Chapter Text
Elliot’s shop was reasonably close to the ocean. He liked it that way. The ocean breeze meant he could glide further on good days. At only 14 the avian owned a bookshop. He was very proud of the bookshop, no matter how small it was, no matter how many times he was accused of living in the attic above it. Granted those accusing him were really just his friend Toast, and in her defense, she was right.
The bookshop had four bookshelves, two built into the walls on the sides, one built into the wall at the back, and a center one. The bookshelf on the left side, when you entered the shop, extended all the way to the front, while the one on the right, left room for Elliot’s desk. Underneath the desk, there were spare quills, lanterns, candles, and other bits and bobs that might be needed in a bookshop. On top of the desk was a simple bell, and a tin, that held all the money he made. Often, paper would be scattered across the desk, ink bleeding through it, from when Elliot forgot to pick his quill back up after hitting writers block. Behind the desk was a door, he told people it led to a storage room, but really behind that door was a staircase, which led up to the attic. The front of the store was entirely a window, although underneath the window, sandwiching the glass door, were two flower boxes, which Elliot had grown fungi and moss in. Vines dripped down the shop's front, stemming from the roof; the young avian had tied some of it back, so that people could still see inside.
Upstairs, in the attic he definitely didn’t live in, were a few simple things. A bed, although the blanket was itchy and it was really just a mat on the floor, it was one of the best beds Elliot had ever slept in. Stacks of books, books that the avian hadn’t put on the shelves yet, books he hadn’t finished reading, and a couple that he had written himself. Finally a lantern, it hung down from the center of the ceiling, and shone light in the whole room. One of the glass panels was broken, and the metal was rusty, but it worked.
Meanwhile, the young avian’s friend, Toast, owned the cafe a couple houses down. In the 6 years of the pair knowing each other, Toast had never told Elliot what species she was, no matter how much Elliot badgered them. But the blue haired 20-something year old had pointy ears, so most assumed she was an elf.
The cafe she owned was humbly named, The Toast Cafe, and was quite a popular stop for morning shoppers, as she opened quite early. There was a cushioned bench along the back of the cafe, and three tables of four. Each table was decorated with flowers, each hand picked by Toast. No single arrangement was the same, each was individual. There was a counter on the right side of the cafe, where she served and baked, as just behind it was the kitchen. The kitchen wasn’t much, cabinets to store ingredients, a furnace and sink. There was one other appliance in the kitchen though, a coffee maker. This was much to the delight of Elliot, who loved coffee probably more than he loved anything else. At times, Toast believed Elliot was only friends with them, for the coffee.
Just next to the cafe was a small house, where Toast lived. It was nothing special, three rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Inside the bedroom were a few shelves, the top stacked with sentimental things, and tiny trinkets. On the lower shelf, there were pieces of parchment, some quills and ink. She left candles on the table beside her bed, and her lantern hung from a hook on the ceiling.
It wasn’t much, but it was home.