Log:Blanket Fort Starbucks
The morning catnap is a thing. There's the rush from one room to the other, and then more than a small measure of exertion. Then, the shuffle to fetch more cigarettes, booze, and breakfast. Always, breakfast comes with strawberries. And usually, there's more exertion, though not always of the same kind. Then, the morning catnap.
This morning's round two consisted of building an actual blanket fort, in at least some half-assed fashion, over the bed. It has a giant crocheted afghan hanging above the bed in a low-slung swag, propped up on a pair of chairs at either side. It blots out the view of the ceiling, and so, for the first time she can remember, there's no instant view of whorls of sky full of eyes and stars. There's something delightful about that, and it has her rolling over onto her side to nose at him, still groggy and half-asleep.
The Fool was somewhere between euphoric and underwhelmed by the fort idea, at least until they were naked and inside of it. The electric contact of flesh was what he craves in these moments, and so he winds up tangled and sweat logged with sheets on the floor of their very own blanket fort. Stirring some when she noses at him, he will eventually turn over and press himself against her, cuddling rather ferociously for being asleep still. The straight razor was sharpened somewhere while she was fetching booze and food. Their marks exchanged to remind she's not a robot, to remember their commitments to one another.
He runs his thumb over the scabbed lines of the infinity symbol a moment more before turning in to kiss her forehead lightly. "You're still here, so we didn't sleep until sleep time."
The morning catnap is a glory of planning for just this reason, and her smile is Cheshire Cat broad. "S'why it's good to get tired in the morning, but not too tired," she murmurs with a soft laugh, the power-snuggle tickling something fierce, but easing into the warmth of the words traded, nose to nose, beneath the sheltering sky of the afghan. At the foot of the bed is a veritable wall of pillows stacked like stones, with a small hole left clear, in case the need to shoot arrows arises.
Not that they have arrows, but just in case. One never knows.
"I like waking up with you," she whispers before darting a kiss -- that lingers, becoming a full lean inward, and a tug to his lower lip with her teeth. "Like waking and finding this still there." She nudges the scarred mark back up against the fingers that examine it. "It's the cruelest thing about this place, that it pulls people apart like that. Wrong of it to do that."
The Fool smirks and gives a teasing pop of his teeth for the verbal reminder and close enough to told ya so as she gets. Yes yes, Cassandra! "Hey I just hope we're not related next go around, that'll just make things weird," he notes with a smirk before kissing her nose and counting freckles silently with his ticking eyes. "I like waking up with you too, it's my favorite part of this place besides you," he grins. That kiss catches him and he's leaning into it, lips parting briefly to dance with tongues. "It's just another cruel thing among many, but eventually we'll be rid of it or it'll be rid of us," he shrugs a bit. Not particularly caring either way really at this point, he knows he'll find her either way. "But we've got here and now at least."
"Well, if we're related next time around, I guess I am just going to have to live with wanting to fuck the shit out of my... " She can't finish the sentence without laughing just a little, and her rumpled curls bounce around her face. "...whatever relation you end up being." Pause. "Unless it's son, because that would just be weirder than the amount of weird I think I can handle." Says the woman who adopts all the man-children in range. "Cousins I could live with? But let's not tempt that much fate, not yet."
There's a hint more seriousness as she nods, and a glumly thoughtful 'mmn' of noise, her brows fretting together as she looks at him. "More people vanished, this time, too. Maata, from the island. Supposedly a few others, too. Doors are blank that weren't before." She sucks in a quick breath, and presses her brow to his. "Jonas was one of my only friends from the island. He never showed up on the Noc, or back here after. I... " Her voice cracks faintly. "...don't like thinking about that." It sets off her nestling instinct, and she coils in closer to him. "I don't know if they got out, or. If it's something worse."
The Fool breaths her in while he has her there, pressing his nose through the flouf of hair so he can get at her neck, sniff snuffling against the skin there as his arms and legs wind tighter around her. "Fair enough, the mommy/son thing is a little too weird, agreed." He just sage-nods and chuckles, "Long as it's in Alabama it'll be alright," he laughs a bit and then shrugs, "If Alabama is even a thing, I don't even know at this point." She speaks of others and loss and he's there to hold her and pet her cheek and pull her close.
"I get it, I do," he assures as he focuses on her face for now. "Hey, hey, you knew them, that's the part you have to hold onto. You can't focus on the what-ifs, or you'll drive yourself insane. I've already gone through a nightmarishly long list of possibilities, and none of them are great, a few of them middling and just a whole lot of nightmare fuel. Like seriously, love, look around you. This? This is what we can take for ourselves, this," he lifts her cut finger to his lips to kiss gently, "Imagining only gives opportunity for the dark bits to get deeper. Trust that they went where they needed to go, it's all we can do. If we celebrate their lives and their impact, then they live on with us as we need them to. Like...your voices."
"Shit, if it's Alabama," the Visionary says with a sudden laugh, "they'll burn me at the stake somewhere long before we ever get there." The feel of lips on her skin has her shivering, and the distraction draws her head back and up to look toward the checkerboard ceiling of afghan and striped sheets. The grin returns. Fuck you, room. They won today. "Pretty sure Alabama's a thing," says the woman who still smells of sandalwood and cloves, her chin tilting down to meet his eyes levelly. "This," she says, nodding toward the finger with a shift of her gaze, "means that if you don't show up one of these days, or I don't?" Her eyes tick back up to catch his. "Know I'm coming for you, wherever I am. You never have to wonder what I'm doing, because it will be that. No matter what it takes."
"...though as for insane, have you, uh, seen this room?" She can't really stop the grin, though it eases down a fraction after a moment. "I think I'm the reason everyone else drinks, some days. Some mad quest or another, all the time." Her lips quirk strangely, and she sucks in a breath. "I talked to him some." She doesn't have to clarify who she means, and knows it. "You know how soldiers get when they come home, and don't know what to do with themselves?" Her brows crease; she's fretting, because of course she's fretting. "We need to come up with a quest. Like an actual quest, I think. Of... some kind. I have no idea where to start, though." She's dreadfully serious.
The Fool laughs aloud and shakes his head, "C'mon now, I'll be swinging down from a vine or some shit to save you," cuz he's a big damn hero and stuff! At which point he gets serious and he leans up to bump her nose lightly. "And know that if I don't show up, I'm trying to figure out how to find you," he promises, "Which means we're going exactly where we need to be," he concludes his point rather abruptly. "Oh I've seen it, and your room likes me so it's hard to sympathize," he chuckles. "How'd that go?" he asks suddenly but is cut off at the pass by her talking about soldiers and quests and he blinks slowly. "Well shit. Uhh."
Silence follows for a while and he turns into her briefly so he can gnaw on her ear in thought. "Easy," he snaps finally, "We need someone to start taking notes. Remembering things. Whatever we put on the walls resets, has anyone tried a journal? And if not, then it's time for the boy to start flexing that gnoggin. My point is, we need a repository of knowledge, what's come before, what's come most recently. Who's come and gone, maybe eventually, with that we can find a pattern, a riddle, an answer even."
"I am still seriously pissed I didn't get to see you swinging off of a chandelier, and later this afternoon, I may open us up to a pirate ship or an old castle or some other Basil Rathbone or Errol Flynn set just to watch you do exactly that," she insists with a slowly growing grin. "Room's a a fussy thing. I'm fussier, and I like you, too." There is a shifty flick of her lashes. "In case you hadn't noticed."
"I'm worried. Can't help it," she murmurs, though she listens to the suggestion with consideration, gnawing on her lower lip. "You've noticed how all of us, we... " It's not an easy concept to put into words, at least not from the inside. "...all of us, we have certain common traits that repeat? Along certain themes?" Her head cants, and she breathes a quiet sigh. The words continue to elude her, and she frowns. "I think journals have been hit or miss. I've heard a few people mention attempting them, but."
Her lips twist, and she blows a tumbled curl from her eyes. "I think we maybe more need something like a dragon and a white horse kind of quest here to start off. I mean. Not that exactly, but. Something with a little less of a chance to get lost in navel-gazing and nihilism."