04-28-2025, 11:22 PM
Ezvin smiled. Not the broad, showy kind he sometimes flashed when he was being charming, but the smaller, truer kind. The one that started slow and stayed warm. The way she moved, the way she spun lightly through the room, the way her whole body seemed to be absorbing the place, it was everything he’d hoped for when he picked The Nest.
He slipped his gloves into his coat pocket and stepped away from the wall he’d been casually leaning against, giving her space but staying near enough that he could guide her through it when she was ready.
Cadence’s voice, when it came, carried a reverence he hadn’t expected, but instantly recognized. He’d heard that tone before, not in tourists or collectors, but in artists standing in front of something that didn’t explain itself. Something that didn’t need to.
When she whispered "truth," he let the silence hang there for a breath longer than normal, letting her own realization fill the space without stepping on it.
Finally, he tilted his head toward her, voice low and unhurried.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “Exactly that.”
Ezvin gestured lightly for her to follow, not a command, just an invitation, and moved deeper into the tangled heart of the building. His boots scuffed against the battered floorboards as he led her through one of the side hallways, past a crooked doorway draped with a beaded curtain.
He recognized a few faces as they passed: artists bundled in oversized sweaters, clay still under their nails, sketchbooks tucked under arms. He exchanged nods here and there: an old man hunched over a battered typewriter gave him a wink; a young woman with blue-dyed hair and paint-streaked jeans flashed him a knowing smile. It wasn’t celebrity recognition. It was community. They knew each other the way storms know rain—part of the same atmosphere.
As he walked, he kept half an eye on Cadence, noticing the way she drank it all in: the smells, the textures, the shifting currents of creativity thick in the air.
“The Nest’s been here... longer than anyone really knows,” he said, his voice soft enough that it wove between the sounds of the building rather than cutting through them. “No grants. No formal funding. It survives because people want it to. It’s messy on purpose. It’s a place where you’re allowed to not be finished yet.”
They passed a workshop where a few artists hunched over clay wheels, their hands slick and methodical. The smell of wet earth hung heavy in the air. Another room echoed with the slow, deliberate scrape of brushes against canvas.
Ezvin stopped at an intersection where three hallways splintered off in different directions. He turned back toward her, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes.
“Alright, Mathis. You’re at the crossroads.” He gestured dramatically to each path in turn. “Down there, you can add your chaos to the community canvas. That way, there’s a pottery room if you’re feeling brave and don’t mind getting your hands dirty.” He flicked his thumb toward the third hallway. “And down there’s the zine table. Old typewriters, old paper, new thoughts.”
He took a step back, giving her the choice, the space. His grin softened into something more sincere.
“No wrong answers here. No rules. No one watching to see if you screw it up. Just... whatever’s in you, finding a way out.”
He tucked his hands in his coat pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, feeling the pulse of the place settling around them like a second heartbeat.
“And if you just wanna walk around and breathe it in?” He gave her a light shrug, his tone easy and free. “That’s art, too.”
Ezvin fell quiet, letting her choose, the hint of a smile still ghosting his face. the kind that said he was perfectly happy to follow wherever her instincts led.
He slipped his gloves into his coat pocket and stepped away from the wall he’d been casually leaning against, giving her space but staying near enough that he could guide her through it when she was ready.
Cadence’s voice, when it came, carried a reverence he hadn’t expected, but instantly recognized. He’d heard that tone before, not in tourists or collectors, but in artists standing in front of something that didn’t explain itself. Something that didn’t need to.
When she whispered "truth," he let the silence hang there for a breath longer than normal, letting her own realization fill the space without stepping on it.
Finally, he tilted his head toward her, voice low and unhurried.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “Exactly that.”
Ezvin gestured lightly for her to follow, not a command, just an invitation, and moved deeper into the tangled heart of the building. His boots scuffed against the battered floorboards as he led her through one of the side hallways, past a crooked doorway draped with a beaded curtain.
He recognized a few faces as they passed: artists bundled in oversized sweaters, clay still under their nails, sketchbooks tucked under arms. He exchanged nods here and there: an old man hunched over a battered typewriter gave him a wink; a young woman with blue-dyed hair and paint-streaked jeans flashed him a knowing smile. It wasn’t celebrity recognition. It was community. They knew each other the way storms know rain—part of the same atmosphere.
As he walked, he kept half an eye on Cadence, noticing the way she drank it all in: the smells, the textures, the shifting currents of creativity thick in the air.
“The Nest’s been here... longer than anyone really knows,” he said, his voice soft enough that it wove between the sounds of the building rather than cutting through them. “No grants. No formal funding. It survives because people want it to. It’s messy on purpose. It’s a place where you’re allowed to not be finished yet.”
They passed a workshop where a few artists hunched over clay wheels, their hands slick and methodical. The smell of wet earth hung heavy in the air. Another room echoed with the slow, deliberate scrape of brushes against canvas.
Ezvin stopped at an intersection where three hallways splintered off in different directions. He turned back toward her, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes.
“Alright, Mathis. You’re at the crossroads.” He gestured dramatically to each path in turn. “Down there, you can add your chaos to the community canvas. That way, there’s a pottery room if you’re feeling brave and don’t mind getting your hands dirty.” He flicked his thumb toward the third hallway. “And down there’s the zine table. Old typewriters, old paper, new thoughts.”
He took a step back, giving her the choice, the space. His grin softened into something more sincere.
“No wrong answers here. No rules. No one watching to see if you screw it up. Just... whatever’s in you, finding a way out.”
He tucked his hands in his coat pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, feeling the pulse of the place settling around them like a second heartbeat.
“And if you just wanna walk around and breathe it in?” He gave her a light shrug, his tone easy and free. “That’s art, too.”
Ezvin fell quiet, letting her choose, the hint of a smile still ghosting his face. the kind that said he was perfectly happy to follow wherever her instincts led.