Aiden Eldritch, or, Because CSS Wouldn't Load

Huw Richards sits at the table of the trendy-ish cafe and surveys his surroundings with a watchful eye, making sure that it sits at the right spot on the carefully-maintained edge between deserted and trendy – just enough people in it that nobody'll notice him, not popular or nouveaux enough for another one of those goddamned people to come up and ask him for his opinion.

Satisfied with his current station, he quietly relaxes back into his chair, closes his eyes and sips, slowly, at his coffee. His retinas have been fried from hours of staring at very bright and very painful things and they're practically sizzling in their sockets.


Oh, fuck, I'm losing my touch- Huw rubs his temples and sighs deeply, hoping to give off enough of a no fuck you go away vibe to drive the enthusiastic artist away. When he opens his eyes tentatively, the owner of that particular voice is sitting opposite him at the table, staring at him.

"Ye-s?" he asks archly.

"I heard you were free, and I'd like a second set of eyes on my work."

Huw groans inwardly and outwardly. His job has struck once again against the blessed release of his free time, and he's now mentally regretting signing up for the Planasthai office – fucking Josh and his fucking PR experience – because it means that even more people know who he is and even worse, what he does.

Because Huw Richards is a critic, and in an artistic hailstorm like Three Portlands, that's just asking for a cranial hemorrhage.

"You heard I was free, huh." Huw finishes off the rest of his coffee and slumps in his chair. "That's funny, I never heard that particular rumour," he quips weakly.


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