[Tawny Vokes]

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RUNNING AS SLOWLY AS I CAN

I don't know where I'm headed, not a very good escape plan

As much as she disliked the fact, Tawny was... on the whole... a predictable and habitual woman. She knew her own tells. Her patterns and proclivities. She could recognize the trajectory in her thinking and behavior... acknowledge the signs in how she juggled her friends and responded (or didn't respond) to them... and she knew — with a resigned sort of weariness — when she was getting "bad". And she could approximate the where and when she would slip from "bad" to "worse". [break][break]

She could always see it coming. Mostly because it tended to look roughly the same each time. It started with smiles that weren't as generous or sincere as before. Days passed on autopilot and muscle memory. Silence where there might have been a wicked laugh. Waning enthusiasm for conversations she'd kept so excitedly stoked. Then eventual avoidance of them entirely. Until she couldn't stand to look at her phone; felt herself drain just a little more every time that it chimed and someone wanted her attention. Or else... wanted to simply check in on her.[break][break]

Because, as predictable as she was to herself, there were a choice couple of others who knew her fairly well, themselves. Could see the patterns, too. [break][break]

Weeks like that, they had a way of ending one of two ways. The first was her holed up and decomposing in her bedroom. Energy non-existent. Head foggy and blank. Body unfeeling, heavy with too little sleep or too much sleep. Unable to move under the weight of her bedroom blankets. Unable to do much of anything but watch the shadows of the day grow and then shrink across her room's ceiling and walls. [break][break]

The second was much louder and desperate. Spiraling in a club. At a house party. In a friend's apartment. An animated feign of energy. Or perhaps the last flare of energy before she fizzled out. Body somehow moving despite the fuzzy, world-graying veil in her head and the hollow disconnect in her chest. Dancing and laughing loud — perhaps a little too loud — as she leaped on jokes and cracked grins wide enough to seem drugged. Those nights almost always ended in someone else's bed — a stranger or a dependable friend who simply didn't mind the use. Knew the cold, impersonal way she had before, during, and after, on those particular nights. Didn't care enough to be concerned about it or about her. [break][break]

Somehow... the second always still led to the first. [break][break]

And Tawny knew, even as she did everything she did, and told herself she needed the distraction and the comfort, that there was no actual comfort in those things. They were crutches. Or familiar, well-worn stepping stones she'd grown so accustomed to leaping from on her journey to the bottom. Predictable and habitual. [break][break]

It was one of those weeks. And she'd clocked it. So she'd prepared. [break][break]

Not by saying 'yes' to plans but, instead, with her art studio. She'd spent the first half of the week tidying up. Making space. She'd covered tables, all her half-finished projects, the floor, and the walls with sheets of plastic. Drug out the largest blank canvases she could find, as well as some work-in-progress paintings that she imagined she'd only feel relieved to "ruin" — the ones that only depressed her when she sat down in front of them, intending to work on them but never quite able to find where to put the colors. [break][break]

Each time she made some progress, she flipped the light off and locked up, then started the short trek home; feeling the moment where she just needed to let loose and make a mess draw a little closer. A little darker and threatening.[break][break]

And when that sleepless night came where she tossed and turned for hours, had turned off her phone, and could feel the "nothing" want to creep into her chest, she'd leaped from bed, shrugged on a cardigan over her pajamas, grabbed her keys and bag, and stepped from her apartment and into the building's hall. Then she'd gone right back in to slip a bottle of wine into her bag. (It wasn't her preferred alcohol but... it'd been gifted for her birthday, so she thought... she might as well get rid of it on a night when she was feeling anything but choosy.) [break][break]

She made the short, chilly walk to her studio, eyes absently tracing long cracks in the sidewalk before her socked-and-slippered feet. [break][break]

As she fit her key in the studio's lock, her hands stilled and her head lifted; gaze sifting slowly sidelong to note the figure sitting at the curb a few paces away. She hadn't noticed them there before, as still as they were and as distracted as she'd been. Instinctively, her fingers tightened around the (still turned off) phone in her palm. She unlocked the bolt, turned the knob, and cracked the door inward. But something about the person's hunched shoulders and posture — she stilled again. [break][break]

Her mouth tucked and she fisted her keys in her hand before turning and ambling the few, short paces that existed between them. "Hey... you alright...?" she asked, folding her arms across her middle and marching a little in place to try and keep warm (wishing for a moment that she'd put on some actual pants). She paused just behind and a little to the side of the seated person, debating briefly if she should step into the street and try and get a peek at their face. That, or pop a similar squat on the curb a respectful distance away from them. [break][break]

After a considering moment, she simply swayed and squinted at their back.

The question that's been on my mind all day[break]
Are we moving toward something? Or just running away?[break]
And if we're just running... are we gonna be okay?

Tag: Nathaniel Collins [break]
Quick and very, very messy!

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[Nathaniel Collins]

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I used to know

but I’m not sure now

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A little more than a year ago, Nate had thought he had his life planned out. Sure, some of the details were still a little fuzzy, it was rough around the edges, but the bones were solid, the framework that held everything together was in place. The cracks were easy to pass over in the day to day, to fill in with hopes and daydreams, but in the aftermath they were all so obvious. So glaringly deep. [break][break]

Nate hated wallowing in the past, tried his best to avoid it these days and just live in the moment. But they were on the cusp of the second round of holidays that he would spend single, separated from the one he’d thought was his person, his forever. He was working hard to get past the shame and self blame, to get over being worked up whenever he thought about their last few months together. [break][break]

What Nate couldn’t do right now was stop thinking about Luck. He couldn’t help but wonder what he'd think about the Greek restaurant he tried tonight, how the briam and the fava were the best he’d tasted since they’d actually been in Greece. Or what he thought about Joey Logano winning the NASCAR cup after being eliminated from the playoffs, then brought back into the running after Bowman got disqualified. How wild was that? [break][break]

Each time he picked up the phone, excited and ready to shoot a text to Luck, he stopped himself. It wasn’t fair. What if Luck was busy? What if he didn’t want to see Nate’s name pop up on his phone? What if it hurt him too much? Even worse, what if it didn’t hurt? What if he’d moved on? [break][break]

Nate sat on his couch, flipping through channels. He wasn’t paying much attention to anything he was passing, nothing quite pulled his attention from his thoughts. He missed Luck. It might be pathetic or desparate, but god, he just needed to see him. [break][break]

When he got up from the couch and grabbed his keys, Charlie’s head popped up and the dog let out a low whine. “Don’t worry, boy, you’re okay. You’re a good boy, go back to sleep.” Nate scratched the top of Charlie’s head between his ears before leaving, locking the door and putting his keys and phone in his pocket. [break][break]

It was a chilly night for mid November, and he was glad to be in a thick hoodie while he walked, thinking through what he was going to say with each step. He was going to be honest, he was going to tell Luck how badly he missed him, how he still loved him. He was going to beg Luck to forgive him, if he could, and for them to try again. Swear to be honest about feelings and needs this time, to communicate better. [break][break]

He only made it halfway before he started doubting himself. This was too much. He couldn’t just show up at Luck’s door like this, late at night. It wasn’t fair or right. It was too much. [break][break]

“Damn it.” Nate muttered to himself, pausing on the sidewalk. It was late enough that there weren’t many people walking by, and he paced for a moment before sitting down on the edge of the sidewalk, pulling his phone out of his pocket. [break][break]

‘Hey, you busy?’ He typed, then deleted the words. ‘Do you want to get together sometime soon to talk?’ No, that wasn’t right either. He hit the back button until the text box was empty, then locked the screen on his phone and shoved it back into his pocket. “What am I doing?’ He shook his head at himself then let out a slow, deep breath. He wiped his hands over his face, trying to get his bearings. [break][break]

This had been a stupid plan. [break][break]

Nate sat there, trying to convince himself to just go back home. He was conflicted. He felt like he was chickening out, like he was being a coward for not following through. Just get up and go home, or carry on, either way, make a decision and live with it. [break][break]

If only it were that simple. [break][break]

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize the voice calling out was talking to him. The words filtered through, slowly, and he realized the woman had asked if he was alright. [break][break]

“Sorry, yeah.. I’m good.” He stood up and brushed himself off as he turned around to offer a small, forced smile. He should just head home, keep from being just a weirdo sitting on a random curb. As he looked at the woman, he realized he recognized her. Though it was slow to work out just who she was or how he knew her. In the dark, the vaguely familiar face could have been anyone. He met a lot of people in his line of work. But she wasn’t just anyone… “Tawny?” [break][break]

Of all the people for him to run into… He’d met her a few times over the years. Once it clicked, it was unmistakable. She was one of Luck’s work friends. He didn’t know her very well, knew more of her from antics Luck used to share with him. [break][break]

“You look like you’re freezing.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and it seemed safe enough to comment on. He wondered what had her out so late. Maybe he’d inadvertently stopped in front of her apartment building.

[attr="class","NATHANIEL_wait_note"]Tawny Vokes | let me know for changes

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[Tawny Vokes]

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RUNNING AS SLOWLY AS I CAN

I don't know where I'm headed, not a very good escape plan

The guy didn't immediately respond. Didn't even act like he'd heard her. [break][break]

Tawny danced in-place against the cold, debating whether she should whip around, go into her studio, and lock the door behind her... or if she should try a little more insistently — step into the street after all and get a better look at him. Try and check a little more closely if he was alright. People could be unpredictable. He could be drunk... strung-out... zoned out on meds... missed his meds... or a great number of other things. It was cold and bound to get colder as the night went on. [break][break]

But... there was a thin, scary, and often zig-zaggy line between someone simply needing help and someone becoming aggressive and being capable of harm. As a very small woman, alone, she had to think about these things. [break][break]

Before she could decide, the man snapped to — spoke, stood, and brushed himself off. He was tall. And Tawny was already taking an instinctual half-step back, when he turned and... just as her own name slipped from his mouth — very much a question — her own recognition abruptly settled. Her searching gaze darted across the play of shadows the streetlights shrouded his face in and picked out the distinctions there. [break][break]

"Oh," she squeaked quietly, finishing her half-step backwards and tightening her arms a little more around herself. Her brow leaped and her shoulders inched ever slightly upward. "Hey..." [break][break]

She'd met Nate before. Seen him, at work functions and Sector dinners. Holiday office parties where employees got to bring a plus-one. In pictures on Luck's cubicle walls. Videos in his phone. They'd even spoken a couple of times. Nothing more than expected pleasantries. The almost-awkward introductions and breathy laughs of meeting someone a person had "heard so much about" but did not really know. [break][break]

But... she'd seen far more of him in the last year than anyone could rightly guess. In memories pulled from Luck's head. [break][break]

There were those Luck knew about... the stuff she asked to be shown and that he willingly shared with her and guided her to. That they talked through at great lengths. Good memories full of flashing teeth and bright eyes. Loud, open laughs and adoring simplicity. And there were memories he did not share with her knowingly... glimpses she'd stolen of her own, unapproved volition. Worse memories and bad times. When nights were tense and thin. Things she looked for just to see how honest Luck was being with her (or, more likely, with himself). To gauge if he was omitting or downplaying his own actions... what happened before or after something he mentioned... what'd led up to some fight or argument.[break][break]

She'd always wondered, if Luck had had the capacity to see the things she did, when she looked at Nate in those moments. The wounded half-smiles, the trying, and then the growing hesitance and stammer that began to slowly encroach on the trying. She imagined not, knowing what she knew about him and how he himself had described such moments. He'd — many times — run her through what he felt in them... what he thought. Told her all the things that made him blinder than her, who had the luxury of hindsight and studying without stake. Who could even "rewind", should she need to see something again. [break][break]

"It became so much of a... habit..." [break][break]

He'd admitted to her one night, after she'd done her usual prying and they'd quieted; letting the night's drink seep its lazy, tiring way through their veins and bones while they lounged on her floor. She'd waited for him to go on. And when he didn't for a long while, eventually she'd looked to him — let her head fall so her temple touched the carpet and she could probe her eyes around his profile next to her. With a blanket pulled up to conceal his nose and the bottom half of his face, he blinked at her ceiling; gaze crawling slowly across and tracing patterns in the spackling. [break][break]

Bottom lashes wet with tears she'd yet to see fall. [break][break]

"That I... didn't even feel bad about it anymore." [break][break]

In some of those memories she sought, she'd seen the spaces. The gaps of silence (sometimes far too painfully long) where something needed to be said and wasn't. Seen the spots that could be used to save a bad night and turn things around. They'd been so blaringly obvious to her, as an outsider looking in. But neither of them had done so. Sometimes, one or the other had started... maybe felt the opportunity and wanted to... but it never went as it should. And the trying grew less and less with each failed attempt. [break][break]

Tawny could never know what Luck was thinking in those moments, even as she watched his life through his eyes. The more she talked to him and the more he shared with her, the more she could guess and assume. Could approximate what ran through his mind, when his eyes darted away from something or he furrowed his brow at his lap. When he breathed a little too hard and stood a little too fast. But God, sometimes she just wanted to shake him. She'd grown more and more frustrated herself, every time he looked away and let those moments pass. Or shut them down with something stonewalling and short. [break][break]

And now... here Nate was, stood before her in the late autumn, pre-winter cold. [break][break]

Not some character from the countless stories that'd been shared with her. And not a player in the memories she scrolled through like a hawk-eyed director watching footage playbacks. He was just... here and him. Flesh and blood. Words not already spoken. Actions not already taken. And he looked... well, not quite like any of the memories she'd seen. This wasn't the happy, wide-beam and bright-eyed Nate of the best times, nor was it the searching, achingly-uncertain Nate of the worst times. Not close to either extremes, but somewhere definitively and far in-between. [break][break]

A simply tired, Nate, perhaps. [break][break]

Or maybe this was Nate with Tawny, and not Nate with Luck. He did not know her well... had not shared a life with her... did not know the ways he should (or could) conduct himself with her like he knew with Luck. This was a Nate without the familiarity she'd grown accustomed to seeing and observing in memory. Sometimes, it was difficult for her to remember that. To keep in mind. On occasion, she could forget that... everything she'd seen, it was a moment shared with someone else; that a person might not say the same things to her or be the same way with her. That she, herself, hadn't yet earned such comfortable transparency. [break][break]

Tawny recovered. Her brow and shoulders dropped and she ran her mind back through Nate's last statement. That she looked freezing. [break][break]

"Astute," she declared, letting an amused huff follow and allowing her lips to quirk at the corners; an attempt to make clear the word was not snippy. Her amusement wasn't quite in place, but... she didn't think she sounded antagonizing. Still, for good measure, she tipped her head and added more genuinely, blinking slowly as she spoke. "I am very cold. Guess I forgot it was November when I stepped out." She smashed her bare calves together in a desperate bid for friction and warmth; the skin of her arms and legs crawling with gooseflesh as she shuffled.[break][break]

She watched him for a moment longer, then shivered and turned back to the building face at her back. She half-stepped, half-pranced back to the studio door and re-opened it. "Do you wanna come in?" She called back, without looking, as she paused halfway in the frame. "Warm up before you head off, to... whatever it is that you're up to?" [break][break]

Her chest tightened. Not dramatically, like a clenched fist around her lungs or heart, but more like an already-snug valve finding just the slightest hairsbreadth more to turn. She wondered, if she was asking more for him or for her. He'd said he was good. She suspected that was a half-truth, by the look of him. But she wasn't "good" either. And... maybe she didn't really want to be alone. [break][break]

She turned her face to him. "You will, won't you?"

The question that's been on my mind all day[break]
Are we moving toward something? Or just running away?[break]
And if we're just running... are we gonna be okay?

Tag: Nathaniel Collins [break]
All over the place here (lmao), plus lots of rambling. Give me a nudge for changes or if anything doesn't fit!

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