if it falls, I would hold on for all it's worth.

Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind

Everest arrives at the clinic precisely at 2:53 PM.

The sun beats down from above in typical LongHeat fashion, and while it’s hot enough to warrant retreat, he’s dressed with quiet intention: a loose, pale linen shirt with the sleeves rolled exactly twice and a pair of soft, lightweight trousers in a sandy beige. His curls are damp at the temples from the walk, but otherwise he's composed, a canvas satchel neatly positioned at his side where he waits in the shade of a low awning just across from the entrance.

He doesn’t go in—of course he doesn’t. Their meeting was scheduled for 3:00 PM, and even though he’s early (arriving early helps mitigate the stress of things going wrong), entering now would shift the terms of their arrangement. And he doesn’t want that—not with Isla. Not today.

So he stands, back straight but not rigid, his fingers occasionally adjusting the strap of the satchel or brushing down the line of his shirt. Inside the bag, everything is packed in separate cloth bundles: sliced fruit, soft cheese, crusty bread, tea chilled with herbs. A picnic. He told himself it was a practical gesture, a way to avoid crowded taverns or unpredictable menus, but it’s also something to hold. Something tangible. Something he hopes she’ll like.

Isla

to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering

Isla steps out of the clinic at precisely 2:58 PM.

Almost exactly on time, but with a couple of minutes to spare to ensure she isn't snared by one last patient. Breathing a soft sigh, not of relief exactly, but to acknowledge the shift in her priorities and the lack of need for professional bedside care, she glances around for Ever and spots him near instantly - with no shortage of butterflies taking flight in her stomach - under the shade of a nearby awning.

Waving hello and stepping across to greet him, the warm breeze ruffling the hem of her pale blue sundress, Isla tucks a loose curl behind her ear and ducks beneath the awning to join him. With her glamour back in place and her smile made all the warmer for the company, she raises her eyebrows at the satchel he carries. "Good afternoon," she chimes. "Have you been somewhere?"

She gestures to said satchel, assuming it's from running an errand earlier in the day.

fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind

Everest returns her wave with a precise lift of his hand—no flourish, just a clear and steady gesture—and as Isla steps beneath the awning, his gaze softens. He doesn’t meet her eyes for more than a few seconds at first, but his smile is real and distinct, a quiet warmth not unlike the one pressing down from the sun above them.

"I’ve been here," he replies, adjusting the satchel against his hip with a brief touch. His fingers tap once—twice—on the fabric before stilling. "I didn’t want to be late." At her glance toward the satchel, he follows it reflexively before nodding. "This is for us," he says plainly. "I thought a picnic might be the least invasive way to gather observational data." His mouth twitches into something dry but genuine. "Food is known to mitigate awkward silences." Just in case any presented themselves, best they be able to fill them with fluids and sustenance.

He hesitates, then gestures in the general direction of the market. "If you're ready, I thought we could walk that way. There’s a stretch of beach past the far stalls. It’s usually quiet. Less crowding, minimal auditory interference." A pause, his brows lifting slightly in case she has other preferences. "Unless you'd prefer a different route?"

Everest waits a beat as Isla considers the options, then blinks once—twice—and turns sharply toward Isla. "You look lovely," he mumbles, the words nearly coming out all at once as a blush of colour rises in his cheeks in response to this obvious misstep on his part for not having said so sooner.

Isla

to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering

"Me neither," Isla says, and with a brief and secretive lowering of her voice, she admits, "I even tucked myself away in my office for the last fifteen minutes to make sure I wouldn't end up running over my shift." With an apologetic shrug to the rest of her staff (not that they will see it), she straightens up enough to glance back at the satchel, understanding - and delight - blooming across her face.

"That's a wonderful idea," she agrees with a nod of her head. "I would like that a lot. Though I hope this doesn't mean we ought to anticipate any awkward silences." It's still difficult not to fall into too familiar a rhythm with Ever, but Isla tries her best and follows his gesture down towards the stretch of beach he's indicated. "That route suits me just fine," she assures him, considering asking whether he might not prefer somewhere less sandy, but thinking better of it.

If both of them start to overthink, they'll never go anywhere, after all.

Stepping out from beneath the awning to stroll with him, Isla is surprised by the sudden compliment that spills from his lips. Blinking - and blushing as well - she finally breaks their first silence (not awkward, thank you) with cheerful laugh. "Thank you, Ever," she says softly. "I thought, since I was meeting you again properly for the first time, that I ought to make a good first impression."

fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind

Everest falls into step beside her with a measured pace, not too fast, not too slow, adjusting naturally to her stride without needing to glance. His fingers ghost along the edge of the satchel again before stilling, then starting up—one, two—then stilling once more. "I don’t anticipate awkward silences," he confirms matter-of-factly. "But I like to account for the possibility." His head tilts slightly, expression somewhere between earnest and dry. "Contingency planning. Standard procedure."

They pass the first few vendor stalls, the scent of grilled fruit and sea salt mingling with the floral perfume of someone behind them. He shifts the satchel to his other shoulder, more to keep the balance even than out of necessity, and maybe so that if he should brush against Isla accidentally, it wouldn't be the canvas that would press against her.

Her response to the compliment pulls his gaze sideways for a moment—just a flicker—and something in his jaw eases. "You succeeded," he says after a pause, the words soft but definite. "It’s a good first impression." He hesitates just long enough to notice it before adding, "I also considered dressing up, but Mateo said my definition of formalwear made me look like I was going to file a tax report." The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smirk. "So this was the compromise."

His hand brushes down the line of his shirt in explanation—clean, pressed, neutral—but clearly chosen with care. ['say]"You’re much easier to look at. But I tried."

Isla

to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering

"Ah, but of course. I ought to have known - a wise addition, in that case," Isla concedes with a dry smile back towards Ever. Her steps are smooth and unhurried, but nevertheless take them down a set of steps and past the vendor stalls towards the quiet, somewhat lonely stretch of beach Ever had indicated. Less popular perhaps because it's more rocky, more encroached upon by the foliage of the trees and shrubbery, Isla likes it right away.

Glancing back up at the aviator - and perhaps brushing against him accidentally as she slips out of her sandals in preparation to walk across the beach - Isla's smile is something quietly pleased and infinitely charmed. "I'm glad. And you are dressed up perfectly for a Torchline outing," she assures him, resisting the urge to reach out and brush soft fingers across the linen of his shirt. "I like it. You look good like this."

Sun-dappled and walking with ease, she means, more than any choice of outfit, but it all counts towards the whole. "Do you see anywhere good to set up our picnic?"

fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind

Everest follows her toward the rougher edge of the beach, shoes crunching against packed sand and scattered shell fragments with a rhythmic consistency he finds mildly comforting. The terrain shift pulls a faint frown between his brows—automatic, not disapproving—as he catalogues the uneven footing and adjusts accordingly. The satchel is shifted again. One, two. Balanced.

Isla’s shoulder brushing his doesn’t seem to startle him—just earns a subtle glance to check proximity, followed by a quiet intake of breath he doesn’t comment on, though has the tips of his ears flushing. When she steps out of her sandals, he watches her for a moment—gauging the transition from cobble to sand—before his gaze flicks back up at her words. "I appreciate that," he says honestly, his thumb brushing over the edge of the satchel again. "This was the third outfit I tried. The first two made me look like I was applying for a job at the Skyport. In administration." His mouth tugs wryly. "Too many buttons."

When she compliments his look more directly, Ever’s fingers still for a moment. His eyes meet hers briefly—flicker away—then return with more steadiness than he used to be capable of. "Thank you," he murmurs, quieter than before. "You make it easier to look and feel like I'm meant to be somewhere." His voice doesn’t sound performative; he’s just stating a personal truth.

At her question, he scans the terrain with a methodical gaze. "There—under that palm, near the flat stone?" He points to a patch of shade edged in scattered leaves, semi-screened by greenery and well away from any high-tide line. "The rock will give us back support and there's minimal slope. Sand looks dry. There's sun for you and shade for me." He glances at her again, gesturing gently. "Would that be acceptable?"

Isla

to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering

Isla catalogues everything about Everest with the subtle glances of a medic and the personal investment of the aviator's former (present, with any luck) girlfriend. The flush to the tips of his ears, the one-two rhythm against the satchel and the way he shifts the weight of it at regular intervals, the flickering - and then steadying - way he holds her gaze. Chuckling at the remark about buttons, she glances over him as if trying to imagine it. (And to imagine him without any of it, something which is also infuriatingly easy to do).

"I doubt you would have lasted in this heat in such an outfit," she says. "This is a clear winner. Linen especially, given the sun." It also makes him look very casually wind-tossed, which she happens to thoroughly enjoy, Isla biting that part of her compliment back so they can stroll down and onto the beach.

"Of course you're meant to be somewhere," she adds warmly. You're meant to be with me. "You're on a date." Tipping him a playful wink, Isla takes in his proposed picnic spot with a tilt of her head and a nod.

"It would be more than acceptable. Of all the spots available, this one is ideal." Leading the way over to it and lingering in the dappled sunlight so Ever can take his place in the shade, she gestures for him to finally be able to put down his satchel. "I hope it wasn't too heavy to carry around."

fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind

"It was within acceptable range of weight I can safely carry," Everest says, kneeling on the sand with a practiced grace that makes clear he’s pre-planned every part of this. The blanket is unfolded and smoothed with a precision that borders on reverence. From the satchel, he begins to unpack the contents in order: a chilled bottle of Isla’s favourite tea nestled beside a smaller one of white wine, its label modest and handwritten. A wrapped parcel reveals two sandwiches—filled with roasted vegetables, herbed goat cheese, and crisp pancetta on crusty sourdough.

There’s fruit, too—figs and blackberries arranged in a small (labelled) container—and a separate bundle of napkins, utensils, and a folding corkscrew just in case. He says nothing as he works, only glancing up to make sure she’s still there, still smiling, still bathed in that afternoon warmth like it’s the sun that’s lucky to touch her.

Once everything is set, Ever folds his legs beneath him, sitting just enough in the shade to avoid the direct glare. He doesn’t immediately reach for the food. His gaze slips instead to Isla, and something inside him stutters—because though they’re starting over, and though so much of what happened between them feels like it happened to someone else, his body remembers. Remembers the softness of her hair brushing his neck. The way her fingers always seemed to know where his would be. The warm weight of her suspended over him in the half-light.

It’s difficult—impossible, really—to reconcile those memories with the polite space between them now. His mouth twitches, a flicker of something close to confusion or longing, and he quickly looks down at the blanket, cheeks colouring slightly. "I’ve been thinking of taking up woodworking," he says abruptly, as if the thought has just occurred to him.

Isla

to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering

"Good," Isla says softly, keeping out of the way of Everest as he unpacks their picnic with the exact same sort of precision as he would have done when they'd been together, if not with a touch more labelling and positioning now. That had never changed about him, not with any amount of void kisses, and she finds herself caught watching him quite by accident, her hands clasped and a smile blooming across her lips. It's almost irresistible, the urge to reach out and grab him by the linen shirt and pull him against her, and only his glance upwards brings her back to the here and now.

Quietly clearing her throat and trying to ignore the flush to her own cheeks, she raises her eyebrows at the sudden, somewhat desperate shift in subject. "Woodworking?" she repeats, setting her sandals down at the corner of the blanket where they can help weigh it down from any stray breeze from the sea. "Structural woodworking, or more like a hobby?" she wonders as she takes a careful seat beside him in the sunshine. As an aviator she imagines the former would be very useful, but she can also see Ever whittling away at something to pass the time.

"This all looks wonderful, by the way. Thank you for preparing it all," she adds, gesturing to the picnic. "Shall we have some wine, before it warms up too much?"

fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind

Everest’s brow furrows ever so slightly, as if the act of uncorking the wine requires a fraction more effort than it should—but more likely, he's just overthinking his answer. "I...have a new shift," he says a touch stiffly. The cork comes free with a soft pop, and he sets it aside with reverent precision. "For a while, now, I think." While infected, his attuned inclinations had been dampened somewhat. "And I have...urges." To chew. To divert the naturally occurring movements of water. To strip bark from trees. He glances at Isla, expression as deadpan as it is sincere. "Woodworking seems like a reasonable outlet. Keeps my hands busy."

Glass in hand, he pours her wine first—precise, balanced, not quite full—and then his own. As he settles more comfortably onto the blanket, his free hand hovers, not quite fussing, but alert to the placement of the satchel and the alignment of their plates.

"I tried to account for everything," he says, gesturing vaguely at the spread. "But if there’s anything about this setup you’d prefer to adjust, I’d like to know. Lighting. Seating position. Food type. Clothing. Time of day." His gaze skims the edge of her dress before flicking back to her face. "If we’re going to continue this experiment regularly—" a pause, a faint tilt of humour in his mouth, "—we should standardize what variables we can."

Isla

to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering

Watching as he pours the wine for them as if it's something he's been practicing all morning (which, for all Isla knows, it is), she can't help but raise her eyebrows at his confession at a new shift. Not having it in general, of course - that's par for the course with Attuned, as far as she knows - but the urges that come along with it. Biting at the inside of her cheek, she forces herself to accept her wine and take a sip to hide her smile before answering. "What shift is it?"

As for the spread, the standardised variables, and any changes she'd make, her smile this time is something easy and mischievous and she tilts her head at Ever. "I think it might be difficult to come up with a standard for a picnic," she points out. "Depending on the weather and the time of day, our clothing, setting and even our food choices may change. But for right here, right now, for this experiment? There is nothing at all about it I would change."

Taking another sip of wine before setting down her glass, she glances back towards him rather than reaching for any of the food. "The only constants throughout these experiments will be the two of us, you know. And I wouldn't change that either."

fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind

Everest hesitates, his fingers tapping once—twice—against the stem of his wine glass. "It’s a beaver," he says at last, voice quiet and measured, as though still not entirely convinced he should be sharing it aloud. "The instincts are... strong." His brow furrows faintly, then he exhales and sips his wine as if that might press the urge to dam up the shoreline back into dormancy.

Isla’s note about the variability of picnics draws his gaze back to her, and for a moment he only blinks at her, processing. "Ah," he says eventually. "You’re right." But there’s a flicker behind his eyes—something unfinished.

He looks toward the sea, his wine glass poised just so in his hand. "Maybe I should have chosen somewhere more controlled," he murmurs, more to himself than her. "Somewhere interior. Sound-dampened. Temperature-stable. Where external interruptions could be minimized and consistency maintained." He glances at her again, his expression flickering between embarrassment and reconsideration. "Like your home," he adds after a beat, his voice quiet, though he's sure she'd know why that might not be the best idea.

And yet..

But then she calls them the constants, and Ever’s mouth opens slightly, just enough to begin a counterpoint. Constants, after all, require baseline definitions and the entire premise of these...experiments...is to determine whether they still align. He closes his mouth and instead he takes a sip of wine. Then, after a long pause, he nods. "Then I’ll work on adapting to the variables," he says simply. "It'll be good practice for me, and...if you’re my constant...that will help."

Isla

to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering

Her eyes widen a touch, not having expected a beaver of all shifts, but suddenly the woodworking as a hobby seems to make a lot more sense. "How cute," she says, not bothering to hide her grin as she finally reaches out to open the container of figs and berries. Resisting the urge to plop a couple of blackberries into her wine glass in case the cross-contamination causes uproar, she instead takes one out to pop it into her mouth, relishing the explosion of sweetness on her tongue.

"Perhaps for one of our dates, we can go down into Haulani and stop at one of the carpentry stalls. You can see what sort of wood you like best." She knows what sort she likes best but she's not making that innuendo yet, not for all the blackberries in the world.

Everest looks towards the sea and Isla keeps her eyes on him, head softly tilted as if she can physically see the cogs working in his mind. Only the mention of her apartment has her hiding a smirk behind another berry and a sip of wine, and she shrugs her shoulders. "We could always reduce the space to one particular area," she suggests. "The kitchen and living room would be consistent enough." So would her bedroom, but she doesn't say that for obvious reasons.

Waiting for his argument at her reference to themselves as the experimental constants, when it doesn't come Isla can't help the soft flush to her cheeks, her laughter warm and easy. "I will be your constant for as long as you will have me," she assures him.

fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!