A&E are Bower Birds
Title: Arthur & Eames are Bower Birds (AKA Oh My God What is My Brain)
Words: ~1300
Rating: G
Summary: What it says on the tin.
Author's Note: My life is, like, all the awful things right now, so here is something to make you guys happy, because that's how that works, right :'D; Originally posted at cherrybina's Fluff Fest.
This is a male satin bower bird. This is a bower. If you'd like to know more about these hilarious and adorable birds, here is David Attenborough. (I accidentally mixed up my species of bower birds BUT I DON'T CARE LA LA LA.)
Arthur is seven years old and has just reached his first year of sexual maturity. He is an artist.
His sister Ariadne tells him that his bower is one of the most highly anticipated of the season.
“Seriously,” she says, “normally it's all about Saito's, but the girls are all excited to see what you come up with.”
And why wouldn't they be? Already, unfinished, Arthur's bower is a thing of beauty. It's a cone-shaped structure supported by two stick columns on either side of the entrance, totally secure and sheltered from the elements. He'd cleared the area immediately in front of it of all debris, then delicately laid out soft patches of moss and constructed a pile of yellow leaves, to draw the eye. Inside the bower, he's busy making it as colourful as possible.
He's just adding the finishing touches to a wide carpet of blue flowers-it took him forever to arrange them just so-by carefully placing a bright white berry in the exact centre when he hears a scuffling outside the bower.
It's another male. He's silky black, shining iridescent under the light, and his eyes aren't just blue-they're lilac.
“Hello,” he chirps.
Arthur eyes him warily.
“I'm Eames.”
“Arthur.”
“Just moved in next door.”
Great. And Arthur had specifically placed his bower away from the other males', so that thieving marauders like Nash would be more inclined to leave him alone.
He cocks his head and gives Eames a long, suspicious glare with one eye.
“Nice bower,” says Eames, unfazed by Arthur's unfriendliness. “I'd best be off. Got a lot of catching up to do.”
He flutters off. Arthur picks up the white berry in his beak and gingerly places it a millimeter to the right. His feathers ruffle with pleasure. Perfect.
&
Arthur is black, just like Eames, just like all the other males, but he's a blacker black. His feathers don't shine as blue in the light. His mother told him it just made him handsomer, and besides he'd have more of a satiny sheen when he was older, but he wonders sometimes. Blue is such a nice colour. Girls like blue. He makes up for his un-iridescent feathers by making the interior of his bower as eye-strikingly flamboyant as possible.
A small pile of orange leaves here, offset by a brilliant blue blossom there, goes a long way. He flicks his tail, pleased, once he has the blue blossom arranged just the way he likes it, so that it catches the light coming in from the front.
Then he starts to think it looks more cyan than blue, and cyan doesn't go with orange at all. His feathers wilt. Maybe he'd be better to construct a whole pile of cyan blossoms and complement it with his red shell. That would look lovely. But then what to do with the orange leaves?
“Hello Arthur.” Eames is back, sitting right in the entrance, head dipped to take in all of Arthur's treasures with a beady lilac eye.
“Get out of here!” Arthur snaps, scandalized. Eames looks wounded.
“Don't be like that, darling. I brought you something for your bower.” And he drops a blue bottlecap on the floor.
Arthur pounces on it and carries it to the pile of leaves. He has to pick it up and carefully replace it six times before it reflects the light in just the way he wants. It's beautiful.
“There,” says Eames, “that looks lovely, doesn't it?”
“Why not keep it for your own bower?” Arthur asks, suspicious again.
“I thought it would look nicer in yours,” says Eames. “I was right. See you later, darling.”
And he flits off again. Arthur gets back to work.
&
He collects several more cyan blossoms and is just weaving them into the structure of his bower when he hears Eames singing. He hops outside at once.
“Is there a girl around?”
“Nope,” says Eames. “Just practising.”
He goes back to singing. He's got a nice voice. Combined with that shining plumage, it's enough to discourage Arthur, a little.
He decides to risk leaving his bower for a minute in order to see Eames'. Just a quick look, that's all. He's just curious.
Eames has thrown up a bower in record time, and it looks sound, too. But relief fills Arthur when he sees that it's barely colourful at all. In fact, Eames' choices in decorations are positively messy.
Eames has stopped singing, and he lands suddenly on the twig beside Arthur, making it dip under their combined weight. Their wings brush.
“Do you like it, darling?” he asks, and the deep, tinging timbre of his voice, as if he's still singing, makes Arthur wonder if he thinks he's speaking to a female.
“It's nice,” Arthur says stiffly. But his inner interior designer is crying out, and finally he says, “Your colour coordination is terrible.”
Eames deflates a little. “D'you think so?”
“You put green and yellow together. The yellow leaves would go much better with those violet beads.”
Eames cocks his head to either side. “I see,” he says after a moment. “I'll fix that at once.” And he flies away. Arthur stays and watches, and tells him when he's repositioned the leaves exactly right.
Only because Eames' bower is so terrible that he wouldn't stand a chance otherwise, Arthur tells himself. No matter how striking his voice and plumage are.
“You were right,” Eames says, observing his bower.
“I'm always right,” Arthur tells him.
“Indeed,” says Eames, and Arthur hurries back to his own bower when he tips a jaunty wink in Arthur's direction.
&
Arthur is beyond thrilled when he finds a blue parrot feather. It's the treasure to outshine all treasures.
“Oh, that looks lovely,” Eames enthuses when he drops by to see Arthur's bower, yet again. Arthur is practising his swagger, parrot feather clenched in his beak. He drops it, feeling foolish.
“Go away.”
“I took your advice,” Eames chirps. “Come and see my bower.”
Arthur has visited him a couple more times, only because he can barely sleep at night thinking of the disaster next door. He's had Eames rearrange his decorations twice more and last time Arthur looked, it was actually passable.
“Oh,” says Arthur, stopping short outside of the door. “It's-”
It's blue. Blue everywhere. There's a little red there, a splash of violet here, but mostly, it's blue.
Blue flowers. Blue blossoms. Blue fungus. Blue pop can.
“Wait,” Arthur says, and he flits back to his own bower; it's only a few wingbeats away. He grabs up the parrot feather and returns. He weaves it carefully above the entrance to Eames' bower, then steps back and observes, feeling strangely satisfied.
“You like it,” says Eames, hopping to his side. It's not a question.
“I like blue,” says Arthur.
“I noticed,” says Eames. And he leans over to gently preen the spot at the nape of Arthur's neck that he can never reach.
Arthur tilts an eye at him sidelong, and wonders how long Eames has been courting him; maybe all this time. Silly, he thinks; his mother had long trained that way of thinking out of him before he'd even fledged the nest, saying, Why do we want to court lady birds instead of boy birds, Arthur?, and he would dutifully chirp out, Because lady birds lay eggs, but what's so great about eggs, anyway? Arthur wouldn't even see the stupid things, if he took a mate.
Females are so drab, anyway. Arthur likes-blue.
Non-committal, Arthur-even though bowers are intended to impress, not to be lived in, but he's too attached and they've already broken the rules anyway-says, “Our bowers could attach. Then it would look even better.”
“I believe you're right, Arthur,” says Eames. “That would look better.”
And Arthur submits to Eames' preening, his feathers riffling pleasurably. “I'm always right,” he says.
“Indeed,” says Eames.
Words: ~1300
Rating: G
Summary: What it says on the tin.
Author's Note: My life is, like, all the awful things right now, so here is something to make you guys happy, because that's how that works, right :'D; Originally posted at cherrybina's Fluff Fest.
This is a male satin bower bird. This is a bower. If you'd like to know more about these hilarious and adorable birds, here is David Attenborough. (I accidentally mixed up my species of bower birds BUT I DON'T CARE LA LA LA.)
Arthur is seven years old and has just reached his first year of sexual maturity. He is an artist.
His sister Ariadne tells him that his bower is one of the most highly anticipated of the season.
“Seriously,” she says, “normally it's all about Saito's, but the girls are all excited to see what you come up with.”
And why wouldn't they be? Already, unfinished, Arthur's bower is a thing of beauty. It's a cone-shaped structure supported by two stick columns on either side of the entrance, totally secure and sheltered from the elements. He'd cleared the area immediately in front of it of all debris, then delicately laid out soft patches of moss and constructed a pile of yellow leaves, to draw the eye. Inside the bower, he's busy making it as colourful as possible.
He's just adding the finishing touches to a wide carpet of blue flowers-it took him forever to arrange them just so-by carefully placing a bright white berry in the exact centre when he hears a scuffling outside the bower.
It's another male. He's silky black, shining iridescent under the light, and his eyes aren't just blue-they're lilac.
“Hello,” he chirps.
Arthur eyes him warily.
“I'm Eames.”
“Arthur.”
“Just moved in next door.”
Great. And Arthur had specifically placed his bower away from the other males', so that thieving marauders like Nash would be more inclined to leave him alone.
He cocks his head and gives Eames a long, suspicious glare with one eye.
“Nice bower,” says Eames, unfazed by Arthur's unfriendliness. “I'd best be off. Got a lot of catching up to do.”
He flutters off. Arthur picks up the white berry in his beak and gingerly places it a millimeter to the right. His feathers ruffle with pleasure. Perfect.
&
Arthur is black, just like Eames, just like all the other males, but he's a blacker black. His feathers don't shine as blue in the light. His mother told him it just made him handsomer, and besides he'd have more of a satiny sheen when he was older, but he wonders sometimes. Blue is such a nice colour. Girls like blue. He makes up for his un-iridescent feathers by making the interior of his bower as eye-strikingly flamboyant as possible.
A small pile of orange leaves here, offset by a brilliant blue blossom there, goes a long way. He flicks his tail, pleased, once he has the blue blossom arranged just the way he likes it, so that it catches the light coming in from the front.
Then he starts to think it looks more cyan than blue, and cyan doesn't go with orange at all. His feathers wilt. Maybe he'd be better to construct a whole pile of cyan blossoms and complement it with his red shell. That would look lovely. But then what to do with the orange leaves?
“Hello Arthur.” Eames is back, sitting right in the entrance, head dipped to take in all of Arthur's treasures with a beady lilac eye.
“Get out of here!” Arthur snaps, scandalized. Eames looks wounded.
“Don't be like that, darling. I brought you something for your bower.” And he drops a blue bottlecap on the floor.
Arthur pounces on it and carries it to the pile of leaves. He has to pick it up and carefully replace it six times before it reflects the light in just the way he wants. It's beautiful.
“There,” says Eames, “that looks lovely, doesn't it?”
“Why not keep it for your own bower?” Arthur asks, suspicious again.
“I thought it would look nicer in yours,” says Eames. “I was right. See you later, darling.”
And he flits off again. Arthur gets back to work.
&
He collects several more cyan blossoms and is just weaving them into the structure of his bower when he hears Eames singing. He hops outside at once.
“Is there a girl around?”
“Nope,” says Eames. “Just practising.”
He goes back to singing. He's got a nice voice. Combined with that shining plumage, it's enough to discourage Arthur, a little.
He decides to risk leaving his bower for a minute in order to see Eames'. Just a quick look, that's all. He's just curious.
Eames has thrown up a bower in record time, and it looks sound, too. But relief fills Arthur when he sees that it's barely colourful at all. In fact, Eames' choices in decorations are positively messy.
Eames has stopped singing, and he lands suddenly on the twig beside Arthur, making it dip under their combined weight. Their wings brush.
“Do you like it, darling?” he asks, and the deep, tinging timbre of his voice, as if he's still singing, makes Arthur wonder if he thinks he's speaking to a female.
“It's nice,” Arthur says stiffly. But his inner interior designer is crying out, and finally he says, “Your colour coordination is terrible.”
Eames deflates a little. “D'you think so?”
“You put green and yellow together. The yellow leaves would go much better with those violet beads.”
Eames cocks his head to either side. “I see,” he says after a moment. “I'll fix that at once.” And he flies away. Arthur stays and watches, and tells him when he's repositioned the leaves exactly right.
Only because Eames' bower is so terrible that he wouldn't stand a chance otherwise, Arthur tells himself. No matter how striking his voice and plumage are.
“You were right,” Eames says, observing his bower.
“I'm always right,” Arthur tells him.
“Indeed,” says Eames, and Arthur hurries back to his own bower when he tips a jaunty wink in Arthur's direction.
&
Arthur is beyond thrilled when he finds a blue parrot feather. It's the treasure to outshine all treasures.
“Oh, that looks lovely,” Eames enthuses when he drops by to see Arthur's bower, yet again. Arthur is practising his swagger, parrot feather clenched in his beak. He drops it, feeling foolish.
“Go away.”
“I took your advice,” Eames chirps. “Come and see my bower.”
Arthur has visited him a couple more times, only because he can barely sleep at night thinking of the disaster next door. He's had Eames rearrange his decorations twice more and last time Arthur looked, it was actually passable.
“Oh,” says Arthur, stopping short outside of the door. “It's-”
It's blue. Blue everywhere. There's a little red there, a splash of violet here, but mostly, it's blue.
Blue flowers. Blue blossoms. Blue fungus. Blue pop can.
“Wait,” Arthur says, and he flits back to his own bower; it's only a few wingbeats away. He grabs up the parrot feather and returns. He weaves it carefully above the entrance to Eames' bower, then steps back and observes, feeling strangely satisfied.
“You like it,” says Eames, hopping to his side. It's not a question.
“I like blue,” says Arthur.
“I noticed,” says Eames. And he leans over to gently preen the spot at the nape of Arthur's neck that he can never reach.
Arthur tilts an eye at him sidelong, and wonders how long Eames has been courting him; maybe all this time. Silly, he thinks; his mother had long trained that way of thinking out of him before he'd even fledged the nest, saying, Why do we want to court lady birds instead of boy birds, Arthur?, and he would dutifully chirp out, Because lady birds lay eggs, but what's so great about eggs, anyway? Arthur wouldn't even see the stupid things, if he took a mate.
Females are so drab, anyway. Arthur likes-blue.
Non-committal, Arthur-even though bowers are intended to impress, not to be lived in, but he's too attached and they've already broken the rules anyway-says, “Our bowers could attach. Then it would look even better.”
“I believe you're right, Arthur,” says Eames. “That would look better.”
And Arthur submits to Eames' preening, his feathers riffling pleasurably. “I'm always right,” he says.
“Indeed,” says Eames.