Let Bayous Be Bayous - A Fantroll Adventure

"Oh! Eggs are excellent, from most any things. Um." A favorite food... that's hard to pick, almost. Any food. Food is good.

Your traitorous hivesick pan chimes in an idea, though, and you say definitively, "Gumbo. Gumbo is definitely one of my favorites." Especially when everyone chips in their ideas, and the recipe has evolved over time to be a little bit of all of you. Plus, it's just really, really delicious.

"What about you?"

(no worries, I am kinda distracted today so I honestly didn't even catch it)

 

"Gumbo, huh?" you laugh, and navigate past a thick tangle of half-drown brush in your path. "Yeah, I can do a pretty mean bayou stew, but I dunno how well it'll match up to your moirail's cooking. Scalebeast's best for grilling in steaks when it's fresh, though. Tastes kinda like oinkbeast chops with a fishy twist, if that all makes any kind of motherfucking sense."

As though summoned by your thoughts, something tall and hunched and bristling goes squealing and splashing away into the shallows. You lick your lips, grin crookedly up at Apkuri. "Cooking is our Mirthful Lords' best teaching, if you up and ask me. Ain't good at no fancy shit, but I cook well enough for me, you know?"

 

Your eyes go very wide and hopeful at the thought of stew. You haven't really taken the time to sit down and cook something nice and slow like that the whole time you've been travelling, and you... you miss it.

Still, she's right. No point in wasting something that'll be better fresh, and you'll defer to her expertise in cooking something you'd never seen before today. "I appreciate cooking, even if I haven't had a ton of practice." You grin wryly. "Kieyid tends to smack people with spoons when they get in his kitchen." A little puzzled, you continue, "He's... not my moirail, though? He's a quadrant corner. Maybe." You frown. "It's... complicated."

Damn it, you're talking about quadrants again, and that makes her all sad and lonely. Fuck. You didn't mean to do that.

 

Looking at her wide green eyes does something funny to your bloodpusher, and you colour again, looking away and smiling despite yourself. It hurts a little, but it's a good hurt, especially when.... "You don't got a moirail, then?"

You barely know this girl, but just that she doesn't mind your leakage means you'd be crazy to not at least try and get her as a friend. She'll probably be traveling on, as well, but maybe for a day or two you can make-believe. You're bleeding hope right now, which you know is pathetic, but you can't help your feels.

 

Oh.

Oh.

That feels...

You duck your head a little, fiddling intently with a lock on hair that's fallen out of your braid. "Um. No, I don't."

 

"...me neither," you say, after a moment, almost not daring to leave that safe cocoon of hope you've built around yourself now. It would be hella awkward if she turned you down, with at least a couple night's travel still ahead. You really want to reach up and tuck that strand of hair behind her single-pointed landweller ears, but instead you busy yourself with the tiller.

It's never smooth sailing through the tangled waterways that make up your home, and it's a good distraction, except now you got to talking it's hard to stop, and... "I ain't all that motherfucking good at quadrants, you know. Had exactly one motherfucker in my life ever and he was pitch, and now he's gone. I ain't got no experience for any other shit, not even much of just friends."

It ain't a warning, not exactly, but you still miss Kholai like a limb and you're not sure you know how to be pale beyond just, well, who you up and are. It don't matter, not yet, whether you broke up with your kismebro or he up and died, just that he's outta your life and you miss him still.

 

ALERT! ALERT! ALL HANDS ON DECK! THIS IS NOT A DRILL, I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL-

What the fuck are you going to do.

You're pretty sure your bloodpusher is doing some kind of interpretive dance instead of the normal rhythm it's supposed to be doing, and the blooming swell of both your and her hope is crashed by your pan immediately reminding you of every single problem with this idea.

And the thing is, there really are quite a lot of very practical problems with the idea of you falling in pale with a random troll you met on your travels. Like, a lot. Starting with the fact that you are, you know, not supposed to exist, and are immediate cullbait on like three different fronts off the top of your pan.

But there she is, talking about how she hasn't had good quadrant experiences or even friends, and the loss of her one quadrant still so raw your throat tightens up (well, that might be all the things you're feeling, too), and... words are just not coming out of your mouth right now. There is too much pity in the way, with fear lacing through it like the tight strands of a net, getting you all tangled up too much for mouth-sounds to go.

Somewhat shakily, you dig out your palmhusk (squash down the panic that she's going to think less of you for going nonverbal - if she does, that solves one problem you savagely tell yourself), and find that chat window you were using earlier.

PM: ^i am walking cullbait you know
PM: ^like because of my age and
PM: ^other reasons
PM: ^i wouldn't want to drag someone as kind as you into something you don't want just because
PM: ^because
PM: ^because i'm very selfish and want to try
PM: ^...sacred words even that's me feeling pale at you wtf

Your screen is kind of wobbly and hard to see now. Your breathing is wobbly to match.

 

When she freezes up you think oh motherfuck, you've done it now, but then the freezing up just sort of lingers... and then she's scrabbling for her palmhusk and realizing what she's up to, you are too. It doesn't occur to you to think this weird - sometimes when your emotions are too strong you find it easier to type than talk, as well. Despite how tense everything is at that moment, her first statement makes you give out a slightly unhinged gigglebeast laugh.

WW: MOTHERFUCKER, if I were the type to pick on cullbait
WW: I'D have to up and cull myself first
WW: BESIDES if I were gonna cull you I might've up and done it when we first up and met
WW: I ain't bragging or none, but even a full grown midblood ain't no match for an indigo in a culling mood

Then the rest of her statement catches up with you, and welp, you've turned a cosmic shade of motherfucking Messiah's faithful. She's... pale right back at you? Really? You glance at her, bite your lip - mom rattles but seems to sense there are more important things afoot - and when you type again, it's slowly. Your hands are shaking.

WW: DON'T know about any words or nothing
WW: AND I ain't sure about nothing right now
WW: BUT can I give you a motherfucking hug?

 

The clarification that she could have culled you is, weirdly enough, calming - it reassures your pan that no, she's not going to suddenly change her mind. At least not with the information currently provided her, ie, your age, which is honestly enough all in itself for most planetbound trolls to nope the fuck out of a situation, strifekind first if they've got any chance at taking it that way.

Then she's turning purple again, which is honestly adorable. You really kind of want to just scoot over there and take her shaking fingers in yours, say soft things until that vibrating sense of nervousness emanating from her eases. You restrain yourself, watching her peck out letters and lines of text appear on your screen. The first one actually brings a choked laugh out of you - you hadn't even caught yourself swearing by the Words, so the double meaning in her not knowing is tickling your hilarity gland pretty hard - but something about her being unsure too is deeply reassuring, and at this point being near her feels like tipping over the edge of a gravity well. You don't even bother typing your answer. You just nod, and scoot closer, uncurling from your panic ball as you go.

 

Mom grabs your ragged sleeve before you go crawling through scalebeast viscera, and you pause long enough to captchalogue the corpse once more before clambering up onto the roof deck again. You hesitate a split second, only on account you ain't never hugged anyone non-aggressively before, and decide to hell with all of it and wrap yourself right around her warm, green-smelling self.

You try not to cling, but it's hard, it's hard, but you think she understands. Your bloodpusher's too full for words, but at leastways she can feel that. Something tender-fierce, pale as bones and your white skull paint - which is probably well motherfucking smeared right now, but what's a culling offence by anyone else just makes you feel small and safe with her.

You guess it'll probably be stew after all, what with neither of you having the sense to butcher a carcass right now.

 

Oh. Oh, hugs make everything in your pan work better. You lean into the pressure, wiggling your arms out enough to wrap them around her as well. You are stunned by how familiar and different this is simultaneously - you've spent over three sweeps in incredible pity with your matesprit, and you've both had to do some pretty pinkish things just to survive with your pans intact, the shit you've gotten into, but this is... you're going to start writing new music for your pipes for this, and that is when you realize that you really are hopeless.

Well. You are wrapped in so much hugs, so that's a lot less frightening than it might otherwise be. You hum contentedly, nuzzling your face to her, and idly composing a melody in the back of your pan.

((Too clingy? This is a concept that exists? Apkuri is the clingiest clingbeast.))

 

You flinch a little, startled, when she wraps her arms around you, pressing close to the useless slits that would be gills were you a shade higher on the spectrum. But it gives way to a broken little chirr when you find yourself surrounded by her, encompassed in olive warmth while the stars pass overhead and everything seems all made of peace and delight. You ain't never felt anything more pale than ash before you met this girl, and your poet's heart feels like there'll be no such pale after, too.

(After, because everyone leaves eventually. You still ain't good enough to keep no-one around like this, but you're dumb enough to dare to hope.)

You ain't touch-starved, not exactly - mom is kind and physical enough as a lusus that you ain't been lacking for that kind of caring, but you can't recall the last time you got real tenderness from another troll.

Your emotions are singing around you both (ohpleasestaygentlesoftstayplease) but you ain't got no need to add to them with your squawkblister beyond the humming that's started up low in your thorax. You tuck your head over Apkuri's - you should ask if you can up and call her Appie, Appie works - careful of the incurved razor tips of her horns. It's a gesture of trust, and you're so pathetic that you mean it absolutely.

 

You make small shushing sounds almost reflexively when she flinches, and your bloodpusher nearly breaks with pity and awe at the trust of her tucking all around you and close to your horns. You almost want to answer out loud to the press of emotions - yes, of course, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere - but you have just enough presence of mind not to. You don't want to make promises you aren't sure you can keep.

You do want, with a growing certainty, to find a way to be able to make those promises. That involves telling secrets that might compromise the safety of your clade, though, and as much as your whole body is singing about how yes this is a good and true thing you have found here, you've... never done this, before. Not just the pale romance part, but the introducing someone entirely new to the Philosophy part. (Well. You helped, the once, but that hardly counted when all was said and done.) You want to check in, see if anyone back at the hive has advice, or is going to tell you to snap your silly pan out of it and find a way to extricate yourself.

Youuuuu really don't want to do that, though. And right now, you don't have to. Cuddles and soft purring are the order of business for the moment. In an immediate sense, you will stay, right there, as long as you can, and just bask in the feeling that everything is going to be okay.

 

You're curled together like that under the cover of the lichen-dripping trees for long enough that you lose track of time. When you can finally bear lifting your head, your timepiece says at least half an hour has passed. You smile and nudge her temple with your nose. "'Sup, motherfucker. Hey - can I call you Appie?"

It's on your mind a little, and you withdraw in increments, reluctant to move but aware that it's probably safer and drier for her belowdecks. You slip off the roof decking to check your map projector and make sure you haven't strayed too far off-course with the engine idling. You're still smiling, and you wonder if this slightly drunk, light-headed feeling is the chemical upshot of pale feelings. Pitch had always made you feel razor-hard and vividly awake and aware, yet right now you feel... safe. Safe is the best word for it, but at the same time it's too small.

You back the boat out of the tangle of fallen branches the stern's nosed into while you were off on pale clouds of motherfucking carnival floss, and find a safe berth to drop anchor. You're singing softly, although you barely notice it - Taylor Swifte's Safe and Sound ain't exactly the mirthful hollers of the Church and Her Condescension's choice of entertainment, but it's the palest song you know and right now you feel white and pure as special stardust and ground up dragonfly wings.

 

You blink, and smile a bit dazedly, watching her as she pulls away and slips off. "Yeah. That would be... cute." Oh dear, your voice is all soft and you're still kind of blushy and you're almost scared to move.

But Vashtar's moving around, slow and gentle, and still broadcasting the happiest peace over the boat, so the spell remains unbroken. When she starts singing, you quietly scoot yourself forward to listen, until you're sitting with your feet dangling off the edge of the roof decking near her. You almost want to pull out your pipes and weave in a counterpoint melody, but you don't want to startle her, so your fingers just twitch gently at fingerings while you watch her with diamonds in your eyes, swaying ever so slightly to the rhythm of the music.

((if I am visualizing things abt the boat stupid pls tell me - I am very bad at figuring out someone's visualization of a space from text))

 

You flick an ear when it's obvious she's watching, and for the first time in your life you kinda want to up and show off in a way that's not all fang-beared snarling and laughing like the world is end. You keep humming, but you roll through the more recent scraps of poetry in your pan and set them to the ambling, wandering tune that you damn near always have up in your pan in one way or another, although you never got no music schoolfeeds and for all you know your voice is as scratchy as a wet bag of meowbeasts.

I've all and spoken of desire
Spoke through water, blood and fire
Time culls ills, my pan's a riddle
Worse songs'n sorcery rest in the middle

You draw out the words in what would have been the hard self-loathing they were writ in, but you're still feeling so calm and starshine that they come out more like sweet sorrow. You glance at Appie despite yourself once you're done, a little self-concious despite yourself, then busy yourself with looping a rope around a nearby trunk for extra anchorage and tying it up, blushing all the more again.

 

Her singing isn't perfect, by any means, but it's sung with so much spirit and honesty- the kind of thing you've learned over the sweeps is really, really hard to train into someone. You get a little shiver up your spine at how vulnerable it suddenly strikes you. Were those her words? If they were, you double want to wrap yourself around her and -somehow, you haven't quite gotten to the how - fix everything. Instead, you give her an encouraging smile when she glances at you, and say quietly, "That's really beautiful. I was thinking about playing along, earlier, but I didn't want to startle you."

 

You're still a little self-concious, but her praise makes you grin sheepishly and rub a hand up under the ragged sweep of your hair, probably making it hella tangled all the further. You try to comb it daily, but the motherfucker is real highblood hair, and the best you can do somedays is just topknot it up and cut out any hard mats when they occur. It occurs to you that maybe you now have someone to help with that madness, and you blush all the more. "Ah- Aww, it ain't no thing. Mom says I been warbling since I were a grublet, and sometimes I just get words all up in my pan which come to me in want of all curling up and keeping, you know?"

"And you play? What kinda noisemaker have you all up trained to?" you're curious, and laughing a little. You finish up with mooring your boat, and bow a little to Appie, extending you hand to help her down like a lowblood servant in an old movie. You're giggling too much to really give credence to the act, though. "May I up and give you assistance to alight belowdecks, ma'am?"

 

You blush, and take the offered hand, carefully hopping down and not straining anything weird or putting too much weight on your bad ankle. Success! "Pipes, mostly. Mintuu got me a guitar for our anniversary, but I've been slow picking it up." It hurts your fingertips, and you know it will take you a while to build calluses and get your fingers used to the movements, but in the meantime it's mostly painful and frustrating to feel so clumsy with a new instrument. But you want to learn more, so you'll keep at it.

You squeeze her fingers, glance at her, smiling. "I don't sing, as much. A little. But the, the 'curling up and keeping...' I do that with melodies a lot."

 

"I never did get me the learning of any instrument - singing's just come outta my pusher with no real permissions from my pan," is your blush getting deeper at the fact you don't wanna let go of her hand? You feel like it's getting way deeper. You must be damn near the colour of a crushed blackberry right now. You grin all the same and lead her into the cabin before you can change your mind. "My hive's yours, motherfucker, for as long as you're staying."

Even if that's only a couple of days. You shore yourself up, though, and make sure she don't trip on the steps down into your long studio hive. Well, more or less one room - your 'coon's stashed away in what's basically a walk-in closet, with a slightly smaller room for your ablutions closet, a sink, and a load gaper. The rest of the space is taken up by a narrow room that's mixed food preparation block and leisure suite. There's a stove and a fridge down one end, and a long low bench that runs the length of the room covered in various plush but drone-made blankets and pillows.

There's little splatters of dye and paint on everything, and looking up shows why - the low roof is covered in thousands and thousands of words and doodles, like the roof of an ancient cave. They overcross and overwrite themselves so often it's only possible to figure out the most recent ones, and you laugh a bit sheepishly at their noticing. "It was just so motherfucking plain back when I was a wiggler, you know? And I ain't never been able to stop since I started~"