[M'try] This is not the muse you're looking for. (Vignette)
Paint dribbled and splattered down the wall, red and green and orange and purple, trickled down toward the floor, made a muddy mess that pooled around the broken pottery that had once held it. Shards lay on the floor for several feet from where the pots had exploded a few minutes ago, crashing against the wall with a satisfying series of ceramic explosions and bright blasts of colorful liquid. It was no more than the cheap, watery paint he let the kids play with, let them finger-paint with, not the real stuff, but it had been awfully cathartic to smash it the way he had.
Now, of course, he felt bad about it.
<< Come out here, Mait. >>
I'm sorry, Moh. I lost my temper.
<< I saw that. Come out here. >>
Still in his socks and underwear, picking his way through the shrapnel of a sudden shouting match at no one and nothing, M'try made his way out to the ledge where Mohraith was waiting. He tucked himself against the brown's shoulder, legs drawn up with his arms parked loosely across his knees, with his hands threading through his hair. He felt drained, colorless, bleak, and even the bright chaos of Mohraith's presence wasn't enough to really drive away this particular version of lifelessness. He had just cursed up a storm and broken a half-dozen pots of perfectly innocent fingerpaint-- Fuck Esraval and fuck Fort and fuck weddings and... It had, in the end, become a sort of belligerent babble that ended with him rubbing his forehead and contemplating how emasculated he'd feel if he broke down in tears.
Fortunately, it hadn't come to that.
<< She loves you, Mait. Don't worry so much. >>
She's getting married, Moh. Right now, as a matter of fact.
<< She said she'll love you still. >>
Thank you for your optimism, Moh, but it's more complicated than that.
<< Well, I'LL STILL LOVE YOU. >>
Despite the pain in his head, despite the continued hollowness, M'try laughed and settled his weight more fully against the sturdiness of the dragon behind him. He was hurt, and now he had a real big mess to clean up in his weyr, but it was hard to feel so stupidly sorry for himself when that echo was still ringing in his mind. Thanks, bud. That goes a long ways.
<< Don't mention it. And LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE! >> The image of the chaos in his weyr flashed into his mind from Mohraith's, the speckle and splatter on the wall, the ruined paint pots on the floor all streaming with splashes of chaotic color, brightly hued wreckage. << At least you found something you wanted to paint again! >>
Now, of course, he felt bad about it.
<< Come out here, Mait. >>
I'm sorry, Moh. I lost my temper.
<< I saw that. Come out here. >>
Still in his socks and underwear, picking his way through the shrapnel of a sudden shouting match at no one and nothing, M'try made his way out to the ledge where Mohraith was waiting. He tucked himself against the brown's shoulder, legs drawn up with his arms parked loosely across his knees, with his hands threading through his hair. He felt drained, colorless, bleak, and even the bright chaos of Mohraith's presence wasn't enough to really drive away this particular version of lifelessness. He had just cursed up a storm and broken a half-dozen pots of perfectly innocent fingerpaint-- Fuck Esraval and fuck Fort and fuck weddings and... It had, in the end, become a sort of belligerent babble that ended with him rubbing his forehead and contemplating how emasculated he'd feel if he broke down in tears.
Fortunately, it hadn't come to that.
<< She loves you, Mait. Don't worry so much. >>
She's getting married, Moh. Right now, as a matter of fact.
<< She said she'll love you still. >>
Thank you for your optimism, Moh, but it's more complicated than that.
<< Well, I'LL STILL LOVE YOU. >>
Despite the pain in his head, despite the continued hollowness, M'try laughed and settled his weight more fully against the sturdiness of the dragon behind him. He was hurt, and now he had a real big mess to clean up in his weyr, but it was hard to feel so stupidly sorry for himself when that echo was still ringing in his mind. Thanks, bud. That goes a long ways.
<< Don't mention it. And LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE! >> The image of the chaos in his weyr flashed into his mind from Mohraith's, the speckle and splatter on the wall, the ruined paint pots on the floor all streaming with splashes of chaotic color, brightly hued wreckage. << At least you found something you wanted to paint again! >>