Scattered Light pt.2
From Greenthings
Current revision as of 08:48, 2 January 2008
It had been three weeks.
That wasn't what he should be thinking about. He'd had dreams earlier today of sitting down to write a whole page, at least of notes, but that certainly hadn't happened. That had been hours ago. Now he was just dawdling.
There wasn't enough time in the day for this, between helping his father in exchange for the few scraps he could afford- most days, that took all the daylight hours- and practicing. One of these days he was going to leave, one day when his father could no longer use an extra set of shoulders, or finally made enough that it didn't matter. One of these days he was going to travel, doing- he didn't know what. He knew it would involve having some time to write, and he knew on more than a practical level that it would involve a lot of fighting, but it would be something, and they'd settle down somewhere and build that giant near-temple to the written form that-
No. Next topic.
The light of the sunrise had been beautiful. There were benefits to being a Very Large Man, and one of those was that nobody bothered you most of the time, even when you were walking down parts of the beach that weren't used not because they weren't useful. He'd spent longer than he originally intended to practicing forms down there, watching the sand glimmer and the water dance in its light, visions of alternating thematic variations running through his head. They weren't really that good. The Dragon-blooded who tended to buy these things liked seasonal themes, for obvious reasons, but as far as he was concerned, that had been done and better hundreds of years before. Repeatedly. Why no one wanted a nice heartfelt remark on surrounding poverty and the inherent humanity of the lower classes he'd-
-Well. He couldn't even guess; he knew. Not that that would slow him down, but it wouldn't pay the rent, either. Irony being the mother of all poets, or something like that.
Which explains a lot about my life, really.
The teapot on the stove whistled. He sighed, slightly in tune with it, and got up to grab another cup. The one he'd been using was a bit... sticky, the result of one too many times it had been left to sit for hours as more of a placebo against distraction than a drink, or to be entirely honest, one too many times he'd not bothered pouring it out before leaving for work or heading to bed.
It didn't really matter anymore, anyway.
--
Alex had never said how he got the job at the bookseller's, though he had his suspicions. Yarod had come in one day, money in his pocket from his first real payday ever: a reward for carrying a load of boxes halfway across Chiaroscuro when the men who'd been contracted for it hadn't shown up.
The boy behind the counter had been, perhaps understandably, surprised at the requests, but had gracefully taken the opportunity to introduce him- not entirely in small words- to some of the more famous poets of the Realm. After a while, Alex forgot entirely what sort of person he'd thought he was talking to and the conversation turned into passionate discussion, random gossip, and silliness. It broke up only when the old man had made his presence known and told them, with a hint of amusement in his voice, that it was time to go home.
Yarod left that day with three books and a new best friend.
--
I am not moping. I will inspire myself, and I will get over this ridiculous block.
One sheet of paper was laying apart from the rest on the table, marked over in thick clumps of notes and crossed-out lines. They had started to cross and tangle in his head, and he imagined them forming a giant wiry ball that bounced around and changed into a kitty. The kitty pranced around in a cartoonish landscape, hopped over to the Blessed Isle and demolished a few buildings, and began to act the part of a fierce mount in an elaborate heroic quest to rescue Alex from a giant feral tree-walrus before he caught himself.
Okay. I'm not moping, but... I miss him.
It didn't help that he insisted on leaving his things everywhere. Usually, Yarod was vaguely grateful for that; it made the place look a little more... lived-in. A little less like his stuff was sprawling over Alex's, hiding the little tucked-in corners they'd otherwise be in. It reminded them both that he was here, that whatever he was off doing, wherever he was doing it, he was coming home.
Right now, though, it was just reminding of what wasn't there.
Yarod wondered, not for the first time, if Alex was safe. If this job was really worth all this. What exactly it was, for that matter. Why all that still bothered him less than the simple fact that he wasn't around.
He remembered when this all started, when Alex's parents were moving out and he'd made the decision to stay here and move in. He remembered afterwards, when he'd gotten that job, the explanations and the questions and the pleading, and how it'd gotten to the soft, deliberate cognitive dissonance about it there was now. All the times he'd come back at bizarre hours, in the middle of the afternoon, and the badly-hidden worry and relief when Yarod opened the door. Wanting to pick him up and squeeze him and distract him from everything. When he'd done that before, the night he'd finally admitted to Alex how he felt and everything that had happened.
Fine. So I'm moping. Fuck it.
He stood up, downed the last of the tea, sat the cup in the sink, and went off to take a nap.
