Crying Stars pv Damien

banner by Pericles Dralt| interacting as Archer Duncan

Archer could not have thought of the last time when someone had taken as well as Damien to such words, so eager to please as to actually think and reflect rather than chastise him for his rudeness. Although he was by no means complaining at this inwardly he thought that growing a backbone wouldn’t hurt the boy too much. He seemed pensive, whether because of Archer’s instruction or thoughts on his own accord, and Archer did not think highly enough of himself or lowly enough of the other to think it was the former. He watched impassively as the boy continued to sketch, making scribbles across the page he could not quite see.

And then, words graced them, words, as Archer expected, but not the words Archer had expected, “I don’t have a exact outlook on life… because life is always changing and it’s unpredictable… because you’ll have bad days as well as good days. But without those experiences… it wouldn’t make us who are are today or in the future.” He paused far too much between unpolished thoughts then Archer would have been content to hear, and while a younger self would have readily agreed to the words, now the boy struggled to think of anything to say in response, rendered as useless of words as he had Damien. He did have bad days (the majority), and he did have good days (the minority), but that was no different then every researcher friend of his mother’s who told him that “it’s all for a reason”. Damien could never have known he was speaking to someone referring to grief, but he would never need to know either. Better he be naïve, oblivious, and think he was just plain rude rather than suffering. So instead in only scoffed, and whether out of a lack of things to say or pure menace it was difficult to tell — perhaps he would wager, a combination of both.

A fan of staying quiet. Archer rolled over the words in his head with a tint of disbelief. Perhaps once, perhaps that was how he was supposed to be, perhaps he no longer felt comfortable in silence but he was to inept at conversation to do otherwise. It would have been inaccurate to say Archer did not want Damien to speak — no, he had only expected too much from him. Because Damien was not Charlotte Winfield, nor was he Anastasia Blackwood-Varney, nor was he Aurelia Valentine, and that was no fault of his. In fact, Archer, despite his pomp sometimes or perhaps in spite of it, could live with that, could live with the fact that not everyone gave pristine answers with literary references and poetic language he found worth his time. He was slightly disappointed, but he should have long known not to hold the world in such high regard.

“Yes,” he agreed, in simple, blunt, and wholly straightforward language, without any deviation to metaphors or florid language, “It’s nice tonight.” That was the truth, and that was all he needed to say and should have said. It’s nice tonight. Perhaps he should never have spoken in the first place — the entire conversation had been a mistake, a waste of time, and a distraction from the shower of stars above. He smiled slightly into the darkness, trailed through by the streaks of light that fought stubbornly against the all-consuming Stygian.

“Archer.” He introduced, with no attempt at a handshake or a last name. “You can find me again when you have a better answer.” And then he said nothing more, nor would he say anything more if Damien approached him again tonight.