𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 / 𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑠ℎ𝑘𝑜𝑙 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑣. 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑦-𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑒. 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟. ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡. 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑒𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑟 + 𝑛𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑙.
a dependent muse for endurefm analyzed by m • 26. est. he/him.
TAG DROP ↓ // BIOGRAPHY. WANTED CONNECTIONS. HEADCANONS.
Not today Justin

oozey mess
One Nice Bug Per Day

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shark vs the universe
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hello vonnie
almost home

pixel skylines
todays bird
Sade Olutola

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d e v o n

Love Begins
$LAYYYTER
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

Kiana Khansmith
i don't do bad sauce passes
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Xuebing Du
seen from Chile

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@ofherbalisms
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 / 𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑠ℎ𝑘𝑜𝑙 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑣. 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑦-𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑒. 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟. ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡. 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑒𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑟 + 𝑛𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑙.
a dependent muse for endurefm analyzed by m • 26. est. he/him.
TAG DROP ↓ // BIOGRAPHY. WANTED CONNECTIONS. HEADCANONS.
Albert Camus, from “Notebooks”
Sunrise, Louise Glück
Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Ethel Smyth written c. January 1935
` CLOSED ▸ reuven / @ofherbalisms .
lingering behind a double storm door, she's had her open palm pressed to the resilient metal for five, ten minutes, doing nothing more than anticipating. the cat. the man. and always in that order, if they should come at all. it had been only this in the beginning — a perchance noticing man and beast wandered past the short stretch of her living room window. almost always around the same dusky edge of the evening. it was a short jump from scheduled curiosity to positioning herself in the four-by-six square of wild penstemon and yarrow. a selfish waiting. tending to her garden. to the cat, the harbinger of man — reuven, the name knotted in her throat, tangled in his unexpected gentleness. so like her father.
the cat, a disheveled, mottled thing, leaps onto the red brick garden wall that frames danielle's front door on either side. she catches the anticipation in her throat and pushes through the door, to the short wall — a half-finished project, begun and abandoned by a long-dead survivor. still, the cement binder, now solid, seems to ooze from beneath the last laid brick. danielle drums her fingertips on common burnt clay, enticing the stray to ram it's head beneath her attentive hand. " hello, darling. " it purrs, a quiet hum of a reward for routine feeding and care. feeding, she supposes, does much of the heavy lifting — to that end, the seamstress unfolds a square of cloth, scraps sewn together into a patchwork, to reveal today's picnic: scraps of meat and the crumbled yellow yolk of a hard boiled egg.
it eats voraciously. she gives an exhale of a laugh, stroking its coarse fur from nape to tail. how precious this small, half-feral life had become to her. and when she finally hears the crunch of boots on gravel — " i was wondering where you'd gone off to, " danielle lifts her chin toward him, followed by her gaze finally drawn from the docile beast. her smile softens, enthusiasm tempered by the nervous comfort that so often accompanies his appearance. " it's not like him to wander this way without you. mm? " the cat has settled, the egg half devoured, purrs replaced by the gnashing of canines on muscle. danielle cautiously withdraws her hand and folds both arms over her chest, skin prickling in the evening chill. now, observing him properly, her brows knit slightly. " was it a ... difficult day? "
𝑰𝑻 𝑰𝑺 𝑨 𝑺𝑰𝑮𝑵 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬𝑺. Frigid and unforgiving gusts of wind whip through hair, sting the tips of his nose and fingers. Winter has begun to settle into all of his corners. Reuven is awaiting the day he returns to that lake he so often frequents and finds it frozen over. It has, of course, become virtually unswimmable since the temperatures dropped and drew both the life and heat out of everyone and everything. His beard and hair has grown long and unruly in an attempt to stay warm. Things on the farm are more difficult; crops more scarce and meat less prosperous. The greenhouse on the farm will hopefully sustain the community through the winter, along with the horde of slower-perishables they had stockpiled through the year. Still, despite this, the worry about famine has resurrected, as it does every year, and has it has done since the day his son died from a malnutrition-borne immunocompromised state. The distance between now and then has grown long, and yet, Reuven feels that guilt in his gut like it just happened yesterday. If he had just been able to find enough food... if he had just skipped one more meal himself and given his boy extra... might it have made a difference? Now, in a community full of mouths to feed, he hardly feels just an herbalist. His time gets divvied up between the medical greenhouse and the farm and, when he can't sleep, the watch tower. So he drags himself back home at the end of the day, only when he can say with certainty to himself that he did all he could.
Worn boots crunched on frosted grass as he rounded the corner to the dorms wing, then gravel as he neared closer, and then before he could beeline back up to his room and strum his guitar and hope to gain company, a neighbor chirped out. He had not known much about her other than her name and that she was one of the seamstresses. He'd meant to bug her about fixing a tear in his jacket, and perhaps gluing the sole of his boot over again. Now was certainly not the time to put her to work, though. He welcomed the interaction in the way he might invite in an old friend—caught off guard, but willing nonetheless. He returned the smile, politely, as he stepped forward to scratch the mangy little cat between the ears. "Hey, stinky," he greeted the furry friend first, then drew in a deep but content sigh. "Yeah. I guess he and I do come as a pair most days... I'm surprised he's still alive. Gettin' cold out." He drew in a sniff, and then moved to shift under the cover of the building's entrance and out of the slowly falling snow. At her question, he shook his head, and reassured, "No. No." Yes, it was. He was exhausted, in that way where every muscle in his body ached to lay down in some visceral need for rest. "How about yourself? I'm sure work's picking up now that everyone needs winter gear...?" Small talk wasn't his strong suit. If he was honest with himself, he wanted to go upstairs, make a hot cup of tea and play some Arctic Monkeys, or maybe Stevie Ray Vaughn. If he was feeling particularly confident, maybe he'd try to acoustic some Jimi Hendrix.
Jun was a bit intimidated by this stranger’s sheer presence. He could not parse the general feelings in the air. If only they had been akin to signals sent directly to his brain. The ambiguous intent of the whole thing kept the operator glued to his spot, blinking mindlessly as Reuven suddenly sat. Oh! Was that an invitation to sit back down? The Freshman was about ready to bolt for it — this was perhaps worse than any creepy crawler — but then the older offered to help him. Whether or not that meant Reuven wanted to lay eyes on a terrible rough draft or not did not deter Jun. His eyes lit up, a smile ghosting his lips. This stranger was going to be at the other end of one of Jun’s endless strings of racing thoughts. Speaking of his interests out loud had always helped him hone in on what needed the most focus. The signals usually stopped bouncing around like a DVD logo and redirected through his mouth. “Yeah, actually! Check this out.” Long arms quickly retrieved the lost papers and held them out to the fellow tea drinker. The radio operator couldn’t help but divulge his precious notes, silly doodles of grey aliens, and unorganized amendments. Despite the awkward start, he felt he owed an explanation to fill the empty air. “I’m studying weird signals for one of my classes. The Arecibo looks kinda like a Tetris screenshot. I think it’d be cool if we could update it or something — like, add in a warning to aliens that this place doesn’t have room for them because of all of the monsters and stuff.”
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑨𝑵 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑺𝑼𝑫𝑫𝑬𝑵𝑳𝒀 faced with a conundrum. At the vibrancy that graced the stranger's features, a softening of Reuven's natural defenses occurred. Much like he might entertain the excited ramblings of a child brandishing a very colorful something on poster paper, Reuven stifled down his admitted disinterest to humor the other. He definitely wouldn't be able to sleep if he crushed the guy's dreams here.
A slightly amused eyebrow lifted as the doodles came into view, and his calloused grip handled the papers rather... carefully. As if they held some sacred texts, because he was certain they were just as valuable in sentiment to the other survivor as perhaps a Torah might be to Rabbi. Unkempt curls fell into his dark gaze as he studied the drawings and notes, finding himself searching between them for this stranger. What might have been extending out from the artist that managed to touch paper. The images looked... a bit chaotic, but revealed all the imagination of a lingering innocence. In a way, it made a sort of sad yearning kindle within the older man. He wished he could have the same hope. The same imaginative nature. Think of fictitious aliens and their overlords, rather than the reality that roamed the here and now. It brought a sad smile to his lips, and then he passed the papers back to the stranger solemnly. "Who knows? Maybe the aliens would fight the monsters, and we could escape out the back." It was a joke, but somehow his tone didn't carry that. It had been even more difficult to draw his emotions into his voice as of late; a relapsing of depression, perhaps. Either way, Reuven would choose not to pay it the mind it deserved and needed.
"There used to be this video game," he began, ruminating absentmindedly against a threatening nostalgia, "before everything... went to shit. Monsters versus aliens. Used to play it with my kid—well... in front of my kid. She liked the explosions." He chuckled then, and swallowed, trying not to remember his little Chedva in too much detail. Otherwise he might start crying, and that would be embarrassing at best. "Little dingbat." He paused, then leaned back in his chair, wondering how much of life the stranger had gotten before the apocalypse began. He'd mentioned a screenshot, so certainly he'd had to have interacted with a cellphone. "I'm Reuven. Don't think I caught your name, ...?"
closed starter to: @heartxsighs time + location: the library, midnight
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑯𝑨𝑺 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑫 into night. Shuffling footsteps and whispers have settled, dormant, in the corners until morrow day. There is the grainy residue of sweat long cooled and dried on the man's neck, chest, arms. Somehow, even in winter, he would start the day out bundled up and end it with sleeves rolled to the elbows and every button undone at the neckline. The icy wind felt refreshing on his bare skin during the trek down to the library. The day had long expired for most of the compound's residents, but Reuven tended to be one of the few that would stave off sleep; fight it, like a toddler to their mid-day nap, because even if rest would make him feel better, to him the day wasn't finished. He hadn't gotten to read that leather-bound journal at the far end of the reference section, tucked in between the encyclopedias and atlases. Surely whoever had put it there had meant it not to be found, but discovered it anyway, Reuven had.
At first it had been innocent intrigue. After all, who would leave a nameless book tucked onto an incongruent bookshelf, as though it belonged there? The man had picked it up and thumbed through it, only to discover it was full of viscera. He had read some poetry as a boy, and then eventually once again as a college student himself, but he'd read the words of old. Hemingway and Poe and Dickinson. When he'd had the task of writing a poem himself, for a grade, it was done as fawn attempts to gallop. Reuven was not a poet, by any means, but this poetry collection he stumbled across had still captivated him so thoroughly. These words were relatable. The poet's grief was his own grief. He wondered how on earth he had been so lucky to come across such an eloquent and pertinent piece of literature, when he returned to read it again the following week and found that it had gained a new entry. His heart had thudded in his realization that he had been reading someone's diary. Someone who lived at the grounds. He felt that he had violated the writer's privacy, and it suddenly felt so wrong to pick it back up. His restraint lasted for a few weeks, until he thought to himself—well, what's the harm? I'll never meet them anyway. The book was unsigned. And he had, though he would never admit it, made casual attempts at figuring out who was writing it. Their identity remained anonymous. All of it except... all of it. He read about their inner workings. Their insecurities. Their dreams. Their depression.
The man would find a quiet corner tucked in the very back of the library, sit down in one of the sofa chairs and melt into the writing. After long, empathy gave way to sympathy. Sympathy gave way to anxiety. And eventually, he could no longer deny himself the next page of the book out of pure necessity to know this person was still here. When he arrived to the library that night, he anticipated the silence and alone time. After all, who else would be in the library at midnight?
Very quickly he discovered who. His linguistic effigy. His web weaver.
He was rounding the corner of one of the shelves and stopped in his tracks. Dark eyes grew orb-like in surprise. There was a form, curled up in the same chair he so often sat wide-stanced in, reading the same book this form possessed now. There she was, with that leather-bound book open to its next page, weaving it together even more than its binding did. He stood, baffled and staring, for much too long, as when she realized a figure was staring at her, she gave a little start and a little scream and he found himself frantically apologizing for scaring her. "Sorry! Sorry, I—" but... he what? What would he say? He'd come to read her journal? Her most vulnerable and authentic thoughts? Finally, coming face to face with this poet he'd grown to know like the back of his own hand, the herbalist was struck with overwhelm to meet her, properly, and also to go running for the hills, because how entitled must he have been, to go waltzing up like it was written for his eyes alone to read? Reuven swallowed, and then suddenly he couldn't look at her any longer. His gaze panned off to the side, palm finding his neck. Gaze panned off at nothing, nowhere, anywhere but at her and that damn book.
"Are you—uh—" he paused, cleared his throat. "Are you reading that? I was gonna..." but he trailed off. Should he even admit to his sins? Would she not be mortified? "Uh... You know what? Nevermind, I'm just gonna..." thumb pointed back, the way he came. "Sorry for bothering you. Um... Have a good night."
“I wasn’t sure about the existence of a higher power, but I believed in floating, in clear blue above me and clear blue beneath me. I believed in the silence I could find only when I was lying, weightless, in salt water. In salt water, there is nothing looming over me but sky, nothing that might collapse.”
— Nadia Owusu, Aftershocks (via 89words)
“It is hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty.”
— Sarah Kay, The Type (via 89words)
open starter ! time + location: the hospital, 19:00
𝑨 𝑻𝑨𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 grey rag dipped into salted water, and then wiped gingerly at the small wound on the other's leg. Typically the herbalist would not have gotten involved in anything medical, but his herbal delivery to the staff had been slow to be accepted, and there were a few cuts and bruises hanging out, waiting to get treated. He certainly was no doctor, but herbal medicine had practically become his third career. If someone would have told him twenty years ago that he'd wind up growing rosemary for a living, he would have laughed at them. From behind his tactical military uniform, even the dead roaming the earth was more plausible than him becoming some full-time gardener. And, yet, here the man was, squatted down and dabbing some potent tincture of homegrown rosemary, oregano, and garlic onto their wound. It smelled more like a steak seasoning than medicine, but it would get the job done.
"You know, in my day, we got told to rub some dirt into cuts like these," he murmured playfully, though he did not crack much of a smile. Despite his intensity, he was quite gentle in his movements, and adjusted his pressure in harmony with their grimaces. "I know it stinks, but this'll help decolonize the bacteria. I don't know how to do stitches so... you'll just have to deal with it. Wash it every day, twice a day, preferably with saltwater if you can get your hands on it." He paused, wrapping a clean rag around their wound. "All jokes aside... keep dirt out of it. Maybe you'll live." Reuven's shoulder lifted in a shrug, and then he rose back to his full height with a grunt. "If it starts leaking green and, or, you start puking, you should probably come back. And, uh... Yeah. I think that's all." Another pause, as he wiped his hands. "How'd you get that anyway? Pretty nasty gash."
her breath nearly gets stuck in her throat, almost forgetting to breath for a moment, when she hears his voice. the familiarity of it all makes her want to cry. it's a reminder of home, of the place she longs for but cannot go back to. how long has it been? she's lost count. only fragments of memories exist, but even then all her happy memories are tainted with the reminder of what was to come. she can't block it out even if she tried. it's like an ink blot, slowly spreading and seeping through the layers even though she tries to clean it up but all it does is make things worse and before she knows it, everything is stained. the closest she's had are the traces from when she's roaming the sanctuary, actively trying to avoid reuven, quickly darting the other way when she hears the familiar voice grow louder in her direction.
maybe part of it was her fault, being far too stubborn to admit defeat and breaking the ice first. bite marks are on her tongue and crescent moons imprinted on the inside of her palms from holding back from what she wanted to say every time she had the chance to make things right again. she was her mother's daughter after all, the first born daughter of all things. holding her tongue was one of the things she had perfected by now for she had been an expert at it from a young age.
she's grateful that one of them doesn't have her mother's ability to withhold the silent treatment for what seems like eternity. it's maybe not how she would have planned it (though anu's not sure what she expected, perhaps an apology, if she could ever form the words to speak them into existence), but it's a start. "you know you don't have to," she paused, "pass through, i mean. i can't stop you from staying. that is if you want to."
it feels like they're in an uncharted territory, neither of them knowing how to navigate this chapter of their relationship. being someone that anu once knew so intimately to virtually a stranger again. she couldn't just pretend there wasn't history there, that he was a stranger whose laugh she could recognise anywhere. "i'm fine, good actually" her answer is curt, tone unnaturally too upbeat even for anu like she's trying to convince herself that everything's fine. out of all the people she could fool though, reuven was not one of them and even before he could get a word in, she sighed, nervous laugher following shortly after.
"i don't know why i just lied. it's almost like a natural instinct. i guess i'm fine physically but i don't know. there's nothing wrong, not really, and god, i feel so stupid even complaining because i know things could be so much worse and they have been before. but i'm just so tired sometimes. i miss home, i miss being able to go outside for a run without looking over my shoulder every 30 seconds, i miss not flinching or getting ready to attack every time i hear a suspicious noise." she's not sure where it came from or what triggered it but once she's started she can't stop. it's word vomit and god, she feels so much better now that it's all out. "i'm an awful, selfish person, i know. there's real problems out there and i'm complaining like some spoilt brat. you can tell me the truth, it's nothing that i've not thought of before." she's grown thicker skin since last time, she thinks she's more prepared to hear the harsh truth than she was before. the years that she'd spent trying to survive by herself had shown her things that she had been shielded away from, things that she had lied to herself about. anu's seen the worst thing she could imagine, there's very little that can hurt her now.
𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬, 𝑯𝑰𝑮𝑯 𝑨𝑩𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑴, and far into the thicket of forestry, there is an owl hooting at the moon. Perhaps for its lover, or to feel the breath in its lungs and the force of its voice, or perhaps the owl sings out of pure necessity: I am alive and therefore I must speak. Reuven gazes down at Anu softened down to his core for her, and he wonders if he were an owl, that perhaps this might be easier; simpler. Might he call out into the moonlight for her, lungs full of this winter wind. Might he call out for her to come back to him; to please come back, I miss you so much. The man was trying not to stare, at those chocolate doe-eyes, the perfect slope of her nose, the way her hair pillowed out over her shoulders. Features he once had been so enamored with he would take a moment to compose himself before glancing her way, even when he was just the guy who's kids she watched a for a few hundred dollars. Funny, how both she and money had disappeared, slowly and then all at once. Now, she felt like some dream, standing here in front of him. Some lost relic come back to fruition. They both had been disappearing at the end. He was certain of that now—the grief had been too insurmountable; the circumstances too tumultuous. Like trashing against your lifeguard against the water that threatens to consume you, Reuven had thrashed against Anu until she let him sink back into the ocean. He had had no one to blame but himself for it all, and yet, she tells him he can stay.
It feels like an invitation, in her roundabout way. Or, perhaps, because he wants it to be an invitation. Either way, he does not move, and instead his heart begins to pound sickeningly against his sternum. His abdomen floods with feathery surprise. He thanks all the stars in the sky for his military training, because he calls on it now to not burst into nervous laughter and rosy cheeks himself. Inside, he feels so strange — like a youth again, learning that his crush wants to sit with him at the lunch table.
Reuven does not care that Anu is rambling, because the sound of her voice in more than one, or two, or if he was lucky—three, syllables is like the most intoxicating of melodies. He could melt into her. He could listen to her complain all night. In fact, he wants to. He shakes his head in protest at her self depreciation, and murmurs, "No," in tone baritone and certain; quiet and gentle. "No, you're not spoiled for wanting to go home." He pauses, and gaze finds hers, and he hesitates before untethering from this horrid, wretched apprehension. "I miss laying on the couch and watching 24," he offers, and then remembers he should smile. Smiling has felt so foreign to him these past few years. He had gone almost a decade without doing so. Lips tug up and over a defined canine, in some sad but genuine half-grin. "I miss grading papers, and... getting bitched at by my Corporal. Hell, I even miss eating that really shitty hummus you and the kids made." It's a joke that falls from his lips with soft humor, and when his smile relaxes, it leaves the imprint of something happier in his dark and saddened eyes.
He reaches out to trail a gentle touch around the silhouette of her shoulder, down to her elbow. Like offering fingertips to moistened nose, asking for permission to fall into her orbit; to encroach upon her personal space; to become her personal space, and drown her in his embrace if only to feel that she is alive, too. To know it for certain, that she has not been some hallucination all this time. "You're not awful," he murmurs, and when she does not back away, reaches out to tug her, gently, closer, into his arms, where he can properly hold her. The moment his arms secure around her, his chest floods with an involuntary sigh, as if finally feeling relief after ages of agony. His face falls into a nestle into her hair. His heart pounds in his abdomen now, and he murmurs into her dark mane. "I'm so sorry."
It happens before he can even register that he's crying. Suddenly, he is sobbing—sobbing twelve-years' worth of pain and anger and yearning and regret, into her hair, holding her like he'll never let go again. "I'm so sorry," he says again, louder, more desperately. His voice breaks in its croak, but its stronger; purposeful. Reuven can't look at her yet. His tall form is all but consuming her—one arm secured about her shoulders; the other beckoning her in at the torso. He's terrified that when he pulls away, she will be rejecting. That she will finally confirm for him,. after all these years, just how much she truly does despise him. Can he face that now? Is he ready for that stone hard punch to the gut? It's going to kill him when he sees the disdain he expects on her features, as though he was not prepared. Had he not enough time to ready himself for this? Over a years' worth? Now, here it all was, coming to a pinnacle. The man waits for her to push back against him; to push him away, to go storming off and never speak to him again, because he knows that is what he deserves.
𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒,
a 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒔 of 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔, articulated from the 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 prompt by mimble. the following character analysis is inspired by the melody of 25.22 by allan rayman, and contains explicit and potentially triggering content, such as: violence, gore, grief, homicide, child death, religious trauma and brief mentions of internalized religious homophobia. proceeding with caution is strongly advised.
#thicc Beardthal Bash 2023 THE PUNISHER | 1.01
"I feel like everyone is being too dramatic about it. Like, it's not like I don't know that it's an important job." Vanity wasn't sure why she cared so much about it, either. So what if she wasn't in charge of the armory? She had never been the hard-working type. Perhaps having turnt thirty only a couple weeks ago made her reflect on 'having a purpose', and all that philosophical bullshit. "And the missing ammo incident, no one was ever able to trace that back to me, so I don't get why people keep blaming me for that one."
She turnt towards the other person, trying to figure out if what she was on the wrong. "I'm asking you honestly: Don't you think I would be capable enough to do it?"
𝑪𝑳𝑶𝑻𝑯 𝑴𝑬𝑻 𝑷𝑶𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑯, polish met metal, and Reuven listened quietly to Vanity's vent. The man stood at a small work bench a few feet away, finally smoothing some affection into his carbine after tinkering with it for an hour. Having been in the Navy, and then growing a lifeline attachment to this hunk of metal after the end of the world, Reuven was highly particular about who he allowed to even touch his gun. He, of course, thought the woman was capable and well-studied and deserved the opportunity, but perhaps he was not the best person to ask for this very reason. Too quickly did his internal debate return to his own love affair with his M4A1. Would he have allowed her to tinker with it as he had just done? There was a moment of silence between her question and Reuven's answer, as he ruminated over that silent question posed to himself.
The answer was no. But why? "Vanity," he sighed, as if about to go on some fatherly spiel about being disappointed by life and how sometimes missing an opportunity was important to opening up another. But he saved her the belittling. Palm met coarse, dark beard and smoothed it down in thought, before he spoke very carefully, so not to hurt her feelings. "I think you would be perfect for the position. I just think that... maybe you should get a little more experience beforehand. There's a lot of troubleshooting to be done with obscure firearms, that you might not learn about until you get some more dirt on your hands." Did that come out gentle? His dark gaze searched her face, lips pursing slightly, as he awaited her reaction. Then, he quickly followed: "But—that's just my opinion. I mean, I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong and you're ready now." A pause. "Why do you want to be gunsmith? What about it speaks to you more than the armory?" he questioned; perhaps a skillful deflection, as he dragged fingers through his hair in self-soothing, and then dabbed cloth into polish again.
The quiet of the dining hall made the scratch of each paper deafening, the sound echoing off of every table and chair. The emptiness of the hall would be eerie if the radio operator wasn’t so focused — or if he had been a person who was able to read the room. Jun sat in his cozy corner, just about through with this set of notes. He skimmed through them without much thought. Server duty had always made him feel lazy (the cause of which his friends had not-so-passively suggested was due to all of the snacks he indulged on). Sure, his shift had been over for almost an hour now, but he had long ago deemed his dorm too far for him to make the effort. Jun stretched, leaning back and almost knocking an elbow into the late night patron. The forgotten papers scattered across the floor when he recoiled in surprise and balled his hands into fists. “What the — !” A litany of swears died out when he realized the other wasn’t a specter. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑬𝑻𝑺 𝑯𝑨𝑫 long since started their nightly chorus, and brought the reign of nightfall in like drums to king. As winter had begun to hail over the continental US, the nights began to get more frigid. More unrelenting. More brutal.
Reuven no longer buzzed in both body and mind for a danger that was not coming, but he did develop a new sort of anxiety around sleeping. In the winter the nightmares of distorted past realities seemed more vicious. Even if the cold reminded him of still Washington nights as a boy, huddled under the toastiness of a worn-and-true blanket passed down through Aronov generations, it didn't take long for his subconscious to ruin the relaxing lull it brought. He'd wake up in a trembling, confused sweat, even if he'd gone to sleep in boxers and had forgone the blanket. He'd wake up searching for his baby boy, gutturally and frantically croaking his son's name, until awareness came flooding back in with the memory that Ezra was dead, and so were his sisters, and so was his mother. And then Reuven would sit there, in that Winter's hymn, and hear the silence and feel the cold on his sleep-warmed skin, and decide that he did not need sleep after all. Getting up and roaming the campus was a much more tolerable alternative.
That was how he found himself in the dining hall. Some lifetime ago, a decade's worth of grueling military training had refined his footsteps into near-silence. Today, he found himself apologizing for his sudden apparition more often than not. One moment there was nothing, and the next there would be this hulking figure that more often than not emanated intimidation and danger. He'd grown the appearance of a killer, because he had had to kill, and had had to do so ruthlessly and without hesitation. Reuven still carried that foreboding intensity in his mannerisms, though he was not really dangerous. At least not anymore... he hoped.
The herbalist stared down at the radio operator for a moment, dark eyes uncommunicative of the awkwardness he felt. He stood there, feeling a bit out of place and unsure of what to say, before sliding into the chair opposite of Jun and setting his cup of tea down.
He took a sip, cleared his throat, and then—as if to atone for scaring the other: "Do you want some help?" he gestured at the paperwork, not really sure what it was but definitely certain he'd figure it out should the offer be cashed in.