taxonomites | 053 ± [text / location: wilde] and it's not like there was warning

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053 ± [text / location: wilde] and it's not like there was warning

For a while Glitch simply sits on the shore of Lake Whitman, staring out at a tiny island with a small stone tower which has taken the place of the massive ice-encased palace. There's a foot bridge leading out to it, a mockery of the old grand causeway.

Gone. It's gone, she's gone, over two and a half annuals of his life is gone, the memories entrusted to his ever-fallible brain and not marble and ice, brass and crystal. No more ballroom, no more kitchen, no more parlor, no more--

Hanging on tight as the city flew past them, the engine's roar and his pounding heart all he can hear. A ringing laugh, eyes an impossible blue, cold feet, a map of faint freckles. Bravery beyond reason, patience beyond endurance, and finally hurt beyond bearing.

They'd needed time, just a little time for themselves, but the aliens had taken him away and taken the memory of her (again) and now they've taken her completely. Which...now leaves him in a state of guilty, bewildered shock.

Glitch remembers goading the witch by telling her nothing that happens in Taxon matters since they'll all forget it one day, knowing DG could hear it too but not caring because his revenge meant more. He hadn't been sure then how much of that was bluff and how much truth, but now at least he's certain: of course it all matters, or else this pain wouldn't have struck him dumb and devastated at the lakeside.

"Right," he breathes. Time to try and optimism his way out of this. DG's gone...back to the O.Z. She's with her mother and father and she can begin healing with her sister properly. And Raw's there, and Cain, and himself, the flighty, bubbly headcase she'd fallen in love with. They'll be working together to heal the realm, it's what they'd both longed for all this time, it's a happy day.

His eyes close, and he sighs softly. "Good luck, doll."

Eventually he crosses the bridge and enters the tower, because he's curious, and is astounded to discover some of his own belongings which had been left in the palace there. The gramophone and records from the ballroom, his notebooks, a few gadgets...and the massive portrait of himself and the Queen.

He laughs, shakes his head, wipes his eyes, and steels himself to share the news via text.

DG has gone home. The palace has gone with her, but some of my things were left behind. I'd like some help.

That can be interpreted however one likes.

[ooc: mostly a placeholder for when I get back from vacation, but feel free to tag in/log post it up! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In some cases, it can be argued that ignorance is bliss; in others, that it makes for poor planning.

Happily unaware of Glitch's most recent upheaval, Bagoas had taken a few days to himself to regain his bearings, as it were, his equilibrium. Not only did he want to look his best, he wanted to feel it as well. He needed to prepare himself for any eventuality, including less palatable outcomes. Glitch could have thought better of Bagoas' offer, now that they were so far removed from that secluded rendez-vous full of promises and delight.

Delight. That was his aim; if seduction is an art, his brushes were fine and whisper soft; employing subtlety as his foremost tool. He wanted to remind Glitch of their own garden of delight, with smells and tastes and fond remembrance.

He groomed himself from top to bottom, paying special attention to his hair for knowing Glitch liked it. He remembered the barge, and the look in Glitch's eye as he caught a lock of Bagoas' hair between his fingers.

~*~

He comes to Glitch's doorstep dressed in a bright turqoise kaftan, his hair loose and eyes properly kohled, bringing a small basket full of small treats: palmier cookies and the most delightful red berries that shine like rubies in the sun.

Knock-knock.

Edited 2012-07-15 13:12 (UTC)

Now to be fair it is a rare, rare day when Glitch isn't dealing with some sort of upheaval so Bagoas will never be blamed for poor timing. And if he's honest Glitch is a bit grateful for these few days to himself: time to grieve, to think, to process, to sort and compartmentalize and make lists and unpack.

He's still not sure what to do when there's a knock at the door, and on the other side...

"...hi." Glitch is dressed in a short sleeved pullover shirt in the rich (Quadling) red he favors and loose-fitting trousers, and his curls are a bit smoother than they'd been just off the barge. For a moment or so he's overwhelmed, then he smiles and steps back, gesturing inside. "Welcome, I'm glad to see you and your basket."

Both quite firmly true, it's a place to start.

All things considered, a soft-spoken, unenthusiastic hi isn't what Bagoas expects. This isn't to say he loses momentum, or his step; his soft smile stays put as he steps through the open door with confidence.

"I brought some cakes, and fresh berries from the market."

It's become nothing short of tradition: he brings Glitch sweet things, and they share in the delight of it. Perhaps one day, he'll only need bring himself, and that be sweet enough.

However, they have only come so far, and tradition holds greater weight than most would think. Perhaps especially when one suspects not all is well, now one is face to face with a dear friend.

He won't prod openly, knowing better for his years at Persian court. Instead he brings his hand to Glitch's shoulder, following the unkempt line of his beard with his eyes.

"Not a bad attempt. I won't say it's a good one, but it is certainly not bad. Have you a sharp enough blade?"

"Thank you, those'll go nice with some iced coffee."

The first room, the sitting or living room, was crammed with mismatched furniture when Glitch found the house and he's kept it that way. In the back corner is more recent clutter, namely the gramophone from the palace ballroom and boxes of records waiting to be sorted.

And Bagoas, vibrant and gentle and oh yes, a long ol' talk it will be and gods he doesn't want anyone hurt. His head's full of cool clear water and brave trust, exotic rhythms and a soft kiss and he doesn't know what to do because it feels like someone's driven a thorn branch down from the base of his throat into his heart.

However, the pain is eased a bit by the touch, and there's a gaze and a question before he can sort out what that means, and so his smile brightens.

"I think it's what's called operator error," he replies and reaches up to touch the already-healed spot he'd cut. "Um, that's when the tools are in working order but the user's not competent. I've never maintained one of these before."

Bagoas merely smiles in response to the mention of coffee, strange beverage though it is, he's grown fond of its inherent bitterness that goes entirely too well with sweet things. Out of the corners of his eyes, he sees the clutter but makes no mention of it, nor diverts his attention from his friend and his endless collection of strange but fascinating turns of phrase.

"I would be happy to help. You won't even need to ask."

"I'd like that." More truth, yes, nothing wrong with that, and his hand briefly touches the one on his shoulder before dropping to his side. Glitch nods toward the back of the house. "Come on, I'll give you a tour and we set up in the garden. It's a nice day for a picnic."

The second room is something of an office, the desk strewn with plans for the PASIV and one wall dominated by a painting of some hill country at the peak of autumn's color. Last is a small kitchen with bathroom attached, and a door leading to the yard.

He removes a pitcher of sweeted black coffee from the fridge and starts gathering a tablecloth, glasses, milk, ice, napkins, etc. "Are you well? Adjusted to being back here?

Throughout the viewing, Bagoas admires the lived-in clutter and colour and homeliness. It all speaks to him of Glitch, as well it should, and warms his heart for it despite the dark cloud hanging about his friend.

"Yes," he says, when they gather things to bring outside (he insists on taking at least the tablecloth and napkins aside from his basket). "As adjusted as one gets, away from home."

He suspects that has something to do with the dullness lingering in Glitch's beautiful eyes, and so, he prods in his own circumventive way.

"I have resumed all my acquired habits, however. I walk a lot, being constantly distracted by pretty things... I think I'd quite forgotten how good it feels to be clean."

Glitch murmurs thanks at the help, then literally bites his tongue to see if it will help. The words that have been looping in his mind for days are spinning ever faster, now a persistant buzzsaw grind (gods he hates that sound) and it's a struggle to keep them contained.

DG's gone, DG's gone, DG's gone--

He realizes Bagoas doesn't know, if he'd known he'd have been around directly or maybe not appeared at all and was that why he'd sent the message as a text? To keep it from the young man? No, his only throught at the time had been to avoid saying the words aloud, there'd been no other motive and now he has to say something. Before he says anything else, before they talk about anything else, he has to say it.

"It's hugely underrated," he replies, gaze fixed out the window as he arranges beverage things on a tray. "A-and it's good to have a routine, I've been mostly busy here but I've been back to the shop too, starting a new project--"

No, the grind's become a whine and he turns to face Bagoas, left hand going to right wrist to fuss with the bracelet. He focuses on the dear, gentle face, eyes and lips and angled chin and he's so afraid of what the words will do but says them anyway.

"DG's gone." There. No going back now, only forward. "Just after we got back. The...the palace too."

Glitch's mind is so obviously elsewhere, Bagoas has to remind himself time and again not to beg insight as he listens to the trivial chatter; when insight comes, it is he who falters. What to do, what to say, where to begin and how? He begins by settling the basket, tablecloth and napkins and all on the floor, then stepping in closer, places his hands on Glitch's animated, eloquent hands to stop them at least a ways from doing damage.

"I understand," he says simply, gently; closing his fingers around Glitch's palms, lifts them to press two soft kisses to his knuckles, one hand after the other.

"You need speak no more of it, I understand."

Time and support and companionship: anything Glitch needs, Bagoas shall provide.

He hangs there in the moment and then Bagoas approaches and Glitch takes a deep, relieved breath. Gods--

And there are words, and the sweet press of lips to his knuckles and he can't keep the tremble from his fingers any longer. So it's with a little shaking that he carefully unfolded his hands from his friends' grasp and settled them against his jaw, fingers brushing ears under soft hair.

"Thank you," Glitch says, and places a kiss on Bagoas' brow, tender and needy and he drops his head a bit. Breathes.

"I wanna go and sit in the shade, and talk, and listen, and eat berries and...Bagoas, can we do that? Let's do that."

The trembling hands bring a lump to his throat, but the soft kiss is like a balm that he finds himself sagging into. He knows how crippling such loss can be, and his heart goes out for his dear, dear friend in his time of need.

Tucking his head against Glitch's chest, wrapping his arms around his waist in a brief but firm hug, he nods. "I would love to," he says, with not even the slightest guile.

"If you bring the tray, I'll see to the rest."

And he's smiling again, not the tremendous grin he's capable of but a genuine smile nonetheless. It all hurts still but now he feels like he can let it hurt without breaking, there's someone else there to help hold him together.

"All right, it's a deal."

Between the tropical weather and Cain's care the garden's thriving despite its relatively late start. The peas are climbing the trellis (and fence), the tomatoes are getting plumper and starting to turn red, savory smells waft up from the herb patch, and a pumpkin vine has already begun sneaking out to take over the yard. Meanwhile the plum tree by the grotto is laden with ripe fruit, and the elm is providing plenty of shade from the afternoon sun.

Once they have the cloth down and iced coffee poured, Glitch slips off his shoes and settles, legs neatly folded. "And here we are. Picnicking." Pause. "My first picnic of the summer, actually."

With such lovely company too. And no he's not counting meals on the island, they lacked sophistication.

There will come a time for tremendous grins and loud exclamations again, in due course; now is the time for contemplation, for hopefully cherishing what hasn't been lost, and the good memories that remain.

Bagoas can't help but be drawn to the different plants, one after the other drawing his attention as skilfully as a display of fine gems. The plums he knows and loves, the tiny red and green berries he has no name for, the many vines and bright, vibrant green turning the garden into one of utmost delight even without his own application of expertise.

He folds his legs to the side, closing his eyes for a moment as Glitch talks of pick-nick, and turns his face toward the sunlight sifting through the rich green branches of the tree.

In all honesty, he has never heard of such a thing, a pick-nick, but there's no need to ask what it means, as that is perfectly apparent: it is sharing a moment with a friend, over a tray or two of good food and drink, surrounded by beauty.

Opening his eyes, tilting his head towards his friend and sliding just a touch sideways, Bagoas nods. "Close your eyes, Glitch," he says softly, warmly, placing his hand over Glitch's own. "Breathe deep of the air and soak in this moment. Feel the whisper soft touch of sunlight on your face and the breeze caress your skin. This is beauty and life, and you are living it."

Glitch nods softly and does so, his head tilting slightly to the right. The wind ruffles his hair and rustles the leaves, carrying the scent of rosemary and that rich, savory aroma of the tomato plant, with a vague underlying hint of coffee and baked goods. The air is warm but not oppressive, he turns his hand palm-up to cradle Bagoas', and takes that deep breath.

In this moment the loop's wound down to a vague muttering, and the ache in his chest dulled. Here he is safe and surviving, and things which survive can thrive if given care, time, and encouragement. He suspects he won't be lacking any of those, and...there's nothing wrong with that.

"This is a very nice moment," he says quietly, a smile tugging one corner of his mouth. "Thank you for showing it to me."

While Glitch submerges himself into the natural sensuality of the here and now, Bagoas watches with a small, fond smile on his lips. He watches the slanted line of his nose, the dark, curled lashes casting wispy barely there shadows down the very tops of his cheeks, the shapely mouth, the line of his jaw (and the uneven line of his beard), and back to his eyebrows, which frame his eyes in the most delightful way.

On their own, his features aren't too impressive (somewhat uneven, a bit exaggerated), but as a whole... He thinks he could very likely study Glitch's face all day long, finding new aspects (imperfect little things) that make for a lovely, wonderfully animated face.

...then he realizes, with a bit of a startle, that that isn't just Glitch's voice, but actual words. It's Glitch speaking to him, and oh! The embarrassment.

He hides his own self-conscious grin with his hand, eyes sparkling at Glitch in equal parts amusement and awkward. "Yes. Quite.

"I'm sorry," he says through a helpless fit of giggles; bringing his other hand to join the right, squeezing Glitch's hand. "I wouldn't claim to be an expert on moments like these, but I do tend to get lost in them rather more often than I would like."

At the giggling Glitch cracks his eyes open to give Bagoas a sideways glance, the smile hitching upward a fraction. His fingers curl, returning the squeeze, and he shakes his head with one of those little chuckles of his.

"Likewise," he remarks. "And you know I'm easily distracted, or easily focused on one thing and then I miss the big picture."

A frequent occurrence for him, really, missing out on what's in front of him because he's worried about that thing over there, or assuming the thing in front of him isn't really there. But the garden is definitely there, and Bagoas and his hands and his laugh are there and it's a balm for his nerves. His thumb strays absently over his friend's hand, inquisitive.

"We can talk now, if you'd like."

Oh, that is infinitely better, to hear that sound, to watch the brightening of Glitch's eyes to something more familiar; more himself than the oppressive dullness of spirit.

He nods, lowering his eyes to watch Glitch's pale hand framing his own. The brush tickles, like a low hum lingering after a vibrant drum solo.

"I wouldn't know where to begin," he admits, eyes flitting up to meet Glitch's gaze. "Especially not now, when you've suffered a loss..."

His smile fades by degrees, but he sits up straighter, as resolve lengthens his spine. "But let me say that I dearly enjoy your company, and I find your stories fascinating. Your hands; animated and worn and strong; are more precious to me than anyone else's, and when we dance... I could dance forever and a day just to make you smile at me. That is all I ask, that you smile at me every once in a while. Let me into your life from time to time."

Edited 2012-08-06 13:40 (UTC)

Glitch listens, expression soft, and when a little rosy hue comes to his cheeks he glances away briefly. Modest, yes, that was one way to describe his behavior when complimented. Flustered and mildly doubtful were two more but...no, no guile here, no reason for it.

So his eyes fall briefly on his free hand and he studies it a moment before bringing it to rest lightly on Bagoas' forearm, and he smiles as their eyes meet again.

"I can't help smiling at you," he begins. "Out of happiness or pride or...or wonder, it can't be helped. Still, I'm happy to dance with you for as long as I can keep up."

And then where is some hesitation, a conclusion reached and words sought to convey it. The hand goes up to his own hair, tugging one curl straight before letting it spring back again.

"I-it's been a loss, yeah, but...Bagoas so much has been taken from me, if I start pushing away I won't-- I don't wanna lose anything else, anyone else, before I get the chance to know--" Oh words are failing, and he's reaching to pluck gently at a turquoise sleeve. "Losing things just makes me hold everything else tighter, so...my time, my house, my shop, you're always welcome a-and I want. I'd like. I enjoy your company too."

Pause. "Okay next time I'm just saying 'ditto'."

As Glitch responds in kind, as he begins to speak, Bagoas keeps watching him; him and his somewhat uneven features that make a lovely face; humbled and nothing short of awed. Then Glitch goes on, and though his eloquence is rather lacking, he more than makes up for it with something even more important. He speaks from the heart, and no amount of eloquence or poetry could ever hope to compare.

His throat begins to hurt, closing off as happy tears begin to well up in his eyes. He looks away at ditto, breathing audibly through a smile, then meets Glitch's eyes again.

"Never, Glitch. Never censure yourself with me. We shall always speak plainly with one another."

The brightness in Bagoas' eyes causes a widening of Glitch's own, and for a moment he's afraid he's said something wrong but...no, there's a smile and gentle encouragement. Right.

"...okay," he says with one of those little nods and some crow's feet crinkling. "That's doable."

He commands himself to relax again, come back to the moment and not whatever uncertain past or future his mind had run to. A sip of coffee for his suddenly dry throat, a gentle lacing together of fingers to create an anchor. He's getting distracted: a patch of sunlight shimmers bluely on Bagoas' hair and how does he do that?

"I'd like to have one of those berries," he continues with a brief, darting glance toward the basket. His eyebrows flick up. "They look lovely, and...well, it'd be a shame for them to go to waste while I'm here prattling on."

There's another huff of air, a wider grin, and though Bagoas' eyes are bright there comes a spark from their very depths. Flexing his fingers around Glitch's, he ducks his head and clears his throat as he slides the basket precisely between them. To the left, a few rows of Palmier biscuits covered by slick, nearly see-through greaseproof paper, and to the right a bright blue plastic bag, its handles and sides neatly rolled down to reveal a mound of the strangest berries Bagoas has ever seen: clusters of easily a dozen minuscule berries, clinging to each other to create a dome of vibrant, matted pink. Though matted, they catch the sunlight like tiny precious stones.

Glancing at his friend, he picks out one of the small berry clusters delicately between thumb and forefinger, holding it up for closer scrutiny. Deeming it good enough, he brings it before Glitch's lips. There for the taking, as it were.

Oh, this is nice. Glitch sits up straight and watches, the smile curving his lips the one of wonder. It somehow feels like everything Bagoas does has an air of ritual and he pays close attention. The selection, the study, the...offering.

He looks at the berry, imagines taste and texture, thinks of getting exactly what he wants. Then he glances up again, eyes meeting his friends', and he plucks the berry free with his lips.

Then his eyelids fall: tart, sweet, little bursts of flavor and he nods softly.

"Perfect," he says with a blink and a smile. "Thank you. Would you like one? I can give you a fact to go with it."

He was trained at a very young age (too young some would say) to be pleasing in all ways, even just to look at; always in his proper place, never asking to be noticed, but wordlessly commanding attention when warranted.

This isn't too different. It is worlds apart, but as he has come to learn in Taxon, different worlds can nestle very closely together sometimes. This display, this aim to please, he does of his own volition and willing. Not because he wants to, but because he himself wants to. And therein lies the difference.

The offer of reciprocation, though, is both a surprise and a small shock. He needs remind himself to raise himself up, to lessen the distance rather than increase it. So he sits up a touch straighter, turning where he sits to better face his friend (and if he should brush his blue toned hair back to reveal the length of his neck, well, that's just another way of being pleasing to the eye). "Yes. I would love that."

It's all about balance in this case, one of Glitch's laws of hosipitality and friendship: any action that could answered in kind should be. Besides which, now more than ever he wants Bagoas to understand that they're equals.

And besides that, the act of feeding each other is both simple and intimate, playful and demonstrative of trust and caring. Food is still a wonderous luxury for him, sharing it a treasure, and...and...

Berries. Someting about berries and names, not sun and shade and skin.

"Well," he begins and tears his eyes away long enough to rummage in the bag. "Y'know I don't remembed much of my life but there was a time when I remembered even less-- and I'll tell you what I can about that eventually."

He selects a berry and, as Bagoas had, inspects it. "For a long while I didn't even remember my name, so...I gave myself a new one. Glitch." A rueful little shrug as he looks up again. "I've learned - I remember more now, though.

"And the name my mother gave me--" He holds out the berry, know full well he's being theatrical and not caring. "--was Ambrose."

The light in Bagoas' eyes warms up by degrees watching Glitch put on a show all of his own, and by the end of it he finds himself smiling in anticipation of both the sharing of food and learning something previously unknown.

The fact trumps the promise of food, and for a moment the berry is forgotten in favour of the name. Ambrose. Relative to the food of the gods of Greece, perhaps. Regardless, it brings to mind something rare and precious, something exclusive: a sign from the gods to treasure the time given, and not take it for granted.

He leans in, catching the berry between tongue and teeth, lips closing very briefly over Glitch's finger-ends.

At first, nothing but texture offset by the taste of skin; like tiny globes covered in velvet. The first burst of flavour brings his hand up to cover an involuntary grin. Soft and sweet, and completely unlike anything he's ever tasted.

The thought of ambrosia enters his mind again, and he can't help but see Glitch in a new light. Yes, he decides. He is a rare and precious gift.

"Ambrose," he says in appreciation, understanding on some base level that the revelation of the name is as unique as the man himself; leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek, for an unapologetic nuzzle of his beard.

053 ± [text / location: wilde] and it's not like there was warning

[location: Glitch's house] The Talk - with clothes on

[location: Glitch's house] let's do this~

[location: Glitch's house] <3

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...what icon do I even use for this

well at least I know just the one

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