#maintagging but fbg dni ty

[the-clay-quarters]

Thread dyed black and green

530w, vague/implied Bag A Legend spoilers, also on ao3

Here, take this, it’s just a shirt. Fold it open, mark the seams, trace the stitches, is there something to find? A story to tell?

It starts as curiosity, he would tell you as much. The stitches are fast here, loose, looking for thrills and excitement. But just as quickly they tighten, falling steady and even. This is a slow job, but there are promises, hints of more, he can work with that, he knows patience. He is no stranger to tedium, to repetitive notions and steady hands.

At first, he sees it as a sort of foray into deeper monster hunting, the kind where the real prize is the story, not whatever the ministry offers. That changes, though, with the addition of a new ingredient. There’s a stray thread, caught between the stitches, too tight for you to pull out, dark as night.

Black wings absinthe. That small, personal connection. Feeling the howl of wind, the pounding wings, the rushing blood and fierce adrenaline, There’s that thrill, just enough to get him excited. It gets him coming back, needing to feel that fervor again, pushing harder for progress, eager for more.

It meanders here, gets caught on a fold, lost in a knot. Skip down, jump a section or two, they won’t be missed, it doesn’t matter. We’re here for a story, it picks up again down here.

It comes down to a mutual desire for violence. Of seeing the other maybe not as an equal but as competent, worthy, not someone to go easy on, not someone to hold back with. Someone who won’t judge you for wanting to bite and rip and tear, someone who wants the same. It’s indulging desires that make others think you’re out of your mind, delighting in this secret you have to convince yourself is a rivalry.

But then – on the same fabric, just a different stitch, parallel yet separate – it is cordial, bound by business and social cues. It’s craftsman and retailer, worker and manager, tailor and supplier. They can both see through the other’s charades, playing the same game, knowing each other too well, connecting pieces others don’t get to see. Their interactions are polite, friendly even, competitive and overfamiliar in a way that implies too much. It’s a different sort of thrill, knowing what you do. You could ruin it, you should, it could do the same to you. You don’t, it doesn’t either, you both like what you’re weaving together.

Follow the stitches, further down, past where some are skipped and others are too tight – if, when it comes to it, he doesn’t know what choice to make? He knows there has to be an end, the stitch must be tied off, the piece must be finished. There’s an audience now, a chorus waiting in the sidelines, it’s not just about him any more, he’s not sure it ever was. Could he bring himself to do it? To push away this freedom he’s barely tasted? Or would he stop, pick the stitches, re-arrange the parts, read the patterns again and again, throw them out, try something new, something better, there has to be something better.

Well, who's to say?