he's going to age poorly. well, more poorly than he already has. there's no doubt about that. ambrose would bet his entire livelihood on where exactly all of his wrinkle lines will chisel, and it starts right with that exact squirrely expression on his face. 

ambrose blinks and then laughs. 

"you can be celibate and still go on dates, moron, but what a pity. such a sour grape you are. no wonder no one wants you." he fishes out bills in exchange and crumples them into his scarred hand. 

"thanks for the mushrooms, truffle. enjoy the rest of those tabloids for me, yeah? you'll see this pretty face on the front of them soon."

and with one last cruel, charming smile, he's gone.

elijah gardner

☉

he's not a mushroom. he's a gnat. a stupid, insufferable gnat. how can one person be so unafflicted, so unaffected, so un-nothing in the face of calamity from all sides? the world is ending and he doesn't care. 

and maybe it's mostly envy, that green and spiteful worm, that keeps showing ambrose his face. or, more realistically, it's the moldy mushrooms in his fridge, wedged between two quart containers of low fat greek yogurt. 

every time he goes to throw them away, he puts them back. he can't tell you why. but it annoys him and his fridge is starting to smell and UGH, STUPID, STUPID, STUPID man!

'no dates at all. i'm celibate.'

"this is my charity," he mutters to himself. his one good deed. his one karmic plea that i'm a good person, i promise, as he shoves open the door to the apothecary's mouldering shop. 

he goes in armed with a sleeveless tank unfit for the chill weather tucked into high-waisted black trousers, knee-high leather boots, a handmade leather satchel with his own insignia on it, and the piece that ties it all together - a thick gold and red half-cape, draped perfectly over his freckled shoulders.

"okay, truffle," he smarms, "time to see some sunlight."

elijah gardner

☉

no bristling. not even a rolling of the eyes. just a hard, cool truth, and it makes ambrose narrows his eyes. he's got skin skin, this mushroom man, and damn if it doesn't burn him to know he can't get under it. 

me, snaps the lonely part of him inside, but he gobbles that up quickly, lashes fluttering away thoughts of cold sheets and vapid texts, half a dozen dicks and tits by way of pixels on his phone, but nothing more than that. never more than that. 

"dating? nah. a mistake would be having a kid," he says with a forced roll of his eyes. "but eh, what's a better meet-cute story than, 'he saved me when i was drowning from a god whale' or 'a building fell on top of me and now i'm a paraplegic, but at least i got one good - . okay, maybe you're right."

gaudy hands adorned with a neat array of gemstone rings reach for the bag.

"bad date recently?" he says with a smile, fingertips brushing tensed, whitened knuckles. 

elijah gardner

☉

ambrose scoffs. he might be insufferable, but people like insufferable. they like knowing they're better than others, or they like him because he's better than them, and they're blessed to have a piece of him, even if it's never all of him.

he does notice how good his little mushroom picker is with his hands.

his laugh is a petty and pretty and vicious bite. "oh, my darling little mushroom, as dense as the shit in these walls, it seems." and pityingly, he drawls, "i don't think you'd even know a good date if it, mm, bit you on the ass."

elijah gardner

☉

a mushroom that can't die. fantastic. just what he needed. gods, this is such a disaster. he is such a disaster. why, why, whyyyy couldn't he just come outright and say it? 

well, present company is kind of a dickwad and would have something snarky to say, surely. 

said dickwad proves ambrosia's points from his internal monologue when he proudly proclaims all this shit comes from his ass, to which ambrose looks around at what could all very well be shit.

"that why you wanna know if i've got a cold sore?" he says, voice like silk. "unfortunately, that's a third date kinda thing for me."

elijah gardner

☉

"lovely," he says dryly, drawing as much snark into the one word as he can manage. the tink of metal tapping against a lightbulb, followed by the swift chk-chk-chk of an old-timey, horror-movie-esque pull is what clues ambrose in that maybe he should stop walking. 

too caught up on shit, on trying to access empty library shelves in his brain where an answer might be to 'do mushrooms grow from shit,' he is too slow to stop. 

especially in his heels, he has a considerable few inches on the man, and so it is all the more embarrassing when he walks right into him like an airheaded ninny. whatever semblance of sophistication he felt he held over him is gone as he rights himself, brushing away the embarrassed heat in his cheeks.

he does not apologize.

"those," he says, waving a hand at some ruddy colored caps. reishi. not at all cooking mushrooms because of course he finds the one thing that might undo his little fib. 

"where do you even get shit?"

elijah gardner

☉

and just like that, he wins. it's enough to distract him from the distorted images of the way he looked in the mirror. the smug haze blankets his insecurities, but that doesn't stop him from rumpling the clothes on the couch just a tad more before alison calls out to the staff. 

"good," he chirps. "who needs food on the table when you've got a dress like that?"

when he stands with finality and joins alison in step towards the counter, vivi slides off of the couch and totters after in step, still wholly absorbed in instagram. 

to the shop attendant's credit, she keeps a pleasant smile on her face while going through the entire exchange, despite ambrose's leering over alison's shoulder. 

after, when alison has a swanky new bag at her hip and they've left, he plucks his phone away from vivi and says, "so what's next for miss everly? will i be seeing her again sometime soon?"

Alison Everly

☉

it's haughty. it's extravagant. it radiates sass and bitchy professionalism. the hips will need to be adjusted, but mila already knows that, and there are draperies that will expose the mole on their side that they absolutely hate, but mila knows that too. 

they lay their finger over their lower lip, doing a poor job of pretending not to horrendously adore what mila has put in front of them. they have plenty to say about what doesn't work, but they know it's a moot point; all of the inconsistencies and the colors will change when she breathes life to the creation with fabric and beads and thread. 

"fine. i'll max my fucking credit cards if we have to. this will get us back in print, babes."

mila alexopoulos

☉

they love her, truly, in their own way. like a cat loves a mouse in its claws, warm flesh in its teeth and the thrill of the hunt still thrumming through its veins. they tilt their head and watch her go, hungering as they tuck a lock of stray hair behind their ear. 

and then they follow, reaching a hand to take the prosecco, smiling with sweet wiles and amused adoration as she toasts to them. to their perfect little togetherness. 

"to us," they purr and clink, wineglass to lips, sorry to feel the lingering taste of her wash down their throat.

"where can i take you tonight, my darling? or shall we stay in?" their eyes glitter. in is a tumble over satin sheets, an exploration of ecstasy that's too new to disgust them. out is the threat of fracture, the thrill of covert, furtive glances, touches in the dark. 

cassidy

☉

he doesn't say 'i will have no fucking clue what to do with these,' and even though it is self-evident by the slight panic pulling at the corners of his eyes, the nervous scratching of his thumb into the meat of his hand, the other man doesn't seem to notice.

vivi takes one look into the deep dark spooky interior and nopes out, wishing ambrose luck with a fluffy wave and a shake of her hips back out the front door. ambrose swats a pothos curl away from his head and follows.

"what is this place?" he thought it might be an exotic plant store, all gentrified and stuff, but if it's gentrified, the interior hasn't gotten the memo.

into the deep dark they go. a squat piece of furniture sits against a wall. the little workbench has hanging herbs and flowers, littler drawers with scrawl ambrose can't make out, and a couple of bowls with little...clubs beside them? his brows furrow, head sideways, clearly not paying attention as he walks.

elijah gardner

☉

"and would that be such a bad thing?" he teases with a lilt of his lips, hazels glowing down at her, almost amber in the light. the changing rooms are lavish and warm, no leds to raise all of their little imperfections to the limelight.  

he looks over his shoulder, following her, and his nose wrinkles at the pile of clothes that his attendant is no doubt still itching to put back to the steamer. it gives him a twinge of satisfaction knowing that she's antsy. is that her fingering the curtain, peeking into the changing area?

withdrawing from alison, he prances back to the couch and sifts through the mass of clothes he'd so carelessly discarded. now, all rumpled as they are, there's no way in heaven he's putting them back on. 

"nothing called to me," he says simply and tosses them back down. "must have been the fates, mm? because now i have that little monster in me begging me to spend, spend, spend and no frilly little things to satisfy it." 

he smiles adoringly at her. 

"oh, you must have it."

Alison Everly

☉

the misunderstanding knifes through him quite painfully, but he can't correct him now. he can't say, 'no, i mean my appetite, for me, so i can eat, because it's hard and some skinny bitch at a show told me certain plants can help and i think it's a load of horse shit, but i will get on my hands and knees now, but for more than one reason actually, even though you probably smell like dirt down there, and also the last time i made mac 'n cheese i forgot to pour the water out before putting the cheese mix in.'

"very astute," he says lavishly, nonplussed at the other's attempted dig.

"mushrooms then? any chanterelles? truffles?" look, just because he can't cook doesn't mean he can't appreciate fine foods. 

elijah gardner

☉

they draw their hair up in a loose pony, teasing out platinum strings with the pointed end of a comb. the sweet sounds of heaven drifts out from the speaker in their kitchen, muffled at the vanity mirror. sparkling blush goes on their cheeks and they pucker their lips, radiating like a star. 

they flick through their instagram feed, heart react to a dozen different messages from their beloved and grab their shoulder cape as they ghost out of their bedroom. 

and there she is, waiting prettily in front of their door. they lounge against the frame, cat eyes raking down her front with a rumbling hunger. they reach, take her jaw, take her lips, tensing possessively before slinking back and gesturing lazily for her to come in. 

"there's a prosecco on the counter for you, my heart."

cassidy

☉