OTA

[prince_of_nymphs]

Since returning to London so much in Fin's life had changed. Will had left the flat, leaving Fin alone, but with some new freedom. The young fae had still been a bit timid about taking charge at first, but he'd decided to gut the place. The once sterile series of white boxes connected by doors had been opened up to something more inviting, with rich wood floors and a more bohemian aesthetic. It was a writer's dream, with plenty of space for the fox to roam and play when being fae grew too exhausting. It was a tad lonely, yes, especially with Keats off living with Winter and Phouka, but it was better this way.

 

Control was an odd thing though, and after having a small taste of it, Fin found himself a bit addicted. He'd renewed his contract with the BBC, but not before insisting they give him more time to pursue theatre work. He'd agreed to do a short revival of his play, Reap, but on his terms. The theatre had wanted a huge production, but Finlay had put his foot down, insisting it needed to be simple- After all, in his mind, it was the simplicity that made it what it was. He dismissed scripts he didn't like, he turned down press he didn't want to do- And for the first time in a long while, he felt good. He felt sure of himself.

 

He was still looking too thin from his stay in New York City, but his appetite was returning bit by bit, and he was picking at a robust looking salad as he sat outside his favoured cafe with his notebook on his knee. His gaze combed slowly over what he'd already written, and now and then he'd put down his fork and pick up his pen, scratching things out and re-writing them. Under the table his foot tapped anxiously, going still when the fae paused and pushed his hair back out of his eyes, then beginning to tap again. He paid no mind to the occasional onlooker, thankful that in London, much like New York, most people were 'too cool' to ask for a selfie. He wasn't ready for all that. He was in control, and he was more focused than he'd been in a long time, but he was still recovering. Recovering from what had happened with Will, from everything that he'd been through over the last few years, and recovering from losing his sense of self.

 

He was getting there, but like all things, it would take time.

 

Putting his pen down again he picked his fork back up and poked at his salad a little, looking lost in thought as he skewered a bit of cucumber. These past few days he'd been keeping to himself. Honestly, he'd barely spoken to anyone who wasn't one of his managers or a business contact since he'd returned. He'd seen Pip, spent time with Greg, but he was isolating himself a little. Or maybe it was more he didn't know who to reach out to anymore. ...Either way, Finlay Finn was painfully alone.

(OTA. Late and slow tags all welcome.)