I will never say I’m good at writing descriptions. In fact, I am fairly shit at it.
BUT.
When writing the damn Monster, I have to pause every now and then and ask myself “wait, have I explained anything about this place” and go back and check the whole damn document and then find the description, and if I don’t find one, I have to find the first spot I mentioned the place in question and write a wholeass description of it, and as much as it adds to worldbuilding, I am Doubtful of my ability to explain
Me: I have god knows how many stories that need finishing, the Monster still isn't done...
Brain: Uh-huh :)
Me: AND I have schoolwork, SEVERAL assignments need to be done in early March and I haven't even started on them yet.
Brain: Yep :)
Me: I am NOT starting on anything new, no matter how short it is!
Brain: Sucks :) Because I want to think about Bandobras Took and his brother and there is a lot to play around with there that would make for a nice story
Every now and then I look at what I’ve written on the Monster, and I marvel briefly at how quickly I went from “the Baggins family tree for some reason starts with Balbo Baggins, which is pretty late down the line actually”, to considering the general pride and respectability of the family in question, to suddenly stating to myself that “clearly Balbo Baggins’ father was a complete twat and the family tree has been extremely pruned, effectively making Balbo the original patriarch of the family”.
You know, instead of taking the sensible route of “They just didn’t have it all written down before” or “the old family tree was damaged beyond repair and mostly illegible” or “they had another name before”.
Me: Oh, no problem, I know how to pronounce these names
Also me: wait how the fuck am i supposed to pronounce Isengrim? is it a long or short I? Is it like the word "is", or the word "ice"? It's the latter when pronouncing Isengard, right? so wouldn't it be the same when saying Isengrim? But it sounds so weird??? Have I been saying it wrong this entire time? Because I do use the latter when saying Isengard, but I've been using the former for Isengrim, and now I've confused myself
48 and 46 in a cute mishmash for Hatemance? (ITS BEING SHOOOOWN)
46: A lingering kiss before a long trip apart.48: One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s.
HERE WE FRIGGING GO
“It’s almost winter,” Gerontius grumbled. “And you never come here during winter.”
He stood leaning against the doorframe of the little bedroom, watching as the room’s occupant was packing his travel-case. He had to admit that he felt rather like a petulant child whose favourite toy was being taken away from him; and while it was certainly not a new feeling, he wished that he could get used to seeing someone leave.
Mungo glanced up from his packing, his expression as grave as ever, and sighed.
“No, I do not come to visit Tuckborough during winter,” he said, “because there is no need to do so. I have plenty to do at home.”
“Just once,” the Took insisted, “I’d like to see you during the winter months. Just once. Couldn’t you stay just a little longer?”
“You can’t stand having me around half the time,” Mungo snorted. “And the rest of the time, you act offended when I would like to actually focus on getting some work done.”
“With good reason!”
“If I am supposed to be here on business, Gerontius Took, then I’d best have something to show for it when I come home.”
Pushing away from the doorframe, Gerontius stepped into the room. He never did like when someone was about to leave. Perhaps some years ago, he would have simply said “good riddance” and turned away, though he would have felt bitter doing so; but things were different now, and despite what their reputations quite clearly stated that they thought of each other, he wished dearly that the Baggins would stay. For good, if at all possible.
“I hate this,” he confessed glumly. “I hate having to part like this. You should be here, with me.”
“We fight too much for that,” Mungo answered steadily. “Some time apart does some good for both of us.”
“Don’t you want to be here?”
Mungo straightened and looked at him, and there was some sadness in his grey eyes that rather conflicted his otherwise grave expression.
“You know that I do,” he said reluctantly. “But think of what folk would say. It isn’t quite as easy as you want it to be.”
Gerontius groaned loudly. It always came back to the same arguments; what others would think or say, that they were both married hobbits for all that their wives knew and didn’t disapprove, their past history with each other.
“Were you anyone else,” he argued, “you wouldn’t keep saying that.”
“Were I anyone else,” Mungo retorted, “you wouldn’t think it unreasonable that I keep saying that.”
A rather significant part of Gerontius wanted to argue more, wanted to start another shouting match; it always tended to feel so cathartic, so oddly soothing, to get it all out in one go. But as he stepped closer, he pushed that to the back of his mind and chose instead to pull the smaller hobbit into a tight embrace.
“I hate winter,” he mumbled. “It’s cold and miserable and you’re not here.”
“You have Adamanta,” the Baggins sighed. Gentle hands came to rest on the Took’s back, rubbing it soothingly. “And you love her, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then comfort yourself with that thought. I will come back when I can, you know that.”
Feeling how Mungo moved to stand on his tip-toes, Gerontius loosened his grip just a tad so that he might lean down and meet the other hobbit’s silent request.
Oftentimes, they would kiss out of sheer frustration or to distract each other. It was quite different when one was about to leave. It was gentler, more longing; Gerontius never wanted those kisses to end. As soon as Mungo began to pull back, he chased after him, stealing yet another kiss, and then another, and another. And Mungo didn’t argue, only wound his fingers in the Took’s greying hair and held him close.
“When spring comes,” Mungo promised quietly when they finally broke apart. “I will write to you when I can.”
“When spring comes,” Gerontius echoed. “Take care on the way home, alright? I don’t want to receive any frantic messages via the Quick Post from your wife about how you never came home.”
“It’s the Shire,” Mungo snorted. “What in the world do you expect would happen?”
Gerontius didn’t answer, but only pulled him in for another kiss. Only one more, he thought, one more to make sure that he wouldn’t be forgotten during the winter-months.
