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.

Comments

[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.