Well, technically it was- they'd been the one to suggest it to their therapist when Dr. Vogler asked what small, manageable thing they could try this week. Something public but not too crowded. Something with an exit strategy. Something that didn't involve sitting alone in the sublet apartment watching dust motes drift through afternoon light while their mind went to places they'd rather not follow.
"Just try it," Dr. Vogler had said in that gentle, infuriatingly patient way of hers. "You don't have to stay long. Just go. Be present. Notice three things."
So here they were, walking through rows of tables covered in other people's cast-offs. Vintage postcards. Chipped teacups. Jewelry that had survived someone's grandmother. The kind of peaceful, mundane chaos that should have felt safe.
Should have.
Rowan's hand went to their camera bag out of habit, fingers finding the familiar weight of it. They'd brought it but hadn't taken it out yet. Baby steps. Just being here counted for something, right?
The crowd was manageable. Older folks mostly, a few families, people taking their time examining things that didn't matter in the grand scheme of anything. Rowan picked up a vintage map of Berlin from the seventies, studied the streets that didn't exist anymore, the borders that had shifted. Everything was temporary. Cities, countries, the lines people drew and died defending.
They put the map back down.
Three things. Dr. Vogler had said to notice three things.
One: The smell of old paper and mothballs and coffee from the vendor at the end of the row.
Two: An older man haggling in rapid German over a set of beer steins, his voice rising and falling in a rhythm that felt almost musical.
Three: The way afternoon light filtered through the market's temporary canopy, creating patterns on-
The crash came from two tables over. Glass bottles hitting concrete. Not breaking, just falling, the vendor scrambling to catch them, other shoppers gasping and laughing at the near-miss.
Just bottles. Just an accident. Just a mundane moment in a peaceful market in a safe city thousands of miles from anywhere that mattered.
Rowan's body didn't get the memo.
Their heart kicked into overdrive, chest tightening like someone had wrapped wire around their ribs and pulled. The market sounds became white noise, overwhelming and directionless. Too many people. Too many exit points to track. The canopy overhead suddenly felt like a ceiling that could collapse, and their hands were shaking, and they couldn't breathe right, andβ¦
Move! Marcus's voice in their head, from a lifetime ago. If you feel like youβve been pinched, just move. Doesn't matter where. Movement keeps you alive.
Rowan walked.
Not toward the exit they'd come in through- too obvious, too crowded. They picked up speed and chose a random direction between tables, through clusters of people, past confused vendors, through someone who saw the panic in their and tried to help, until they hit the street. Kept walking. Left at the corner because it was there. Right at the next street because their legs carried them that way.
Their breath came in sharp, painful gasps that didn't seem to bring in enough air. Just bottles. Just bottles falling. Not mortars. Not airstrikes. Not the sound of a... It was just bottles. They knew that. Intellectually, they knew that.Their body was stuck in the Middle East, a feedback loop he had hoped his visits with Dr. Vogler would fix.
The street opened up ahead, and there was a building- glass and steel and modern, with crowds spilling out the entrance. A convention center. Rowan stumbled toward it less out of decision and more because their legs were still moving and they needed to be somewhere that wasn't the middle of a sidewalk having a breakdown where everyone could see.
The doors were glass. Automatic. They slid open and Rowan went through them into-
Fuck.
The noise hit first. Music from competing sources, hundreds of conversations overlapping, footsteps and laughter and announcements over speakers they couldn't locate. The convention floor stretched out in front of them, packed with people in elaborate costumes, vendor booths with flashing lights, more stimulation than Rowan's nervous system could process on a good day.
This was not a good day.
Their vision tunneled. Sharp. Narrow. Like looking through a scope. They could feel their pulse everywhere- temples, throat, behind their eyes, in their fingertips. Too many people. Too many. Too loud. Bodies pressing in from all sides even though no one was touching them. The kind of chaos that used to mean incoming, that used to mean get down get small find cover now-
Corner corner corner. They needed a corner. Needed walls at their back and a clear sightline to every entrance and exit and their lungs weren't working right and someone was going to notice, someone was going to see them falling apart in the middle of this stupid convention and- There.
A rest area. Edge of the convention floor. Fewer people. Rowan didn't walk- they fled. Stumbled between clusters of cosplayers and vendor tables, shoulder clipping someone's elaborate wing setup, mumbled apology that might not have been out loud. Their legs felt wrong. Disconnected. Like their body was moving through water or syrup or the kind of dream where you run but don't get anywhere.
Wall. Wall. They hit it harder than intended, back pressing against solid concrete, and it was the first thing that felt real in the last five minutes. Solid. Unmovable. Nothing could come at them from behind.
Breathe. Breathe. Dr. Vogler's voice trying to cut through the static in their head. In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.
In for- their breath hitched, sharp and painful. Tried again.
In for four. Hands shaking so badly they had to press them flat against the wall.
Hold for- they couldn't hold anything. Their chest felt like it was caving in.
Out for six. Ragged. Uneven. But out.
Again.
Their hands were still shaking.
Again.
Just bottles falling. Just a convention. Just Berlin on a Tuesday afternoon where nothing was wrong and no one was dying and they were safe.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.
Their vision started to expand. The tunnel widening slowly, peripheral awareness creeping back in. They were safe. They were fine. They were not dying even though every nerve ending in their body was screaming otherwise.
That's when they noticed him.
The guy was maybe ten feet away, leaning against the wall with his phone out. He wore this elaborate historical costume- something European, ornate, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke of hours of careful work. Rich fabrics. Detailed embroidery. The kind of thing Rowan would have photographed back when they photographed things. Back when their hands didn't shake.
Had he noticed them? Probably. They'd practically thrown themselves at the wall like a feral cat escaping a dog, all graceless panic and sharp breaths that were definitely audible if you were paying attention. Great. Perfect. Excellent first impression for a complete stranger who was just trying to enjoy his convention break.
Rowan's face felt hot. Embarrassment mixing with adrenaline in a cocktail that made them want to sink through the floor. This guy was here in his beautiful costume, probably having a normal day, and here was Rowan having a breakdown ten feet away from him like some kind of disaster tourist who couldn't handle bottles falling at a flea market.
Pathetic. They were pathetic.
But looking at himβat the costume, at the way he held himself like he was taking a break from performing, at the careful details in the embroidery that caught the overhead lightsβgave Rowan something to focus on that wasn't their own humiliation. The construction. The fabric choice. The contrast between historical accuracy and modern convention center. Their brain latched onto it the way a drowning person grabs floating debris, desperate for anything that wasn't the panic still thrumming under their skin.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.
Their hands found their camera without conscious thought. Old muscle memory. Document what you see. Find beauty in the frame. Prove the world contains more than horror.
They should walk away. Should find an actual exit. Should go back to the sublet and add this to the list of things they'd tried and failed at.
Instead, Rowan's legs carried them forward.
"Hey." Their voice came out rough, like they hadn't used it in days. Maybe they hadn't. "Sorry to-" They gestured vaguely at him, at the costume, at their camera. Words felt clumsy in their mouth. "This is going to sound weird, but could I photograph you?"
The guy looked up, and Rowan watched him shift into performance mode- posture straightening, smile becoming more deliberate. A trained smile. They'd seen those in enough hotels and checkpoints to recognize the particular quality of professional charm.
"The costume," Rowan added quickly, before he could respond. "It's really beautiful. The construction. I'm a photographer. Or I was. I just- " Fuck, they were bad at this. Their heart was still racing. Their hands were still shaking. "I haven't taken photos in a while and I'd like to try again and the light here is actually really good and- "
They were rambling. They were definitely rambling. This was a disaster.
"Sorry," Rowan said, already backing away. "Nevermind. Forget I asked. I should-"
Go. Leave. Add this to the list of ways they'd made things awkward and uncomfortable for strangers who were just trying to have a normal day.
Dmitri found himself lounging outside of the convention room- coffee in hand. Dressed head to toe in extravagant cosplay. An all black ensemble with silver accented jewelry that he'd had crafted for him for this occasion. It was clear to everyone that he embodied his role well. He needed the caffeine as the day had already been exhausting. It was hot in these clothes, under the makeup and lights. Still, he enjoyed it despite sweating through layers of deodorant. The coffee was blessedly cold and sweet enough to lighten his mood as he scrolled through his messages idly. There was some time yet before the next show where those from Verdigris would be asked to perform.
Hey, Marnie, I'm taking a break now. I'll see you later tonight.
The text was short. The two of them had been arguing again off and on about her even wanting to come with him to Berlin for this convention. She hadn't even had a passport and had shilled out the money to expedite it. When he'd told her she couldn't come with him to the convention center that day, she'd practically seethed with an anger that he'd never seen before in any other human other than her.
Having a girlfriend like her was tedious and it was why he chose not to date those that came to Verdigris. She'd all but strongarmed her way into his life. Paying for his time on dates and asking for him to spend time with her outside of the host venue. Dmitri knew it'd been a terrible idea, and yet, there was something in him that felt something for her. He wasn't sure it was love, but he certainly appreciated how dedicated she was to him and how she went well out of her way to do things for him on any given day. It was just that she was filled with a self-righteous fury any time anyone other than her got an ounce of his time that scared him; he'd never dated anyone like her before and doubted he would if they were to ever separate.
Demi, why can't I come with you? I want to see you perform too.
Though it was a text, he could practically hear her pouting voice through the tone. He hesitated a moment- trying to come up with a response that wouldn't irritate her further. The last time she'd come to one of these conventions, she'd made a huge scene, and it'd been a wonder they'd invited him back after all of what had gone on. Someone had wanted an innocent photo of him and she'd lost her mind when the stranger had touched him. It'd meant nothing to him- should have meant nothing to her- but she'd threatened the poor girl's life for it.
He'd looked up briefly from his phone- grateful for the distraction even if it was to see an unfamiliar face more or less run into a wall. Something had certainly startled them for them to wear that panicked look. He'd half a mind to ask if they were okay. With the look on their face though, Dmitri immediately decided that his presence wouldn't be helpful. He'd likely just make it infinitely worse on the poor kid.
Because you just can't, Marnie. We will talk about this later, okay? Not while I'm working.
After the message was sent, he knew it would cause problems later, but for now, he was just happy to get back to his job. This is what paid his bills, and he needed to make a good impression today.
"Hey, sorry to-"
The words cut through his own thoughts and Dmitri was quick to pocket his device into his slacks. Almost immediately, he stood up a little straighter- trying to pull the invisible mask back over his face to hide whatever worried look he'd worn not a few moments ago. Eyes the color of warm honey looked down slightly to the person he'd just been thinking about consoling. They were speaking with him, and he offered a polite and genuine smile. It was well practiced, but he was glad that the other was okay enough for now at least.
A photographer? There was no shortage of those- amateur or otherwise here. Likewise, Dmitri was no stranger to the camera either. Before he had a chance to speak, the shorter person was already walking away from him. Reaching out with a gentle hand, he stopped them. "Hey, wait a second. At least let me respond before you start walking away." A quiet chuckle left him through his nose and he turned to look over at the stranger in front of him once again.
"As you can probably tell, I'm part of this convention. My name is Dmitri and it's a pleasure to meet you." The words were honeyed, sweet, and practiced, though somehow still genuine as he meant them. "I'm taking a break before the next show, but if you would like I'd be more than happy to let you take photos of me. I'm not busy." It could be good for exposure. If the other allowed him access to post the photos on his socials, and they were any good, then he knew they would get a lot of attention. "Let's go upstairs. The lighting is better up there and there is less people to fight for floor space."
Not silent - nothing in a convention center full of a few thousand people could be truly silent - but the noise felt further away up here. Muffled. Like someone had wrapped the chaos in cotton and pushed it to the edges of Rowan's awareness where it couldn't quite reach them.
They followed Dmitri up the stairs, camera bag knocking against their hip with each step. Their hands had mostly stopped shaking, though the adrenaline hangover was setting in. That hollow, exhausted feeling that came after panic burned through all their available fuel. Like being wrung out and left to dry.
The balcony overlooked the main convention floor, all that controlled chaos visible through the railing but blessedly distant. Up here it was just a handful of people taking breaks, scrolling phones, adjusting costumes. The lighting was better too - Dmitri had been right about that. Natural light from the skylights mixing with the artificial glow, creating something softer than the harsh fluorescents downstairs.
Rowan's photographer brain cataloged it automatically. Good contrast. Interesting shadows. The kind of light that would make the details in Dmitri's costume really sing.
Their hands went to their camera bag, unzipping it with muscle memory that predated everything else. The Canon 5D Mark IV sat nestled in its usual spot, lens cap still on, carried across three continents and barely touched in the last six months. They'd brought it to the flea market like a talisman. Proof they used to be someone who created things instead of just running from them.
"Thanks for this," Rowan said, pulling out the camera and immediately checking the settings out of habit. Aperture, shutter speed, ISO - all still where they'd left them whenever they'd shot last. "I know it's weird, random stranger asking to photograph you. Probably happens all the time at these things, but still."
They were rambling again. Deflecting. Their default setting when they didn't know what else to do with their hands or their mouth.
The camera felt heavier than they remembered. Or maybe their arms were just tired from holding tension for the last twenty minutes. They raised it anyway, looking through the viewfinder at Dmitri for the first time with the distance that a lens provided.
The costume was even more impressive through the camera. All black - not just black but layers of it, different textures and depths creating dimension that most people probably missed from a distance. The deep V-neckline with that high collar framing it, structured and dramatic. Silver chains draped across the shoulders and chest, catching light like small constellation points. The way the outer robe-like layer fell over the fitted underlayer, creating movement and weight. Even the accessories - that teardrop crystal pendant, the silver jewelry, the way everything worked together without being overwhelming.
This wasn't some off-the-rack costume. Someone had put serious thought into every element, from the chain placement to the way the fabrics interacted. Historical inspiration filtered through a modern aesthetic sense.
Rowan took a test shot without thinking about it. The shutter click felt like coming home and leaving home at the same time.
They lowered the camera, checked the LCD screen on the back. The image was technically fine - properly exposed, reasonably composed, the silver details bright against all that black - but something was off. Dmitri looked good, obviously. The costume photographed beautifully. But there was a quality to his expression that felt... performed. That same trained smile from earlier, the one that probably worked great for his audience downstairs but felt too polished through a lens that was designed to catch the real stuff underneath.
Rowan knew that smile. Had photographed a thousand variations of it in a dozen different countries. The smile that people wore when they wanted you to see what they wanted you to see, nothing more.
"You don't have to -" They gestured vaguely with the camera, trying to find words for what they meant. "The Prince thing. You can just be... you. If you want. I'm not trying to get convention photos or whatever. I just -"
What? What were they trying to get? Proof that they could still do this? Evidence that beauty existed in Berlin on a Tuesday afternoon when they'd just had a breakdown over falling bottles at a flea market?
"I photograph people," Rowan said finally, meeting Dmitri's eyes directly for maybe the first time since this whole interaction started. "Not costumes. The costume is incredible, don't get me wrong - whoever designed this knew exactly what they were doing with the chain placement and the layering - but it's the person wearing it that makes it interesting. Does that make sense?"
They weren't sure it did. Wasn't sure anything they'd said in the last five minutes made sense. But they were trying, and maybe that counted for something.
Their phone buzzed in their pocket - probably Dr. Vogler's reminder to check in after the flea market outing, letting her know they'd survived their homework assignment. Rowan ignored it. They'd text her later. Maybe mention that they'd talked to a stranger and taken a photo and hadn't completely fallen apart in the process.
That had to count as progress.
They raised the camera again, waiting to see if Dmitri would drop the performance or keep it up. Either way was fine, really. Rowan would take the photos regardless. But something about him - the way he'd reached out to stop them from leaving earlier, the gentleness in that gesture, the fact that he'd offered to move somewhere quieter without Rowan having to ask - made them think there might be something real under all that honey-sweet charm.
And if there was, they wanted to photograph that instead.
"Just -" Rowan adjusted their grip on the camera, thumb hovering over the shutter button. "Stand however feels comfortable. Look wherever you want. I'll follow you."
The afternoon light caught those silver chains again, traced the line of the collar, disappeared into the depths of all that black fabric. Behind him, the convention floor buzzed with distant energy. And for the first time in months, Rowan felt something that wasn't just exhaustion or guilt or the weight of everything they'd left behind.
They felt present.
It wouldn't last - never did - but for now they'd take it.
Even despite how extroverted Dmitri was, he too was grateful for the quieter atmosphere of the upstairs balcony. There had been a few people that had stopped and pointed at him as he and Rowan passed, but he only offered them a polite wave and kept walking. It would be rude of him to drag the other into any conversations when he'd promised him his time alone. Not that the dark haired man really wanted to entertain them right now in the first place. If Marina were here she wouldn't be happy he'd even looked in their general direction.
It was cooler up here as well, and he was thankful for the breeze of the warm autumn air that filtered through the open window. He never really knew what to expect from a photo shoot. Normally the one with the camera directed him unless he was planning his own photos. How to stand and even how to look was different from person to person. Would Rowan want more candid shots? Something more melancholy and reserved? Or just a performance he would be about to give in the next hour?
βYou donβt have to thank me.β He wasnβt a celebrity or anyone truly important. Just some no name cosplay enthusiast that would hardly get Rowan any recognition if thatβs what he wanted. Even if his socials were flush with follows and likes, it was the same people that ran in these circles- other people who enjoyed dressing up and fans of the craft. βI was thinking about how I wanted to showcase this costume before you came along, so maybe I should be thanking you.β There was a hint of accent behind the ravenetteβs voice. Remnants of his parentsβ enforcing of use of their native Russian his earlier years. It still remained after all this time despite English being his most used language these days.
There was a gentle click of the camera shutter, but the look on Rowanβs face showed some displeasure in the photo on the LCD. His head lilted a bit in curiosity, but he said nothing quite yet. He was well versed in people watching- had nearly become a hobby for him from his profession at this point. Even just the small body language told Dmitri that the other was uncomfortable still even though heβd seemed quite excited to take photos before. His eyes widened a bit when it was mentioned that he didnβt need to perform and it was Dmitriβs turn to be uncomfortable.
A soft, embarrassed hue filled his face. Itβd been so long since heβd been genuine. Even in his relationship he felt the pressure to be perfect- to put that mask on. No one had ever asked for photos of HIM before- just his persona. The thing they wanted to see from him and paid money to get to know.
It didnβt melt away instantaneously, no, but he did feel that mask slip once more. He let out a quiet sigh through his nose and his shoulders fell slightly from the perfect posture- though he did not slump. Just this once, he would allow someone to photograph him as Dmitri and not as the prince they all loved. He moved towards the open window. Outside, the leaves were starting to lose their color. Vibrant reds and orange stood in stark contrast to the all black silhouette he embodied. As the light from outside caught the soft tresses of his hair, he knew it would look the color of cherry cola through the viewfinder rather than truly black. Dmitri gave a warm smile, a gentle upturn of his lips, this time without the practiced elegance from before. This felt more natural to him, and to say he was enchanted by it would be a bit of an understatement.
βIt makes sense to me.β Rowan had more experience behind the lens than he did for sure, and far be it from him to treat him like he didnβt know what he was talking about.
As it drew closer time to his performance, he had an idea for one more photo- though this one was a bit more personal. He withdrew his phone from his slacks once again. βDo you mind being in one with me? Iβd like to remember this. And also was wondering if you wanted to get coffee with me after Iβm done? I just-β Dmitri wondered why he was doing this with a stranger heβd barely just met. Maybe he was endeared to the shorter person that had just finished taking his photos; he really didnβt know. βYou seemed really panicked earlier, and I wanted to make you feel better before you approached me, but figured it was a bad idea.β Theyβd seemed dazed and confused walking into the convention and maybe they hadnβt realized what it was. He didnβt pry on what had spooked them so bad though. That wasnβt his business. βAnd I guess now, I want to thank you. Youβre the first person who has asked me to be myself. It means more than you could imagine.β
Dmitri offered over his phone to Rowan so he could add their contact information if they wished. βI can text you when Iβm done if youβd like to get coffee with me. If you donβt want that, I understand.β There was never any pressure, and he wouldnβt force them if they truly didnβt want to spend another moment with him. βAnd do feel free to say no to the coffee, but please do at least let me take a photo with you.β It would be something he could hold close to his chest for moments when self doubt resurfaced.
The shutter clicked again, and this time Rowan felt it in their chest.
Not the panic from earlier - that wire-tight anxiety that had sent them careening through the flea market like something hunted. This was different. Softer. The kind of feeling they'd almost forgotten existed underneath all the exhaustion and guilt and weight of everything they carried.
Wonder.
Through the viewfinder, Dmitri had shifted. The change was subtle - probably invisible to anyone who wasn't trained to notice the small things, the moments between moments that told the real story. His shoulders had dropped maybe half an inch. The smile had gone from stage-perfect to something genuine, just a soft upturn at the corners that reached his eyes this time. He'd moved toward the open window where autumn light filtered in, catching the dark cherry-cola shine of his hair, the silver chains across his chest, the way all that black fabric became layers and depth instead of just costume.
He looked real.
Rowan's hands were steady. That realization hit them somewhere around the third photo - their hands, which had been shaking so badly twenty minutes ago when bottles crashed two tables over at the flea market, were completely steady now. Finger on the shutter button, left hand supporting the lens, the familiar weight of the camera a kind of anchor they'd been too afraid to reach for.
Click. Advance. Breathe. Click.
The photos were good. Not technically perfect - Rowan had never cared much about technical perfection anyway, that was for studio photographers who controlled every variable - but honest. Real. Dmitri backlit by afternoon sun, expression open in a way that made him look younger than whatever age he actually was. The silver jewelry catching light like small prayers. The contrast between historical costume and modern convention center visible through the window behind him.
A person. Just a person. Not a casualty. Not a statistic. Not someone's worst day frozen in a frame.
"It makes sense to me," Dmitri said, and Rowan lowered the camera for a moment, meeting his eyes directly.
There was something in his voice - a hint of accent, Russian maybe, softened by years of English - that made the words feel heavier than they should. Like he understood what Rowan was asking for even if they hadn't said it clearly. Permission to see him as human instead of performance. Permission to photograph something beautiful that wasn't wrapped in horror.
Rowan took a few more shots, letting Dmitri settle into whatever felt natural. They didn't direct much, just followed him with the camera, catching the small movements and genuine expressions that made up actual personhood. This was what they'd forgotten in Berlin, in those six months of barely leaving the sublet - that photography could be about witnessing joy instead of documenting atrocity. That their camera could capture proof of gentleness instead of violence.
Their chest felt tight again, but different this time. Not panic. Something closer to grief, maybe, or relief, or the complicated mess of both at once. This is what you walked away from, the voice in their head whispered - not Marcus's voice this time, but their own. You could have kept doing work that mattered. You could have stayed.
But they hadn't stayed. They'd left. And maybe this mattered too, in a smaller way. Documenting the ordinary instead of the extraordinary. Proving that peace existed in Berlin on a Tuesday afternoon.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe it had to be.
When Dmitri pulled out his phone, Rowan's immediate instinct was to step back, put distance between themselves and whatever came next. They were good at hellos. Terrible at everything after.
"Do you mind being in one with me? I'd like to remember this." Dmitri held the phone loosely, not pushing it toward them yet. "And also was wondering if you wanted to get coffee with me after I'm done? I just-" He paused, and Rowan watched him struggle with words the same way they always did. "You seemed really panicked earlier, and I wanted to make you feel better before you approached me, but figured it was a bad idea."
Coffee. With a stranger. A person they'd just met, who they'd photographed for maybe fifteen minutes, who had no idea that Rowan was barely functional most days and probably a bad investment of anyone's time or energy.
"And I guess now, I want to thank you. You're the first person who has asked me to be myself. It means more than you could imagine."
Fuck.
Rowan's hand went to the back of their neck, rubbing at tension that had taken up permanent residence there. They should say no. Should make some excuse about catching a train (they'd miss it anyway, they always did) or having plans (they didn't) or just needing to be alone (which was true, but also wasn't). Should protect both of them from the inevitable disappointment when Rowan failed at being a normal person who could have coffee with someone and not make it weird.
But Dmitri was holding out his phone now, expression open and genuine in that same way he'd looked through the viewfinder, and something in Rowan's chest cracked a little.
You're the first person who has asked me to be myself.
Christ. Rowan understood that feeling better than they wanted to. The performance of being okay. The mask you wore because people couldn't handle the real version, the one that was tired and broken and still carrying around too much weight from places you'd left behind.
"Yeah." The word came out before they'd fully decided to say it. "Okay. Coffee. I can do coffee."
They took the phone, fingers brushing against Dmitri's for a second in the handoff. The contact information screen was already open, cursor blinking in the name field like it was waiting for Rowan to commit to something. Which they were. Kind of. In a small way that probably wouldn't matter in the long run but felt significant right now.
Their hands hesitated over the keyboard. What name did they even use? Rowan felt too formal. Ro too casual for someone they'd just met. Woodsmoke was their handle for photography stuff, but that seemed pretentious when you said it out loud to another human.
They typed: Rowan Castellanos and then their number underneath it. Quick, before they could overthink it more than they already were.
"Fair warning, I'm terrible at texting back." Rowan handed the phone over, not quite meeting Dmitri's eyes. "Not personal, just... a thing. But if you text me about coffee I'll actually respond." Probably. Maybe. They'd try, at least. Their hand went to their camera strap, fingers worrying at the worn leather. "And yeah, you can take a photo. Just don't expect me to look photogenic or whatever."
Dr. Vogler would be proud. The thought hit them suddenly - their therapist who'd been gently pushing them toward exactly this kind of thing. Small interactions with strangers. Proof that the world contained more gentleness than violence. Evidence that Rowan could exist in public spaces without completely falling apart.
Well. They'd fallen apart a little. But they'd also taken photos. Talked to a person. Agreed to future plans instead of running.
Progress. Probably.
The afternoon light was starting to shift, getting closer to golden hour - Rowan's favorite time for photography, when everything looked softer and more forgiving than it actually was. Through the window, the convention floor buzzed with distant energy, all those people in their costumes living their lives, having normal days that didn't involve panic attacks or haunted pasts or the weight of hard drives full of photos they couldn't look at.
And for the first time in months, standing on this balcony with a stranger who'd asked them to see him as human, camera in hand and the possibility of coffee later hanging in the air between them, Rowan felt something that wasn't just exhaustion.
Present. They felt present.
The voices in their head - the ones that usually whispered about survival guilt and wasted potential and all the ways they'd failed - had gone quiet. Not gone, never completely gone, but muted enough that Rowan could breathe around them.
"Alright." They managed something that might have been close to a smile, brief and uncertain. "Let's take your photo. Then you should probably get back to your show or whatever. And I'll... stick around."
They'd stick around. At least for a little while. At least long enough for coffee.
Dmitri was filled with an eager excitement the longer he was in the presence of this stranger. It felt strange that someone new to him could breathe so much life into his day when heβd been filled with so many heavy feelings before this interactions. He knew it was a bad idea, but there was some desperate part of him that wanted to get to know the light haired person whose name he still didnβt know. He supposed it was the loneliness. Between not having a real friend outside of Ashe and her brother who he rarely saw and being stuck in a relationship heβd emotionally checked out of months ago, it was definitely loneliness. Still, there was a simple pleasure that he allowed himself to feel when Rowan indulged him in both of his asks. It would be nice to get coffee after the event and talk more with someone who wanted to know who he was beneath the carefully painted veneer.
One slender arm moved around Rowanβs shoulder as he moved closer so they could take a selfie. His gloved hand rested gingerly on their shoulder. βI think you look perfectly fine to me.β Photogenic or not, it wasnβt like this was going to be posted on his socials- just a happy reminder that heβd not dreamed this. With the golden backdrop of the lowering sun behind them, he raised the phone in front of them. Heβd leaned himself against the shorter of the pair and pressed the button to take the photo. Professional by no means, but it was cute. Immediately he sent it to the number Rowan had put into his phone so that they could both have it. Along with it was a simple text that contained his name and online handle as well.
βDmitri Rostova
@DemiRostovaβ
βI wonβt take it personally. I know youβve barely met me and itβs a weird ask. I apologize for putting you on the spot, Rowan,β He unwound his arm from the slender shoulders reluctantly. It would have been even weirder to maintain their brief contact and he did really have to leave as he could already hear the announcement from the overhead PA system down the stairs. βWhen Iβm done Iβll text you. If you decide to leave or donβt text back, I wonβt be offended.β Where most people might have said that as nothing more than sweet words to reassure someoneβs worries, he meant them. It wasnβt as though he were asking the other on a date, but somehow he still felt the nervousness that came with asking someone out.
It was time now to put that mask back on- to not show the crowd his true face or who he really was behind it. The wall heβd let down was put back up the instant heβd descended the stairs to return to his show.
- -
Nearly an hour and a half later, Dmitri rinsed his face in the bathroom sink. Rinsing away sweat and makeup both, the cold water felt nice against his overheated skin. Heβd removed the costume from his svelte frame and itβd been replaced with much more modern clothing- form fitting dark washed jeans and a short sleeved t-shirt that showed off his heavily tattooed arms. A singular lip piercing was put back through its hole, and looking at himself now, he wondered if Rowan would even recognize him the way he looked. It made him chuckle as slender digits ran through his tussled dark hair.
βHey, the showβs over. Still wanna go out? My treat. Iβll meet you downstairs.β
The text to Rowan was short and sweet and to the point as he exited the bathroom. Most of the event goers had already filtered out or were meeting with other performers, but Dmitri rarely stuck around for any after events. Usually, he was running home to Marnie to soothe her fears and to deal with her tantrums. She would have to wait though. He was preoccupied with other things; the promise of getting to know a new friend was far more important than listening to her accuse him of cheating for the upteenth time.
Amber hues locked onto Rowan easily. They were far away from any crowds of people. It helped that they had lighter hair and an easily recognizable look. They had never looked like they quite fit in amongst the rest of the attendees, and he was grateful for that in this moment. Long legged strides took him over to the person heβd been looking for and he seated himself next to them on the cushioned bench. βJust so you donβt freak out, this is what I normally look like under all of that.β He couldnβt help the quiet chuckle that escaped him at that moment. People were usually surprised at just how much his appearance changed the moment the cosplays were gone. βIβm glad you stayed. Hopefully it wasnβt too boring for you. No offense, but you donβt really look the type to be interested in these kinds of things.β That was a good thing. Not a fanboy or a stalker. Just a stranger and now an acquaintance.
The convention center was somehow even louder after Dmitri left.
Rowan stayed on the balcony for a while, camera still in their hands, watching the organized chaos below through the safety of distance. Cosplayers posed for photos. Vendors called out to passing crowds. Somewhere a panel was letting out, flooding the floor with people dressed as characters they didn't recognize. It should have been overwhelming - would have been overwhelming an hour ago when they'd stumbled in here mid-panic attack.
But something had shifted. Not fixed, nothing was ever really fixed, but... shifted.
They looked down at their phone. The selfie Dmitri had sent was already saved to their camera roll, along with his contact information. The photo was candid in a way that felt almost vulnerable - him in full Prince regalia, Rowan looking vaguely startled like a deer caught in headlights, golden hour light making everything softer than it actually was.
Proof this happened. Proof they'd left the sublet and talked to someone and didn't completely fall apart.
Well. They'd fallen apart a little. But they'd also put themselves back together enough to take photos. To say yes to coffee. To not run.
Progress. Maybe.
Their phone buzzed again. Dmitri's text was short, casual, giving them an out if they needed it.
'Hey, the show's over. Still wanna go out? My treat. I'll meet you downstairs.'
Rowan's chest tightened. Their thumb hovered over the screen, throat going dry in that way that meant their body was gearing up for flight mode again. They could text back 'sorry, had to leave' and disappear like they usually did. Make an excuse about catching a train they'd already missed or having plans they definitely didn't have. Go back to the sublet and add this to the list of almost-connections they'd sabotaged before they could become real.
Dr. Vogler's voice in their head: "What's the worst that could happen if you stay?"
Everything. Nothing. Something in between that they couldn't predict or control.
Their hands were shaking again. Just slightly. Enough that it took them two tries to type out a response.
'yeah. still here. meet you downstairs'
Send. Done. No taking it back now.
Fuck. Okay. This was happening.
They packed their camera away carefully, hands moving through familiar motions while their brain screamed at them to leave. The convention floor was starting to thin out, people heading to after-parties or hotels or wherever cosplayers went when they took off their costumes and stopped performing. Each group that passed felt too close, too loud, like the walls were slowly pressing in.
Rowan found a bench near the main entrance, away from the remaining clusters of people. Sat down. Stood back up. Sat down again. Their leg bounced compulsively, nervous energy with nowhere to go. They pulled out their Moleskine notebook, flipped it open, stared at the last entry without really reading it. Put it away. Checked their phone. Two minutes had passed.
This was stupid. This was a mistake. They should leave before Dmitri got here, before they had to actually follow through on this, before they inevitably made things weird and uncomfortable because that's what they did, they made things weird and-
Movement in their peripheral vision made them look up.
When Dmitri appeared, Rowan almost didn't recognize him. The Prince was gone - costume, makeup, all of it stripped away to reveal someone completely different. Dark jeans. T-shirt showing off tattooed arms that hadn't been visible before. A lip piercing catching the overhead lights. His hair was still that cherry-cola dark but messy now, like he'd scrubbed it clean of product and let it do whatever it wanted.
He looked younger. More real. Like someone Rowan might actually know instead of photograph.
Their heart was doing that thing again - racing for no good reason except that someone was walking toward them, someone who expected them to be capable of normal human interaction.
"Just so you don't freak out, this is what I normally look like under all of that," Dmitri said as he sat down, and there was something self-deprecating in his tone that made Rowan's chest hurt a little.
Like he expected them to be disappointed by the real version.
"I'm glad you stayed," he continued before Rowan could find words. "Hopefully it wasn't too boring for you. No offense, but you don't really look the type to be interested in these kinds of things."
Rowan let out a breath that might have been close to a laugh, except their throat was too tight and their hands were gripping the edge of the bench like it was the only thing keeping them grounded.
"Yeah, definitely not my usual scene. I kind of... stumbled in here by accident. Was trying to escape a crowded street and picked the wrong door."
That was one way to describe having a panic attack at a flea market over falling bottles, sure.
They stood up because sitting felt too vulnerable, too trapped. Their camera bag knocked against their hip as they shouldered it, and they immediately started worrying at the strap with their fingers. Old nervous habit. Their hands found their pockets next, trying to look casual and definitely failing.
"You look different. Good different. Just... different. The tattoos are cool - couldn't see them before."
Small talk. They were attempting small talk and it felt like dying slowly. Every word came out wrong, too stilted or too casual or just fundamentally awkward in ways they couldn't fix. This was why they didn't do this. This was why they kept moving, why they stayed alone, why their only regular human contact was a therapist who got paid to tolerate them.
"So, coffee?" The question came out a little too fast, a little too eager to move this along before they completely fell apart. "You pick the place. I've only been in Berlin a few months and mostly I just know which train stops have the least amount of people."
Wait. Shit. Did Dmitri even know Berlin? He was here for a convention. He probably wasn't local. Rowan's brain caught up to their mouth about three seconds too late, and they felt heat creep up the back of their neck.
"Or - actually, are you even from around here? I just assumed... but if you're just visiting for the convention, I can... I mean, I don't know a lot of places, but I know a few. There's this one spot near Kreuzberg that's usually pretty quiet. Good coffee. Or we could just... I don't know. Find something."
They were rambling. Definitely rambling now. Their hands pulled out of their pockets to gesture vaguely at nothing in particular, then immediately went back to worrying at their camera strap because they needed something to do with the nervous energy that was threatening to crawl out of their skin.
Their phone buzzed in their pocket - Dr. Vogler checking in on the flea market assignment. Rowan's hand twitched toward it before they forced themselves to leave it alone. They'd text her later. Maybe. If they survived this without having another breakdown.
The convention center doors opened behind them, letting in cool autumn air that smelled like rain and distant smoke. Outside, Berlin was doing its thing - people heading home from work, cars navigating narrow streets, the particular quality of afternoon light that made everything look like a postcard. Rowan's eyes tracked the exit routes automatically. Three ways out from here. Four if you counted going back through the convention center.
Their therapist would probably have something to say about the fact that they were already planning escape routes.
Their heart wouldn't slow down. Kept hammering away like they were in actual danger, like having coffee with someone who'd been unexpectedly kind was somehow equivalent to being trapped in a basement in Aleppo. Their brain knew the difference. Their body didn't seem to care.
"I mean, wherever. I'm... not picky. Obviously." They tried for a smile and it probably came out more like a grimace. God, they were so bad at this. Six months of barely talking to anyone besides Dr. Vogler and now they couldn't even figure out how to suggest getting coffee without making it weird.
This was the first real conversation they'd had with someone who wasn't being paid to listen to them, and they were already fucking it up.
Their hands were still shaking. They shoved them deeper into their pockets where Dmitri hopefully couldn't see.
The way Rowan stood the moment heβd seated himself wasnβt lost on him. The poor kid was probably afraid of him and heβd not stopped for a second to think that he might be coming across as some kind of creep. Where most women were afraid of men hitting on them publicly, he wondered if this was one of those moments. He was openly bisexual, a shameless flirt without meaning to. It was a byproduct easily of his persona that heβd adopted into his everyday life which heβd found made it easier to make friends. Even despite all of that, he hadnβt meant to come off so strong, and would remind himself to dial it back for the sake of Rowan so that he didnβt make it feel as though he were trying to solicit them for a date as that was certainly not what he was after.
He shrugged his shoulders and brought stiff limbs up over his head to stretch tired muscles. βMaybe it was where you were meant to be. Call it fate if you like.β His motherβs superstition rubbing off on him in that sentence most likely. βYou saved my ass even if by accident.β Too many fangirls made him nervous even if Marnie wasnβt there to watch it. Being too close to fans made his skin itch and crawl in ways heβd never been able to properly explain to people. They saw Dmitri as an extrovert, and he certainly was, but he hated the way they clung to him and tried desperately to get into his good graces. Heβd already gone against his better judgement once with Marnie and now he was wary of all of them without letting it be known too openly. His friends would laugh at him for it anyway. He was a man after all; he should just be grateful for the attention even if it scared him.
βThanks most people think the flowers are girly, but Iβve always liked them.β The intricate blackout tattoos that snaked up his arms and over his shoulders under his sleeves had always been something heβd loved. They were a decoration and a way to express himself. βMost people donβt like seeing tattooed people in cosplay though, so they get hidden by long sleeves or by makeup for shorter sessions. That goes double if youβre doing character cosplay. People donβt want their fantasy ruined.β The words were said though it was clear he disliked them being fact. No one wanted to see their favorite character different than how they imagined them in their minds.
βSo, coffee?β
The question reminded Dmitri of their original agreement quickly- bringing him back to the moment rather than thinking too hard on things he couldnβt change.
βOf course. Letβs go, Ptichka,β The word fell from his lips and he already regretted it. Fuck he was already giving Rowan nicknames. He stood before he could dwell on it for too long and as they exited the convention hall to breathe in the fresh air of the outside, he allowed himself to relax. It had been stuffy in there, filled with too many people that he both knew and didnβt. And now, he could focus on moving himself forward as people milled about their daily lives and paid the two of them no mind. βIβm not local; Iβm just a tourist basically. I live in Portland, and Verdigris- the company Iβm employed at- was invited to this event. There were a few of us there tonight to represent them. Though I am familiar with the shop youβre talking about.β Heβd visited it a few days ago with his colleagues when theyβd been exploring local Berlin shops. The atmosphere had been pleasant and the coffee wasnβt burnt like it was back in Portland.
βIf you were curious about the convention, a bunch of different host clubs from around the states and Canada come together every year to meet up and show off. Itβs a pretty small community all things considered.β Even despite the size of the crowd there, most of them were either family or friends of those on stage or were fans that had traveled to the convention locally. They were tight knit, but everyone took great pride in their craft. Some made their own outfits while the rest of them like Dmitri had them made and tailored for them. βBut please, enough about me. Iβd rather not talk about myself all night. I could bore you to tears if I did that.β
With a firm but gentle hold on Rowanβs arm, he gently pulled them out of the way of a cyclist- close to himself as he glared at the local who was in too much of a hurry to slow down. βCareful, Ptichka.β His fingers eased up on Rowanβs arm, but he kept the contact. It was best that they walk closer together. Being tourists and clearly not locals in an area they both barely knew was a recipe for disaster. βSo, you do photography? Youβre clearly very skilled. Your camera choice alone says as much.β Heβd taken note of the details. The way he carried the camera now and the way heβd held it during their shoot. Careful, protective. Like it was a life line of sorts.
βThe photos you took, if you donβt mind, could I have copies? Iβd love to share them if I could. You would have the credit of course, but that goes without saying.β The two of them had walked now for quite some distance away from their original spot and headed towards the quieter streets where their destination lay.
Rowan's brain was still catching up to the fact that Dmitri had called them something in Russian - twice now - when they felt fingers wrap around their arm and pull them closer.
Their body went rigid. Every muscle locked up in that familiar way that meant fight or flight was about to make the decision for them. But it was just the cyclist. Just someone being careless on a bike. Just Dmitri keeping them from getting hit.
Not a threat. Not danger. Just... kindness.
Their therapist would be proud they'd managed to logic their way through that one instead of completely losing it.
"Careful, Ptichka,"Dmitri said, and his fingers stayed on their arm, not gripping anymore but still there. Present. Grounding in a way that should have felt suffocating but somehow didn't.
Rowan's throat felt tight. They weren't used to people touching them - hadn't been touched by anyone who wasn't a doctor or a checkpoint guard in... god, they couldn't even remember how long. The contact should have sent them spiraling. Instead it just made them hyper-aware of how long it had been since another human had given a shit whether they walked into traffic or not.
"Thanks,"they managed, voice coming out rougher than intended."I'm usually better at watching where I'm going. Or worse at it. Depends on the day."
Portland. Dmitri was from Portland. That information settled into Rowan's brain alongside everything else they were trying to process. He'd flown across an ocean for a convention, was here with coworkers who were probably wondering where he'd disappeared to, and had somehow ended up offering to buy coffee for a disaster of a human he'd just met.
The math didn't add up. People didn't just do that.
"Host clubs,"Rowan repeated, turning the words over in their mind."So you get paid to... what, be charming? Go on dates with people who pay for your time?"
They immediately regretted how that came out - blunt and kind of judgmental when they hadn't meant it that way.
"Sorry, that sounded... I'm not judging. I've photographed way stranger things than that, trust me. It's actually kind of interesting. The performance of it. The persona you put on."Their hand went to their camera bag without thinking, fingers finding the familiar outline of their Canon through the fabric."Everyone performs something, I guess. You're just more honest about it than most people."
The street they were walking down was quieter now, fewer people, more residential. Old buildings with character, trees losing their leaves, that particular quality of European architecture that Rowan still hadn't gotten used to after months of wandering through it. The light was fading into that in-between time - not quite sunset, not quite darkness. Blue hour creeping in at the edges. A close second to golden hour, that moment when the world turned soft and blue and contemplative.
When everything looked like it was holding its breath.
"So, you do photography? You're clearly very skilled. Your camera choice alone says as much,"Dmitri said, and Rowan felt their chest tighten in that complicated way it always did when people asked about their work.
"I... yeah. Used to be a photojournalist. Did that for a few years. Now I just..."Their voice trailed off because they didn't know how to finish that sentence. Now I just take photos of nothing important because I broke myself documenting the important stuff? Now I just wander around trying to prove the world isn't as horrible as I know it is?
"Now I just shoot whatever catches my eye,"they finished lamely."Travel stuff. Street photography. People being... I don't know. Human."
The photos. Right. Dmitri wanted copies of the photos.
"Yeah, of course you can have them. I'll... I need to edit them first, but I can send them to you. Or email them. Whatever works."Their fingers worried at their camera strap again, that nervous habit they couldn't shake."You don't have to credit me or anything. They're just... they're yours. You can do whatever you want with them."
The coffee shop was visible now, just ahead on the left. Small storefront with warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk, a few tables outside that were empty in the cooling evening air. Rowan had found this place three weeks ago during one of their long walks when sleep wouldn't come and staying in the sublet felt like suffocating. The barista was an older woman who never asked questions, and the coffee was strong enough to taste like something real.
Safe. As safe as anywhere could be.
"This is it,"they said, gesturing at the shop."Fair warning, the barista doesn't speak much English. My German is pretty rough, but I can usually manage to order without completely embarrassing myself."
They pushed open the door, and the familiar smell of coffee and old wood hit them immediately. Warm. Grounding. The kind of place that had probably been here for decades, serving the same coffee to different generations of Berliners who appreciated that not everything needed to be new or shiny or Instagram-worthy.
Rowan started toward a very picturesque table near the window before they noticed a table toward the back corner instead. The table tucked away where you could see the whole shop, where the entrance was visible but no one could sit behind you. Where your back was protected by two walls.
Their feet stopped moving.
They knew their own habit, but would Dmitri understand? The need to control sightlines, to know where every exit was, to never let anyone get behind you where you couldn't see them coming. It was the kind of thing you picked up when sitting with your back exposed meant danger. When not tracking every entrance and exit could get you killed.
Most people didn't sit like that. Most people just grabbed whatever table was convenient and didn't think twice about it.
Their heart did something complicated in their chest - part recognition, part curiosity, part that sharp ache that came from seeing your own damage reflected in someone else.
They followed Dmitri to the back corner without comment, settling into the chair across from him. From here they could see the entrance too, could track anyone who came in, could plot three different routes out if they needed them. The window to their left showed the darkening street outside.
Perfect. Exactly where they would have chosen if Dmitri hadn't gotten there first.
"I'll get the coffee,"they said, already standing before Dmitri could argue about paying."You said it was your treat but you're the one who just flew across an ocean. I can handle two coffees."
They approached the counter where Frau Weber was wiping down the espresso machine. She looked up and gave Rowan that small nod of recognition - not quite a smile, but acknowledgment that they were a regular. Someone she'd seen before. Someone who belonged here, at least temporarily.
"Zwei Americano, bitte,"Rowan said in their clumsy German, then added,"Schwarz."
Black. No sugar. No milk. Hopefully it was palatable to Dmitri.
While Frau Weber prepared the drinks, Rowan's hands found their pockets again. Their heart was still racing, that constant hum of anxiety that never fully went away. But they were here. They were doing this. Having coffee with another human who apparently also needed to sit with their back to a wall.
When they returned to the table with two steaming mugs, they set one in front of Dmitri and wrapped their hands around the other. The ceramic was almost too hot to hold, but the burn felt good. Real. Anchoring.
"So,"they started, then paused."What does that mean? Ptichka? You've said it twice now and I don't... I don't know Russian."
Their hands were still shaking slightly. They took a sip of coffee to hide it, the bitter heat of it familiar and grounding.
"So you get paid to... what, be charming? Go on dates with people who pay for your time?"
The comment made him laugh. He hadn't meant to, but it just came out of him. He'd certainly heard more scathing descriptors of his work from older folks that thought they were closer to modern day prostitutes even despite the host club having strict rules about taking money for sexual favors and warnings about meeting guests outside of the safe atmosphere of the host club. "Something like that. Verdigris caters to women and gay men mostly. Lonely people who just need someone to smile at them and give them their time they wouldn't normally get. Some of them just want someone to help them feel like a normal person for the night, and even though I'm still new to this world, myself, I can understand the appeal." He'd only been there for a short amount of time compared to other hosts and had fallen into it quickly. "It makes me happy to know that even if just for an hour or two, I can make someone's day just a little easier until we have to stop pretending and go back to what we consider normal. And just so you don't get the wrong idea of me, this is not a host club where you can pay for sex." Just a drink. A conversation with a stranger who pretended to know you for an hour. And then back to their busy lives.
Honest was not a word Dmitri would use to describe himself. It felt disingenuous to take the compliment, but he didn't need to trauma dump on Rowan; they deserved better than that. "It is nice to have a real conversation with someone though." The two of them were still talking despite it being long since the honeyed works, fake smiles, and pretentious masks had fallen away. He felt himself drawn to the other person in ways he couldn't explain. Sure, they were cute, but he'd no interest in them in that way- or if he did, he deflected the thought nearly immediately from his brain. The way they fought to find their words and the way they had approached him with genuine intentions spoke to him on a different level. It was difficult to not be wholly enraptured by the experience he was being given.
He'd listened quietly as Rowan spoke about his camera work. Dmitri knew next to nothing about photojournalism, but then again, he only dabbled in photography when it became relevant to take his own photos for things. "Sounds like you capture a lot of interesting things with a lens." It made sense why he'd been approached now. He'd had half a mind to ask to see other photos, but thought better of it. It might be too personal. Where some people sketched in private journals, maybe this was Rowan's way of seeing the world.
"There's no rush to send them. I'll send you my email, but I do want to credit you. It's the least I can do." Dmitri insisted gently. If not for their own sake, then at least for Dmitri's he hoped that their light-haired companion would allow him this.
The shop was quiet. Soft ambient music played in the background and the soft mumble of chatter filled his senses with the scent of fresh brewed coffee. Not too many people, and it would be nice to relax for at least a little while. When Rowan stopped guiding them towards a table, Dmitri's own feet pulled them towards the table in the corner. He'd easily taken note of Rowan's tendency to avoid... well, everything. It was for the best that the two seated themselves away from eyes and ears where they could talk about whatever tickled their fancy. He'd released the gentle hold on their arm to allow them to sit across from him though he had to admit he was disappointed by the lack of contact. He'd not let that show on his features, however as it would be too difficult to explain away why he felt this way. Even if he'd come here with his friends, he would have chosen an option where he'd be less noticeable from the street. If Marnie came looking for him, he didn't want to invite her anger and wrath down upon an innocent person when he'd been the one to suggest this in the first place.
"Ptichka-" Though Rowan was gone before he could form the rest of his sentence. He'd offered to pay only because he'd felt bad for dragging them along in the first place and it'd been his idea. Now he felt especially guilty for letting someone else pay for him. It didn't matter if the coffee barely cost him two Euros, it was the principle of the matter.
When he sat there alone at the table, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was a bitter reminder that he'd told her he would be back after the show. Dmitri already knew who it was before he saw her messages. Angry, seething, bitter, and jealous.
Why aren't you back yet? I've been here all day waiting on you to get back. If I see that girl touching you again, she's dead.
And she had to wonder why she wasn't allowed back at the venues when he performed. Verdigris barely tolerated her shenanigans when she had come there to see him on a daily basis, and she was constantly reminded that when she was there she should behave appropriately. Dmitri hated feeling like he was someone's possession rather than their boyfriend, but he knew he had to get her to calm down for his own sake before he got back.
Just out for coffee with a colleague. Not a woman. When I get back I'll make us some dinner and we can watch TV in bed.
The phone was put away almost instantly the moment Rowan returned. They didn't need to know he was attempting to soothe a savage beast wrapped up in her own delusions. The mug was set down in front of him. Hot and comforting in its own right. He did add a bit of sugar to his own, but not nearly as much as what had been in the one he'd drank before. "Oh that," He offered an embarrassed smile. "It's just a nickname. Because you remind me of a bird." He admitted finally- opting to be truthful than lie about it. With how flighty Rowan was, he was like a bird trapped in a cage he couldn't quite escape from despite the door being fully open. "I can stop calling you that if you want. Admittedly, I'm not sure why it's the first thing that comes to mind rather than your name." Always a people pleaser- eager to make Rowan feel comfortable and calm any fires before they started.
"You've been here a while then, no? What interesting stories does Berlin have to tell through your viewfinder?" He was all too eager to bring their conversation back to something else- anything else.
Rowan turned the word over in their mind, trying to decide if they were offended or if it was actually kind of accurate. Flighty. Trapped but free. Never staying anywhere long enough to build a nest. Yeah, that tracked. That tracked uncomfortably well for someone who'd known them for all of two hours.
"No, it's... it's fine. You can call me that."They took another sip of coffee, using the mug to hide behind for a moment."It's not wrong. I've been called worse things."
That came out more bitter than intended. They tried for something lighter.
"Better than 'hey you' or 'that photographer' or whatever. At least it's... I don't know. Intentional."
Berlin. Dmitri was asking about Berlin, about what stories the city had to tell. Rowan's fingers found their camera strap under the table, worrying at the worn leather while they tried to figure out how to answer that question honestly without making it weird.
"I've been here about six months,"they said finally."Was supposed to be a few weeks. You know how it goes - or maybe you don't, I don't know. But sometimes you get somewhere and it's easier to stay than to figure out where to go next."
That wasn't quite true. Berlin wasn't easy. Nowhere was easy. But it was far enough from everything else, and Dr. Vogler was here, and the sublet was cheap, and leaving meant making decisions about where to go next and Rowan was so tired of making decisions.
"The stories..."They paused, trying to find words for something they'd never really articulated before."Berlin's got layers, you know? All this history pressing down on itself. You can't walk anywhere without stepping on something that used to be something else. The Wall's mostly gone but you can still see where it was if you know where to look. And people just... live here. Like all that history is just part of the landscape."
Their coffee was still too hot but they drank it anyway, welcoming the burn.
"I mostly photograph the quiet stuff. Morning markets. People on trains. This one guy who plays accordion in Alexanderplatz every Tuesday - he's got to be like eighty years old but he's there every week without fail. Street art that shows up overnight and gets painted over by the next day. The temporary things."
Everything was temporary. That was the whole point.
"There's this graffiti artist who tags buildings in Kreuzberg - they do these really intricate birds. I've been trying to photograph them all before they get covered up but I keep missing them. Every time I find a new one, an old one's gone."They managed something that might have been close to a smile."Kind of fitting, I guess. For a ptichka."
The coffee shop around them was doing its quiet evening thing. A couple had come in and taken a table near the front, talking in low German that Rowan couldn't quite follow. Frau Weber was restocking pastries in the display case, moving with the kind of efficiency that came from decades of the same routine. Outside, the street was darker now, blue hour giving way to actual night.
Rowan's leg was bouncing under the table again. Nervous energy with nowhere to go. They forced themselves to still it, wrapped both hands around their coffee mug like it was the only thing anchoring them to this moment. Their heart was still doing that thing where it wouldn't slow down, racing like they were in danger when all they were doing was having coffee with someone who seemed genuinely interested in what they had to say.
That was almost scarier than the panic attacks.
"You said it's nice to have a real conversation,"they said, the words coming out before they'd fully thought them through."Does that mean most of your conversations aren't real? At the host club, I mean. Or just... in general."
They immediately regretted asking. Too personal. Too direct. This was why they didn't talk to people - they had no idea where the boundaries were, what questions were okay and what questions made you sound like you were prying into someone's life when you'd only known them for two hours.
"Sorry, you don't have to answer that. I'm... not great at this. Talking to people. In case that wasn't obvious."Their hands tightened around their mug, knuckles going white against the ceramic."I mostly just talk to my therapist these days and she gets paid to listen to me, so. Different dynamic."
Great. Now they were trauma-dumping on someone they'd just met. This was going exactly as well as they'd expected, which was not well at all.
Their phone buzzed again in their pocket. Dr. Vogler, definitely, probably ready to send a search party if Rowan didn't check in soon. They ignored it. They'd survived this long without completely falling apart - they could make it through one coffee without checking their phone every five minutes like they were waiting for permission to exist.
"Portland though,"they tried, desperately changing the subject back to safer ground."I've never been to the Pacific Northwest. Is it actually as rainy as everyone says? Or is that just... I don't know. Tourist propaganda or whatever."
Small talk. Weather. The most boring, safe topic in existence. They were crushing this whole normal-human-interaction thing.
Except Dmitri had put sugar in his coffee. Just a little, but enough that Rowan had noticed. They'd assumed he took it black like them - some weird solidarity thing they'd invented in their head - but no. He was a person with his own preferences who wasn't a mirror of Rowan's damage.
That should have been obvious. Was obvious. But something about it made Rowan's chest feel tight in a way they couldn't name.
They took another sip of their own black coffee, bitter and hot and exactly what they needed. The familiar taste cut through the noise in their head, gave them something concrete to focus on that wasn't their own spiraling thoughts.
It was pleasant to sit here with Rowan. How the worries from the day and the conversation he'd just had seemed to melt away despite their topics of conversation not being personal entirely. He had to wonder if Marnie had been this easy to share conversation with once as well or if she'd always been the way she was now. Perhaps he'd been too blinded by the money she threw around so wistfully to spend time with him that he was willing to overlook her flaws. He was careful now, though, and Rowan seemed her opposite in every way. Quiet and gentle and nervous in ways that endeared Dmitri to him. He didn't know Rowan's story, but he hoped that some day they would be close enough that he could learn it. "I didn't mean anything by it." He promised- though it likely wasn't necessary as he'd already been given permission to call him as such. Ptichka it was then.
"I've only made one long distance travel my whole life," Dmitri admitted. By almost all accounts, his life was stable and he had a good relationship with friends and family. "From Moscow to Portland." It'd been a time of flux within his life that gave him similar feelings to what he felt now: unease, discomfort, feeling small and helpless, but in many different ways. "It sounds like you're no stranger to travel. I'll admit that I'm a little jealous of that." Being stuck in one place for so long, he'd never really experienced a wanderlust for the world around him. Visiting family in Moscow every year for holidays was enough to ease that for him most of the time.
It was Dmitri's turn to listen now, and he propped his elbow on the table- resting his chin against it as he did so. He could understand the layers. People went about their busy lives- pretending history never happened. He'd heard his parents speak on it when the Soviet Union became no more. When no one really knew what was going to happen. Still, his parents worked their jobs, he and his sister had still gone to school as if it'd been any other day. Every country never stopped to the flow of time even when the sky fell around them and the people were scared.
Temporary.
For someone like Dmitri, he understood the concept of temporary, but he craved the stability behind something concrete and easy to hold onto. He brought the cup to his lips as it'd cooled some by now and took a long sip. "Even temporary moments can feel like lifetimes to someone else." Especially someone who saw them everyday in action all around him. Rowan's words contained a passion behind them for their craft, and he could deeply relate to that. "You seem good at it though. Even if you don't think they're good enough, I would like to see some of the things you've seen around Berlin. Anything that catches your eye." They had a knack for this, certainly, and he'd be a liar if he wasn't interested in the things that they'd mentioned. Shots of what it was like to just live day to day and in the moment.
"...Does that mean most of your conversations aren't real?"
The question hit him harder than it should have and he looked away from his companion for a moment. His initial reaction was to give a jaded answer, but that wasn't fair to Rowan. "It's a fantasy for most people. We wear costumes and makeup and call ourselves different titles. You could call it pretend or make believe. I think most people refer to it as escapism these days." He'd fallen for it too back in the early days- had been wholly enraptured by the gentle conversations and how the hosts had made him feel like he was the only one in the room despite there being others. He'd become good at that too over time. "I like my job- have always enjoyed it for the connections and friends I have made. It allowed me to be who I was for the first time in many years of living up to others expectations." Maybe for him it had also been an escape from his real life only for it to become a part of who he was in the end. "But the conversations with guests lack emotional depth. We're not therapists; we're entertainers, and most people won't talk about anything other than the basics. The conversation we're having now would never happen with a patron for example." Where their words carried an emotional weight to them and came from experiencing different things throughout their lives, some others were perfectly content with simple things to not break the fantasy. "I could tell you easily with a smile on my face that you're the most beautiful person in the room and make you believe it, but I'd much rather be having the talk we are now than say pretty words that mean nothing to you. You're a real person and I'm just myself tonight. No theatrics, no false pretenses." Just Dmitri.
It'd been pretty obvious from the start the level of Rowan's discomfort. The fidgeting, the lack of eye contact, but still Dmitri had listened intently on whatever the other had to say. "I like talking to you, Ptichka. You don't have to try so hard to find words if you can't." He offered a simple shrug of his shoulders in an effort to let Rowan know that he wasn't pressing him for information or details.
"It really does rain that much," Dmitri chuckled quietly behind the cup he'd once more raised. "Portland is weird- good weird, but still weird. There's no shortage of interesting things happening at the very least. Some people say it's haunted or cursed or whatever, but I think the people in it are more interesting than chasing ghost stories. If you ever do visit, I can show you some nice places for some photos. No loud places, promise." It would likely be best to keep Rowan away from Dmitri's common haunts and just show him a quieter side of a strange city.
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