Restless Energy Exists Under His Skin. Constant Need To Get His Hands On Something— It's Kept Him Out

there's a certain sort of air to kieran fucking talbot. and something about it has garnered damon's interest. enough to latch onto him halloween night— get him out of that little air pocket of his. it has their mind straying, wondering if kieran had some actual fucking fun with it or if they regretted it come morning. was he the type to have a hangover? did he remember the rest of it after damon scampered off? its his own personal questions posed internally. questions he might've asked with kieran's sudden appearance before the conversation forks. a character listing, something about due diligence and an alibi— and then a car's tires skid. not on the road beside them but in damon's head ; an echoing 'skrrrchhh!' at the question proposed:

'did you kill alaina price?'

bold. sudden. but maybe that's exactly what kieran was. bolder than damon could ever give them credit for. damon's blinking rapidly, three times to be exact as a mass wave of emotions wrack through their chest. confusion, why the fuck is he asking me that? discomfort, is that the type of person he thinks i am? intrigue, does he ask everybody that? it swirls and swirls until a fourth option is decided on. its amusement, almost, but likes the merry warmth that normally comes with it. gotta keep up that facade of his. otherwise kieran might really think he's suspicious. answers first with a sharp laugh and then a near whisper, " gonna ask what i killed her with next? " a humoring of the question, tone low and almost a little too serious. they're adjusting the way they lean against the wall. forearm pressed to the bricks and angled slightly more towards kieran's lean. " don't want to be used as an alibi, but i think you're already my alibi from halloween night. you the type of drunk that doesn't remember a wink, kier? " poses a question back to kieran, too fucking curious to see the rebuttal. this is denial in damon's way. taking the all-too-fucking-serious inquiry and turning it almost to a mockery. its not that they don't feel for the poor woman, but the personally known fact they didn't fucking do it. something burns in the center of their chest. a match freshly lit, sulfur tickling his nose. " humor me one more time here. i wanna know how that mind of yours works. " the hand not suspended with their lean gestures towards kieran ; a two fingered lazy point. " 'cause its real ... bold to ask someone if they're a murderer. unless you just like flirting with danger. "

his head tilts to the side, " the fuck makes you think that? seriously, i gotta know the criteria. "

ꜜ ﹙ ⚰️  ﹚ ﹕ there was a quiet kind of sickness to trailing someone like damon del valle⸻ a moral vertigo that came from the careful balance of what he was hoping to find versus what he was afraid to be true. and kieran had always been acquainted with people like them ﹕ the restless, unmoored types that lived in the liminal spaces between good intentions and bad decisions. he didn't want to suspect damon, not really. in fact, he had always admired their ability to be the sparkplug of any gathering. he could never be the same kind as damon, only the kind to fall for it ﹕ just like he did on halloween night, when he let damon flush a couple of hours of clarity and cognizance down the drain, in favor of alcohol and released inhibitions. but the more he looked at him, the more he spent time in their light, the more kieran realized that there was always something missing. a lack of true knowledge over who damon really was at their core. it was like watching smoke rise from a cigarette, wondering if it was the start of a fire or just the smolder of something already spent. and it didn't help that damon insisted on hanging out in places like this ﹕ dingy back alleys with dubious company, the smell of stale beer, weed and the distant exhaust curling up between buildings. it painted them in a light that was difficult to ignore⸻ placing kieran in a peculiar purgatory between suspicion and the gut feeling damon was not the one. not that it would change anything. truth didn't care about his gut. but still, kieran wanted to clear their name, or more specifically, trying to clear them off a growing list of people who could've killed alaina price that night. he thought about all his other suspects, compared them to damon, but the loud scrape of a boot against fractured pavement snapped him out of his mind, avoiding their gaze for a moment and watched the cars on the road, as if he hadn't been waiting here for this exact moment. “ i think i'm more clarice starling. fox mulder. dale cooper. ” kieran responded flatly, though not unkind. he leaned back, weight settling against the brick wall, gaze shifting toward damon's hands instead⸻ almost amused by the gestures, but mostly curious of what those hands were truly capable of. “ listen— damon. i'm not here to waste your time. just doing my due diligence, really. ' cause i'd really hate to be used as some kind of alibi, ” a pause, not a long one, but enough to let the weight of the moment stretch thin. then, he finally looked into their eyes and asked the question, landing with no ceremony or inflection, just a nonchalant query that even piqued the attention of some people passing by ﹕ “ did you kill alaina price ? ”

FOR : open ! LOCATION : bench, not far from red creek hospital.

the emergency room was always something of a toss-up. either there's whining children or elders, or a catastrophic case. one or the other, never the middle. most ruckus of the day has been a check - in for a broken leg potential ; skin angry with the pressure of a bruise. nothing out of the ordinary. though, if mak can remember, they'd had a few intakes surrounding the ... anxiety surrounding red creek. red creek. dead creek. whining elders like they'd thought — distraught and heart racing high enough to turn over a horse. well, maybe not a horse, but close enough. they've mostly detached themselves from the news, the rambling of the town, but of course its brought to their fucking doorstep. like everything in their life. tossed in, locked and keyed. learn to live with it, maksym! grin and bear it! they want out of this fucking graveyard. it's moments like this in their lonesome it weighs on their chest ; anvil, stack of bricks. a concrete object instead of a desire. the same sort of weight is what keeps them here, too.

they aren't necessarily aware when someone sits next to them. in fact, at first they don't acknowledge them at all. when they do, it's out of their peripherals and then entirely all at once. " what, looking for company or just couldn't walk ten steps down? " a grating tone to their voice ; unnecessary, but if they'd wanted a little party they'd have trekked it down to redstone. the cafe. a heavy sigh escapes. " couldn't even offer a hello either, huh? "

the direct and casual tone catches her off guard. even has her voicing it atypically : " oh. " it's amusing, really. the nonchalance. the ability to voice opinion, one based in earnest or not, without batting an eye. a stray thought comes to mind: kieran should make a podcast or try putting his opinions to paper. might be a damn hit. " should i thank be thanking you for that? i mean, really, this isn't some sort of indie horror flick. but, hell, you're making me curious who you are suspicious of. that's just the writer in me though. " effie's earnest at least, but she is wondering what's on his mind, who. it might even be useful to jot down— consider it for herself. yet, out of good manners, she doesn't press.

eyes flicker down to the unlit cigarette leaning close. the unspoken request met with her own lean. cigarette between her lips she lights it with the butt of her own. obverses him over it quietly. a creature of habit she is. ends it with a long drag and a collection of her bag while she stands. " thank you. i'm not really ... scared, but i don't think i want to cram myself into the bar like everyone else is. that'd really be what wigs me out. not enough room to breathe. " she adjusts her purse against her shoulder, slowly walking in the direction her apartment rests. eyes cast upwards a considerable distance. effie's never felt small before, but it's hard to ignore just how looming kieran was. that's a frame she'd never want to see in a dark hallway — a horror flick — only his shadow visible. " i have to ask though ... were you headed home or trying to snoop? no judgement. i'm no better sometimes. "

…                      oncoming headache was absolutely a cautionary tale against night outs, did not mean to get so senselessly wasted, especially when he only really attended that stupid halloween party for one single-minded purpose. and well, that turned out to be an utter fucking failure. but there wasn't anything quite as sobering as the news of yet another tragedy, the cogs and gears of his mind slowly beginning to turn again despite the lingering effects of alcohol and god knows what else he might have taken. “ safe as life. ” which was just another way of saying not at all, blown pupils thoroughly watching the smoke billowing from her mouth as if it was the most entertaining thing in the world. but it was a needed distraction nonetheless, something to fixate on while he attempted to get his shit together. but maybe he needed a far stronger stimulation, harshly pinching the bridge of his nose ⸻ and a groan slipped past his lips, nothing like some good ol' pain to jolt someone fucking wide awake. “ you're lucky i don't suspect you, ” said with typical nonchalance, taking out a marlboro of his own from a silver case. “ i can keep you company till you think it's safe. ” he had read way too much data and while she checked the white working class boxes of most female midwestern serial killers, a journalist like her was more likely to be the vulture circling the bodies, rather than the vicious wolf itself. he could be wrong, it wouldn't be the first time, but blame it on the alcohol, because kieran felt safe enough to lean in, tilting his head to meet her eyes, the unlit cigarette hanging from his lips as he silently asked if she'd light it off hers. maybe she wasn't the killer, but it still felt like flirting with danger : effie floyd just had that look, like she could eat you alive.

immediately damon pauses, bottle almost comically suspended just inches from their mouth. leave it to kingsley to say something absolutely, positively outlandish enough to get them to pause. it has them pondering for a moment ; taking in each word piece by piece like tic-tacs. it's clear on their face they're thinking about it — the thought process is broken by a laugh. " man. colloquially. you know what, kingsley, you're alright, buuuuuuuut lets backtrack real quick. " they're taking a swig of the beer before they spin it in a circle in his directly. " how many people you drop that on, huh? giving a little ... motive drop just to see if they'd twitch? or you just spouting some shit? " it's interesting. enough so that, maybe, if damon was too lost in his cups he might be thinking: oh fuck, is it me? " i like it. it's juicy. maybe the register will get a kick outta it. "

" it'd be crazy if you were the one making everyone disappear and be murdered . " kingsley says aloud , mainly to himself , but too blase to really notice it may not be everyone's favourite topic. " like . . . you know what i'm saying ? either you're an idiot who's bad at killing and snatching people , by drawing attention to yourself . or you're a GENIUS , cause who'd suspect you now ? " kingsley shakes his head in amusement . he looks to damon and gives a small shrug . " never any trouble to me , my man who's gender non-conformity i whole-heartedly respect , and when i say ' man ' i mean it colloquially , not that i actually see you as such , per se . "

as much as ricardo's stunt had send effie into a tizzy ... it has sparked a fire under the register's ass. maybe, in a way, it was what was needed. a new spark that wasn't a body or new missing person— but a spark is all it took to birth a blaze. who else would post an anonymous shot in the dark tip? what the fuck else would he approve to be printed onto the web? the passion of recording may have been rekindled, but the weight of fool's gold could send them all into the pits of hell. in this she isn't immune to the bustle ; greeting a few interns, reviewing a concept piece, scratching about her own ideas ( one, specifically, centered around the elusive wanted man ). a little busy bee. buzzing , buzzing all around until it collides with a windshield— out of the corner of her eye she sees the man before his approach. recognizes him in an instant. local fucking celebrities, the talbots. had the town so deep in their pockets, it's astonishing how they're not sinking into the pits themselves. at least, on paper. politicians, even the small kind, love to put on a show. luckily, effie is of that same blood. not a celebrity, but a woman that could paint herself a portrait to please any painter. forget dragging herself to hell when she could paint it in a fantasy. " nathan talbot. " immediate reply in her heel-turn. meets his stride halfway with the raise of a brow towards a coffee.

" busy, interesting. sure, you could say that. " a hand rests to her hip as she studies him. a nasty habit of hers. looking for the fault ; a misprint. people were their own stories with missing pages and different details ommitted depending on its reader. " well, i've been busy. you've seen the front page, heard the buzz. i know you keep yourself well informed. " she hums, " but not enough to know charolette's also busy. " a slight pinch, but she offers it as a jest. pairs it with a light-hearted chuckle. a pinkish red tint for this particular portrait. despite her own columns about this family, she tends to return a good show. wants to dig some of nathan's fool's gold from his pockets. find the cracks. see what exactly he likes to paint. " but you're in luck, someone else here could use that coffee. " the hand resting on her hip raises to grab the second coffee in his hand. what it is, doesn't matter. this action is both to make a point and quench the crave for caffeine. takes a quick sip of it before she continues her brush strokes. " humor me. play a little pretend interview. " the hand with what's now her coffee gestures around, eyes following with the motion. " what's your thoughts on all this? i can't help myself but to ask the man 'in charge', after all. call me greedy. " another sip and a smirk just behind the brim. " gotta have more to say than just asking how i'm doing, or am i wrong? "

𝖫𝖮𝖢𝖠𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭　:　the register, 12:30pm 𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖲　:　closed for effie floyd @c0nnectdots

despite  the  news  that's  been  plaguing  the  town  for  days  now,  one  thing  prevails  in  nathan's  mind:  keeping  up  a  facade.  of  course,  it  isn't  like  he's  being  forced  into  this  charade,  in  fact  his  intentions  are  halfway  to  genuine,  but  playing  pretend  when  everything  else  is  falling  apart  around  him  is  easier  than  having  to  face  the  wreck.  so  here  he  is,  standing  by  the  front  desk  of  the  register  with  two  cups  of  afternoon  coffee,  one  to  give  to  his  beloved  wife  whom  he  is  allegedly  wholly  committed  to  —  except  charlotte  isn't  there,  because  apparently  she  just  left  for  lunch,  so  now  he  looks  like  an  idiot  standing  by  the  entrance  with  two  quickly  cooling  coffees  and  a  mildly  bruised  ego  over  his  failed  attempt  at  being  a  good  husband.  that's  when  he  sees  effie  in  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  turns  on  his  heel.  “  miss  effie  floyd,  ”  he  calls  out smoothly,  sauntering  over  with  a  picture-perfect  grin  plastered  on  his  face.  “  must  be  a  busy  day  today,  ”  he  remarks,  gesturing  around  him  as  various  employees  walk  in  and  out  and  around  the  bulding.  “  how've  you  been?  there's  been  . . .  quite  a  number  of  interesting  stories  as  of  late.  ”

DAPHNE BLAKE, played by the journalist herself . . . effie floyd ! coming to a red creek halloween party near you! template cred.

maksym is far from a frequent flier at redstone ; embodies a distant fly on the wall. present, aware, but perched unmoving against the drywall out of sight. this the opposite of their other half. he, present on the stage with bloodied fingers from the strings, rhythm piercing the already buzzed atmosphere. mak is the oddity here, but who the fuck wasn't an oddity in this town anymore? still it lingers in the corner of their mind just how strange they feel in a bar. unwilling to make eye contact with other patrons as if it'd burn. disinterested in musical commodities such as the band ( or, maybe, just because it welcomed finch ). yet they linger. fly, shadow. anything except a person.

they sit with one whiskey neat and eyes glued to the yellow-tint of their phone screen. it's just something for them to do, bade their time as they drown a misplaced discomfort blooming beneath ribs. it doesn't have a name — mak isn't trying to find it either. they don't notice the this time real shadow looming over them. the figure cast by the low light against the counter ignored. just some other resident. someone looking to burn what lurks beneath murky waters with something stronger.

as the old story goes — it wasn't just some fucking resident.

taylan speaks into their space on purpose, he must. mixes in his volatile presence with their still water. it doesn't startle mak, not necessarily, but it births a new gnawing. their tongue clicks in wordless response, fingers tapping against the drained glass. bored? " bored. " it's a scoff, cousin of a mean laugh. mak doesn't grace taylan with the generosity of a full acknowledgement. tilts their head in a similar way, just barely, encroaching into his space like a quiet challenge. eyes obscured by the hike of their shoulder. the problem with being a nurse in red creek, and red creek in general, was being known. even if their brother wasn't a frequent body with taylan they're sure they'd be noticed still. small town. only hospital. they need out of this fucking place, but they haven't found the open window. " was me not fixing your dumbass up at the hospital enough? " caustic in its own way ; biting without the connection of teeth. fuck, they need another drink. two finger wave towards the bartender and they receive another liquid pacifier. it'd never be liquid courage, they aren't in need of that shit. " i'll bite, taylan. what kind of entertainment you offering? besides the threat of a headache. "

where : redstone bar status : closed for @c0nnectdots

redstone bar thrums with its usual chaos - laughter curling into the sharp notes of a jukebox tune , the slap of cards against table , the steady thud of boots against the floorboards . the air is thick with the tang of spilled whiskey , and a haze of distractions that fails to reach him . taylan stands just inside the doorway , the noise washing over him in waves , but doing nothing to sate the gnawing ache in his chest . it’s an insatiable hunger - the kind no drink or idle conversation can dull . his muscle plead for stillness , but his sinews stretch taut , coiled with restless energy that drives him forward . his chest burns hot - a bitterness festering , like old gear abandoned in the shadows of a rink , forgotten and rusting away . the ache lives too deep , a rot he can’t scrape out , a void that won't be satisfied by anything less than destruction . his eyes flick to the far end of the bar , landing on mak . wrong twin . finch would’ve been a guarantee of chaos , a devil perched on his shoulders , whispering bad ideas into his ear . mak , though , is all stiff-backed judgement , more locked door than partner in crime . taylan moves toward him anyway , his shadow dragging heavy across the floorboards . when he reaches the bar , he doesn’t sit . he looms , shadow pooling over mak's sharp shoulders . for a moment , he says nothing , doesn't even look at them , just signals for a drink . the sharp clink of glass against the counter cuts through the noise . then , with the barest tilt of his head , taylan leans in close enough to crowd their space . “ you look bored . ” he murmurs , low and sardonic , curling between them like smoke . “ let me fix that . ”

damon pauses for a moment, racking his brain on if the face is familiar or not. so many faces in redcreek remembered and forgotten. seen on a day-to-day basis as a client, a grocery story regular or someone he'd rub shoulders with the wrong way in high school. so many options! they eventually conclude she looks familiar from bygone teenage years. brows furrowing trying to think about her name.

" star-struck, eh? c'mon don't gotta be a flatterer now. i'm just a redcreek native, not a celeb. " gives a slight laugh at that, mouth splitting into a grin. " don't hate me, but i can't remember your name. high school, right? " snaps his fingers to point at sianni before they're leaning back against the bar. " well. maybe it isn't a good look for anybody right now, no. " agrees without much fight there. takes a drink from the beer bottle before they're turning fully to face her, a snort towards her exaggerated expression. " bit dramatic, don't you think? off us one by one? that's stranded adults in a woodland cabin plot. " doubts its some grand show of control or something similar. hasn't really given it much thought and finds themselves straying away from the turbulence as much as possible. they keep in the know, but they're not trying to be within the know.

" refresh me. what's your name aaaaaaaand do you drink. it's on me. for forgetting you. "

sianni turns to see damon del valle in a seat while he speaks directly to her, which has her honestly taken aback a bit.

she knew them from high school-- well she knew of them-- she was in her sophomore year going to her junior year as they were graduating from their senior year. "not gonna lie, a little star-struck right now, didn't know you'd even-- know me--remember me? or maybe you're just trying to make conversation with a stranger?"

Though, sianni doesn't hesitate to take a seat across from him, "but to answer your question, is it even a good look for any of us to be here-- especially when there's somebody-- or even people, who wants to--" sianni makes a face expression, one meant to express agony on someone's face, "off us one by one it seems."

" you know what ... after the evening i've had ? why not. " she matches the volume over the music, smoothing down the front of her daphne dress. a small tear, poorly put together with a safety-pin at her side, proving to be the source of her frustration. the spin takes her off guard, makes her sputter off something close to a laugh. a squeeze is given to the fingers interlacing hers, but a brow promptly arches upward. " have you already started drinking, kennedy? "

location : the dance floor @ the warehouse

time : approximately 10:30pm.

open : to anyone!

“are you thirsty? wanna grab a drink?” kennedy half yells into the other’s ear, yet her voice is barely audible over the music pumping around them. fingers flutter down the other's arm, ready to grab hold of their wrist to lead them out of the dance floor or loosely interlace her digits with theirs to twirl them around. depends on their answer!

lets get one thing straight: damon hasn't been in a fight since the yesteryears. younger, freshly out of high school damon ... boy did they have a mouth. as much as they could swindle something to go their way, get a discount at a local business they could also say the wrong shit at the wrong time. nowadays, they don't really bother with the adrenaline of saying the wrong thing. however, they'd been put in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time. tension in the room, tension on the streets. the cord was bound to snap eventually. unfortunately, it's on the pop idol taking a damn vacation. " the fuck is wrong with me? the fuck is wrong with you?! " spat after the punch to the cheek — that's gonna bruise later, great — hands frantic to get some sort of leverage. their hands twist into the shirt, but find there's nothing they could do to get the underhand. great, now i have to pretend to be some scrappy street kid, they think. arms flail and lift to press wrists into the elbows, attempt to weaken the grasp and get hajun into a grapple. " aaaaaaallll these fuckin' people in here, and you're pushing around? wrong fucking place, wrong guy. " at this point they're attempting to shove him towards the bar. legs knocking, knees uncomfortably bend. doesn't help that hajun's got the height on damon nonetheless the build. " least you could do is apologize, but you look like you wanna keep this going, huh? " needling ... proooobbbbably not their finest look.

who thought drinking so much was a good idea? him apparently. he's never lost his footing several times and with the amount of intoxication, closeness, and the lack of being able to breathe... it feels like he's being crushed. the loud chatter fades out into screams of fans and the constant grinding of bodies feels like hands grabbing, pawing at him. he hears vague sounds of his name ( or, at least, he thinks ) and the sounds bleeding all into one. it merges into obnoxious, screeching voices trying to get his attention or inappropriate grabbing. the lack of conscience doesn't help at all in this situation, actually feeling helpless and hopeless in this situation. the breath is getting trapped in his lungs and he's getting light - headed, so much that when he finally goes to leave, no one will move the fuck out of the way. move, move, move! apologies could come later but what mattered was him and him alone, even if he does unconsciously shove shove someone. better than getting crushed in his bar.

except that wasn't a good idea and being crushed to death actually sounded a lot better because then the next thing he knew, he's getting socked right in the jaw. the voice sounded far, but it was hard to register when this man was right in front of him. " what the hell— " living in visions or not, that brought him out of his stupor for sure. that's right, he's not performing or getting off a flight with ravaging fans waiting by with paparazzi, he's just in the bar... no where else. however, his ears ring loudly, feeling the aching pain settling in, and he knows there's going to be a blossoming bruise to appear later— and as far as he sees it, he's not the problem. he may be completely unaware of his actions prior but well, he's aware now. " what the fuck is wrong with you?! " clammy hands reach forward to grab at his shirt and pulls to land his own solid punch right into damon's cheek.