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You're quick to heal once sewn together but the nighttime approach to the cabin dictates a wait...
You&& (working title) is a queer novella about when home is other people, including the monsters lurking in the woods. Check out the about page here. You&& is a sequel to Sometimes The Mountain Buries You.
You're quick to heal once sewn together but the nighttime approach to the cabin dictates a wait until next nighttime to leave. You accept what you've come to understand is a customary offer of tea, this time nettle leaf. Its scent surfaces a Basin memory of picking stinging nettle leaves, carefully placed footfalls trying to avoid sting on bare ankles. In the comfort of the memory, you venture spreading forth—like root and mycelium—and learn more plants Basin has picked and their uses. Juniper settles on you and purrs.
Basin hesitates before handing you a mug, not their favourite. "Please don't drink this if you've a hole in your digestive system." They relinquish the mug to you only after you nod.
Sans gloves, you stare at their hands. "Those, they're new."
Hands empty and open, Basin twists wrists to display the heels of their palms where Ghost had tattooed a pot on one and a pan on the other. You incline towards what tattooing is than who Ghost is. Needle and ink driven by hand, Basin's pain response, sanitary procedure mirroring you getting stitched up—down to the same ample space of the kitchen use.
"They're ah," Basin is watching you, you'd put Basin watching you to the back of your mind in favour of tattoo curiosity but your count with impeccable precision tells you you've been exploring Basin's tattoo knowledge well past their expectation for a response. "Like for a leaking roof, but when I cry."
The rapid clip of every time Basin explained these relatively fresh tattoos, experimenting and narrowing down the explanation to its most efficient form, tailoring the explanation by the sort of people, the sorts Basin sorts people into— surfacing anew the splitting pain in your head. "Yeah, sure, okay."
After pressing their lips into a flat line, you sip your tea and watch as Basin makes busywork of the living room. Juniper purrs louder when Basin finally sits—not on the couch you are wholly occupying—but doesn't leave your lap for theirs.
You focus on not being in Basin's head, not like that at least. Still in there, just not where the way Basin thinks can upheave you. There's a collage cut of memories, and television and book depictions of pots filling with dripping water. The plinks on empty steel and plops in pools of water join Junipers purrs and make song akin bird and babbling stream.
"Do the tattoos, they help?"
"With what?" Basin doesn't look up from the pants they're mending.
"The hurt, pain."
Basin laughs. Their laughter breaks out of their vocal cords and fills their head, resonating in every cavity, filling the cabin with delightful pitchy peals. "Physically, yeah." They look at their relatively fresh tattoos. You feel them lose track of their sewing needle as they think about Ghost and Mark. With this looser hold on their mind, you get the most tangential senses of more people than just Ghost and Mark.
Now that you know what Basin thinking about their people feels like—now that you can separate that feeling from pain; heart-weary and heart-ache—you realize they are always at least a little thinking about all of these people. These people they love; ones who stay at Basin's cabin sometimes, ones that don't, ones that can't, ones that aren't alive anymore.
When Basin looks about the cabin, they are looking at memories of these people they love. Tattooing each other, cooking meals together, curling up in a pile on the couch you are wholly occupying, sharing music, sharing stories. Even those that have never been here have touched this place, because Basin carries those people with them. An all-encompassing home.
Fumbling for a moment, Basin finds their sewing needle with a prick of their finger.
"You said, physically?"
"Oh yeah," Basin says, keeping their eyes on their mending, the rest of the cabin in their periphery. "Tiny stabs trigger pain responses that chronic pain doesn't."
You consider tattoos for yourself. Your body aches so much. Every cut and bruise disturbs spines, misaligning their place in muscle. Your days are spent moving nonstop. The splitting pain in your head returns when you practice how to be and not be in the minds around you.
With Juniper falling asleep on you, Basin yawns and downs the cold last of their tea before setting their mending aside. "I'm gonna head, I've got work tomorrow."
You remember instead of reach into their mind that they're a vet in the next town over. Like asking, remembering is less likely to incite the splitting pain in your head. Though the splitting pain in your head is less and less as you practice how to be and not be in the minds around you, as you grow used to Basin's mind.
"Please keep the curtains closed and don't answer the door while I'm out," Basin winces internally at how it could go if a neighbour were to happen upon you. Then Basin remembers the neighbour who expressed they want to happen upon you. "Heather asked to meet you."
"You don't, want Heather, to meet me."
"Yeah," they rub the back of their neck with a pan. They think about how they could at least give Heather a name if only you had one. "We can sort that out when I'm home from work." The look they give you asks you again not to leave the cabin during daylight. Like asking and remembering, reading Basin's face is easier—is becoming easier for you.
The look you give them says not to treat you like a hatchling.
You sleep on the couch rather than disturb Juniper asleep on you. In the morning Basin cooks breakfast, with an extra cup of tea for you—lemon balm, you already pulled Basin's knowledge and memory of lemon balm from their head last night. They check your sutures, make mental notes comparing against Sheppard how long it takes you to heal, and give you one last appeal not to be seen. Before they leave, you pull from their head, Basin, like river basin.
You find your name in one of Basin's books. A Field Guide to Birds.
You're quick to heal once sewn together but the nighttime approach to the cabin dictates a wait until next nighttime to leave. You accept what you've come to understand is a customary offer of tea, this time nettle leaf. Its scent surfaces a Basin memory of picking stinging nettle leaves, carefully placed footfalls trying to avoid sting on bare ankles. In the comfort of the memory, you venture spreading forth—like root and mycelium—and learn more plants Basin has picked and their uses. Juniper settles on you and purrs.
Basin hesitates before handing you a mug, not their favourite. "Please don't drink this if you've a hole in your digestive system." They relinquish the mug to you only after you nod.
Sans gloves, you stare at their hands. "Those, they're new."
Hands empty and open, Basin twists wrists to display the heels of their palms where Ghost had tattooed a pot on one and a pan on the other. You incline towards what tattooing is than who Ghost is. Needle and ink driven by hand, Basin's pain response, sanitary procedure mirroring you getting stitched up—down to the same ample space of the kitchen use.
"They're ah," Basin is watching you, you'd put Basin watching you to the back of your mind in favour of tattoo curiosity but your count with impeccable precision tells you you've been exploring Basin's tattoo knowledge well past their expectation for a response. "Like for a leaking roof, but when I cry."
The rapid clip of every time Basin explained these relatively fresh tattoos, experimenting and narrowing down the explanation to its most efficient form, tailoring the explanation by the sort of people, the sorts Basin sorts people into— surfacing anew the splitting pain in your head. "Yeah, sure, okay."
After pressing their lips into a flat line, you sip your tea and watch as Basin makes busywork of the living room. Juniper purrs louder when Basin finally sits—not on the couch you are wholly occupying—but doesn't leave your lap for theirs.
You focus on not being in Basin's head, not like that at least. Still in there, just not where the way Basin thinks can upheave you. There's a collage cut of memories, and television and book depictions of pots filling with dripping water. The plinks on empty steel and plops in pools of water join Junipers purrs and make song akin bird and babbling stream.
"Do the tattoos, they help?"
"With what?" Basin doesn't look up from the pants they're mending.
"The hurt, pain."
Basin laughs. Their laughter breaks out of their vocal cords and fills their head, resonating in every cavity, filling the cabin with delightful pitchy peals. "Physically, yeah." They look at their relatively fresh tattoos. You feel them lose track of their sewing needle as they think about Ghost and Mark. With this looser hold on their mind, you get the most tangential senses of more people than just Ghost and Mark.
Now that you know what Basin thinking about their people feels like—now that you can separate that feeling from pain; heart-weary and heart-ache—you realize they are always at least a little thinking about all of these people. These people they love; ones who stay at Basin's cabin sometimes, ones that don't, ones that can't, ones that aren't alive anymore.
When Basin looks about the cabin, they are looking at memories of these people they love. Tattooing each other, cooking meals together, curling up in a pile on the couch you are wholly occupying, sharing music, sharing stories. Even those that have never been here have touched this place, because Basin carries those people with them. An all-encompassing home.
Fumbling for a moment, Basin finds their sewing needle with a prick of their finger.
"You said, physically?"
"Oh yeah," Basin says, keeping their eyes on their mending, the rest of the cabin in their periphery. "Tiny stabs trigger pain responses that chronic pain doesn't."
You consider tattoos for yourself. Your body aches so much. Every cut and bruise disturbs spines, misaligning their place in muscle. Your days are spent moving nonstop. The splitting pain in your head returns when you practice how to be and not be in the minds around you.
With Juniper falling asleep on you, Basin yawns and downs the cold last of their tea before setting their mending aside. "I'm gonna head, I've got work tomorrow."
You remember instead of reach into their mind that they're a vet in the next town over. Like asking, remembering is less likely to incite the splitting pain in your head. Though the splitting pain in your head is less and less as you practice how to be and not be in the minds around you, as you grow used to Basin's mind.
"Please keep the curtains closed and don't answer the door while I'm out," Basin winces internally at how it could go if a neighbour were to happen upon you. Then Basin remembers the neighbour who expressed they want to happen upon you. "Heather asked to meet you."
"You don't, want Heather, to meet me."
"Yeah," they rub the back of their neck with a pan. They think about how they could at least give Heather a name if only you had one. "We can sort that out when I'm home from work." The look they give you asks you again not to leave the cabin during daylight. Like asking and remembering, reading Basin's face is easier—is becoming easier for you.
The look you give them says not to treat you like a hatchling.
You sleep on the couch rather than disturb Juniper asleep on you. In the morning Basin cooks breakfast, with an extra cup of tea for you—lemon balm, you already pulled Basin's knowledge and memory of lemon balm from their head last night. They check your sutures, make mental notes comparing against Sheppard how long it takes you to heal, and give you one last appeal not to be seen. Before they leave, you pull from their head, Basin, like river basin.
You find your name in one of Basin's books. A Field Guide to Birds.