[limen_inferum]

[permanent_blur]

waiting for guildenstern to come back, rosencrantz sits on the floor of their room in the attic, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth as he draws in a pile of papers spread around him. each drawing looks, on its own, unremarkable, and the collection an utter waste of paper -- but he stacks them together, flips quickly through the corners. a

Comments

[directionofwind]

He steps in, carelessly, scattering papers with the breeze of his entrance and very narrowly avoiding kicking the cat. "Do you never organize your things?" he asks, petulantly, as though it isn't in some small way endearing to him that Ros doesn't.

[permanent_blur]

cumulus takes that as a cue to jump into the scattered papers, razor claws ripping them to ribbons before ros can save them. "... no?"

[directionofwind]

Cocking his head aside a bit, he notes, "You don't never organize your things; ergo, I must assume that you occasionally organize your things?"

[permanent_blur]

"or i always do. that would be not-never, too." ros tries to salvage the paper he can, but his face falls when he then flips through them, out of sequence and disjointed. "but i don't."

[directionofwind]

"As I had expected."

[permanent_blur]

"had you?" now he tries to salvage what ribbons he can without risking cumulus's claws, and winds one about a finger, curious.

[directionofwind]

Firmly, "Yes." He examines the ribbon. "What could you need all of this paper for, anyway?"

[permanent_blur]

"filmmaking," matter-of-fact and unhelpful.

[directionofwind]

"Film-making? With papers?"

[permanent_blur]

"well, how else would you do it?" very carefully he ties a ribbon into a folded knot, tucking in one end of it. "though i'll admit i'm not very experienced at it. it is my first time trying."

[directionofwind]

"With films, I should think--a thin, tense film of soap across a wire hoop; a film of oil upon a still pond--"

[permanent_blur]

"oh. but then how would you get the pictures?" ros wraps the ribbon around its knot to make a pentagon and continues until, basically, he's run out of paper, folding in the last little flap. then he pinches the corners to make the pentagon puff up, and -- somehow, it ends up a star.

[directionofwind]

"Stir it, I imagine." He is completely oblivious to the star.

[permanent_blur]

"oh! there's an idea -- i ought to try that, next." but right now he's got a new project, and carries the ribbons to his bedside table to make a pile of stars with. brightly, "how was your day?"

[directionofwind]

"My day? You ask as though I had a claim to it; as though I could hang my name around its throat and call it to heel--but it was a day, and an ordinary one," he concedes, sitting down and sweeping aside the last star.

[permanent_blur]

"well, it is your day i'm interested in -- not anybody else's. or not anybody else's now, since i suppose there are other days out there ... and it wouldn't be manners, you know, to not ask after someone's day if i met him walking by with one." this is getting absurd pretty quickly. "was it nice?"