champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between
Mateo has settled in at Wildering House as though he'd never left, which is delightful considering he's never properly lived in this house in the way he had at Flora's previous abode. The estate is sprawling and gorgeous and tropical, the hallways extravagant and perfect for flouncing through in various states of undress, and gods, the lighting. The glass archway corridors. The pool.
Considering the botanist has lost every crumb of the childhood he'd known and the life he'd built with Stormbreak's collapse, he likes to believe he's thriving. He's being cautious with it, because what looks like thriving to a lot of people is actually self-medication for Mateo, but genuinely - he feels good. He misses his shop, sure, and La Verbena is still basically storage for his varying plantlife while he finds them all new homes, but he's hardly wallowing.
And even if he were wallowing, he'd be wallowing in the sunshine, so go fuck yourself.
All of that is to say that mid-morning finds the botanist in a wicker chair on the terrace with a mimosa in hand and his bare legs flung across the arm of his seat. His sunglasses are large and teal and probably Flora's, and the sarong he's got tied about his waist is splashed with red flowers (and definitely Flora's). The sun isn't too hot yet and so he basks in it without shame, soaking in the heat from the cloudless sea of blue overhead.
Considering the botanist has lost every crumb of the childhood he'd known and the life he'd built with Stormbreak's collapse, he likes to believe he's thriving. He's being cautious with it, because what looks like thriving to a lot of people is actually self-medication for Mateo, but genuinely - he feels good. He misses his shop, sure, and La Verbena is still basically storage for his varying plantlife while he finds them all new homes, but he's hardly wallowing.
And even if he were wallowing, he'd be wallowing in the sunshine, so go fuck yourself.
All of that is to say that mid-morning finds the botanist in a wicker chair on the terrace with a mimosa in hand and his bare legs flung across the arm of his seat. His sunglasses are large and teal and probably Flora's, and the sarong he's got tied about his waist is splashed with red flowers (and definitely Flora's). The sun isn't too hot yet and so he basks in it without shame, soaking in the heat from the cloudless sea of blue overhead.
