Dray (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2018-12-22 09:04 am
dray) wrote in rainbowfic2018-12-22 09:04 am
Entry tags:
Silver #10, True Blue #14, Ignition Yellow #15
Name: Dray
Story:everwood
Colors: Silver 10) Currency, True Blue 14) Sharing, Ignition Yellow 15) "Who we used to be before we became antiques"
Supplies and Styles: Frame, Stain (Dec. 20th 2018 - "The truth is always a compound of two half- truths, and you never reach it, because there is always something more to say."), Beading Wire, Glue ("It might seem as if you have the King Midas touch today. Of course, nothing turns to gold in front of your eyes, but nearly everything you do opens a door into another amazing opportunity. Don’t worry about the final outcomes to your actions now; just revel in your legendary enthusiasm without concern for the future. Your innocent optimism is currently your greatest strength. Although you won’t become rich overnight, you will be richer for the experience you gain.")
Word Count: 861
Rating: E Everybody
Warnings: None
By now, Owen could march his ass all through the Evermarches without much more than a cluck or a few soft words. The pack mule, obstinate as he could be at times, liked Owen was grateful, even if that gratitude was tainted by a sardonic sense of humour. The world was short on good asses, right?
The pair of them navigated a deer track running north a mile or so from the river road, but it was so foggy that he trusted more in instinct and memory than landmarks to guide them. In the meantime, he found himself whisking the feather-end of a quill against three-day-old stubble as he considered his most recent journal. The page he had opened to was already covered in notes on Boyce and his fascinating, living tree-house, but he wanted to get down all the details he didn't think Boyce would appreciate reading, were the massive man to peer over his shoulder. If Owen didn't get everything down now he was afraid he might forget something. He didn't get to visit Boyce all that often.
How did a purported human hibernate for nearly three months without significant physiological changes? He wasn't emaciated... he just looked like a groggy big, hairy man who needed some food, some caffeine, and some company. Yet Boyce was growing more shootlets, and his eyes and fingernails had taken on a quality from the last time that Owen had visited that seemed uncanny, and maybe unfinished. Boyce was a mystery, someone in the middle of a change that Owen didn't really want to miss a moment of, but who would obviously throw him and his ass out the moment he outstayed his welcome.
He liked Boyce, and he liked the way that the man kept opening up, little by little, every time he visited. Maybe Boyce would never tell him about the secretive dryad he'd obviously been in love with, but just by being available to talk about inconsequential pleasantries once every few months, he brought Owen that much closer to another branch (no pun intended) of the cryptoflora and fauna that made the Evermarches such a fascinating place to be.
Having a mystery to chew on helped anchor him in the the present in a long, long lifespan. Owen was about as human as Boyce seemed to be, but probably less-so, thinking about what he'd learned so far. Unlike Boyce, he was very good at keeping his differences under wraps. It helped that other humans had learned to extend their lives by magic, here and there, and that he could masquerade as a mage when the generations ticked on and he seemed to remain the same.
When Boyce gave him a particularly fascinating tidbit about himself, or Trellis, or the magical world into which Boyce had made himself comfortable, Owen liked to return the favour. They'd bonded over little secrets and... while he was careful never to give Boyce too much, he was both glad and a little annoyed that the big man didn't pry, at all. Boyce remained to this day a stiff-lipped friend, though Owen had passed his way for the last five years, sometimes making great deviations from his course to do so. Owen liked to keep Boyce showered in gifts, and all for the price of a little conversation and a little restrained flirtation. There was camaraderie, too, and Owen could see Boyce trying to smother a spark of something more every time he managed to get under the big man's defenses. It was flattering, and irritating, and one of the pettier reasons that he kept coming back.
Owen liked the way Boyce called him by his surname, as though that would force some distance between them. "Mr. Goodlace." In writing it sounded formal, but the way Boyce said it...
The scholar scratched out a line or two in his journal, exasperated by the flush that had crept down past his neck cloth. 'Pining,' he chided himself. Owen carefully closed the journal, tying the quill back to the cover, and thumped the cover against his open palm to put a very specific line of personal inquiry out of his mind. Boyce might look the older of them, but to Owen, he felt like a young, fresh heart, and that was infectious. He knew full well that he wasn't making all of this effort just for the advances to science and magical reckoning Boyce would bring, and that irked him just enough that he wondered if he should stop swinging by. But no, it had been half a decade since they'd first met. He still hadn't cracked Boyce open, and Owen was damned if the big man didn't bait him with the tease of wanting to be cracked. If an infectious flirt and a long slow burn couldn't be put out after so long, he wasn't sure that actively avoiding Boyce would do more than drive him crazy.
If that meant showering a hermit with gifts, he could rationalize it as the currency of feeling a current currently. Maybe in two months he'd be back this way. He was already looking forward to it.
Story:
everwoodColors: Silver 10) Currency, True Blue 14) Sharing, Ignition Yellow 15) "Who we used to be before we became antiques"
Supplies and Styles: Frame, Stain (Dec. 20th 2018 - "The truth is always a compound of two half- truths, and you never reach it, because there is always something more to say."), Beading Wire, Glue ("It might seem as if you have the King Midas touch today. Of course, nothing turns to gold in front of your eyes, but nearly everything you do opens a door into another amazing opportunity. Don’t worry about the final outcomes to your actions now; just revel in your legendary enthusiasm without concern for the future. Your innocent optimism is currently your greatest strength. Although you won’t become rich overnight, you will be richer for the experience you gain.")
Word Count: 861
Rating: E Everybody
Warnings: None
By now, Owen could march his ass all through the Evermarches without much more than a cluck or a few soft words. The pack mule, obstinate as he could be at times, liked Owen was grateful, even if that gratitude was tainted by a sardonic sense of humour. The world was short on good asses, right?
The pair of them navigated a deer track running north a mile or so from the river road, but it was so foggy that he trusted more in instinct and memory than landmarks to guide them. In the meantime, he found himself whisking the feather-end of a quill against three-day-old stubble as he considered his most recent journal. The page he had opened to was already covered in notes on Boyce and his fascinating, living tree-house, but he wanted to get down all the details he didn't think Boyce would appreciate reading, were the massive man to peer over his shoulder. If Owen didn't get everything down now he was afraid he might forget something. He didn't get to visit Boyce all that often.
How did a purported human hibernate for nearly three months without significant physiological changes? He wasn't emaciated... he just looked like a groggy big, hairy man who needed some food, some caffeine, and some company. Yet Boyce was growing more shootlets, and his eyes and fingernails had taken on a quality from the last time that Owen had visited that seemed uncanny, and maybe unfinished. Boyce was a mystery, someone in the middle of a change that Owen didn't really want to miss a moment of, but who would obviously throw him and his ass out the moment he outstayed his welcome.
He liked Boyce, and he liked the way that the man kept opening up, little by little, every time he visited. Maybe Boyce would never tell him about the secretive dryad he'd obviously been in love with, but just by being available to talk about inconsequential pleasantries once every few months, he brought Owen that much closer to another branch (no pun intended) of the cryptoflora and fauna that made the Evermarches such a fascinating place to be.
Having a mystery to chew on helped anchor him in the the present in a long, long lifespan. Owen was about as human as Boyce seemed to be, but probably less-so, thinking about what he'd learned so far. Unlike Boyce, he was very good at keeping his differences under wraps. It helped that other humans had learned to extend their lives by magic, here and there, and that he could masquerade as a mage when the generations ticked on and he seemed to remain the same.
When Boyce gave him a particularly fascinating tidbit about himself, or Trellis, or the magical world into which Boyce had made himself comfortable, Owen liked to return the favour. They'd bonded over little secrets and... while he was careful never to give Boyce too much, he was both glad and a little annoyed that the big man didn't pry, at all. Boyce remained to this day a stiff-lipped friend, though Owen had passed his way for the last five years, sometimes making great deviations from his course to do so. Owen liked to keep Boyce showered in gifts, and all for the price of a little conversation and a little restrained flirtation. There was camaraderie, too, and Owen could see Boyce trying to smother a spark of something more every time he managed to get under the big man's defenses. It was flattering, and irritating, and one of the pettier reasons that he kept coming back.
Owen liked the way Boyce called him by his surname, as though that would force some distance between them. "Mr. Goodlace." In writing it sounded formal, but the way Boyce said it...
The scholar scratched out a line or two in his journal, exasperated by the flush that had crept down past his neck cloth. 'Pining,' he chided himself. Owen carefully closed the journal, tying the quill back to the cover, and thumped the cover against his open palm to put a very specific line of personal inquiry out of his mind. Boyce might look the older of them, but to Owen, he felt like a young, fresh heart, and that was infectious. He knew full well that he wasn't making all of this effort just for the advances to science and magical reckoning Boyce would bring, and that irked him just enough that he wondered if he should stop swinging by. But no, it had been half a decade since they'd first met. He still hadn't cracked Boyce open, and Owen was damned if the big man didn't bait him with the tease of wanting to be cracked. If an infectious flirt and a long slow burn couldn't be put out after so long, he wasn't sure that actively avoiding Boyce would do more than drive him crazy.
If that meant showering a hermit with gifts, he could rationalize it as the currency of feeling a current currently. Maybe in two months he'd be back this way. He was already looking forward to it.
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