Chameleon | ONC 2020

9: Nostalgia

Under her dresser, there was a loose floorboard under which she'd been hiding things since she had moved to London. It was surreal to be prying it up now, like she'd done so many times in those first few years, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a flat she hadn't visited for over a year. She'd always had this flat – when she'd met Coran, they had lived here for a while until his businesses took off, and then he had helped her keep it on to use as a safe house – but she hadn't lingered here in a long time. It almost felt like coming home.

The board let up a cloud of dust as she wrestled it loose. No one had moved anything inside it. She pulled out several sketchbooks, a few tubes of dried paint and a photo album, which she quickly put back.

She wasn't feeling that nostalgic.

The first sketchbook squealed as she opened it, and she almost winced as it fell flat in her lap. She ran her hands over the water-worn pages, at clusters of doodles and drawings and designs that she'd come up with what felt like a lifetime ago. She kept her thoughts stubbornly away from Lilac, even though she kept plaguing her thoughts. She was the reason Chameleon was even here, though she pretended it wasn't.

The last sketchbook surprised her when it ended abruptly in the middle; the only sketch on the final page was a study of a sleeping Coran. He was sprawled across her too-small bed, mouth half-open. She could almost hear the rockslide-snoring now. His hair had been longer then, and he hadn't looked as tired. Or had as many scars.

She sighed and snapped it shut, chucking it onto the pile and getting up. All her decoration had been taken down when Coran took the place over, but her mural was still on the wall, a Japanese-style painting of cranes. She'd been planning to paint it over when she moved out, but hadn't needed to once Coran bought it.

Or at least he'd told her he bought it.

Something hot splashed down her face. She wiped angrily at her cheek, and glared at the wetness on her palm, stained grey with eyeshadow.

She crossed the room to the bed, which was just a frame now. She never asked what happened to the mattress, but she had a feeling she wouldn't like the answer. Coran used safe-houses for all kinds of things. She sat down. The flat was a tiny studio apartment situated above a newsagent, with pale blue walls and polished wood floors. She'd loved it when she first saw it. Helping her with rent here was the one good thing her mother had done for her in her teenage years, even if it was only to get her out of the house. For a while she'd been so happy here she hadn't even begrudged it too much. As soon as she'd been earning enough for herself, they stopped talking.

Then she'd met Coran in a bar down the street. She had been running regular, small jobs, mostly fake dates. It kept her covered, supplemented the waitressing job she'd been doing. She enjoyed the jobs, they made her feel less boring, and she'd been looking to get more ambitious. She had spotted him drinking alone in the corner. Her face had been called Katherine back then.

She'd invited herself to his table. She'd made a lot of assumptions about people at that time; she wasn't as practised in working out the whys behind dark sorrow clouds, but had long since worked out they were good targets, and Coran's had been extremely dark. Her heart had skipped as he looked up under his heavy brow, amber eyes flashing.

She'd tried to play it cool, but he'd been able to smell it on her. He'd told her as much later on.

"Hey." She'd had a whole spiel lined up, but couldn't force it out, she was so flustered.

"Hey." He had grinned, his dark hair falling across his face, a crooked smile she'd found incredibly attractive. He had looked dangerous; exciting. "Buy you a drink?"