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[OPEN] Moving
Who: Angel and Y'all
What: Moving Day and the Surrounding
When: Early December
Where: Yeah!
Warning(s):
1. So take your shaking bones
Eddie leaves on the ferry on a cold misty autumn morning, and Angel spends longer waiting for him to return to the farmhouse than it'll admit to afterwards, keeping a kettle warm on the stove for afternoon tea until the water's all boiled away and it's clear that how many lumps Eddie takes in a cup is irrelevant now, irrelevant ever again and Angel still doesn't want to admit it until it has to.
It has to.
And taking care of the farm, the bees and the temple all by itself just isn't going to be possible, it's not, even if its heart was hale and whole and beating in sync with Eddie's still, so something has to give.
Something has to.
Angel decides that it is going to move.
There are appointments with town hall to discuss possible new houses and apartments and townhouses (not homes, yet), and discussions of its beehives being transported into town, and paperwork to be filled out in a heavy, stiff, blocky hand as it figures out the work of transition, hoping that living in the city will be a replacement for the bustle of clucking hens and the nagging goat and it's going to need to get a stable situation set up for Arcadia, if the horse will forgive the relocation.
Angel is alone.
This is not work to be doing alone.
And that's before we get to the process of packing, of sorting through the debris of a life and a love and the twinge that reminds it that it can't cry every time it comes across a favored book or a shirt that still smells like Eddie, and that twinge is deeply painful enough to make it stop moving for seconds, perhaps minutes before it finds something to push it past inertia, even as it feels like some vital spark inside it is guttering and dimming.
This is not work to be doing alone.
2. And step out on your own
A sign on the bulletin board:
HELP WANTED MOVING. STANDARD PAY OFFERED: PIZZA AFTER WORK COMPLETE
3. Oh, the winter never stops
[This is your wildcard. It was meant for you.]
What: Moving Day and the Surrounding
When: Early December
Where: Yeah!
Warning(s):
1. So take your shaking bones
Eddie leaves on the ferry on a cold misty autumn morning, and Angel spends longer waiting for him to return to the farmhouse than it'll admit to afterwards, keeping a kettle warm on the stove for afternoon tea until the water's all boiled away and it's clear that how many lumps Eddie takes in a cup is irrelevant now, irrelevant ever again and Angel still doesn't want to admit it until it has to.
It has to.
And taking care of the farm, the bees and the temple all by itself just isn't going to be possible, it's not, even if its heart was hale and whole and beating in sync with Eddie's still, so something has to give.
Something has to.
Angel decides that it is going to move.
There are appointments with town hall to discuss possible new houses and apartments and townhouses (not homes, yet), and discussions of its beehives being transported into town, and paperwork to be filled out in a heavy, stiff, blocky hand as it figures out the work of transition, hoping that living in the city will be a replacement for the bustle of clucking hens and the nagging goat and it's going to need to get a stable situation set up for Arcadia, if the horse will forgive the relocation.
Angel is alone.
This is not work to be doing alone.
And that's before we get to the process of packing, of sorting through the debris of a life and a love and the twinge that reminds it that it can't cry every time it comes across a favored book or a shirt that still smells like Eddie, and that twinge is deeply painful enough to make it stop moving for seconds, perhaps minutes before it finds something to push it past inertia, even as it feels like some vital spark inside it is guttering and dimming.
This is not work to be doing alone.
2. And step out on your own
A sign on the bulletin board:
3. Oh, the winter never stops
[This is your wildcard. It was meant for you.]
no subject
Well, at least it has a reason.
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She pulls back enough so that they aren't bound to this space, but if it seems disinclined to move, she'll nudge them both towards sitting somewhere. Giving Angel somewhere to collapse.
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No words, for now. Only when they are needed. But right now, he is protected - no one can or should ask anything of him.
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Each word sounds like it's being dragged out of him, like a magician doing that trick where he pulls a rope of scarves out of his mouth, but slowly and laboriously.
no subject
Her words are soft, hand still petting his hair. Rich words from the woman who was claiming she can't put down roots, but she figures he can call her on how much of a lie all that was when he's not being crushed by the weight of loss.
"You'd be trading one kind of pain for another."
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With her fingers in his hair, it's obvious that it hasn't grown at all since she cut it.
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Remember. Remember why you tried. Remember why you advocate for it.
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Gentle, gentle as snowflakes.
"Getting attached to him was not a mistake, Angel. Neither was building your home."
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Angel's so stoic about physical pain, but this is new and he cannot figure out how to not be in agony over it.
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Which is why she's here to hold him as he mourns, as he bleeds from wounds that cannot be stitched closed and weeps with unseen eyes.
"It hurts like nothing else."
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It comes out sounding almost childish. Like he feels like a spoiled brat to be asking for that much.
"Tomorrow, there will be work to do. Preparations. Tonight, I just want a you."
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It's an easy thing to promise, since nothing she has to do save work cannot be moved elsewhere. She'll stay. The house will not be solitary.
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One of those contradictory emotional things, after all.