#in brighton

[ellistheelephant]

guys. x

[jbnny]

The George and Wilbur dynamic is so refreshing to see compared to their usual banter with their own groups (DT and SBI). We have George actually responding back to Wilbur’s flirtatious comments instead of just brushing them off, and we also have Wilbur being calmer (but still chaotic) and more mature compared to his conversations with say Tommy. I really wish they talked to each other more on stream.

[bunkyoku]

I miss her

[indi-dork]

we were planning on going to a pub but we bought jammie dodgers and tea and are now watching big fat quiz in bed

[pinkakuma]

You guys, I'm in England

[nextbig-box]

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[artisticfade]

‘faye westaway and the assembly of wolves’

the image starts as a watercolor painting, soft and fluid, all the edges of the kaleidoscope melting into one another as though the rain had almost come to the canvass, the threat always hanging over it to wash away every shade and detail. the ocean is a hazard in this narrative, relentlessly beating against the shoreline, against the wood of boats, against the cliffs of rock, against itself. the picture fights against this peril though, unheeding of the danger, much like sam knows he has to be now. much like he knows the others have to be now. just like the way the hues bend and mold, shift and change, they all have to change along with it, they all have to become something else.

sam looks into it deeper, glowing blue eyes now aware and awake, the headache damn near insurmountable, but not swallowing him whole, which is more than he could expect a month ago. he still feels that buzz of tingles through certain parts of his brain, as though the stories about most people not using their full mental capacity were all true—whereas sam knows they are false. there’s still the throbbing, still the stinging, but it’s less so now, or maybe he’s just become more used to it now.

he inhales deeply, stares hard, wills the portrayal to focus and shift again, sharpen, improve, enhance. he wills the weather to fade, the sunlight to come in, the greens to grow greener, the yellows to grow golden; he paints and paints and paints over it, each time trying to look through a better lens, this time honing his sight to give him more precise details.

the yellow becomes hair, the green becomes forest, the brown into tree trunks, and there are splotches of grey and black, calico-colored creatures lurking around the girl with thin arms and an angry face, something wild, something untamable lurking in her eyes. he can’t tell whether she’s in pain or in fury, but a few more strokes give her features a definite line and curve and he knows who he is drawing, he knows these two eyes, this neckline, this jaw.

he stares into the painting and faye stares back at him, but it’s not her, not entirely. something feral has tilted her consciousness off-center, something akin to the wolves snarling beside her where she crouches, hands and knees in the dirt, the forest all around her, and sam can see her moving, smell the scent of pine, hear the rushing of the animals’ footfalls as they run. he watches her dash with them, on a hunt or a trail, sees time pass by her like this, sees her change from this, grow from this. this isn’t like her usual skiffs with the animals she speaks to, this isn’t anything remotely similar or familiar to the power she’s spent almost a year gaining control over. she’s accessed a new level.

sam stares into the painting and sees further, feels the earth beneath his own feet, his own hands, sees her call to him, not with words but in gestures, the two of them something unified under a full moon, the midnight stars howling above them.

samuel blinks, the power draining out of him, falls back into himself as his eyes stop glowing. he inhales another breath as strength in his legs leaves him and he has to sit down on a stool nearby. his fingers are shaking and dabbed in multiple colors, a polychromatic tapestry; the way he’s been since he was a child. he has to close his eyes and remind himself that he is not going crazy. these are real. he’s not his mom.

he looks back up at the messy, hazy watercolor painting and swallows. his whisper is nothing more than a prayer to the emptiness of his apartment. “when you come to me… i’ll be ready.”