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scribbles
The Immortal Novel of Doom and Stubborness is holding out on me, and yet am I struck with the urge to write.
I lay this particular piece of madness at the feet of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schiarire.
“It’s warm in here.”
Thom looked up without much interest, because that was the equivalent of commenting on the weather and he wasn’t one for evasory tactics when they weren’t being employed by himself. And why someone would want to avoid him when they’d never met before was anyone’s guess, though Alanna would certainly offer a few.
The voice might have had a point though; it came from a figure that was absurdly wrapped up for the warmth of the bar. Snow melted half-heartedly on his eyelashes, and his cheeks were steadily flushing pink under a brown scarf.
“I suppose it is.”
“You are a very colourful character,” the boy said, sitting down – he was older than Thom, to look at him, but (disorganized stare, jumpy words, bright eyes, a twitch of energy) a boy nonetheless.
“Do you always judge things by their appearance?” Thom asked.
“Of course not.” The boy blinked; what a ridiculous question. “I do not judge. I have friends to do that for me,” he added comfortably.
“Really?” Thom was nonplussed.
“Well, no.” The scarf was unwound neatly and placed on the table, and the coat taken off and placed over the back of the chair. The boy sat down. His dark hair dripped slightly. “Actually, I’m a hideous judger. Not that I’m wrong; I didn’t mean that. Sometimes I judge too fast.”
“Character flaw?” Thom sympathized. Vaguely.
“So I’m told. But I have a lot of those, so it generally gets bundled in with the rest.” He shrugged, looking entirely at home with his own shortcomings.
“I’m perfect,” Thom informed him.
“I believe you.” Bright smile.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, sometimes I lie, too. See what I mean about the flaws?”
“People could get lost around you.”
“People lose things around me.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, all sorts of vital necessities.”
“You’re a thief, then?”
“No!” He looked slightly shocked. “I’m a catalyst.”
“For loss?”
“For change, certainly. Change must involve loss. It is the way of things.”
Thom laughed, slightly bitterly. “I’ll drink to that.”
The boy looked put out. “But I have no drink.”
“You’re too young to drink.”
“Do you always judge things by their appearance?”
“Looks can be a good thing to judge with.”
The boy blinked again. He had nice eyes. “Mostly I judge with words.”
Thom tipped his head and blinked right back.
“Words can be powerful.”
“Oh, yes,” the other breathed, his fist banging against the table suddenly. They both jumped.
“In fact, I know many people who have been killed by them.”
“Me too.” The boy lifted his boots onto the table. They dripped almost as badly as his hair. He regarded them for a few moments and then removed them, his long legs folding oddly under the table edge as though he was closing a drawer. “A few well-placed rhetorical questions can really make a man lose his head.”
“I’ve seen them burn him,” said Thom
“Burning isn’t answering,” said Camille Desmoulins.
~
Whee drabbles! *is on kick*
Quick. Request something. Go!
I lay this particular piece of madness at the feet of
schiarire.“It’s warm in here.”
Thom looked up without much interest, because that was the equivalent of commenting on the weather and he wasn’t one for evasory tactics when they weren’t being employed by himself. And why someone would want to avoid him when they’d never met before was anyone’s guess, though Alanna would certainly offer a few.
The voice might have had a point though; it came from a figure that was absurdly wrapped up for the warmth of the bar. Snow melted half-heartedly on his eyelashes, and his cheeks were steadily flushing pink under a brown scarf.
“I suppose it is.”
“You are a very colourful character,” the boy said, sitting down – he was older than Thom, to look at him, but (disorganized stare, jumpy words, bright eyes, a twitch of energy) a boy nonetheless.
“Do you always judge things by their appearance?” Thom asked.
“Of course not.” The boy blinked; what a ridiculous question. “I do not judge. I have friends to do that for me,” he added comfortably.
“Really?” Thom was nonplussed.
“Well, no.” The scarf was unwound neatly and placed on the table, and the coat taken off and placed over the back of the chair. The boy sat down. His dark hair dripped slightly. “Actually, I’m a hideous judger. Not that I’m wrong; I didn’t mean that. Sometimes I judge too fast.”
“Character flaw?” Thom sympathized. Vaguely.
“So I’m told. But I have a lot of those, so it generally gets bundled in with the rest.” He shrugged, looking entirely at home with his own shortcomings.
“I’m perfect,” Thom informed him.
“I believe you.” Bright smile.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, sometimes I lie, too. See what I mean about the flaws?”
“People could get lost around you.”
“People lose things around me.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, all sorts of vital necessities.”
“You’re a thief, then?”
“No!” He looked slightly shocked. “I’m a catalyst.”
“For loss?”
“For change, certainly. Change must involve loss. It is the way of things.”
Thom laughed, slightly bitterly. “I’ll drink to that.”
The boy looked put out. “But I have no drink.”
“You’re too young to drink.”
“Do you always judge things by their appearance?”
“Looks can be a good thing to judge with.”
The boy blinked again. He had nice eyes. “Mostly I judge with words.”
Thom tipped his head and blinked right back.
“Words can be powerful.”
“Oh, yes,” the other breathed, his fist banging against the table suddenly. They both jumped.
“In fact, I know many people who have been killed by them.”
“Me too.” The boy lifted his boots onto the table. They dripped almost as badly as his hair. He regarded them for a few moments and then removed them, his long legs folding oddly under the table edge as though he was closing a drawer. “A few well-placed rhetorical questions can really make a man lose his head.”
“I’ve seen them burn him,” said Thom
“Burning isn’t answering,” said Camille Desmoulins.
~
Whee drabbles! *is on kick*
Quick. Request something. Go!