpable, he stomped up the stairs of the tour bus, mud caking the tracks of his knock-off, modified Doc Martens, stopping at the entryway to look around and furrow his brow at the blistering sound of Rod Stewart with ardent repulsion. Craning his head past the line of bunk beds into the hallway and spying the large man’s frame in the bathroom ( still with a flickering bulb hanging overhead, to his dismay ), Cyrek slammed the door for emphasis and called out, “What the EVERLOVIN’ FUCK are you listenin’ to? It’s worse than my kid makin’ me watch Hannah Montana.” Grinning to himself mischievously, he clanked the quarter-dozen army of disinfectant spray on the counter and leaned against it, unscrewing the lid on his thermos. “What do you want from me? Want me to get down on my fuckin’ hands and knees and vacuum every square inch under the bunks, daddy?” Craning his head back, he guzzled the end of the iced coffee, half-assedly returning the lid and slinging it into the sink. “The fridge fuckin’ reeks.”

      armed with enough cleaning supplies to disinfect a small warehouse, and prepared for a headache the tour manager knew he’d have from the second acerbic poetics were dinging in his text messages, the aspirin was already on its way through his bloodstream while calloused digits shot out a simple response of, “your band, your bus, brat. cleanin’ is good for the soul”. because, somehow, the samoan had still gotten roped into cleaning the space amidst putting the plans of tour into motion with reassurances to the punk in question that they wouldn’t do a long circuit, or a far one, with consideration to cyrek’s expanding family. a logistical nightmare in itself, if leif was being completely honest, though it didn’t detract from the love he held for his job and subsequent band of grown ass children. methodically working from the back of the bus to the front once the initial vacuum of the layer of fucking grime had been pulled from all the floors, he’d started with, arguably, the worst of the worst — scrubbing dried up makeup off the counter and mirror, picking up hair ties that were undoubtedly his own ( if leif had a dollar for every time he’d taken one off his wrist or out of his hair and lost it, he’d have been rolling in cash years ago ) and bopping to the 80s playlist filtering through the speakers his phone was hooked up to while the clorox bowl cleaner worked its bleachy magic in the stagnant porcelain of the commode. it was the absolutely ridiculous slam of the door hitting the outside of the bus that pulled his attention away from the task at hand with a wrinkled nose and sigh.

[ cardamom dance hall. ]

The catering at the reception was stellar, although the food was currently going cold and untouched on the fine wedding china with the six month old preoccupying his lap. Cyrek hadn’t thought that he would be spending his week planning an impromptu shotgun wedding, and the now ginger-haired vocalist was adjusting to the veritable changes by stealing sips from his champagne when he was able to hover it above AJ’s head without her grubby hands grabbing at it insistently. His suit jacket was sufficiently rumpled by the little girl toying with the flowers tucked into the pocket, and his straightened locks were the object of her affection with her free hand whenever his gaze would wander about the moderately bustling venue. Eventually, his inattention to her demands must have been intolerable, the clatter of the sippy cup that had been on the edge of the table getting knocked to the floor startling him. “Chica, you need to calm down and behave or I’m not sharin’ my cake with you,” he told the girl, wrapping a firm hand around her middle and tucking her close to his waist, looking to the floor and quickly deducing that it would be a hopeless effort to lean down for the owl sippy cup. Casting a sidelong glance to the guest that happened to be sitting beside him, the groom cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, excuse me —” It paid to be polite at his own reception, he supposed. Hovering his index finger in the general vicinity of the cup under the table, he prompted, “Do you think you could grab that? Someone’s a lil’ cranky.”

[ salem forest park. ]

It was closing in on the last nice, lukewarm day of autumn before the chill from the seaside permanently embedded its talons in the landscape, and although he would normally sequester himself inside his little abode, the sunshine bearing down on the breathtaking colors had him opting to take his supplies down to the park. He’d laid out on the table the supplies he needed and a sturdy board ( better than the wilting, rain-rotted slats propping the table’s top up ) across the guest area and the packet of air-dry clay sat at its edge, a slab of it laid out in front of him. Atticus preferred sitting at the clay wheel and spinning pottery properly, no matter the type of clay, but constructing ornaments didn’t require the wheel, or the hassle of figuring out how to plug something in without a bandit squirrel gnawing the cord to shreds and possibly frying them both up like Ochi dinner. ( No, he wouldn’t be celebrating Thanksgiving. ) Thick brows stiched together and clay-caked digits fussing over the shape of the would-be holiday ornament, his concentration was frustratingly broken by a shadow intervening the natural rays seeping through the trees in the dragging afternoon — and after several, patient seconds, anticipating that they would pass him by, grey hues swiveled upward and peered through unruly wine-red locks to inspect the intrusion to his personal bubble. “Com licença—” No, wrong language. “Desculpe?” Excusing himself despite the slight prickling that festered, achromatic eyes following them to decipher if he was being observed, “I don’t mind if you were watching, but if you could, perhaps, take a seat… I was relying on the light.”​

“If I had known to expect you, I would’a whipped up a pie!” Their southern hospitality dripped from their voice, inviting the trainer inside and running their fingers through their red locks as they swept their hand toward the sofa in the den. “Why don’tcha have a seat anywhere ya like an’ I’ll bring us some lemonade?” If there was anything that Anabelle knew their way around best, it was making a delicious pink lemonade that would knock someone’s socks off. They picked up a handful of the magazines lying around on the coffee table and put them aside, humming to themselves and promptly returning to the kitchen to retrieve a couple of glasses. There was a timer set on the oven where their brownies were still baking, and the scent was quickly wafting through the entire house. Were either of her older children home, it would attract them in a heartbeat — thankfully, the twins were soundly down for their nap, although they were certain that Leon would be waking up soon and whining for his bottle to be fixed. They were anxious to take care of their sister’s child as if he were their own, and the motherly instincts that had leapt forth to shun their spouse from making poorly decisions while caring for the little boy reflected that amply.

“I was wondering when Cy and the band would be hitting the road soon, haven’t heard too much from him lately,” Anabelle commented, as if they were talking about the weather; they weren’t precisely close-knit with their twin, though they had longed to be for some time yet, and only occasionally saw the pair when they trudged their merry way over upon invitation and Evren occupied herself with the chickens that went stir-crazy with excitement for the attention and extra treats. In fact, when they thought about it, they hadn’t spotted hide nor hare of the couple since Heather’s behavior had shifted, and the bleak thought gave them pause, their expression faltering. They had good grip on their self-awareness, pulling them back to reality and smiling sprightly when they turned back to the gentleman, walking to the den. “You’re just in time for my triple chocolate chip brownies, though. I can even serve it with ice cream, if ya want?”

      for one so toweringly and broadly built, there was a facsimile amount of warmth beneath a deceivingly daunting facade that kept most people at an arm’s length — the redhead that was in sight within the doorframe, however, had wormed their way into his chosen circle with relative ease along with their spouse. finding himself turning up on the pair’s doorstep to spoil their children and have a taste of cooking that took him to time in his childhood filled with the sounds of his mama in the kitchen, singing under her breath while she cooked for their sizeable family when he had enough time to catch up with the pair. in the present, leif stood with a half-dead potted plant in his hand and a sheepish expression that graced and softened stony features into an amalgamation of a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “that’s why i didn’t tell ya i was comin’ — ya give me a pie, and i’ll eat the whole thing. besides, i think i mighta almost killed my monstera plant, figured if anyone could nurse it back to health, it might be you.” deep baritone octaves intoned while the big man made himself comfortable, surrounded by the scent of chocolatey baked goods, on the sofa once the plant in question was deposited on the newly free coffee table for later inspection, having enough wherewithal to know better than to argue with the tiny southerner on visiting over lemonade. besides that, anabelle made a killer pink lemonade and leif would do just about any mundane thing for a glass of it on a good day.

      “alla that’s still in the plannin’ stages, it’s been eatin’ up alla my already scarce freetime between meetins, fieldin’ phone calls, and answerin’ enough emails to put a damn secretary to shame.” the complaints were well worn and held little value by way of negativity. for all of the half samoan’s grumpiness, he truly did love his job and the band he’d been elected to work with. even if cyrek ( and the rest of the band, to some extent, though the tennessee native loved them all anyway ) had given leif at least one or fifty greys between his dark tresses and well maintained beard in his tenure. “you wouldn’t believe how much goes into gettin’ a tour offa the ground.” sure, the degrees that leif had graduated with had prepared him for as much, to an extent, but when he’d graduated fourteen years ago ( yikes, nothing like the passage of time to remind you of your age. as if his joints hadn’t done as much during his morning run ) leif had still very much thought he’d end up in sports permanently. life had a funny way of changing your goals, though. sensing the momentary shift in the air — years spent reading people, raising his brothers, and, to a certain extent, his father for a time, had given the middle brother an uncanny ability to pick up on next to everything when it came to people in his life — the note was filed away to be brought up later under the guise of inquiry into well-being, but not before allowing the absolute delightful prospect of brownies to do leif’s thinking for him. “am i gonna have to share my brownie with a munchkin, though?” he hadn’t seen ana and heather’s munchkins about, but kids had a knack for poppin’ up when there was something sweet on the line.