[ prp ] Twitter (Taymerica)

[lizbot]

After stepping into the new world and her role in it, America had swiftly found the activity of making friendship bracelets to be one her most soothing outlets. It had started out as just adding a cheap but from her, present to the gifts her alternate had already bought, but tying the small knots together into patterns and lines of color had a way of keeping her hands busy and her mind still. Soon a small clipboard and a packet of embroidery thread became a regular staple in the satchel she carried with her everywhere, right next to the magic dust and ink.

Admittedly, it took a bit of time to associate that with her piece of the sigil. The triangle. The knot.

America had been trying to be good about not venturing too far out into the tides of magic, but she was perhaps a bit restless with it and with the size changing that she was now growing to control, but still...she wanted to do something new by choice, again. Some little bit of control and will and hers to counter Everything Else. So she'd made a list, of small things she wanted, really wanted. But nothing world changing. Just enough to be Nice.

What she'd settled on led her to this moment: a quiet night in her boyfriend's room, her feet in his lap as she finished tying up her latest project. She had been unusually focused on the task, though during, he'd get that swell of emotion from her all of a sudden, his daily reminder that she loved him. That he was important to her.

Smoothing out the new bracelet with her fingers, she glanced over at smiled at Mr. Bitterberry, gurgling over the soda tabs they'd left for him on the nightstand.

"Hey, Angel? Could you put this on?" Drawing up, she leaned over to hold the bracelet out to Taym.

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He looks up from the book he's buried in. He seems to love little better than having her close but separate--a kind of paradoxical shared alone but not lonely--and thus far he'd even managed not to interrupt it when the tumult of that daily reminder swallowed him up, whether it was out of enjoyment of the comfortable silence or a sixth sense that she was doing something important that was not to be interrupted.

He's still a little unpredictable and generally perhaps the expected response would be one of gentle skepticism or jokes about how this feels very high school or perhaps a straightfaced bit of effusive art criticism in fine academic style. Instead he says without sarcasm: "Finally. I was starting to feel left out, not getting one." He puts the book down and extends a skinny wrist and trusts her not to say anything about the fact that maybe he needs her to put it on for him, that he doesn't now or ever trust his treacherous hands not to embarrass him.  

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She flops forward with a little wriggle of the a**, like he's doing her some kind of favor by letting her put it on him. She ties it off and then leans down place a small kiss on his wrist. It takes a moment, but off to the side he hears a quiet, chiding mutter.

"That's not how you feed the mate."

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He is opening his mouth to finally manifest the expected snarky comment but is derailed by this sudden intrusion, going very still and then closing his eyes, his hand still hovering in midair.

On the one hand he ought to be horrified by suddenly hearing things. On the other hand, with her this close, he at least has plenty of reason not to think it's simply him losing his mind. "Sorry," he says calmly--to America or to the air in general. "Did you say something?"  

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Her expression brightens further, smile dimpling up. From the side, the bird picks up a soda tab and carefully sets it aside.

"Superior."

Another tab, tossed over with disgust.

"Sticky. Rude."

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There is a long pause while Taym quietly processes the click-click of soda tab sorting and commentary, and then he folds his hands in his lap like a small child getting a haircut and trying to be on his best behavior.

"Does this run two ways?" he asks finally.  

[lizbot]

"Many sort," answered the bird, fussing at the pile.

"Gold." Plink.

"Pokey." Plink.

"Quality." Plink.

Pause.

"Meri. Your Shiny Mate talking..."

Suddenly Taym was even more interesting the soda tabs.

The girl couldn't help a quiet, swiftly muffled giggle.

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A pause. "Why am I shiny?" he demands, faintly indignant. And then: "How come he has to specify shiny? I'm the only mate, right?" Goddammit.  

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"It's a compliment," America insisted, a little breathless.

Hopping close to Taym and then onto the headboard, the Mr. B lets Taym know the bad news. "Meri eats All The Food." It was true.

"Quality," the bird added, giving Taym's gently gleaming forehead a light peck as he landed on the man. "Mine."

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i am gonna cry @ meri eats all the food it's too cute i can't handle it

It would be nice to think that the emotional intimacy of sharing a conversation with this creature, this piece of America's strange and all-too-often alien world--that all this would override Taym's little sensitivities and ridiculously childish insecurities. It would be nice to think of him becoming overwhelmed by this new and startling closeness, of having a place, if even very small and fleeting, in a reality that he has often felt is walled off from him. It would be nice to consider him taking her hand, all touched and shaken, the world lapsing into the soft focus of a shared and very unique experience.

Well. It would be nice.

"My forehead is not ********' shiny," he explodes, clapping his hand to it as if to shield it from prying eyes or perhaps prying beaks. Ivy lifts her head from her paws in the corner, ears perking in mild interest at this sudden outburst. "It's a completely normal forehead in terms of both size and ********' albedo. You're right about the food, though."  

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The sudden motion of Taym's hand had the jay flying back to the bed stand. The outburst nearly had America crying even as she moved forward to comfort him. "Oh noooo, baby I love your forehead. It's really nice and..."

"Mister Bitterberry...?" The bird interjected. America paused, waiting for the rest.

"Mister Bitterberryyyyyyyyy...?"

Realization damned across her features and she had to look away from the both of them.

"He's waiting for you to compliment him back." America's voice was suspiciously tight.

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He leans off the bed to reach for the ever-nearby bag, rooting through it for the beanie that's inevitably in it and muttering under his breath.

"This is the weirdest s**t I've ever done and it's probably not even the weirdest thing that's going to happen to me this month," he says, to no one in particular. The time it takes to shake the hat out and pull it self-consciously over his ears and the worst part of his apparently-shiny forehead gives him time to sort out a "compliment."

"Mister Bitterberry is noisy, nosy, and an incorrigible pickpocket," he informs the bird, feeling quite comfortable that a bluejay will interpret this as the highest of praise as much as they apparently think that having a shiny forehead is high praise. And then, begrudgingly, as he tentatively extends a hand towards the bird: "Also very handsome."  

[lizbot]

The bird bobs in acknowledgement of the first bits, because those were things that just were. They weren't compliments. It's immediately obvious that handsome is an acceptable piece of praise, the bird happily preening in a way ridiculously similar to the redhead currently making a sappy face at them while fighting the giggles.

"It is true! Such smart! You are the Quality Mate."

Mr. Bitterberry hops onto Taym's hand, still preening and proud.

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"Oh my god he takes after you," he says, sounding accusatory. "You're a corrupting influence."  

[lizbot]

America preens a moment herself in answer, but finally can't help but burst out laughing this time.