Daedalus

this is already too fluffy I can't

I had intended to save both of us from a non-alcoholic hangover this morning, but it seems that the universe has only spared Lent, as if the universe hasn't fucked me in the ass enough. However, there is a plausible explanation for this, although this explanation doesn't benefit me in any way, and might actually fuck me in the ass again. Lent is the kind of person to rarely regret his decisions, always seeking to consume more and more, and unapologetically so, so he isn't battered by arguments, even arguments that he prompted, whereas I reflect on my mistakes often, inducing both cringes and a loss of oxygen to my cells, and in the period succeeding the argument, my body shuts down completely, while Lent can run free unscathed, having disregarded it as if it's a minor cut he's already smacked a bandage overtop.

And that is why, when I stumble into the kitchen after only a few hours of sleep (the rest of the time being devoured by guilt for something I didn't even cause), Lent bounds over to me from his place at the bar with Fleming and Sybil, like a puppy greeting his companion, like he's forgotten what transpired last night at around ten o'clock, and this action injects a massive dose of confusion into my veins.

Does he seriously expect to be best pals with me after our debate last night? It's not that I'm holding a grudge or anything, just that I'm perplexed as to how he's dropped something so heavy so quickly. I wasn't the one who willingly engaged in this brawl, yet I'm the one who has to carry it? That is unjust on so many levels, but I can't make a scene about how guilt manifests on different people, as that's an irrational thing to do, and Fleming and Sybil would be more confounded than I am, if that's even possible, so I pretend that I'm completely okay...or at least normal for my cynical personality.

Maybe something remarkably exciting occurred, and that's why Lent has dismissed the guilt of last night's excursion, but I know that such a conjecture is born out of hopeful fallacy. This kind of behavior is typical for Lent Rosella, and, as I said, nothing remarkably exciting ever happens in Milwaukee, Wisconsin — not for us, anyway. This all just a regular representation of who my best friend is.

But then again, Fleming and Sybil always remind me not to be so pessimistic, so I introduce to my system the slight chance that perhaps an event did occur. Lent is always ecstatic, yes, but not to the extent at which he is currently, which is both a sign that my deduction skills are improving, and a sign that news awaits me.

"Basil!" Lent exclaims as he leaps into my arms, and, by effect, disorients me completely, but I soon regain my composure before he speaks again. "Guess what?"

Lent and I are compressed so tightly that I can observe every pixel in his eyes, every ridge in his complexion, every mark and dash and particle present. Irises I once thought to be solely cobalt unveil secrets I would've never found if Lent hadn't jumped into my embrace, a whole amalgamation of colors and textures. I detect minuscule splotches of onyx that breach the ring around the iris, infiltrating places they are not intended to go yet enhancing the overall appearance of the eye. I notice how dark his lashes actually are, how feminizing, how even the night sky cannot compare to an ebony like this, nor can anything. The tiniest of creases in Lent's cherry blossom lips materialize in my perception, showing me just how much this close contact has elucidated. It is here that I realize I cannot preserve acrimony towards this angel of a being, and I allow it to all slip away like tranquil river water below my feet.

A smile replaces the residual bits of virulence abandoned in my soul, and soon enough I am glowing with joy, all because of a clumsy nineteen year-old artist strung in my arms. "What is it, my dear Icarus?"

As a result of how elated he is, Lent's breathing cycles through puffs and inhalations so rapidly that it's as if he's a malfunctioning machine, and he can barely discharge his words. "Fleming talked to her parents last night, and they granted us permission to stay in their European homes for two weeks each!"

Because of how expeditiously Lent's speech shot at me, I require a few seconds to process it all, picking apart his jumbled speech to solidify words, but once I can make sense of it, I am just as gleeful as he is. "Lent, that's awesome!"

"I know!" Lent digs a grave for his head in my shoulder, lungs swelling with my scent, an herbal cloud mixed with the fragrance of my own body, and it is strikingly evident that he somehow feels at home in my clutch, and I feel at home when he is so close.

Meanwhile, Fleming and Sybil are having a field day by the bar, endeavoring to stifle their chuckles and their tears. I don't really understand how this is funny, but considering they take every opportunity to push us together, I suppose it's heaven to them. I don't let them ruin my mood, though.

"This is where our lives start," Lent comments, and I, a cynic who rarely believes anything, believe him.

~~~~~

A/N: these rats have already ruined my life

they're so cute and because of that, I barely get sleep cause I'm just thinking about them

~Dankota