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rainbowfic2015-04-05 10:29 pm
greenling) wrote in rainbowfic2015-04-05 10:29 pm
Entry tags:
Rose #9
Name: Greenling
Story: The one with Bird in it
Colors: Rose #9 (How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill)
Supplies and Styles: Nope
Word Count: 1,844
Rating: Basically G
Warnings: Some creepiness.
Summary: Bird meets Antonio and Jacinthe, and remembers an IHOP. Comes directly after the last bit with him and the first part may not entirely make sense without that in mind.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
Bird tried to answer, but the mechanics of talking escaped him. His face felt hot and his insides felt churny; not just his stomach, either. There was a bubbly feeling running all through his limbs, a nice feeling, but the weirdness of it set off warning bells in his head. He sat up quickly- or rather he tried, and managed to fling himself forward enough to whack his chin on his ankle. It barely registered as pain through all the other sensations, but his jaw and bones both vibrated with the impact.
He flopped over on his side and lay there, clenching his eyes shut, and tried to focus on breathing evenly. It came and went.
There was a soft sigh behind him. "Overstimulation. I suppose your sleep was not sufficient. Well. What can we do about that?"
He heard the kid stand up and take a few steps away, then do something involving clunking and rustling sounds. The clarity of it all threw the silence of the rest of the room into contrast; a creepy, muffled silence that leeched from the sounds inside and almost grew into a noise itself. The bubbly feeling in his veins fought with his survival instinct, telling him he was safe, that he could relax. There was the sound of pouring liquid, followed by more footsteps coming back in his direction.
"Can you sit up?"
He considered the question. It seemed safe enough to try it, presuming he could get his muscles under control. Safer would be to stay there, maybe get his mouth to work, try to ask what the hell was going on. Or, part of his mind demanded, get up and run. Ask questions later.
His mouth resolved the decision for him; his tongue failed to work out a response, spitting out a strangled mess of syllables. The kid sighed again, and suddenly Bird found himself in the air.
His eyes popped open and queasy shapes swam in his vision as gravity re-aligned itself, first behind him and then feetwards- and then he was on a couch. It was soft and squishy, all around him, a really beautiful deep green couch that made him feel like he was sinking into a patch of moss thicker than his body. In front of him, deep brown lines and lighter colorful shapes resolved into furniture, not quite as plush and intense as the bedroom, but in a similar frou-frou antique style. Then suddenly there was a glass in his hand, cold and clearish and smelling of spice and fruit and alcohol, and his hand was clenched around it and pushed towards his chest. The kid. He stared down at the glass and closed his eyes again, trying to process everything.
"What...?" Bird managed.
"Drink it. It will help you focus, and then help you sleep."
He peeked one eye open and glanced up at the kid, then back down at the glass, thoughts and stomach churning. Experimentally, he got his hand up to his mouth and took a sip. It wasn't anything he'd ever had before, but mostly it tasted like wine, or maybe Christmas cider. He tried to relax as it settled into his stomach. It didn't try to kill him.
"Are you hungry?" the kid asked. Bird thought about that, churny stomach and all, and shook his head. "Were you hungry when you first woke?" The memory of the stabbing pains that had coaxed him out of the bedroom made his lips curl up, and he slowly nodded.
The kid didn't seem to respond. He turned around and took a seat in a chair facing Bird, crossed his hands in his lap, and watched Bird with a calm expression. An undefinable period of time passed, Bird sipping his drink and trying to focus, the kid moving just enough (while Bord was looking) to look alive. A few more careful sips and the bubbly feeling began to settle down to a dull roar. The churny feeling was replaced by a soft fuzziness, and he began to feel better. It was still disturbingly quiet, but after a while, Bird got into a rhythm listening to himself breathe.
His head hurt trying to recall why the kid looked familiar. He was white and kinda ruddy-looking, with short dark hair and big soulful creepy-looking eyes; he looked, to Bird's best guess, somewhere between twelve and fourteen, though his voice was more or less adult. It was clear and soft, with no obvious hint of malice and some kind of slight accent. Maybe he was like, twenty-something, and it was just the eyes that made him look so young. And being short and skinny, but Bird was really short and a skinny flavor of 140-ish, and he liked to think he didn't look twelve. How had he gotten onto the couch again?
It occurred to him then who the clothes he'd found might belong to, but that train of thought wasn't any more productive or calming than considering whether he'd been drugged and deadlifted by an eighth-grader. Another fuzzy period of time passed as he tried to figure out his next move.
"Whaa- errm." Bird attempted again. He licked his lips and recalibrated. "Where. Am I? And," he added after a beat, "why, do I feel, sick?"
"You're in my home. Your mind and body are out of sync, and need time and rest to adjust. A detailed explanation will wait until you're stable."
Bird shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of whatever was in the glass. "Do... I know you?"
The maybe-not-a-kid-after-all made a noise. Neither his expression or tone changed. "Yes."
Bird clutched the glass in both hands and tried not to feel awkward. If he really did know this guy, if he really was safe, then... but he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong, and if he wasn't in a horror movie, it was looking increasingly like he'd done something stupid, which might be worse. He realized his limbs had been getting heavy when the glass slipped out of his hand and landed with a thump and a splash on the floor. He grunted with embarrassment and sat up, trying to think his way through to cleaning it up.
He wavered, clenching the edge of the couch and trying not to fall over. All of a sudden, the kid-or-whatever was beside him again, supporting him with one hand.
"You should get to bed, before you fall asleep in the living room floor."
With help, Bird scrambled onto his feet, leaning on one proffered arm. Staying upright proved easy enough, but moving in a straight line was a challenge. Somehow they made it into the hallway. He noticed a broom and an odd little bucket of stuff sat in the hallway, seemingly halfway through cleaning up a pile of something he could swear looked like feathers.
"What did...?" made it out of Bird's mouth, he was sure, but after that was a blur.
*
Then he was awake again.
The thought was the first one into his mind; he had slept deeply enough that the time between was a blank. He felt refreshed and comfortable, curled up in warm pajamas and the silk sheets of a soft bed. For a moment he felt happy to be home, until he realized that he still didn't own silk sheets. Pieces of memory started floating back in.
He pieced things together some as he lay there with his eyes closed, his head mostly clear for the first time in what felt like a few days. He remembered going out for dinner after a long shift, to an IHOP that at 4 AM was predictably full of students and drunks. He'd gotten a load of bacon and some cheesecake pancakes and spent the early morning alternating between the amazing freedom of being an adult with spare cash and feeling sorry for himself for eating alone. Things got fuzzy after that, but he remembered taking the bus home, and even more distinctly, being home. There was one sharp memory after that, one of leaning over his bathroom sink and staring himself in the eye in the mirror. There was tension in his face and a growing darkness under his eyes, and his mouth kept twitching like it wasn't sure what expression to settle into. He couldn't remember the context for it, though, or what he'd been feeling at the time, just that it had been important. Just that it felt like the memory had never left his mind, even if he'd just now looked directly at it. The thought made him shiver suddenly, and after that...
His thoughts were cut off by a sharp squeak and a flutter of paper that made him damn near leap out of his skin. As it was, he ended up rolled out of the bedsheets and flopped over on his belly, staring up at the face of a girl who, after a second, he recognized as the one he'd seen in the hall. She looked startled, and his first impression of her was big round glasses like a cartoon character from his childhood. She had really long, dark brown hair in a puffy French braid, and a short black dress, and she was sitting in one of the really plush, French-looking red chairs that had been dragged over to face the bed with a book perched on her crossed legs. They stared at each other, then she pressed one hand to her heart and smiled. The bubbly feeling started in his veins again, though weaker this time.
"Hi," she said perkily. "Sorry, I was a little distracted. How are you doing over there?"
"Ahm." He still felt woozy and emotionally off-balance, and he was a little hungry, but everything else had died down to a dull roar. "I- still not sure where I am. Better, though?" At least his mouth more or less worked. That was nice.
She looked amused. "Oh. Well, better is good."
Slowly, he sat up and slid onto his knees, grateful he was wearing pajamas and suddenly worried about how he'd gotten into them. "Ah." There was no reference anywhere in his mind for the etiquette of this situation. "Do I know you?"
She shook her head and closed her book. "Not yet. I'm Jacinthe. You're... Sakda? Have I heard that right?"
He grimaced. "Uhm, yeah... but I prefer Bird. I mean. Only my Mom calls me that. If that's cool."
"Sure. Nice to finally meet you, Bird. I guess you have a lot of questions- I know I do." She stood up. "I'll go tell Uncle you woke up, okay? Do you need anything?"
He felt dazed. Her smile hadn't faded even a little. He shook his head. "I'm... okay."
"All right. I expect I'll see you in a little while, then." She gave him a wave and strutted out the door, leaving him to the plush jewel-toned room of silk and velvet.
Bird curled up in a ball under the covers and let himself breathe.
Story: The one with Bird in it
Colors: Rose #9 (How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill)
Supplies and Styles: Nope
Word Count: 1,844
Rating: Basically G
Warnings: Some creepiness.
Summary: Bird meets Antonio and Jacinthe, and remembers an IHOP. Comes directly after the last bit with him and the first part may not entirely make sense without that in mind.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
Bird tried to answer, but the mechanics of talking escaped him. His face felt hot and his insides felt churny; not just his stomach, either. There was a bubbly feeling running all through his limbs, a nice feeling, but the weirdness of it set off warning bells in his head. He sat up quickly- or rather he tried, and managed to fling himself forward enough to whack his chin on his ankle. It barely registered as pain through all the other sensations, but his jaw and bones both vibrated with the impact.
He flopped over on his side and lay there, clenching his eyes shut, and tried to focus on breathing evenly. It came and went.
There was a soft sigh behind him. "Overstimulation. I suppose your sleep was not sufficient. Well. What can we do about that?"
He heard the kid stand up and take a few steps away, then do something involving clunking and rustling sounds. The clarity of it all threw the silence of the rest of the room into contrast; a creepy, muffled silence that leeched from the sounds inside and almost grew into a noise itself. The bubbly feeling in his veins fought with his survival instinct, telling him he was safe, that he could relax. There was the sound of pouring liquid, followed by more footsteps coming back in his direction.
"Can you sit up?"
He considered the question. It seemed safe enough to try it, presuming he could get his muscles under control. Safer would be to stay there, maybe get his mouth to work, try to ask what the hell was going on. Or, part of his mind demanded, get up and run. Ask questions later.
His mouth resolved the decision for him; his tongue failed to work out a response, spitting out a strangled mess of syllables. The kid sighed again, and suddenly Bird found himself in the air.
His eyes popped open and queasy shapes swam in his vision as gravity re-aligned itself, first behind him and then feetwards- and then he was on a couch. It was soft and squishy, all around him, a really beautiful deep green couch that made him feel like he was sinking into a patch of moss thicker than his body. In front of him, deep brown lines and lighter colorful shapes resolved into furniture, not quite as plush and intense as the bedroom, but in a similar frou-frou antique style. Then suddenly there was a glass in his hand, cold and clearish and smelling of spice and fruit and alcohol, and his hand was clenched around it and pushed towards his chest. The kid. He stared down at the glass and closed his eyes again, trying to process everything.
"What...?" Bird managed.
"Drink it. It will help you focus, and then help you sleep."
He peeked one eye open and glanced up at the kid, then back down at the glass, thoughts and stomach churning. Experimentally, he got his hand up to his mouth and took a sip. It wasn't anything he'd ever had before, but mostly it tasted like wine, or maybe Christmas cider. He tried to relax as it settled into his stomach. It didn't try to kill him.
"Are you hungry?" the kid asked. Bird thought about that, churny stomach and all, and shook his head. "Were you hungry when you first woke?" The memory of the stabbing pains that had coaxed him out of the bedroom made his lips curl up, and he slowly nodded.
The kid didn't seem to respond. He turned around and took a seat in a chair facing Bird, crossed his hands in his lap, and watched Bird with a calm expression. An undefinable period of time passed, Bird sipping his drink and trying to focus, the kid moving just enough (while Bord was looking) to look alive. A few more careful sips and the bubbly feeling began to settle down to a dull roar. The churny feeling was replaced by a soft fuzziness, and he began to feel better. It was still disturbingly quiet, but after a while, Bird got into a rhythm listening to himself breathe.
His head hurt trying to recall why the kid looked familiar. He was white and kinda ruddy-looking, with short dark hair and big soulful creepy-looking eyes; he looked, to Bird's best guess, somewhere between twelve and fourteen, though his voice was more or less adult. It was clear and soft, with no obvious hint of malice and some kind of slight accent. Maybe he was like, twenty-something, and it was just the eyes that made him look so young. And being short and skinny, but Bird was really short and a skinny flavor of 140-ish, and he liked to think he didn't look twelve. How had he gotten onto the couch again?
It occurred to him then who the clothes he'd found might belong to, but that train of thought wasn't any more productive or calming than considering whether he'd been drugged and deadlifted by an eighth-grader. Another fuzzy period of time passed as he tried to figure out his next move.
"Whaa- errm." Bird attempted again. He licked his lips and recalibrated. "Where. Am I? And," he added after a beat, "why, do I feel, sick?"
"You're in my home. Your mind and body are out of sync, and need time and rest to adjust. A detailed explanation will wait until you're stable."
Bird shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of whatever was in the glass. "Do... I know you?"
The maybe-not-a-kid-after-all made a noise. Neither his expression or tone changed. "Yes."
Bird clutched the glass in both hands and tried not to feel awkward. If he really did know this guy, if he really was safe, then... but he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong, and if he wasn't in a horror movie, it was looking increasingly like he'd done something stupid, which might be worse. He realized his limbs had been getting heavy when the glass slipped out of his hand and landed with a thump and a splash on the floor. He grunted with embarrassment and sat up, trying to think his way through to cleaning it up.
He wavered, clenching the edge of the couch and trying not to fall over. All of a sudden, the kid-or-whatever was beside him again, supporting him with one hand.
"You should get to bed, before you fall asleep in the living room floor."
With help, Bird scrambled onto his feet, leaning on one proffered arm. Staying upright proved easy enough, but moving in a straight line was a challenge. Somehow they made it into the hallway. He noticed a broom and an odd little bucket of stuff sat in the hallway, seemingly halfway through cleaning up a pile of something he could swear looked like feathers.
"What did...?" made it out of Bird's mouth, he was sure, but after that was a blur.
*
Then he was awake again.
The thought was the first one into his mind; he had slept deeply enough that the time between was a blank. He felt refreshed and comfortable, curled up in warm pajamas and the silk sheets of a soft bed. For a moment he felt happy to be home, until he realized that he still didn't own silk sheets. Pieces of memory started floating back in.
He pieced things together some as he lay there with his eyes closed, his head mostly clear for the first time in what felt like a few days. He remembered going out for dinner after a long shift, to an IHOP that at 4 AM was predictably full of students and drunks. He'd gotten a load of bacon and some cheesecake pancakes and spent the early morning alternating between the amazing freedom of being an adult with spare cash and feeling sorry for himself for eating alone. Things got fuzzy after that, but he remembered taking the bus home, and even more distinctly, being home. There was one sharp memory after that, one of leaning over his bathroom sink and staring himself in the eye in the mirror. There was tension in his face and a growing darkness under his eyes, and his mouth kept twitching like it wasn't sure what expression to settle into. He couldn't remember the context for it, though, or what he'd been feeling at the time, just that it had been important. Just that it felt like the memory had never left his mind, even if he'd just now looked directly at it. The thought made him shiver suddenly, and after that...
His thoughts were cut off by a sharp squeak and a flutter of paper that made him damn near leap out of his skin. As it was, he ended up rolled out of the bedsheets and flopped over on his belly, staring up at the face of a girl who, after a second, he recognized as the one he'd seen in the hall. She looked startled, and his first impression of her was big round glasses like a cartoon character from his childhood. She had really long, dark brown hair in a puffy French braid, and a short black dress, and she was sitting in one of the really plush, French-looking red chairs that had been dragged over to face the bed with a book perched on her crossed legs. They stared at each other, then she pressed one hand to her heart and smiled. The bubbly feeling started in his veins again, though weaker this time.
"Hi," she said perkily. "Sorry, I was a little distracted. How are you doing over there?"
"Ahm." He still felt woozy and emotionally off-balance, and he was a little hungry, but everything else had died down to a dull roar. "I- still not sure where I am. Better, though?" At least his mouth more or less worked. That was nice.
She looked amused. "Oh. Well, better is good."
Slowly, he sat up and slid onto his knees, grateful he was wearing pajamas and suddenly worried about how he'd gotten into them. "Ah." There was no reference anywhere in his mind for the etiquette of this situation. "Do I know you?"
She shook her head and closed her book. "Not yet. I'm Jacinthe. You're... Sakda? Have I heard that right?"
He grimaced. "Uhm, yeah... but I prefer Bird. I mean. Only my Mom calls me that. If that's cool."
"Sure. Nice to finally meet you, Bird. I guess you have a lot of questions- I know I do." She stood up. "I'll go tell Uncle you woke up, okay? Do you need anything?"
He felt dazed. Her smile hadn't faded even a little. He shook his head. "I'm... okay."
"All right. I expect I'll see you in a little while, then." She gave him a wave and strutted out the door, leaving him to the plush jewel-toned room of silk and velvet.
Bird curled up in a ball under the covers and let himself breathe.
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Cool. There are actually answers coming, finally. Just took me a bit to figure out how they were going to be presented.
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Bird shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of whatever was in the glass. "Do... I know you?"
The maybe-not-a-kid-after-all made a noise. Neither his expression or tone changed. "Yes."
Especially got me. I'd really like to see more if you are inclined!
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...I wish him luck.
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Thanks for reading!