ph_logs | [OPEN] It seems strange, how we used to wait for letters to arrive

Who: Jon Sims (

apocryphalarchivist) and... you!
What: May Top-levels
When: Post Land-Ho!
Where: Across Marrow Isle
Warning(s): Mentions of infestation and insects, more added as needed.

1. CHRYSALIS [Closed to Cecil]

It was strange, to have one's home suddenly feel unfamiliar.

Between the waterlogged town and his similar, drenched cottage, Jon's been feeling some adjustment pains while settling back in. Loneliness feels lonelier, somehow, and connections feel intangible, like he's reaching out to someone on the other side of a window. It's been a strange think, to go from being snared by something, taken for a ride, made to feel something wholly different from himself, and then... go back to life. Live normally, day to day, among his friends, colleagues, and neighbors.

The predicament he finds himself in isn't a new one: desperation to reach out, but reeling back from closeness. It's never been quite so pressing, either.

It's only before he gets a chance to take the first step, himself, having just been considering reaching for the phone, when a knock at his door rings through the home, only muffled by the wind the open windows carry through. He stands from his only-somewhat-soggy chair, and, upon opening the door, can't help but look shocked, even if just for a moment.

"Oh. Cecil, I---" Jon trails off, several things he'd been thinking to say colliding in his throat all at once. I was planning to come see you. We sure went through it, huh? You were an anchor for me, while I was lost to myself. Thank you.

He doesn't manage any of that, but clears his throat, opening the door wider for his hater-turned-neutral-friend-in-law pseudo-stranger fellow thread of the web acquaintance. (Even that didn't feel right, but labels were, after everything, understandably fuzzier than usual.)

"Please, come in."

2. ADRIFT [Closed to the crew or any visitors aboard the Mipha's Grace]

Well, that's enough of all that.

Between demons, and floods, and bugs, Jon's relieved when the Mipha's Grace is restored to its former glory, and ready to set sail. There's a certain peace to crunching numbers for supplies and ensuring everything is ready to go, even if that peace is, for a time, interrupted by the tension that comes with being on the sea so soon after the floods, but after time, the familiarity returns. The daily routine starts its motions anew, and the ship thrives with life.

Jon's keen to keep his nose to the grindstone throughout the day, but when night falls, there's finally a moment to take a breath. He lingers by the rails of the ship, staring over at the moonlight that shimmers off of the waves, thinking about everything his mind can possibly grasp and nothing at all, all at once.

He's pulled back to the world when he hears footsteps, though, and offers a small smile back towards whoever's joined him, before returning his attention to the sea.

"Beautiful, isn't it? It's nice to be able to appreciate it again. Nights on the Stag Beetle were too stressful to appreciate the sea and stars fully. I had no idea how much I missed it until now."

3. RESTORATION [OTA]

Strange times caused strange measures, and today, on the lawn of West Dream Analytics, Jon is sweeping over the grass.

It's all with good purpose, of course. Pieces of broken wood, scattered trash, and lost items are pushed into a larger pile, more easily knelt beside to pick through and properly throw away. He's fluttering between tasks, scattered over while he helps with the efforts, and, for the moment, is busying himself with sweeping washed-up sand down the paved walkway up to Neil's home.

On one of his glances up to get a scope of everything, he catches sight of someone making their way up, and offers a short wave.

"Oh--- sorry, need inside? I'll be out of the way in just a second."

~~That's what he gets for not prioritizing the door and the path to it. Nice going, Sims.~~

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Jon notes that, somewhere deep in his heart. If there is security in one another now, tells of hardship are going to be important, more than ever.

"...You're right," He lets out a breath, and seems to settle another degree, a notch on the dial of his buzzing nerves moving down a level. "We're safe, here and now. ...I have trouble, feeling safe. I've had trouble feeling truly safe all my life."

The admission doesn't come easily, but it does speak volumes to that security, that safety. He doesn't think he's ever put that into words to anyone before, but here, he lifts it off his shoulders, even if tentatively.

"Trouble as in, you have not felt it? Or trouble as in, you are uncomfortable when you think you feel it?" They're not the same thing, and the distinction, he thinks, matters here.

He turns his head to look at Jon's face, allowing his gaze to linger on scars and bags under his eyes and greying hair. Allowing himself to actually see the marks Jon's life has left on him.

Jon scrunches his face a bit, as though the answer left a faintly bitter taste in his mouth.

"...Honestly, both, really. Not--- never felt it, but, it's... rarer, than one might like, I suppose."

He doesn't wince away from Cecil's gaze as he's fully taken in, much as it makes his mind reel. Watchers aren't supposed to be seen, but it's about time that he let someone truly see him.

Cecil lifts a hand slowly, deliberately, ceremoniously...

...

...and boops Jon right on the nose lightly.

Any tension, any dwelling, any discomfort shatters like a pane of glass after the palpable confusion of watching Cecil's hand move. Jon's nose scrunches, and despite himself, he laughs.

It's only one, and it's surprised, but it's a laugh nonetheless. And, after it, he can only find one word, asked with a baffled sort of amusement.

"Why?"

Cecil blossoms into a grin. "The brat in me wants to say 'why not?' and leave it at that, but I'll save that energy for Gerry later."

He sort of nestles in beside Jon a little more comfortably, now, as if the broken tension cured some sort of paralysis spell.

"I may not be in a hivemind with you anymore. But I don't need to be, to sense you working yourself up. Tension is something to be gauged, to be measured. It can get so high your head feels like a balloon straining at the edges. Like a screw turned to the point of stripping. And rather than letting something break, I'd rather release tension with humor, always. If you listen to me on the radio, you hear me do it a lot. It probably sounds wholly accidental, a lot of the time, a tonal shift that I make without thinking about it. But I do. I think about it a lot."

Amusement gives way to an easier smile, and with the nerves shaken, Jon is able to finally nestle in, as well, even if there's still a tentativeness to it. This time, less nerves, and more unfamiliarity, but the carefulness is less hesitation and more measuring his movements. Gotta keep it comfortable for both of them, after all - he's been told he has horribly sharp elbows that aren't great for close-quarters.

"You're better off than I am in that regard. It's... admirable, honestly. Not many people I've ever been around are that honest with themselves, and know when not to push their nerves until they fray at every opportunity. I've heard you do that before, and just thought it was to keep things cheery. I'll have to pay more attention next time."

An admission in exactly so many words: he has, in fact, been listening to the radio. There had been a time where he'd pointedly avoided doing so, in his own grudge, but after tentative amends were made, he slowly but surely turned into an avid listener.

[OPEN] It seems strange, how we used to wait for letters to arrive

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject