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[ The first night with roommates, he manages the whole night without alerting them to his... sleeping preferences. He'd stayed up later than the rest, working on his new notebook of observations in the dim light of a candle. When it was time to sleep, finally, he found that the bedding in the alcove of straw, the heat of the Draconae's city, the stagnant air... it made him feel restless. The ground at least had a gentle breeze from under the curtain, and he slept like he used to before joining the Express—with his back against the stones and fitful dreams of drinking with old friends.
The second night, he tries to do the same. Alas, he is tired from waking up too early and staying up too late again, and retires before the others have all returned to the room. When Clive discovers him on the ground in the blind spot behind the stone table, his skin is warm, his pulse skittering rapidly in his veins, but he doesn't stir apart from muttering something unintelligible, about marching and trouble. Come morning, he is still asleep in the alcove, pressed into the corner behind the pillows. The third, he is caught and moved once again, but manages to wake and flee before the rest in the morning, padding out of the room without boots on in hopes that nobody fucking asks him shit about why he keeps trying to sleep on the floor. He's got notes to write, babies to look after, ingredients to gather, spit and blood to trade for a spearhead.
The fourth night though, upon being lifted from the floor, he startles mid-dream of something that Dan Feng did. From the depths of the ancient sea, heavy roots of a divine tree begin to press against his sides, dig into his shoulder, to try and drag him one way or another, and eventually up into the sky towards the cracked shape of that thing—he has no way of knowing that it is just Clive, trying to be kind. That it isn't an abomination trying to drag him back into the darkness.
Clive will find a very wet hand slapped against his chest as all of the moisture in the room collects in a deep sea creature's attempt to blast him away by force; at most the water might manage to unsteady him for a step or two, but no more—the air inside the volcano is simply too dry. A flame will struggle to light a paper that has been soaked in seawater, and vice versa for a wave to crash its way through a desert without an ocean to feed on. The real concern is the amount of force behind the hand itself as Dan Heng tries to free himself—Vidyadhara have deceptively delicate frames for the amount of inhuman force they can manage to apply. Even Xianzhou natives, with all their stamina and durability granted to them by their celestial nature, have a hard time keeping up with the dragon people from the depths of the ancient sea.
Eyes lit up with an inhuman blue light, Dan Heng pedals backwards deeper into the safety of the sleeping alcove, gasping for air in panic. Two, three, four gasps later he realizes what he's just done and slams his hands over his ears, afraid that he's lost his touch so far that he dropped his shapeshifting too somehow in his dreams, and he screws his eyes shut to find the sanctuary of calm with the falling leaves in his mind's eye instead, hiding that unearthly, alien light. His ears are still small, and round, thank the Aeons, and apart from that brief moments of a High Elder's glow, nothing about Dan Heng makes him seem like anything more than just a teenager who has been struggling with a fever all week, and refusing to rest sufficiently despite it. Well, a teenager who can also blast a gallon of water from his palm with barely a gesture. ]
I... Sorry. [ When he next opens them, his eyes are the usual color of dark jade. He looks... miserable. Whatever dream had him so unnerved to try and strike out while still asleep hasn't sunk back to the depths. ] I didn't mean to...
[ He's just not used to sleeping outside the safety of the Archives for so many days in a row at all, anymore. The Express is home, now, and the Trailblaze's blessing of stamina takes the cost of wakefulness in equal measure. ]
The second night, he tries to do the same. Alas, he is tired from waking up too early and staying up too late again, and retires before the others have all returned to the room. When Clive discovers him on the ground in the blind spot behind the stone table, his skin is warm, his pulse skittering rapidly in his veins, but he doesn't stir apart from muttering something unintelligible, about marching and trouble. Come morning, he is still asleep in the alcove, pressed into the corner behind the pillows. The third, he is caught and moved once again, but manages to wake and flee before the rest in the morning, padding out of the room without boots on in hopes that nobody fucking asks him shit about why he keeps trying to sleep on the floor. He's got notes to write, babies to look after, ingredients to gather, spit and blood to trade for a spearhead.
The fourth night though, upon being lifted from the floor, he startles mid-dream of something that Dan Feng did. From the depths of the ancient sea, heavy roots of a divine tree begin to press against his sides, dig into his shoulder, to try and drag him one way or another, and eventually up into the sky towards the cracked shape of that thing—he has no way of knowing that it is just Clive, trying to be kind. That it isn't an abomination trying to drag him back into the darkness.
Clive will find a very wet hand slapped against his chest as all of the moisture in the room collects in a deep sea creature's attempt to blast him away by force; at most the water might manage to unsteady him for a step or two, but no more—the air inside the volcano is simply too dry. A flame will struggle to light a paper that has been soaked in seawater, and vice versa for a wave to crash its way through a desert without an ocean to feed on. The real concern is the amount of force behind the hand itself as Dan Heng tries to free himself—Vidyadhara have deceptively delicate frames for the amount of inhuman force they can manage to apply. Even Xianzhou natives, with all their stamina and durability granted to them by their celestial nature, have a hard time keeping up with the dragon people from the depths of the ancient sea.
Eyes lit up with an inhuman blue light, Dan Heng pedals backwards deeper into the safety of the sleeping alcove, gasping for air in panic. Two, three, four gasps later he realizes what he's just done and slams his hands over his ears, afraid that he's lost his touch so far that he dropped his shapeshifting too somehow in his dreams, and he screws his eyes shut to find the sanctuary of calm with the falling leaves in his mind's eye instead, hiding that unearthly, alien light. His ears are still small, and round, thank the Aeons, and apart from that brief moments of a High Elder's glow, nothing about Dan Heng makes him seem like anything more than just a teenager who has been struggling with a fever all week, and refusing to rest sufficiently despite it. Well, a teenager who can also blast a gallon of water from his palm with barely a gesture. ]
I... Sorry. [ When he next opens them, his eyes are the usual color of dark jade. He looks... miserable. Whatever dream had him so unnerved to try and strike out while still asleep hasn't sunk back to the depths. ] I didn't mean to...
[ He's just not used to sleeping outside the safety of the Archives for so many days in a row at all, anymore. The Express is home, now, and the Trailblaze's blessing of stamina takes the cost of wakefulness in equal measure. ]
Edited (gotta match my articles i guess) 2023-10-22 03:34 (UTC)
[ It's the second night when he finds the boy passed out on the ground — well, perhaps passed out isn't the right phrase. Passed out is what Clive does when he's been up too late burning the midnight oil and falls asleep at his desk, and Jill drapes a blanket over his shoulders. The boy — Dan Heng, he remembers — looks to be, if not comfortable, then at least resting on the floor. But Clive can't leave him there. The boy reminds him of Joshua, slight and quiet, with a bookish air, and something him him stirs, the brotherly need to protect, and he lifts the boy up, who is lighter than he'd really expected, and gently places him into the alcove serving as his bed in this shared room. Clive comes back the third night, and the boy is asleep on the floor again, and Clive frowns, scooping him up with less hesitation this time, putting him back in the alcove. He does't een think to mention it to anyone else, and the boy is gone the next morning before he can ask why he's continuing to sleep on the floor.
The fourth night, Clive is less careful when he picks him up — perhaps it's annoyance, perhaps he's just getting comfortable with the fact he's going to return to their room and find him there, asleep on the ground. He sets the boy on the bed when Dan Heng's hand flies out and open palm slaps him in the chest with a wet 'splat', sending Clive stumbling back into the larger area of the room, his shirt mildly soaked with water. He lets out a punched 'oof', dropping Dan Heng on the bed, his hand reaching up to his chest. The magic doesn't faze him. No, the concern in his eyes is for the boy himself, sitting there, gasping for air, eyes screwed shut, hands clamped over his ears. Clive feels guilty — he's overstepped and he knows it, has been the last three days but he couldn't just leave him there. ]
No. I should be the one apologizing to you for touching you without permission. Are you alright?
The fourth night, Clive is less careful when he picks him up — perhaps it's annoyance, perhaps he's just getting comfortable with the fact he's going to return to their room and find him there, asleep on the ground. He sets the boy on the bed when Dan Heng's hand flies out and open palm slaps him in the chest with a wet 'splat', sending Clive stumbling back into the larger area of the room, his shirt mildly soaked with water. He lets out a punched 'oof', dropping Dan Heng on the bed, his hand reaching up to his chest. The magic doesn't faze him. No, the concern in his eyes is for the boy himself, sitting there, gasping for air, eyes screwed shut, hands clamped over his ears. Clive feels guilty — he's overstepped and he knows it, has been the last three days but he couldn't just leave him there. ]
No. I should be the one apologizing to you for touching you without permission. Are you alright?
[ Dude, he was "comfortable." He put a blanket down first and everything. ]
Yes. [ Now that the panic is fading, the waves of grief roll in swells inside his chest, each smaller than the last. The dream starts to become foggy, and he drops his hands from his safely human ears as he begins to blearily casts his gaze about, looking for his notebooks. He has to write this one down, before he can try to sleep again. ]
I am fine, [ he lies. Clive will just have to accept it as the truth.
Honestly, he feels like he shouldn't be so surprised things ended up this way. Miss Jill seems too willing to mind her business, and whatever is going on with that Dion guy... he seems to be going through the motions of each day more than anything else. If it had been just them in this room, Dan Heng likely would have been free to sleep on the floor, and even sleep in if he wanted to. But with this Clive guy... there's a very...babygirl Stelle-like quality in the energy that Clive seems to embody. Well, not the "give me money" and "what's in this trash can?" parts. But definitely the go everywhere, do everything, talk to everyone part.
The thought makes him miss the Express again. It's barely been a month, and he misses it so much already. He misses the Data Bank. The sound of the servers humming, the coolant under the floors flowing through pipes, March chattering away next door, or music playing from the record machine. To say nothing of the rest of their crew. ]
... My friends do things like that too—stick their noses in any business they find. [ It's said fondly, at least. ] But they wait for me to wake up first.
[ And... he doesn't recall ever once using cloudhymn without meaning to, like that. A shame he doesn't have a door to lock. ]
Yes. [ Now that the panic is fading, the waves of grief roll in swells inside his chest, each smaller than the last. The dream starts to become foggy, and he drops his hands from his safely human ears as he begins to blearily casts his gaze about, looking for his notebooks. He has to write this one down, before he can try to sleep again. ]
I am fine, [ he lies. Clive will just have to accept it as the truth.
Honestly, he feels like he shouldn't be so surprised things ended up this way. Miss Jill seems too willing to mind her business, and whatever is going on with that Dion guy... he seems to be going through the motions of each day more than anything else. If it had been just them in this room, Dan Heng likely would have been free to sleep on the floor, and even sleep in if he wanted to. But with this Clive guy... there's a very...
The thought makes him miss the Express again. It's barely been a month, and he misses it so much already. He misses the Data Bank. The sound of the servers humming, the coolant under the floors flowing through pipes, March chattering away next door, or music playing from the record machine. To say nothing of the rest of their crew. ]
... My friends do things like that too—stick their noses in any business they find. [ It's said fondly, at least. ] But they wait for me to wake up first.
[ And... he doesn't recall ever once using cloudhymn without meaning to, like that. A shame he doesn't have a door to lock. ]
[ He's being called out and rightfully so. Still, there's something about him — maybe it's his youth — that Clive can't shake the urge to help him out. To do something for this boy who seems to think he's meant to sleep on the floor. Maybe he sees a little bit of Joshua in him.
Maybe he sees himself.
Clive at least has the decency to be chagrined when Dan Heng points out he's butting into someone else's business, and Clive lifts a shoulder in a shrug, sitting down on a nearby chair. ]
It's a habit of mine I can't seem to break. And if I waited for you to wake up, I wouldn't see you.
[ This fact is not lost on Clive. ]
You should sleep on the bed.
Maybe he sees himself.
Clive at least has the decency to be chagrined when Dan Heng points out he's butting into someone else's business, and Clive lifts a shoulder in a shrug, sitting down on a nearby chair. ]
It's a habit of mine I can't seem to break. And if I waited for you to wake up, I wouldn't see you.
[ This fact is not lost on Clive. ]
You should sleep on the bed.
( Jill prefers to surprise Clive with her gifts, rather than give them to him in person. At least these particular ones -- she has one or two more of a more intimate nature that remain safely tucked away for later. Wrapped up in pretty patterned paper and tied with fancy ribbon, laid on his bed for him to discover after he returns from his errands, are three shirts: two that Clive already owns in black and white, and then a new one in red. All shirts have been altered, however.
The black shirt is embroidered on the hem of the neck and bottom with red, orange, and a shinier black thread to mimic flames, the horns, and the hard carapace of Ifrit, the face of the eikon staring down itself at the V of the shirt. For the white, the floss is black and red, and the patterns are reminiscent of the Fallen architecture of the Hideaway, with the Oath symbol repeating in the design. The last, the red one, the thread is white and black, and the symbols of Rosaria, of snow daisies and the phoenix decorate the hems, ending in the crest itself at the point of the V.
The card that lies on top is simple, Jill's familiar handwriting clear as day: )
The black shirt is embroidered on the hem of the neck and bottom with red, orange, and a shinier black thread to mimic flames, the horns, and the hard carapace of Ifrit, the face of the eikon staring down itself at the V of the shirt. For the white, the floss is black and red, and the patterns are reminiscent of the Fallen architecture of the Hideaway, with the Oath symbol repeating in the design. The last, the red one, the thread is white and black, and the symbols of Rosaria, of snow daisies and the phoenix decorate the hems, ending in the crest itself at the point of the V.
The card that lies on top is simple, Jill's familiar handwriting clear as day: )
You are my treasure.
[ There it is — his notebooks, and the pencils. ]
Hot air rises. It's cooler down low. And we have limited time to observe what we can — I don't want to waste time while we're here.
[ What forms on the page when he sets his pencil to it, though, is a half sketched picture, images he only sort of remembers. A vast tree, roiling waters — without the office of deep sources to record dreams, he has to do it all on his own. He's never even sure of what needs recorded. ]
Of course, you can always wake me up — I simply do not... [ The pencil pauses, then moves once more in a sweeping gesture. ]
I apologize for striking out.
Hot air rises. It's cooler down low. And we have limited time to observe what we can — I don't want to waste time while we're here.
[ What forms on the page when he sets his pencil to it, though, is a half sketched picture, images he only sort of remembers. A vast tree, roiling waters — without the office of deep sources to record dreams, he has to do it all on his own. He's never even sure of what needs recorded. ]
Of course, you can always wake me up — I simply do not... [ The pencil pauses, then moves once more in a sweeping gesture. ]
I apologize for striking out.
Clive,
Forgive me for writing to you like this when I can simply find you and talk to you. But some of the novelty of being able to do that hasn't worn off -- every day I find myself grateful to our hosts if only for this one thing. That you are here, and you are mine. I love you, and while the question of our relationship has never been in doubt, I am overjoyed to share my happiness at being yours with our family and friends.
Though Hilda seems willing to help where she can, and I cannot help but thank the Founder for her willingness. I truly have no idea where to begin.
I suppose what it should look like, of all things. I always thought I would be married in Rosalith, with the Duchess taking matters into her own hands. I've no desire to recreate what she might have thought a proper wedding should look like. Yet at the same time I don't want to pretend that Rosalith doesn't hold a place in our hearts and our past.
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