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Prompt: Home
Over the years, the word home has brought to mind various places, despite the fact that our family has never once moved. When I was a very young child, 'home' was a five-bedroom house in one of the better neighborhoods in town. Our street was a large circle off a main path so there was rarely traffic on the street during the day or early evening, except for around five to six when everyone got home, and eight to nine in the morning when everyone left for work. We had one bedroom too many, which served nicely as a guest room and computer room, and since we had no study, my father's work was often done at a desk built into the wall of the living room. The upper portion of that wall was a half-bookshelf filled with various books that my parents either thought were interesting or perhaps simply thought looked good. They never bothered to take any out to read, and the few times I tried, the dry writing and adult themes bored me to tears. Where were the action heroes, the magical creatures? My own books were far more fascinating, but if I'd put them up on the bookshelf, I might never have seen them again.
That same room housed a brick fireplace, and during the winters, we'd curl up in front of it, enjoying the crackling of a fire and the warmth of hot cocoa my mother made, and it sometimes seemed like my favorite room of all. There was a glass-top coffee table that my brothers and I played with, despite my mother's near constant chiding. We'd slide under the low table, pretending it was a see-through coffin or some other equally macabre concept. We were boys, fighting and playing together, after all. It's a wonder the thing never broke, though I suspect the wood frame of it needs to be refinished now.
From there, my sense of 'home' became the house that my uncle Aldaric let me visit each summer. I never set out to change like that, but from the first moment I saw it, something within me clicked and I felt more comfortable there than I've ever felt at my original home since. It was a huge place, surrounded by land that held endless fascination for me. There was a few acres my uncle allowed to grow unchecked, so that it felt wild and uncultivated, a woods you could get lost in easily. There were two gardens, a flower garden and a vegetable garden, and though neither one had anyone in particular keeping them, they grew beautifully, always properly weeded with the plants offering bright splashes of color. There was a hedgemaze that I never could properly navigate, though I couldn't understand why. But invariably, I'd become so lost that it was a wonder I was ever able to find my way back out. And the rooms were comfortably lavish, beautiful things that could take one's breath away.
My own particular room was a masculine place, richly stained woods mingled with dark greens and brick reds. The carpet on the floor was thick and soft, the chairs soft to sit on. There was a corner of bookcases with books to my liking, unlike the books in the living room at my parents' house, and toys tucked into a wood chest at the foot of my bed. But most days, I was too busy exploring to bother with the toys my uncle provided. And at night, as I lay in bed with the window opened, I could hear the chirp of crickets and the hoot of owls, and I thought that must be the best place in the world.
Then 'home' became the small apartment I lived in at university. My particular school didn't have dorms, but instead had created student housing in the form of apartments. It was nice, a less crowded, more private way of dealing with things, and for a long time, I thought that helped me to grow into who I am. Maybe it did, too, but I've only recently realized that who I'm going to be isn't who I yet am. Instead, I still have things ahead of me that I know will shape me and shape the way I look at the world. Because now, 'home' is Earth, and I'm not there. I'm trapped elsewhere, in a world without a name, and I've learned more about myself here than I ever realized there was to know back 'home'. Part of me desperately yearns for the familiarity of what I grew up with, the cars and houses and plumbing and people, with all the downsides that are part of it. But part of me, somewhere within, wonders if I'll ever be able to figure out a way to make this place 'home'. Because I don't know if I'll ever find a way back.
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Dismemberment
The first time Garrett's sword slices through flesh, he's shocked at just how easy it is. It takes so little pressure for the heavy metal to push through and beyond, and he can finally understand the stories he read and the movies he saw. The first time his sword slices through bone, it's harder by far, but the angle is somehow right, and when the limb flies away, there's a small part of him that stops and stares in horror. It doesn't matter that it's a life-and-death situation. He freezes up, and only Rience's magic saves him from the next downswing. When the fight is over, he drops to his knees in the bloody grass and retches, stomach heaving as he fights not to smell the metal tang of death.
Word count: 130
Umbrella
Garrett never saw much use for umbrellas when he was in his own world. Unless he was dressed up, they tended to be more trouble than they were worth, really, and he saw nothing wrong with a little rain speckling his casual clothes as he made the run from car to house or car to shop. Out here, on the road near-constantly, it was a far different matter. The first time it rained, he'd spent five minutes with the same mind-set as before. By the time they found shelter, however, he was soaked through and miserable, huddled up as he stared out at the fat drops. They stayed the night in their shelter, without fire and with only cold food thanks to the wet wood around them. And that night, for the first time in his life, Garrett dreamt of umbrellas.
Word count: 141
Porcelain
What drove Garrett the craziest was the lack of little things, things he'd always taken for granted. Yes, there were some serious benefits to a world of magic, but they balanced out until on the whole, he'd rather be living in his own, boring world. Because really, why did the concept of indoor plumbing seem to be so difficult to invent when it came to magical worlds? They had special spells for cleaning, including a rather powerful little spell that Rience used on them all once a day that cleaned them from the skin out, so that they were in fresh clothes. That spell had been invented, Rience told him, by a travelling mage who hated to carry more than he absolutely had to. The same mage had created a mending spell that kept his clothes alive longer, so that he didn't have to purchase or carry an extra outfit. And yes, Garrett was extremely grateful for that. But as yet, Rience had no spell for the really important aspects of living in an inn... like precisely where a person did his morning business. It took Garrett only two days to suggest that Rience consider inventing one.
Word count: 197
Crabs
The seaside town smells of fish and salt, and Garrett never expected to like it there when they first stepped foot within. But the food made up for the smell. Garrett had always liked seafood, and being introduced to dish after dish of their specialties was a rare treat for him. More than once, he caught Rience and Rowan both laughing at him as he tried crabs and fish and lobster, and shrimp cooked in so many different ways. When they finally left, he'd committed to memory no less than five new dishes to try when he finally got home.
Word count: 100
Holiday
Aldaric's death notice came during school holidays, when the facility was shut down for two extra days. Most of the time, Garrett went home during those days. But this time was an exception, and he'd been at the school when the word came. On the whole, he was happier about that, because his grief was a private thing, and when his father had called to let him know, Garrett had hidden away until the pain faded a little.
Word count: 78
Hand
Rience's hands are beautiful, long-fingered and graceful, often stained with inks and spell components. But even stained, they hold Garrett's attention, and he loves the tiny movements that Rience makes each time the mage casts a spell. Garrett thinks, privately, that those fingers, soft and smooth and ill-suited to holding a weapon, would feel exquisite when exploring other things. And though he's careful just how far his mind pursues this thought, his body wakes anyway, and he's grateful that he only allows his mind to wander at night.
Rowan's hands are quick and sure, long fingers and strong nails manipulating the small tools of his craft perfectly. Garrett watches in avid attention at each lock Rowan opens, and each trap Rowan disables, and he knows that those fingers could be taught to do other things, things that would drive him wild with need.
Garrett's own hands feature short, callused fingers that he believes neither man would ever pay any attention to. But even these hands, so easily dismissed and overlooked, have skills, and he wonders sometimes whether either man ever dreams of thick fingers.
Word count: 184
Lonely
Garrett could remember long, lonely nights where he lay in bed, staring up at a dark ceiling and remembering warm touches and strong arms around him. Sometimes, during those miserable nights, he could even feel the weight of the arm draped over his stomach, and hear the soft snores that came from his partner. But since he'd come to this world, he hadn't had much time to reflect on those sad days. Instead, his life had been a whirlwind of travel and planning, and he often went to bed too tired to do more than pass out. The few nights that were plagued by memories of the past had more to do with memories far older than those of his lover, and far more chaste. And somehow, those older memories made him feel more lonely than anything.
Word count: 137
Woods
Camping in the woods at night was a disconcerting thing for Garrett. His family had never really been one for camping trips, and at best, his childhood memories were laced with the few summers he spent at his uncle's, trusting in his uncle's knowledge to ensure everything went properly. It might've been some weird training thing, but Garrett hadn't learned much at all. Rowan and Rience ensured that changed. Their teachings were a slow thing, but few mistakes were repeated as Garrett muddled his way through setting up camp, going searching for wood for their fire, and cooking over open flame. Once those skills had been learned (though not mastered... Garrett was nowhere good enough for mastered), they took him through banking the coals to give warmth through the night, and how to rekindle the fire in the morning. The banked coals offered the very faintest of red glows in the night, just enough to counter the darkness for a little way and let them all see shapes. Late at night, amidst the chirping crickets and faint rustling of nocturnal creatures, surrounded by hooting owls and skittering mice, Garrett wondered if it was really such a bad thing, living like this. There was something rewarding about doing it all himself, after all. Especially whenever Rowan and Rience smiled in approval.
Word count: 220
Tower
Garrett really didn't get mages. Rience liked to travel. He liked the going to new places and learning new things, and it only made sense, given his goals in life. And yet even though he loved all of it, Rience wanted a tower. When asked why, the mage would point out, "It's the right thing to do," which would just leave Garrett wandering off as he scratched his head. Because really, at this point, was there a WRONG thing to do? Garrett didn't know, though he suspected that perhaps Rience could work out some way of settling down in one place and travelling at the same time, despite the utter lack of convenience involved in travel here. If they were in Garrett's world, it would be a simple thing indeed... except, of course, for the price tag. Here, though, there were horses to feed, and boots to mend, and a simple trip to the next city took days, rather than a couple of hours. On the whole, Garrett rather liked his way of travelling more.
Word count: 175
Stay with me
"Stay with me," he'd whispered once, into the darkness of the bedroom. His partner had shifted, mumbling incoherently as he turned onto his side in his sleep, and Garrett was left alone in a bed that held two, his hand edging to the man's back but unable to quite gather up the courage to brush against it. Funny, how simple things like that could be so clear in the aftermath, when your eyesight is unclouded by desperation or need. Love must be blind, for in those dark moments when he offered up more of himself than he'd yet dared to, he'd never noticed how little his partner cared for the sight. Garrett wondered, silently, if he'd ever make the same mistakes again. He prayed he wouldn't, and somehow, he even believed he wouldn't. But there was still a part of him that itched to say three small words to Rowan and Rience, each night in the quiet minutes before he drifted off.
Word count: 162
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Blue Eyes
Garrett likes blue eyes, the brighter the better. Eyes the color of the noon sky are his favorite by far, especially when ringed by midnight darkness that serve only to emphasize the color. He lays on his back in his room, his eyes on the ceiling, but he doesn't see the textured whiteness. Instead, he sees laughing blue eyes, the color far from flat. It's speckled with darker and lighter shades that only someone a breath away can see, and he knows this intimately. He sees them when they open after sleep, unfocussed and quiet, a little narrowed in the brightness after the dark of sleep. And he sees them when they're angry and they spiral from azure down to cobalt, fringed with black lashes. What hurts is that the blue eyes no longer love him.
Cabbage
Garrett hates cabbage. His mother makes it every Thanksgiving, and he suffers through a dinner of good food marred by the strong smell and overpowering taste of the boiled vegetable. He's always hated it, but the dish is a tradition in their house and he will not disappoint his mother by refusing it. ...But he also won't ask for seconds.
Rustic
When Garrett inherited Uncle Aldaric's house in the country, he wasn't foolish enough to think it was rustic. Even had he not been there in several years, he had dreams of the place, surrounded by lush grass and trees, a carefully-cultivated hedge maze near the large mansion. Inside, the house was rich and lavish, lushly furnished. The only thing remotely rustic about it was the charm of the back room. It opened out onto a wooden deck, and Aldaric decorated it with wood furniture and rough carvings that suited the stained cherry walls. Garrett loved it in that room, and could sit there for hours, reading and relaxing, with the quiet sounds of the outdoors filtering in from a screened window. On his own, he took one of the potted trees from another room, setting it near his reading chair and settling in with the greenery nearby, and somehow, that just made everything better.
Isolation
For all that Aldaric's death is a painful thing, it comes at an opportune time for Garrett. The breakup with his boyfriend is fresh in his mind, blocking out useful things like study. So he takes some time off from school, says goodbye to his friends (though not his boyfriend, because even though they parted amicably, Garrett is still hurting and doesn't want to really talk to his ex), and drives up to the house that he's inherited. The moment he crosses over to private land, he breathes easier, the smells and sounds all as familiar as if he'd visited the house only yesterday. Here, surrounded by the familar and beloved but cut off from his friends and his ex, Garrett knows he can really heal. Because here, in isolated splendor, he has no need of masks to hide behind. He can let himself go, basking in the misery that his ex has created just by trying to reassure him. And maybe, maybe in the solitude that draws around him, he can find the healing he so desperately needs.
Witch
"The witch will know where we have to go for the maze," Rowan assures Garrett, and Garrett has the distinct impression of a green-faced, warted hag, her black hair hanging in strings beside her face. A black conical hat and robe spring to mind, and Garrett can't quite help the choked laugh that slips from his lips. He watches Rowan turn to peer at him oddly, and he waves a hand in dismissal. How could he possibly explain to Rowan the story of a flying house and munchkins, or a woman who road a broom and cackled perfectly? And even as he thought that, another image sprang to mind, and this time, he stumbles a bit. Confectionary pink is what his brain draws up, ruffles and sparkles on a sweet-faced blonde whose voice trills with every word. And isn't this even worse than the previous image? Holding his breath, Garrett steps into the small shop that Rowan motions to, and stops short, his friend running into his back. He has to blink a few times when he sees not a green-faced hag, nor a pink-and-lace blonde, but instead a woman close to his own age, her large nose reminding him faintly of a horse. She smirks at his surprise and waves to the seat without asking, and as Rowan nudges him forward, Garrett cannot help but wonder if they've been had.
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