François and Devlin
François shifted one of his bags over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his cab rumble to life and retreat down the winding road. It was almost humorous to see the car's modern shape in this charmingly rustic place. Then again, François was a bit of an odd site, as well. It had probably been a decade since he'd last ventured up here; the opportunity to revisit had presented itself by way of a meeting in Inverness. Although the subject of the meeting didn't exactly pertain to him, he was using it as a guise to take a needed vacation up to the Highlands. An old acquaintance had generously agreed to let him stay in his home for the duration of the meeting, and now he knocked on said man's door with his best smile planted across his face. Truthfully, he wanted nothing more than to throw down his bags and run to the field he'd seen and sleep for maybe a few years, but his host didn't have to know that.
Devlin gave a long suffering sigh as he finished up his cleaning. Devlin didn't have guests often, and he'd never felt much of a need to keep things tidy in a 'socially correct' sort of way. Even now, the home looked lived in - a mug of peppermint tea on the table, plates from breakfast in the sink, a soft blanket crumpled up on the couch that had been left unfolded. At the sound of someone knocking at the door, the Scot darted to his entryway. Despite keeping to himself more than his brothers, Devlin did enjoy company when he had it, ever determined to enjoy any situation. With a bright grin, the man opened the door, "Hey stranger. Didn't think you'd remember the way."

François chuckled, tipping his head. "Well, I'll admit it was a bit of a challenge. Luckily, the driver knew more than I did." he answered honestly, reaching out his hand to shake. Immediately, there was a brush of warm air from inside the Scot's home. François was discontented by the cold, untimely weather, and he found himself going back on his earlier wishes: now he wanted to lay in front of a ​fireplace​ and sleep for a few years. In the most polite way possible, he made his desire to go inside evident by looking over Devlin's shoulder. "It was a good trip, but long." he added, for full effect.

Devlin nearly missed the cue for a handshake, but managed it in the nick of time. The cold air from outside ran through the house, making Devlin shiver and give the Frenchman a knowing look. "Well, I suppose you'll need to come in and have a warm cup of tea... maybe some bread with butter. Sit in front of the fire for a little while?" He was brought back to when they were smaller than this, and François was laid across the rug in front of the fireplace with that soft blanket from his couch wrapped around him. It was easy to fall asleep with the sunlight pouring in through the window, blinds wide, and open just enough to let a cool, refreshing breeze into the house. The Scotsman stepped aside, opening the door wide. He eased himself back into his kitchen, leaving the blond standing in the doorway, expecting he would let himself in and shut the front door behind him.

François lifted his bags over the threshold, eager to shut the door behind himself and let the warmth from the fire take back over the bitter outside air. Inside, he was struck with a sense of familiar coziness. "Ah, it's like being taken back in time." he noted, setting his bags down by the door and drifting around the living room. The comfortable, simple layout spoke volumes about Devlin's worldliness and practicality, both qualities that François was seeking to reconnect with. He'd made a good choice in this vacation. He eventually followed his host to the kitchen, taking a seat at the table. "I have to thank you again for allowing me to stay in your home. It was very generous of you. If there's anything I can do to repay you, please... say so." he ended with drama to emphasize his gratefulness.

Devlin laughed as he buttered the bread at his kitchen counter, shaking his head. François was always a bundle of drama - not necessarily as one might think, mind the connotation, but everything he did or said was just ​more​. It was that sense of extraness that had always left Devlin feeling dizzy and a tad confused. Blinking lazily, he shook his head, turning with a smile, "Well, you could start by telling me why you decided to drop in. This meeting has nothing to do with you, and we both know it. It's been... a very long time, old friend." He finished the buttering and set the knife into the sink with a small ​clang​ before bringing the tray of bread and tea over to the blond. "I hope peppermint tea is alright. It's what I had in the kettle."

François picked up his tea and dropped sugar into it, if only to buy himself time to think of an adequate answer. When he started to speak, it was with a guilty smirk. "I can't come and visit and sit in on a meeting just... ​because​?" he mused, saying it like it would be the absolute most natural thing in the world for him to take a weekend to act as an ambassador and oversee a meeting discussing strikes within Scotland. That topic was as convenient as it was irrelevant; he had said he'd sit in to possibly get fresh ideas for solving the same problems in France, and it had somehow been passable. "Devlin, you have things so wonderful. It's a gift to live up here. If you want to forget about all of the stressful, frightening things in the world, it's easy as setting your mind to it, isn't it?" He simultaneously avoided and answered the question, punctuating it with a little bite of bread. His indigo eyes flicked up, all humor in them lost.

Devlin raised an eyebrow as he situated himself with his legs tucked up under him on the couch. Taking a moment to sip his tea, the Scot thought about François's words before slowly, carefully nodding. A complicated look crossed his face and the man leaned forward, a conspiratory smirk on his lips, as if his words were a secret just for the two of them. (Even so, the walls around them breathed, listening, as drawn in by Devlin as François seemed to be.) "Aye, it can be peaceful here. Peaceful as any place, I'd say. But there's magic here, and the price of that can be a burden. I know you never much believed, but that doesn't count for much when it exists regardless. Even that British twat knows it." He shook his head, an amused chuckle bubbling past his lips.

François felt his lips upturn into an echo of Devlin's expression. "He and I are both good, Christian men. We're obliged to turn our heads to things like that." he muttered, the wry humor returning to his features with a wink. He suddenly spoke a bit louder: "I guess that's the secret! I thought my watch batteries just ran out on the flight, but it's really a spell that made time stop." he teased, tapping on the watch face with one finger before returning to grasp the cup of fragrant tea. The atmosphere was a bit smoky and the peppermint drifted into his sinuses, clearing his head. He was simultaneously invigorated and relaxed, lulled and paying acute attention to Devlin. "You'll have to excuse me, I don't know much about magic, except when it involves persecution. Maybe that's why I'm so willingly ignorant of it."

Devlin huffed a little, leaning back and relaxing into the cushions. He had half a mind to roll his eyes, but even as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it. Belief took time, and it was much easier for someone to lose belief in something than to gain it; it was nearly the same as trust, and Devlin couldn't tell when he'd started using the words as interchangeable. Nevertheless, the russet-brunet's expression landed on a line between mild amusement and exasperation, "I can't tell you how magic works myself. It just does." A pause, and then a more playful tone followed, "But you might be surprised. It might have been magic that stopped your watch. Certain fae have a knack for playing tricks to teach folks a lesson." The day's light was beginning to fade over the crest of the hill, and if you listened closely enough, you could hear the walls exhaled in relief, settling for day's end. The Scot set his tea mug aside and swayed the conversation back to François's visit. "It just isn't like you to come on the drop of a dime like this. Something must have swayed you for a visit, regardless of the reasons you might have to want to enjoy a break."

François couldn't help the immediate skepticism he felt when Devlin spoke about fae. The Frenchman had long dismissed magic as something that belonged in the uncivilized past, or in children's books. He had the notion that adults could only believe in and accept things that were visible and evident. But yet... his visible world had been so desolate that he found himself wishing now that he had something else to believe in. "Truthfully, nothing has been going right. I can't help but blame myself for it, either." he started. "Oh, I don't want to burden you with sad stories," he quickly covered his own tracks, surprised by his willingness to speak plainly. It was very uncharacteristic - normally he would think of some diversion or at least embellish the truth. He wasn't sure whether he'd be able to recover from putting his cards on the table. "I've hardly spoken to you and I'm already complaining. Isn't that just like me?" He let out a mirthless and thin gulp of laughter.

Devlin offered François an apologetic expression, "Aye. I've been watching the news, despite my better judgement." The province tried to hop away from recent events quickly, being one who was never keen on the subject. He was always far happier with his whispering forests, babbling streams and long nights full of fluttering lights against the nearly black backdrop. He could almost hear the wind's sweet words as it made its way through the room, slinking in through the cracked window. Devlin changed the topic, "I heard rumors of a potential relationship between you and the Brit." A raised eyebrow and a well-placed quirk of his lips somehow conveyed both an ambiguous question and a vague disapproval.

François had the quickest flash of anguish go across his features, but it would have taken a keen eye to spot it - in half a second he covered it with a tight, ambiguous smile. "Well, what can I say? I think those rumors have gone around for centuries." His answer was full of avoidance and dodging, just as their relationship was. He could almost hear the accusatory English voice in his ears, demanding that François commit to him or stop talking to him altogether. "I haven't seen him for a few weeks. I imagine he's not itching to see me, either. I fall in and out of his favor. What about you? Is there much in the way of companionship up here? I have to imagine it's a little lonely." he diverted easily. Relieved that he could avoid the questions for the moment, he finished off his tea and relished in the extra sugar lingering on the bottom.

Devlin studied his old friend with a focus that was a little consuming in nature. It wasn't easy to see the hurt, but Devlin could certainly make out the discomfort, blatant on the blond's face. The air from the window that had seemed so fresh just moments before became chilled, and the Scot found himself getting up to shut the glass and shutter the blinds. He leaned against the counter, elbows propping him on the hard granite. A situation like this was difficult for him - not because of the situation itself, but rather because it was Francis. (And Francis was always ​more​.) Difficult because what he would do to comfort anyone else, Devlin was almost sure was not what François was used to. "Aye, aye. I've heard all those rumors before too. I get the idea that this time might be a little different. Something in how the air feels." The brunet steadied himself, "You came here to relearn something, start over, what have you... But are you really ready to let go?"

François mourned the loss of his short-lived relief. It was evident that Devlin wouldn't be diverted with petty social cues. It put François in the hard spot of answering or pushing back for himself, but he respected the Scot more for it. "I'm not sure what you mean." he decided after a period of contemplative silence. He was treading lightly, unsure if Devlin truly was perceptive enough to know what he was thinking or if he was strategizing for more details. The idea that the ​air​ was what was tipping him off was kind of absurd, too, wasn't it? François trudged ahead with more confidence. "Really, I feel guilty for making you concern yourself with this. I'm not even sure if you could help me. It's selfish to trouble you."

Devlin narrowed his eyes. Had it really been so long since François had last spent time with him that the man couldn't remember how easily the air read a romantic like him? When you wear your heart like a shield as the Frenchman did, it was simultaneously difficult and easy to see what he was feeling. (Always feeling so much, François was, Devlin's mind murmured.) But you could never fool the energy that made its home in the air. "You came here to find yourself again." He insisted, "And there's no shame in that, there isn't. This place - it - it draws people." Devlin tried to convey his thoughts linearly. (When you spend so much time inside your head, your native language is nothing but that - thought.) "There's energy here. Magic. There's no better place to start over than one like this. But you have to be willing to let it go. You can stay, you know. You can stay in this world, but you have to let it go."

François tried to hold a steady gaze with Devlin, but he found after a few seconds that he was more enamored than he was firm. He lowered his eyes, feeling the broken stare like a physical alleviation. When he spoke again, it wasn't without a hint of shame, and François felt almost like a child caught in a lie. "Do I want to stay? Do I want to let everything go?" he murmured, absentmindedly spinning the band on his forefinger. "I can't answer that. I also can't tell you why I came here - I'm not sure what I expect. Everything just fell into place and I thought it was fate for me to end up here." At this point, he looked up, searching for reassurance in Devlin's face. "Do you think that's stupid of me?" He had spent years running in circles, hiding behind niceties and well-learned masks on his emotions, only to end up here. Everything in the atmosphere stripped his mechanisms bare and demanded honesty. Devlin was no exception.

Devlin pushes off from his place at the counter with an ease that meant he must do it often. The brunet snatched the soft, fluffy blanket from the couch and wrapped it around François's shoulders before taking him gently by the hands. (His hands were softer, but they were warm, and larger than Devlin's own, calloused from years in these hills.) He dragged the Frenchman to the floor with him, on the rug right in front of the fire, just like when they were younger. "You know, people talk to me about all sorts of things. Usually about politics, or social events. Sometimes it's all small talk - the weather and all that. But that's never where I am. In my head, I'm... ​so​ far away from here." (If his eyes were a bit unfocused, he couldn't say what he was seeing, really. The lights were only just visible in his peripherals, but they were beautiful, beautiful, even unknowing of what they were.) "You don't need words to know where your heart is taking you. Aye, it seems like your body even moved of it's own accord and brought you here while you were too busy searching for ​words​. Aren't you tired of feeling like you're rotting away?"

François moved without hesitation, settling down beside the fire. The instinctual urge deep within himself was to pull it together, and pretend that he'd only been humoring Devlin this whole time. Holding the blanket around himself at the shoulders, he nodded to what the Scot was saying, ignoring his impulses. "I know what you mean. About always being ​somewhere else​." he broke in, the sense of empathy making his eyes widen. "And about rotting away. It's true." With their bodies close, the unembellished words flying off François' tongue at a speed they hadn't for years, the warm fire, the soft blanket - he felt the need to speak quietly, the moment was so intimate. "How do you know just what to say? How do you understand just what someone needs to hear? I'm jealous of you."

Devlin barked out a laugh, too loud in the quiet house. (If the walls could describe that laughter, it would be a laugh like eating the frosting off a cupcake, unique and sweet.) "I'm not much to be jealous of; I don't 'know just what to say,' but it's always been easy to talk to you. It's safe to choose the people who choose you..." He trailed off, glancing at the fire and playing with his hair. "The truth is simple, and it's this: what you need is going to be hard. Forget the politics. Jasper is what's weighing on you. And here is where you make your choice. Are you going to let go of your fear, or are you going to let go of him?" (The house breathed again, and there were the lights, even now, gentle and ever-present in the walls. The air that was thick began to wane away, leaving behind a fresher air that was easy to breathe.) "You know you have to leave something behind, François. If you want to stop decaying, you have to learn how to dream again."