he needs oh so many things. he needs some bubbly prosecco and he needs mila alexopoulos to cut him his newest dress and he needs to lose a couple to wriggle his way into it and he needs someone in his bed tonight and he needs to take vivi to the track otherwise she starts to get antsy.

more than that, he needs to be anywhere but here.

this pocketful of nowhere. this dusty corner of the world that's been left forgotten. he's here by recommendation of friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, about the au naturale remedies that plants can provide.

but saying it out loud sounds stupid so he doesn't. he shifts his weight to the side. the white latex boots creak. a finger traces the knobbly wood of the counter.

"not a fan of the tabloids?" he asks instead with a pretty smile, eyes much like a cat's locking in on their newest toy.

elijah gardner

☉

no pills! that's what he said. that shit's the first rung of a ladder he's not ready to climb again. no psych appointments. he is fine, thank you very much. back and better than ever, babes. into the lion's den, out with - 

ugh, this place sucks. boring. sleepy. full of old ladies and retirees. he'll prattle until he dies that he's not a creature of habit, but the vapid space of boring anonymity makes him want to die. pink half-moon shades, matching vivi's own pink stars, and all the world is painted gay around him, but they don't look at him like a fashion icon. 

cape and latex boots with far too many straps to be comfortable, but more than enough to make twink daddies swoon. gods, he misses kalos. he feels the side-eyes, the stares (and really there are only a few people in the streets and they're not actually looking). 

the door chimes. smells hit him. not of a thousand different types of spritzed perfumes or mint tabs after a quickie run to the bathroom, but of dry herbs. like incense. it reminds him of a weekend fling with an artist in santalune. 

he painted flowers for a living. 

"hellooooooo?" he calls out. vivi palms her glasses down and peers, unimpressed, around their surroundings. 

elijah gardner

☉

oh and goodness, this is simply why they adore her. they see her straining at her bonds; she wants to eviscerate them, but she can't. and they can't be too cruel to her either, can they? because no one else will work with them now and they know that. 

what's a little mutual destruction between friends? 

"ugh, doll, ravish me. you've terrible taste in coffee boutiques, but your brain worms are delightful little creatures. you're an artist. you're an extravaganza."

and then, after a sip: "no fucking chevron."

mila alexopoulos

☉

vivi sips surreptitiously, creature of habit that she is. ambrosia wants to make mila feel special so they don't tell them they switched from six pumps of sugar-free vanilla to five pumps of sugar-free vanilla and one pump sugar-free brown sugar and yes, you can tell the difference and how is sugar-free brown sugar even sugar-free?

"still?" they say incredulously. oh, far, far too long. this is a rabid, rapid, vapid environment. slip up for a day and you're behind by a whole week. a week? and you're last year's news. in mila's case?

maybe they'll get better negotiating terms because of this. 

"you know i don't have time." a model's worst fear. "i'm too hot a commodity. i need to be back out there. i need to be wearing something new. something spicy. something by your darling little brain.

"i can get you, at the very least, into vogue, but i need you to slap me back on the cover."

mila alexopoulos

☉

they snatch up the coffee as soon as it's set down in front of them. vivi goes to take hers, because of course mila alexopoulos knows to get a coffee for vivi too, and ambrose gulps a couple of stevia-tasting go-go juice down while they finish tearing this place apart on the web.

"and i heard primarina can't even find advertising space in vogue," they chirp back primly. 

"oh, baby, you look so tired." they pull off crescent moon shades that match vivi's in both ostentatiousness and impracticality. they pinch the temples, allow the other to fold, and gesture with the half-folded accessory to mila herself. 

"but yes, this. this is what i'm missing. passion. i'm tired of wearing yesterday's news."

mila alexopoulos

☉

this coffee shop is grade a shit and the barista is a fucking whore and put whole milk into their skinny latte on purpose for no reason other than to Fuck With Them so there goes six bucks (not that it matters, really), but it's about the principle of it. it's the principle of the matter. 

principal? no, no, it's principle because a principal is supposed to be your PAL. they remember that. 

vivi watches them type furiously. the lopunny has starry shades on and preens her ears while rose goes through the motions of their meltdown. their iphone catches the sun, but it goes right over the pink uv shades and she doesn't have to bother blinking, but she does catch their screen.

yelp. google. fucking craigslist. one star, one star, one star. and then intermittently, texts to the person they are ATTEMPTING to meet here.

cunt. i'm waiting. 

i'm still waiting.

bring me better coffee.

this place sucks.

you have poor taste.

you shouldn't be late for your meetings.

mila alexopoulos

☉