Intro. / the.brief.return

[spectalcat.livejournal.com]

Hi there!

I've been a fan of Clay's (both as writer and assembler of other good work) for quite a while now. A couple of pieces in this community particularly caught me by the throat, and for the first time I find I've joined a fanfic group! Usually I'm happiest as an anonymous reader. I'm not sure how much writing I'll end up doing here, my relationship with fanfic (for writing it) has been a nervous one. But if nothing else, at least I can now comment on your pieces, which I've been enjoying and admiring!

To avoid total lurkerdom, at least at first, I proffer a drabble.

Title: The Brief Return
Chapter(s): 1/1 (unless I try to make it into something later)
Rating: G
Warnings: Indistinctness abounds
Pairing: (None...? Or surprise)
Disclaimer: I own only my projections, inspired by very inspiring strangers
Summary: After a long absence, two friends regard one another

Wit taketh and giveth away. He always knew how to make someone feel completely out of sorts, or, just as naturally, how to make you feel absolutely at home. He ignored her admonishment not to pamper her, so she took advantage of the time he spent gathering refreshments to prowl the apartment. He was waiting by the window by the time she was through. She joined him, taking the offered glass, and fulfilled her inspection: the vantage out the window.

"You must like this," she said, eyes roaming the expanse of crystalline structures, reflective translucent surfaces of fractal formation; all the window-based buildings outside his own. "It's like living in an ice cave."

The two armchairs weren't literally in the middle of the room, but they certainly floated into it. They lined no wall, bookended no curiosities, faced no screen. All they did was look out the window.

As he lounged back in one now, he looked instead at her. It had become rare, this thing he felt himself doing suddenly: smiling, but to himself. Not for anyone else's benefit, not intended to be read or even seen.

In so many ways, she hadn't changed at all. For that, the ways in which she had were clearer.

She'd been so young (but so had he), with a sharp-edged energy (while his, simply twitchy); kittenishly graceful (though a surprisingly smooth mover, this would not even then have been said of him), and (to him) all the more arresting for not being typically beautiful but convinced she was neither (versus his acceptance of his own unloveliness, and that ownership adding to his appeal).

She still looked young and slender (he'd visibly aged and gained weight, though it softened his appearance and was said to be flattering). Her energy still had an impishness (his had calmed into something more finessed). Her movement was more fluid than ever (his grace still served his presentation without calling attention to itself, but lately he preferred more to loll around than shock people with feats of unexpected agility).

The difference was internal. It was nothing he could blithely tag.

("Weltschmerz!"
"Gesundheit.")

Obviously, yes, she'd matured, grown in experience and self-knowledge, lost interest in one level of things, moved on to another; it was noteworthy in people when they didn't. The quality he felt he'd have to unravel a bit was almost but not quite... absence? Distance? Not deadness, but definitely some lack.

(All of which she could equally be wondering at in him.)

"Why, Ms Lawrence," said Greg soberly, "I believe you're making some sort of character assessment."