Ulysses Zane (
amitragic) wrote in
fandomtownies2021-09-10 04:41 pm
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Entry tags:
The Perk, Friday Afternoon
So yeah Ulysses was back in Fandom after like, what? Five, six years? And he had no fucking clue how he'd ended up here, and none of the increasingly frantic and yell-y texts he was trying to send to Los Angeles were delivering at all.
(Yes, the only reason he was even out of the apartment was because he'd been trying to chase a signal that never showed up.)
And now he was at the Perk, having a giant cup of coffee and something far too sugary - because caffeine and sugar were clearly what he needed on top of all that excessice vaping he'd been doing all morning - and drumming his fingers anxiously against the edge of the table while he scrolled through his phone.
Or tried to, anyway.
Because, you see, none of his feeds were updating at all. And somehow that felt liek the freakiest thing of all.
[ooc: So open!]
(Yes, the only reason he was even out of the apartment was because he'd been trying to chase a signal that never showed up.)
And now he was at the Perk, having a giant cup of coffee and something far too sugary - because caffeine and sugar were clearly what he needed on top of all that excessice vaping he'd been doing all morning - and drumming his fingers anxiously against the edge of the table while he scrolled through his phone.
Or tried to, anyway.
Because, you see, none of his feeds were updating at all. And somehow that felt liek the freakiest thing of all.
[ooc: So open!]
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"You're entirely welcome," Eliot said. "So . . . what's your name?"
Did no one on this island know how to introduce themselves properly?
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Who was going through kind of a lot right now, so that was his excuse.
He brushed some curls out of his face. They fell right back down. "Hi."
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(He hoped Quentin was doing okay. He should try to text him again soon.)
"Hi."
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"What's your --" he started, only to realize it was a dumb question. "Oh, right, you already... You said."
A beat.
"Eliot, right?"
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You know what, no.
"I don't fucking know, man," he said, slumping in his seat again. "It was 2021 here when I left, but that was like six years ago."
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Because he'd been very good at ignoring it, was the thing.
"'Cause, you know, it was still 2019 at home last... night." God, he was going to have such multiversal jet lag, here.
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That would hopefully explain his texts not making it to Quentin. Unless they were getting shredded wherever Margo's attempts to send bunnies went.
"Well. I've only been here a week, and it's, ohhh, 2017 back home. So I can understand you getting thrown."
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Ulysses really didn't know what to do with that. Except maybe desperately wanting to make a joke about the 'high' part, but he wasn't doing so hot with that, eitehr.
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"Mmm, lucky you."
Eliot had rather thought that before Fillory, too. You know, other than an ironic one or a paper one at a fast food place or something.
"Anyway. That's depressing. And you look like you've had enough depressing or brainbreaking already today. You've been around here before, and look like you might know a thing or two about having fun. What's there to do in this little seaside whimsey fest?"
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Which was actually embarrassingly close to what he'd been doing just last night, all these years later.
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Eliot considered that.
"Points . . . docked for the bike." There were definitely more dignified modes of travel out there, Uly. "But I do appreciate a man who enjoys getting into trouble."
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(Or a broke twenty-something, ahem, and now Uly was wondering whether his bike had also made the random trip from LA to here.)
"Don't know if all that trouble's still here." A beat. "Well, no, I guess I do. Since it's only fucking been months over here."
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"Yeah, maybe," he said instead. "What about you? What do you, um, what do you like to do?"
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Wow. That was actually depressing.
"Though I used to throw the most amazing parties. . . ."
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"Used to?" he asked. "Figure you might start again?"
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