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normalcy. [kiara mood]
#1
Monday

She's taking the bend in the park when she sees him slip on the ice; go down in as graceless a way as anyone when taken by surprise; arms pinwheeling; ankle twisting sideways. "So stupid," he laughs later; all warm brown eyes and winter-flushed cheeks, "I know that corner as well as the back of my hand and yet - " A grunt; fingers digging in to her shoulder as she gently moves his foot in a circular motion; her gloves bundled in her lap.

"You're hardly the first and I promise, you won't be the last." A smile, as she presses at the ball of his foot; feels the give; the tell of resistance. This way. That. Sits back on her haunches. "Just a sprain, take it easy for a day or so."

He moves his foot, quietly impressed at the slight improvement in mobility. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

She's getting to her feet already, pulling her gloves back on. The smile she casts him is a brief, engaging thing. It touches her eyes; reveals dimples; teeth; all this even as she starts on her way. "In another life, I was a physical therapist."

"Why another life? Why not this life? Hey - wait. At least give me your name!"

He's getting to his feet carefully, protesting in such a half earnest, half aghast way at her departure while he fights with a twisted length of scarf that it makes something in Kiara's chest ache.

"Next time, I promise." It's all she can muster before she starts to jog anew; lets the park put space between them.

Tuesday

"Kiara. It's Dijon. You better come. It's Deacon, he - Just come."

Thursday

Rain patters onto her umbrella as she watches a line of figures streaming out of a church. A heavy set woman pressing a handkerchief against her eyes; tiny crow's feet smeared with mascara as she's supported into a waiting car by a thin little man with wispy white hair. He straightens with a hand on the car door when he catches sight of her across the street.

Kiara can't read his expression for the rain and the traffic but there's a stiffness to the set of his shoulders; a strain driven into them. They regard each other for a long moment before he climbs into the vehicle without acknowledging her further. The car passes another figure as it crosses the street toward her; one she does know; one she'd spent countless hours with as a teenager getting high and partying in clubs with; dark locs bobbing around her chin; the pink umbrella she carries throwing neon glare against the black.

"I didn't think you'd come."
Dijon's eyes are wet; her voice raspy with grief.
"You called me."
"Still."
"They had the service in the church." Kiara's voice is flat; edged with disbelief and anger.
"They did."
"Deacon hated the church. Why - "

There's the hm of agreement beside her then, quietly: "His parents made the call. They paid for everything."

Kiara's throat feels tight. "His father still hates me."
Dijon's correction comes gently. "He hated all of us. Still thinks we took his son away." A beat. "He got stupid. Took some bad shit at the club. Went down so fast, Kee. I couldn't even - "

"Why were you guys there? You said - " A car speeds by, spitting up water and washing it against the curb. Kiara feels the raindrops ricocheting off her umbrella; slowly saturating her sleeve. " - you were done with that scene. Last time we spoke, when you visited - "
"It ain't that easy, girl. You don't live in this world no more and it was never that simple. You got out. Went someplace better." She wants to protest; to rage that it's anything but - but - "You could have too. You still could."

It's an old argument. It feels worn out; threadbare anew with the fresh loss. There's something almost pitying in Dijon's dark eyes as they level on her.

"Go home, Kiara. Good you came but, - go back."

She watches her friend walk away until the pink is swallowed up by the crowd.

--

His office hasn't changed. She finds him alone; standing at his desk with his back to the door; sifting through paperwork. Turns at the sound of the door clicking shut. Watches the play of emotions register.

Shock. Surprise.
Wariness.

"Well, well. The prodigal daughter returns. To what do I -" She's across the room and pushing him down and mashing their mouths together so suddenly it steals the breath from them both and she's drowning. Wet hair and his fingers tangled in it and her lipstick smears across his jaw.

"Don't talk. Just kiss me. Take your pants off." Her hands are shaking.
"You always were so romantic." Half amused; half startled fingers close around her wrists. "Jesus, what's this, Kiara? No word for months and then - "
"God, shut up."

She climbs on top of him. A container of pens rattle as they spill across the floor.

--

"Deacon's dead."

Sitting on the edge of his desk while he re-buttons his shirt she can hear the sharp exhale of surprise.

"Christ, how? When? Is that why - "
"He was twelve when I met him. He was just a kid." Silence. "He OD'ed. Dijon called me."

She can feel his eyes on her; the weight and heaviness of them; of a thousand unspokens and its on the tip of her tongue to say so many of them.

"I have to go. I have a plane to catch."

"Kiara." He stops her at the door with her name. She looks at him and allows herself the regret of his rumpled clothing; at the way her skin feels tender; pulled paper thin over her bones. "I'm seeing someone. It's serious. This - shouldn't have happened. Can't happen. Again."

She carves a breath out of her lungs; forces a smile.

"I'm happy for you, Patrick."

Doesn't say goodbye. She was never very good at them, anyway.

Saturday

She's by the window in her apartment, the one that overlooks the street below, staring out at a fine sheet of snow drifting down when her phone vibrates. Dials in and listens to familiar voices.

Vampires. Washington Park. She taps out a light hearted response. There's a thread of concern to it. She doesn't know if it will transcend the medium of text, but hopes so. Stands at the window and stares out over the city for a long time, she thinks about Deacon, about his laughing face now pale and still; thinks of the handsome man she helped in the very park now riddled with the undead.

Thinks of the warmth of his smile and aches with the wanting she'd felt then, in the moment. For the simplicity of his world; of runs and sprains and a lifetime without ever understanding the horrors behind the curtain.

She thinks of Patrick, briefly. Of his new life without her complications. Thinks maybe there was the possibility of love there, had she the first idea of what any of that meant.

Settles later on her sofa with a cup of hot coffee; pulling her laptop toward her. Reaches for her phone.

Whatever the plan is, I'm in. -K.
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