this can't be happening

[stungs]

alby

when busy streets amass with people / would stop to hold their heads heavy / hide and seek / trains and sewing machines / all those years they were here first / oily marks appear on walls / where pleasure moments hung before/ the takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this still life.

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[gimp]

[ apparently, the hale flower shoppe is starting to become famous. newt supposes it was bound to happen eventually, because it is blessed--literally so--and the flowers are always full of life, whether it's on season or off. colors are bright and constant, even in rare, near priceless combinations, and all in all, it's starting to cause a little bit of hubbub. supposedly, the flowers are magic, that they help people fix problems between them easier than they should, but newt wouldn't know anything about that.

then again, considering it's staffed by four angels, it makes a lot of sense.

either way, press has started to take notice, and derek gets an email about a reporter wanting to come and interview them to write a story. newt volunteers--scottie gets too energetic, might actually spill all of their secrets (bad), but derek terrifies anyone who walks in the door with any sort of intention that isn't just to buy flowers (also bad--so as the most diplomatic, he seemed like the natural choice to take on an interview for the shop. when the set time comes, newt's finishing up a bouquet on the counter, having cleaned the place down to the last corner. it's sort of relaxing, arranging flowers, and though scottie's left the ones on his head still in place from this morning, a series of white and orange daisies and carnations, he's paying far more attention to the bouquet, delicate, small fingers clipping stems and placing them just so in the vase.

until the bell rings, and newt looks up, and just like that, his whole world tips over on its axis.

he's not sure he can breathe for a moment, let alone speak professionally, becaues he just--he just knows, in the way every single angel does. that's him, that's his--that's him, that's alby. newt's seen alby in a sprinkling of lifetimes, fewer than many of his companions, but it never gets old. he realizes he should have known--albert, alby. dark skin, dark eyes, handsome, short, like every dream he's had. (for someone who wanted to die for so long, it's strange to imagine wanting to live again, but alby did that for him, he always did.)

newt has to force himself to stop looking like a deer caught in the headlights--he swallows the massive lump in his throat and starts: ] Hullo. You must be the reporter, yeah?

[ it's him it's him it's him. ]

[stungs]

[ if you could describe alby in one word, it would probably be cautious.

he's not the kind of reporter who you play in video games, who walks straight into a haunted hospital because it might make a good story, or because some public injustice has to be exploited and shown to the better public. that isn't for alby. he's careful, measured, he'll take the grunt work other reporters don't want, because he doesn't care about getting the most thrilling story, he doesn't care about risking anyone's safety to put some words in a newspaper and sell it. he's passionate about what he does and he's good at it, and he's one of the more sought after writers for the new york times.

so when a job comes in to write an article about a flower shop, alby thinks it's right up his alley.

he comes in looking every bit a starving artist as every other stray new yorker on the street -- messenger bag strewn over one of his shoulders, a camera loose around his neck, thick rimmed glasses and a buttoned up shirt. despite how seemingly easy this particular article seems, alby still pours his heart into everything he does -- and when he sees the man he's meant to be interviewing, that heart feels like bursting into one thousand tiny pieces, like stardust, liek flower petals. how is he meant to be focused when this angel is who he's interviewing?

ever the professional, alby smiles at him, offering a hand for a shake. ]

Hey. I'm Alby. [ he nods at himself, like it's nothing to sneeze at. ] That's one helluva accent you've got. How's the city treating you?

[gimp]

[ newt has to resist the urge to leap at him, throw his arms around him and cry into his shoulder--i missed you, it's been so long, i'm so sorry i didn't find you sooner--and that's the trouble with reincarnation, isn't it? newt has watched alby fall in love with other people, he's watched him grow and change a hundred times, but when it all ends, whenever they click together and find happiness, every once in a while, they're both reborn and newt's stuck with memories that alby'll never find again. it's the tragedy of the angels, that no matter what happens, when you fall in love with a human, you'll always, always outlive them.

but he can't let alby get away again. not this time, not again. it's been a couple hundred years since he died for the last time, and he's been left wandering the world, quietly depressed, carrying his siblings and friends on his back to keep himself from spiraling somewhere he just can't go. newt won't lose this, he refuses.

he checks his hand, conspicuously, for a wedding ring, then takes his hand, grip firm and trying not to tremble with the fact that he's touching his soulmate for the first time in centuries. ] Alby. [ he repeats, as if he'd forget. ] I'm Newt, it's proper good to meet you.

[ and the compliment makes him smile, just a crooked thing. it takes a lot of focus and concentration to make sure his wings stay out of sight, forcing them down into the inked lines on his shoulders just so he doesn't freak him out. he does have business here, after all. ] Been here a couple of years now [ to say the least. ] and it's still a bloody maze of a thing. Not much worse than London, though.

[ he lets go of alby's hand very slowly, and instantly aches for it back again. ] Did you wanna sit down? We have tea and coffee in the back, water if you're tired. Can't say I've ever been interviewed before, so you'll have to be patient with me, yeah?

[stungs]

[ alby prides himself on his die-hard professionalism, always and no matter what, but not even he can fight the desire to roll his eyes across newt's form, half concealed by the counter he hides behind -- and he's never been jealous of a counter before, seriously. he does bite his lip minorly, before grinning over at newt, a squinty genuine kind of smile that not many people on this planet can call them lucky enough to have seen. yet newt's presence begs for it, doesn't it? a weird sort of nostalgia he feels, the way the moon must feel when it's returned to its place in the night sky -- he feels that, he feels that when he looks at newt, like the sun itself and he just --

he barely knows this guy's name. ]

Same to you. Newt.

[ newt feels familiar, like he's spent lifetimes before whispering it into soft dryer-fresh sheets -- or older still, in the back doors of horse sheds, or the dark alleys of liverpool, or the ancient ruins of mesopotamia. lifetimes, eternities, he feels like he sees them all looking at this pretty boy -- but the memories are just out of reach, like gripping for a soap bar in a bathtub. slip slip slip, further from his grasp.

and it's a little annoying, because again. he doesn't know this man.

( but he wants to. ) ]

Sitting down is good. [ he nods. where wouldn't he follow newt? ] I'm sure you'll be a natural, huh? Ya seem friendly enough. Some characters in the city, but I think this'll go smoothly.

[gimp]

[ trying to keep himself from looking like he's been pining for a hundred years is a lot more difficult than he thought it would be; he can feel the lines on his shoulders rippling in their desperate attempt to get free from their inked prison. he'd love to wrap alby up in a hug, arms and crappy, broken wings that alby had kissed a hundred times, made newt feel better about when it manifested through the limp in his leg and the bent, twitchy right wing he called his own, but he can't, not yet. not now. alby smiled at him, and alby's smiles are so rare that it makes newt's heart sing, even if the rest of him aches for his touch.

instead, newt gives him a smile that's probably a little too warm and nods. ] Just a tic. [ carefully, he pulls the flowers scottie had put on his head this morning off and sets them down on the counter, then slips out to stand beside alby. he's still a head taller than him, like he always is, and newt wonders if the big father upstairs likes to make this happen out of serendipity, because he has dirt stains all over his giant hoodie and rips in the knees of his jeans from tending to the gardens outside this morning.

newt's cheeks flush and he wipes himself off, quickly, then jerks his head towards the back room where the gardens are. outside, there's a table with an umbrella and a few chairs, surrounded by flowerbeds full of daisies and roses and carnations, and he leads alby to it before disappearing back into the shop. newt returns a couple minutes later with water, anyway, and settles back down in the chair across from him, squinty grin firmly in place. ]

There we are. New York Times, yeah? Didn't think we'd ever be that big of a story.

[ professional. very professional, not at all asking about his personal life. do you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, then? sticks in the back of his throat, and he takes a drink of water to keep himself from saying something stupid. ]

[stungs]

( he is somewhat winded by the hospitality -- people hardly treat grunt work reporters as anything more than nuisances or a reason to get their name printed across new york in thousands of copies of newspapers. certainly, he's never treated this nicely by boys with the sun in their hair and a weird twinkle in their eye, like newt has more years thrown on his back than the youth of his face would suggest. alby eyes him, as if trying to understand him not through the questions of the report, and instead on how he looks -- down to earth, a little dirty in an endearing kind of way. a simple kind of beautiful, not loud or flashy but quietly so, like a person plucked from old photographs and put into modern times. alby finds that he likes it, this old timey feeling, this way newt makes him feel -- protected, taken care of, a glass of water in his hand and a chuckle hidden behind his hand. )

Signed on for the spa treatment, yeah? ( he leaves the water on the table, pointedly does not look at newt's lips on the rim of his own ( well, maybe for a second ), before he rifles through his messenger bag, pulling out a pad of paper and a capped pen. in response to newt: ) You're not the only one, brother. S'pretty special place you've got here, everyone's goin on an' on an' on about the magic flowers.

( but, that's getting a little ahead of himself. beautiful boy or not, alby is a professional -- he clears his throat, uncapping the pen with his mouth, scrawling something down on the page before his eyes flicker up to meet newt's. professional, right. it's probably unprofessional to use his favorable hand in asking questions to figure out what his personal life is like, right. his boss would slap him upside the head if he saw him right now, all oogle eyed by a boy in torn jeans and dirt on his nose. )

'ight, boring stuff always comes first. Name, age, occupation here? If ya don't mind my asking, 'course.