He is, in fact, nested amongst his pillows and plushies, of which there are several more than last time. The crown is still cracked in several places and seeming to seep a yellow-gold liquid that gets drawn back into the ornament before it can drip or ooze off the bottom. The overall effect--other than being a little gross--is like inexpert Kintsugi.
He sounds very distressed as he floats over and Edwin will feel the brush of that shadowy hand against the unbroken section of crown before he draws back.
Edwin lifts several thread-thin tentacles and wraps them around John's fingers before he can pull out of reach. Several others, wound around each other for strength, type inexpertly on the communicator.
Edwin is a little embarrassed at how relieved he is at the contact, even if it's just pressure and the knowledge of being touched. He winds that thin tentacle around John's thumb and hangs on.
"It hurts when I'm withh somone a little. Like this cant see much or move." More tentacles follow the first, until there's a little knotted bush of them circling John's thumb. "Imiss my mpointi mao mountain."
It's clear enough that he means the view outside of his greenhouse, trending toward sunset colors now.
"...oh that's some bullshit," he grumbles in irritation. Why have a toll that cuts him off from people? Hmph.
But he looks over at the mountain and, after a moment-
"The sky is a vivid blue only barely tinged with gray around the mountain top, which highlights the white of the snow so sharply as to appear as if it is slicing through the color itself. The dark rock beneath the snow shows through here and there almost as intensely, with only a few spots of dark green to show the trees that sit at it's base. It snows recently, the surface having iced over from a cold night afterwards undisturbed, giving the ground a faint shimmer in the pale light."
The grip of those tiny limbs tightens gently as John speaks. Edwin is captivated listening to his brother talk, fascinated by the ways their voices are the same but different. His word choices, the cadence of delivery.
"I understamd why Arthur missedf your ways of describing things."
Edwin wishes, powerfully, that he could share with John the way that makes him feel in the same way that he could share it with someone else, someone with a physical body. The warmth inside, the safe glow that is John and Jedao's influence in particular on Edwin's internal landscape. "Have you written poetry?"
Another question, one he's been wanting to ask but has been shy about and now just wants the chance to do again. "Can ew paint together when I get out? Can yoo teach em?"
Maybe he could try to write something while he's stuck instead of just sitting here for hours on end in the quiet by himself, trying not to think about how much he misses being in the world.
"The sun has long been set, The stars are out by twos and threes, The little birds are piping yet Among the bushes and trees; There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes, And a far-off wind that rushes, And a sound of water that gushes, And the cuckoo's sovereign cry Fills all the hollow of the sky. Who would "go parading" In London, "and masquerading," On such a night of June With that beautiful soft half-moon, And all these innocent blisses? On such a night as this is!"
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He is, in fact, nested amongst his pillows and plushies, of which there are several more than last time. The crown is still cracked in several places and seeming to seep a yellow-gold liquid that gets drawn back into the ornament before it can drip or ooze off the bottom. The overall effect--other than being a little gross--is like inexpert Kintsugi.
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He sounds very distressed as he floats over and Edwin will feel the brush of that shadowy hand against the unbroken section of crown before he draws back.
"...sorry. I wish I could... do something."
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"Can see when your clothes close."
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The arm will go back into tendril range. He'll try, experimentally, rubbing one of them with his thumb.
"I wasn't sure. Yours is a little different from mine. Makes sense, though."
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"Different?"
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He's not going anywhere, little man.
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It's clear enough that he means the view outside of his greenhouse, trending toward sunset colors now.
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But he looks over at the mountain and, after a moment-
"The sky is a vivid blue only barely tinged with gray around the mountain top, which highlights the white of the snow so sharply as to appear as if it is slicing through the color itself. The dark rock beneath the snow shows through here and there almost as intensely, with only a few spots of dark green to show the trees that sit at it's base. It snows recently, the surface having iced over from a cold night afterwards undisturbed, giving the ground a faint shimmer in the pale light."
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"I understamd why Arthur missedf your ways of describing things."
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One of those tentacles might get a gentle squeeze in return.
"It's a part of me. I'm sure if you'd had more time, your own descriptions would have grown and developed and he would have liked them too."
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Another question, one he's been wanting to ask but has been shy about and now just wants the chance to do again. "Can ew paint together when I get out? Can yoo teach em?"
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"And of course, though I don't know how much I would 'teach' you. I can tell you what I've learned, though."
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Maybe he could try to write something while he's stuck instead of just sitting here for hours on end in the quiet by himself, trying not to think about how much he misses being in the world.
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He's too embarrassed to admit why.
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"The sun has long been set,
The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and trees;
There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,
And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoo's sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky.
Who would "go parading"
In London, "and masquerading,"
On such a night of June
With that beautiful soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses?
On such a night as this is!"
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"I want to see earth with my own eyes. Touch things and hear things."
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