JackSGreyson Says

There’s a smear of red something streaked across his right cheek and she can’t help but stare at it. She’s barely listening to him because she’s focusing so much on that damn smear. Is it ketchup? Is it paint? Is it blood? Oh, god is he a killer artist who eats messily? Has he been one the entire time she’s known him?

“… and so I told the Abominable Snowman, no problem you can borrow my hover car any time you want. Just don’t scratch it.” He finishes, and when her line of sight finally drags its way up his face to meet his she sees that he’s terribly amused by her inattention.

“Sorry,” she grins, and even though her mind protests, her body automatically tucks her left hand into her left sleeve, bringing it up to her mouth so she can moisten it a bit with her saliva. She then, entirely against her wishes, reaches across their little table for two, brings her damp sleeve up to that smear on his cheek, and rubs at it until it goes away.

The smile on his face has slackened into shock and she’s pretty sure now her face is red.

“Oh god, sorry,” She apologizes again because she just wiped her spit all over his face right after ignoring whatever he was saying.

He recovers briefly, perhaps bolstered by her blatant embarrassment, before blurting out, “I imagined the first time we swapped bodily fluids would be sexier,” And all his hard-won delight crumbles into matching embarrassment. He drops his face into his hands, his right hand twitching when it meets his cheek because it’s probably still damp from that impromptu cleaning.

Now both of them are blushing and she honestly can’t stop it, but she laughs; and soon after he starts laughing. Then it’s just the two of them caught in a helpless cycle of laughter, probably drawing the confused and irritated attention of everyone else in the cafe.

It takes ages for them to stop, and when they finally do she’s clutching her ribs because ow, and he’s actually wheezing a little.

The cafe is a little emptier, and she hopes it’s not their fault. The baristas both seem enthralled by the cake-pop display, so they can’t be too angry.

He smiles at her–and either he’s just a naturally happy person or she’s better at this dating thing than she thought because he hasn’t really stopped smiling this entire time. It’s a nice smile. She’s not going to deny that it’s part of the reason why she’s on this date: he’s got a handsome face with an attractive smile to match. But she likes how it’s a smile that’s there because of her.

“Is there something on my face?” She asks, setting it up.

“No, why?” He says, a little breathless.

“It’s just that… it’s not really swapping if it was just me,” She answers slyly, closing her eyes and tilting her face towards him. She gets one bright bark of laughter, which she had been aiming for, before something warm and a little rough touches her cheek. Her eyes fly open in time for her to see his face moving away.

They stare at each other, and she can see the moment when he thinks he’s overstepped his boundaries; his gaze becomes less dreamy and edges into panic. But before he can apologize, she grabs at his hand resting on the table.

There’s a loud racket as the cake-pop display crashes to the ground, but it’s not enough to stop them from grinning dopily at each other.

~

A/N: I just wanted something ridiculously cute because I’m having a bad day. Also, yes, those baristas are terrible voyeurs. Not based on any real life baristas.

There’s a river that flows around the town, murky and sludgy and brown. It’s as much a prison as it is a protection, for the town was once a noble’s fortress and private holdings and the polluted water had once been a moat.

But it’s still a river, and while they cannot drink from it, or safely eat anything that possibly lives in it, it is still a body of water. A body of water which they can use to transport goods around the town. A body of water which the townspeople can still enjoy with boat racing. A body of water which prevents the annual forest fires of the region from reaching their town. A body of water which wards off evil creatures, no matter how impure that water may itself be.

Sometimes, when he knows no one is around, he will try to commune with the river. It has been many decades since magic has been outlawed in their kingdom, but every so often a magician will appear and eventually be caught and executed. It is not a good thing to be a magician in this kingdom.

But regardless, he still tries. He can feel an energy buzzing beneath his skin, his cousins say that it’s just excitement; his battle prowess or his roguish charm, depending on which cousin he speaks to. But he doesn’t think that’s the case. He thinks it’s more. And he wants it to be more.

But he knows what happens to those in the family who want more than what they can have. They are disowned, forgotten, erased from the family as best as can be. He doesn’t remember her that well, his cousin that left when he was just a toddler.

He remembers that last day she was in town, the family had gathered at his fathers house. It was… a farewell party would be a too kind euphemism. It was more of a good riddance party. It’s not like she had been particularly kind, she had kept a distance from everyone in the family, especially those younger than her; but she had been different. Of course she had been, that’s why she had left for the western continent. But… she had good eyes–keen, sharp, useful for an archer–eyes that saw more than what appeared.

His cousins that remain, her siblings that were so eager to see her go, they whisper the same thing about him concernedly. They still fawn over him, banter about which class he will join, whose apprentice he will be. But they watch him, and they worry.

Perhaps they have nothing to worry about: no matter what he tries, the river stays a filthy flow of sludge. It might be too polluted to be a proper natural element, or it might just be that he simply doesn’t have magic. But he can still feel the energy writhing within him, and he wonders, and maybe that is enough.

~

A/N: Sort of related to the Untitled (2015-01-29) drabble except roughly a decade later when the baby cousin has grown up a bit.

Today is the kind of day in which you feel your age. The muscles of your back are sore and your spine feels too rigid. There’s a pressure in your knees, like swollen overripe peaches about to burst. Your wrists do not creak so much as they shriek their resistance.

Your gums ache with the memory of teeth, real teeth, which you could tear and cut and grind. Biting and chewing was once so easy for you, such a pleasure you once took for granted and now miss so keenly when you prepare your breakfast.

Your throat convulses and you try not to choke on all the pills you are forced to swallow down. It seems like everyday they multiply, you imagine sometimes as you struggle to sleep, that you can hear them rattling in their bottles.

The spots and scars that decorate your thin fragile skin, create a more interesting landscape than your bland tiny home. There is the lake of your birthmark, one which your mother had always said was an angel’s kiss but which the kids on the playground mocked you for. It’s how you got the mountain range of scar tissue on your right arm, they had to change the fence all around the school.

The luxurious locks of hair which made you the envy of your siblings are bleached and thinned and so wispy you can’t help but think of the cigarettes you used to sneak out of your teacher’s desk. How the smoke dissipated in swirling clouds out the bathroom window. You wear glasses now, so thick that you could use it to start a fire like you learned from your cousin during family camping trips.

Some of them are dead, but some of them are alive. You wonder how they are. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen any of them. You know Cassidy Jones regret making fun of you as soon as you kicked him, but did he ever regret it for the right reasons? Did he ever consider that maybe the two of you might have been friends, had it not been for that?

You think about your siblings. Of the ones you’ve kept in contact with as best as your arthritic fingers and deteriorated hearing can handle. Of the ones you can’t anymore. You think of your cousin, who had died decades ago in a literal blaze of glory, rescuing idiots from fires with determination in her heart. You don’t have much of that anymore. Vitality is not just in the body, and it’s a substance that dwindles. It has been a long life–you have done much with it, and it has left it’s mark on you.

~

A/N: A melancholic piece.

Also, I write a lot more Second POV than I thought I would? Like… it’s not really my favorite form to read either, so I don’t know where this is coming from… But I also kind of like how it’s non-gender specific.

It’s always the little things that trip me up. My friends say I do pretty well, all things considered, but I can always tell when I’m a little… off.

For example: stairs. To begin with, my legs aren’t of the best quality so the knee-bending is difficult. But if I’m not actively paying attention I always seem to be walking on the wrong side. I end up in people’s way when they’re trying to go down and I’m trying to go up.

Or at restaurants. It seemed odd to me that people don’t try to get to know their waiters a little better. My friends say that being a civil and even polite customer already puts me above the average consumer. But I want to know more about them. Which dish do they like best? What is their opinion on nut allergies versus lactose intolerance? Do they happen to carry around a flask of poison?

Don’t even get me started on pronouns. How do I tell what gender people are? Who am I to just assume and randomly designate genders? Do I use body shape? Or clothing styles? Or hair length? Even names don’t help much–what kind of Alex or Sam or Dan/Danny/Dani are you?

My friends say my most obvious trouble are handshakes. But I don’t really see what I’m doing wrong–most people seem to be happy after handshakes with me.

Oh.

Oh, apparently I’m not supposed to put an object in their hand. I’m supposed to put my hand in their hand.

That seems so unsanitary.

Maybe I’ll do the long-distance “wave” variation. As long as hands are in motion, surely that constitutes as a “hand shake.”

It’s hard, trying to be human. I mean, being human. Which I am. It’s difficult to be a human.

~

A/N: A sort of… alien undercover and not doing very well.

“Oh, he’s definitely going to be a warrior–look at him! He’s built like a tank: he takes a hit, keeps going; get’s knocked down then gets back up. And plus, he eats some kind of bear. That definitely is a sign of a warrior.”

“No way. That little charmer? Please. Where do you think he gets all that food from? He’s been tricking at least three other people out of their lunches. And do you know how much trouble he can get into? You look away and suddenly he’s making quick work of the child’s pen. A rogue, for sure.”

“Mage,” Her siblings look at her oddly for that announcement, breaking into their argument. The three of them are at their uncle’s house, keeping an eye on their little cousin. Her statement was odd for two reasons: one, that she bothered to say anything at all. Two, that she said that of all things.

“A mage?” Her sister hisses, eyes scanning around as if the governor will pop out of their uncle’s kitchen cupboards and hang them all for treason. Her hand has gone to the pommel of her sword, so perhaps that really is what she thinks.

Her brother, though less paranoid, is no less vehement in his reaction, “Mages are dangerous and unstable, we wouldn’t wish such a terrible fate on our dear baby cousin. And anyway, there hasn’t been a mage in the family in centuries,” One of his daggers tap tap tap warningly against the table.

That’s because we disown any family member that shows signs of magic. Sometimes she thinks her siblings are disappointed that she didn’t show any such signs. As she brushes a thumb over the wood of her bow, she thinks sometimes she’s disappointed that didn’t happen either.

But their young cousin–he’s got a lot of potential, that’s what happens when you’re born into this family. The problem isn’t not being good enough, it’s those who are too… skilled, that must be removed.

It is a terrible fate, to be a mage in their family. And the laws have made it a terrible thing to be a mage in this kingdom. But being a mage isn’t inherently terrible–to have magic within you and to feel it everywhere. It must be a wondrous thing.

Maybe their cousin will think that way too. Regardless of if he becomes a warrior or a rogue or a mage. Or maybe he will continue her siblings earnest fear and hostility, as the kingdom squeezes the life out of itself.

This is the last time she’ll see him–she’s taking a voyage to the western continent, and really this family reunion is meant to be her farewell party. But perhaps, before she goes, she will tell him a secret and one day they’ll meet again.

~

A/N: Hrmm… inspired by one of my baby cousins. And the whole warrior-rogue-mage class dynamic in fantasy games.

Now with sequel drabble

My father was a scientist. And that showed in how he raised me. I was not so much his daughter, as I was his ultimate experiment. Anything I did, anything I achieved or failed to achieve was something that could be analyzed. Something to be broken down and examined and tweaked.

My father was also a bitter, vengeful man. It permeated its way into how he raised me. I may have been his daughter, but I was also a potential weapon. My schedule and nutrition and education revolved around improving me, making me stronger-faster-more.

Either way, I was not my own person.

–

He remembers when he was small, much younger than now, that they used to live in a house. It was warm and bright and had walls painted a cheery yellow. There were only two bedrooms, but that was enough, their family being just three. It was a small house, but it was theirs. He remembers it with fondness.

Now, they live in one of the apartments offered to Kline Inc’s employees. It’s still only two bedrooms, but it seems much larger with only the two of them. And with how frequently his mom is working. She does her best, he knows, single motherhood is difficult particularly with how unexpected it was–his dad would have been the homemaker, had he lived.

But he’s gotten used to it. There’s a lot of fun a boy can have in the skyscraper of Kline Inc, especially a boy genius and son of the head of R&D. He does his best not to get in anyone’s way, only talks to those who are free to do so. It’s a different kind of home, but still good.

~

A/N: I know, even with two pieces it’s still short. I’m not sure what direction this was going in.