The 5 Senses, aka some romance time with some angst - wow, shocker here - and some non-angst.
Very short drabbles, but I wanted to keep them concise! (Also sorry I changed tenses between some of the segments! Hopefully it isn't too disjointed! I just find that, somehow, things work better in different tenses :) Hopefully there aren't too many mistakes since I didn't reread!
His legs crossed on the grass, Aspen was content to enjoy the good weather, especially when it was rare that his spirits were high because of the Faerie. Caspian was beside him as well, using a little knife to cut open a plums for the both of them. The knife rocked against the pit of the plum, splitting open the purple skin into bite-sized wedges, each of which alternated between them. They did not mind the silence they sat in, content to eat and think. Chewing, Caspian offered over an already cut piece, still fastened by fruit fibers to the pit.
"Thanks." Aspen shifted towards him and plucked it gingerly with his fingers to put in his mouth, the sweet flesh depressing easily under his teeth. It tasted like he expected, the syrup familiar on his tongue. Never cloying or bitter, but crisp, light, and sweet. The flavours had never been muddy or disappointing in the Faerie, although it left some imperfection to be desired. He'd always been used to damaged things and freezer-burned meals, overripe faerie fruit served in cheap taverns.
He continued to angle towards him so he was seizing more than just slices of plum, following his arm back and leaning into him, his mouth sweet with juice. The rest of the plum was abandoned in the grass along with the knife, Caspian's palm sliding to the back of his neck, fingers winding in black hair. It tasted like the imperfection he craved, teeth against lips, plum and peppermint. Warm. He could have gotten lost in him if he'd let himself.
"...Kind of sticky," Caspian observed aloud as he loosened his grip and pulled away a fraction.
"Oh, but you don't mind," Aspen laughed in return, drawing him closer to kiss him again.
The touch of fresh dirt is a strange thing to take comfort in. Though Rose often wears gloves to protect her hands, hating the way dark crescents form under her nails when she doesn't, she sometimes allows herself to press her fingers in the dark soil. Deftly, she pushes it around the base of a repotted plant.
Now there are minuscule granules of muck on the grooves of her hands and she wipes them off on a small rag. Such filth is a necessary evil at times, and she is rewarded with the soft brush of petals against her fingertips and fuzzy stamens when they bloom. It inspires some wonder on how those that live in the Faerie keep so clean all the time, as if they do not have to live among the silt and unkind land. When she runs her hand along the grass, it tickles her palm but leaves stains on her knees. Rose knows better than to insult the ground she kneels on, but it is not always easy to touch it with kindness.
She wonders how her mother balances such disparities. The earth allows for the creation of life and wonder, but hides rot and vermin within her. She is used up and tainted by intervention, insistent fingers raking through her flesh to demand more crop and prettier yields. She makes such lovely things and is shamed for it all the same, as if she is something to spit on but also use for satisfaction in some unfair paradox. Against their will, women are made both blessed mothers of flowering life and whores of soiled ground.
The rag is not enough to rid her hands of the evidence of defilement. Water runs over her fingers, cool and forgiving, letting the rest of such impurities shed into the sink. Her mother must forever feel dirty, she thinks. It is not a nice thought, but it nags at her anyway. Her mother cannot simply wash her hands and be rid of the vulgarity thrust upon her. Rose is still there to remind her, after all.
A dying flower warrants plucking and she severs the dried stem with her nails. It rests in her palm. When she applies pressure to one of the petals between her fingers, it dissolves into dust and she repeats the same process for each petal and leaf, crinkling it into a dry bit of debris in her hand. When a breeze catches it, she watches as it tumbles into the wind and grass. It returns dutifully to its mother, sinking back into the earth where Rose has so lovingly cultivated it. She will till the land again when it is ready and let soil tumble between her fingers, but she permits it to rest for now, finding it has inspired some thoughts she is not yet willing to confront again so soon.
Jai isn't prepared for the silence that comes with Finn gone, but it's not an unfamiliar feeling.
In his old household, silence was the promise for a delayed outburst. A waiting game for the next time he was accused of something else that was out of his control. Broken plates, drunken insults, and slammed doors. Those are things he's used to lurking in the silence, and it sets him on edge when he comes home at odd hours after his shift at the tavern. He finds himself still trying to open doors quietly, fisting the entirety of his keys in his palm so they don't jingle on their chain. No one grabs him by the collar to demand something else of him, whether it be an apology or answers, but he listens for footsteps regardless.
With Finn there, the silence is few and far between. Annoying at times, yes, but endearing and necessary. Finn's quick to laugh and he's clumsy. He doesn't make a successful effort to be quiet, which has woken Jai up countless times in the night, but it's nicer to wake up to the sound of crinkled plastic, late night showers, and stuck cupboards. He whispers wit into Jai's ear when they're out in public and he laughs at his own jokes, even when they're not necessarily funny. Which is most of the time, but Jai likes his remarks anyway.
Now his walk back from the tavern is quiet. As introverted as he is, he would not mind a conversation that doesn't revolve around his usual bar-talk.
One night, the click of the front door opening startles him awake, Finn's name already on his lips. His movements are quiet but desperate as he throws the covers off, quickly crossing the room from his bed to the door and pushing it open. It's a recklessness of hopes that leads him to expect a quip and an excited announcement of his arrival, but he's only greeted with silence and a green eye. Aspen locks the door and slinks to the couch tiredly, curling up on the cushions to sleep.
He's a Hunt faerie and used to sneaking unnoticed in the dark. Doing whatever...someone like him does in the dark. When they do talk, it keeps him on edge and brings him little comfort. He's slightly embarrassed to have assumed so rashly that Finn would be home after the trouble he's been dragged into and he retreats back to his room. Something in his head tells him that it might be a while before he sees him again, but he listens for his footsteps regardless.
Luca grew used to the smell of smoke, but detested it all the same. As a child, it would cling to his clothes, permeating through the fabric whenever he was in the presence of his father. The edges of books were always singed, as if his father's human form could never quite contain the demonic nature that hissed within him. When learning rituals, old jasmine incense were often lit in various corners of the room, their original oiled scent overpowered by burning wood. No matter how many times he washed his clothes and robes as a child, it seemed to stick in the fibers.
He woke up one night to thick smoke and hot air, the warlock girl in the room over stuck in a fitful nightmare. She'd lit the sheets on fire, the tatami mats starting to catch, and it took the attention of one of their instructors to calm her and put out the flames. He'd already retreated from the house for fresh air, though, and spent the rest of the night on the porch.
Even when he learned to smoke cigarettes on the rooftop of a warlock's flat in South Korea, he couldn't help but recoil at how much it reminded him of late night lessons and learning illegal spells by lantern-light. Not that those were bad memories, but it was startling at how vivid such recollections were and how persistent the association had become. It was...comforting and disgusting in a multitude of ways, none of which he could entirely explain. After he'd gotten over his original knee-jerk distaste, he hadn't dropped the habit. He needed something for late, sleepless, and stressful nights. If they provoked such echoes of the past, then he would simply deal with them.
Once he'd been with some faerie girl on the balcony of his flat in New York, both of them sitting with lit cigarettes and her clothed in his robe. Her lipstick stained the rolling paper and they spoke too much, getting more comfortable and loose with their words than he liked.
"My dad used to buy this brand," she commented after she took a long drag. "Before he died."
He didn't say anything in return, his lethargy broken at her comment. The air was inundated with the smell of something like bitter vanilla and burnt newspaper, jasmine incense and burnt edges of books. Later, she fell asleep against the bars of the balcony, her cigarette still burning where she'd left it in the ashtray. His thoughts lingered and reminisced even after the smoke dissipated. Those were things that could not be washed and scrubbed, after all, and he sat on the balcony until first light.
It isn't that faeries in the Unseelie prioritize modesty or covering up, but bodies in public settings are seen as sterile, weaponized instruments of war. They are scarred and battered and their beauty is in their capability to shed blood without flinching. In silence and in shadows, they might marvel at the elegance of their features, hungry mouths, and lithe limbs, but that is something experienced in private. They aren't public in their affection like many Seelies, who delight in shared, community affection. Softness isn't appreciated, and desire can always be exploited. He has known consorts who have been torn apart in spite by the King's sons, mostly because they did not get the attention they sought.
Savannah does not ascribe to such values. On the other hand, she has weaponized her own desirability. Blake notices the way she carries herself and he notices things that he wishes he didn't. Her nightgown does not leave too much to the imagination. The curve of hip into waist is apparent with how the fabric drapes, cinching slightly under her bust. He notices that too, but he makes a point to not look. Her legs are long, rendering the nightgown a little short on her, and his gaze skirts to the side to avoid his train of thought digressing into things it shouldn't.
She's speaking to him in amusement and she watches him as she does. Stealing glances at her is all he feels comfortable with doing, and even that walks a tight line between benign attention and fascination. Of course he can think nothing of her and expect nothing of her in any semblance of the long run - and he abides by that with undying honesty - but it does not mean he does not grudgingly enjoy the view, no matter how ephemeral it is.
"You seem lost in thought," she observes, though her words hold a tease rather than an admonishment. She wets her bottom lip with her tongue, blue eyes prying, inquisitive, and sharp. They have always been nicer than his own to look at. They are the color of preserved dune grass, pale and cold. "Care to enlighten?"
"No." The answer is drawn from him too fast to be casual but too firm to be negotiated. While he was not caught staring, he thinks she is intuitive enough to know that he has been watching.
"Hmm." Her eyes rest on him, a challenge in the curve of her mouth and the flicker of her eyes as they move up, down, and back up again. Evaluating and judging. "Then you leave me no choice but to simply infer."