I will not be great, but I'm grateful to get through
Ever arrives on one of the skyships with his shoulders already a little too tight, fingers worrying at the strap of his bag the whole way down, the rhythm of the city below him never quite syncing with his breathing. He stops on the way through the Plaza, weaving carefully through the press of people, and picks up two bottles of the fizzy sodas Mateo likes best, checking the labels twice to make sure he’s got the right ones before tucking them carefully into his bag.
The sign on Mateo’s shop says Closed, and that gives him pause, his steps slowing automatically as his eyes flick from the sign to the door itself, which is still open. He hesitates, standing just outside for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the way the windows look wrong somehow, too bare, too exposed. Ever can’t remember a time when he’s been able to see straight into the shop like this, can’t remember Mateo ever moving the plants away from the glass. Plants liked consistency. They liked finding a place and staying there. His stomach tightens, unease threading together with the deeper discomfort that comes whenever something familiar has been rearranged without warning.
He nudges the door open anyway, carefully, like he’s entering a space that might shatter if he does it too fast. As he hears the swearing, Ever blinks, eyebrows lifting in surprise, and he leans a bit further inside, the door still half-open behind him as if he might retreat at any second. "Mateo?" he calls, voice tentative, pitched to carry but not intrude. "...If this is a bad time," Ever adds after a beat, already shifting his weight back toward the door, fingers curling around the strap of his bag, "I can come back. I didn’t mean to interrupt."
The sign on Mateo’s shop says Closed, and that gives him pause, his steps slowing automatically as his eyes flick from the sign to the door itself, which is still open. He hesitates, standing just outside for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the way the windows look wrong somehow, too bare, too exposed. Ever can’t remember a time when he’s been able to see straight into the shop like this, can’t remember Mateo ever moving the plants away from the glass. Plants liked consistency. They liked finding a place and staying there. His stomach tightens, unease threading together with the deeper discomfort that comes whenever something familiar has been rearranged without warning.
He nudges the door open anyway, carefully, like he’s entering a space that might shatter if he does it too fast. As he hears the swearing, Ever blinks, eyebrows lifting in surprise, and he leans a bit further inside, the door still half-open behind him as if he might retreat at any second. "Mateo?" he calls, voice tentative, pitched to carry but not intrude. "...If this is a bad time," Ever adds after a beat, already shifting his weight back toward the door, fingers curling around the strap of his bag, "I can come back. I didn’t mean to interrupt."
