#prudii.txt

[izzyovercoffee]

Mereel: [slams fist down] Let Prudii say fuck.

A'den:

A'den: ...no one's stopping him.

[izzyovercoffee]

Prudii's gender is —FUCK

[izzyovercoffee]

while we have Ordo and Kom’rk in one corner, having a serious conversation and trying to navigate new realizations with brevity, in the other corner we have Prudii coming to Mereel to try to suss out the dulled panic that’s risen from a hum he could ignore to an endless siren behind his ears (and burying under ... illicit means of self medication) and they both come to the conclusion that, really, the only way to navigate this is to go bar cantina hopping and “figure it out.”

that Prudii is Mereel’s go-to party partner, or vice-versa, isn’t really brought up, and neither is Prudii’s attempts to navigate attraction.

Gender he talks around, because he’ll be damned if Kal’s constant endless drilling and droning of normalcy and compacting his sons into narrow boxes wasn’t seriously internalized to an extreme and painful degree for him. 

Does he ever figure it out? Maybe. Maybe not. He doesn’t get there without support---but it’s not the kind any of his other brothers can give, not really. Mereel is the only one so secure in himself that that security bleeds into him, and helps him try to find it in himself.

[izzyovercoffee]

Prudii: C'mon, you love it.

someone: You're horrible.

Prudii: The worst.

[izzyovercoffee]

Prudii: [sasses Ordo by sassing the gods / the ka'ra]

Ordo: [is gonna ask them to send a large buck to chase Prudii down]

Ordi: "To be clear. A deer. With antlers."

Prudii: "You always know how to bring excitement back into my life."

[izzyovercoffee]

In hindsight, it only makes sense that a man who tastes of the first frost of winter would be laid low by the flowers of spring, but Prudii still never saw it coming. Sometimes, the winter feels like it lasts forever. Sometimes, if you find yourself buried in snow long enough, it's hard to remember the world still turns, and warms, and even burns, somewhere else. Regardless, it's not the most poetic thing he's ever thought. He can't come up with clever turns of phrase as easily as his brother at all hours and all phases of waking, but it's certainly ... an irony he didn't register when he first started taking note of flowers. And one he's starting to regret, in the middle of the night, when he tries to rest among flowers that refuse to close to sleep.