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lb_leeThis story was prompted by Megan, who requested Treehouse Thanksgiving. It was one of the bonus wordcount poll winners! Enjoy, and happy Thanksathon!
Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day
Word Count: 1333
Summary: Winter is ending, and so Treehouse celebrates the renewal of the seasons. Biff, however, is recovering from major surgery and doesn't feel like celebrating much of anything.
Notes: Takes place between Bodily Reconstruction and Time to Go; the former is recommended reading, but you can get by without it. For more notes, see end.
“What?” Biff asks.
“It’s a holiday,” M.D. explains with beleaguered patience, stripping off her dirty gloves. “At the end of winter, the town gives thanks for the replenishing of the seasons.”
“Like Thanksgiving?”
“More like Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day, but sure.”
Biff does not feel like celebrating Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day. He feels tubes under his arms, bandages around his chest, and fucking pain. He feels that the entire town of Treehouse is mocking him, and should go fuck itself.
“You going?”
“Of course I’m going,” M.D. says, changing out of her work clothes. “It’s a holiday. If you don’t come out to celebrate holidays in Treehouse, people get worried about you and then they never leave you alone. I’m a good citizen now.”
“Aw,” Biff says.
“Up yours, Bandage Boy.”
“What do they do on Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day?”
She pauses from tying her shoes. “That’s right. You’ve never seen a Treehouse holiday, have you?” She grins. “Oh, we are so solving this.”
“I ain’t a citizen. Fuck you.”
“You’ve been working for Ribbonblack and living with me for six and a half months. By Treehouse standards, you’re an in-law.” She jumps to her feet, putting her hands on her hips. “Come on, you don’t want to spend the day rotting in my room and taking root to the recliner, do you? It’ll be fun.”
Biff does not believe in the concept of fun. Not with gore grenades pinned to his chest. To show her so, he cranks the recliner back. Carefully. His arms still don’t have much mobility.
“Oh, by the way,” she pulls out a bottle. “Ribbonblack approved you going back on testosterone today.”
Oh, thank God. “Gimme.”
She holds the bottle back. “Promise you’ll come celebrate Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day with me. Nothing strenuous, just come out for a little bit.”
“Sure, whatever, give it to me.”
It turns out to be a goo, not a shot, which Biff finds suspicious until M.D. tells him it’ll hit faster, at which point he couldn’t care less. And she’s not lying; within half an hour of her rubbing it into his back and shoulders, the constant gnawing rage at the back of his brain starts to ease.
He doesn’t know how he ever made it without the stuff.
…
The holiday comes after Biff’s tubes are out and his bandages can fit under his clothes. Thomas and Raige show up and Biff sneaks out before M.D. notices. He doesn’t want to fuck things up.
Outside, the festival is in full swing. The platform at town center is fixed up, but nothing’s happening yet; everyone seems to be out shopping at the food and goods stalls. Branches are crisscrossed with shimmering webs, and paper has been put up to block to drizzling rain. It’s cold and damp, but the monster people seem happy.
They also seem to want to talk to him. Which is uncomfortable. Biff has almost started getting used to how social everyone is in Treehouse, but he’s only learned enough Pidgin Sign to not get killed, and he doesn’t like looking stupid, so mostly he just tries to be invisible.
When he sees M.D. coming down the street without boyfriends, he hastily makes his way to her.
“Don’t sneak off like that again, I’m supposed to be watching you.” She sees his face and smirks. “Everyone wanted to talk to you, didn’t they?”
“They fucking read by smell,” he grumbles. “The vanish just pissed them off.”
“I’ll bet. It’s in bad taste to try and hide like that, just so you know. Good thing you’ve got me.” She’s wearing fingerless gloves and grabs his hand. It’s weird and her hands are like ice, but Biff doesn’t complain; it gives him an instant, if idiosyncratic, translation.
A bug comes up to them. “Hooray we’re not dead!” It declares.
“Hooray we’re not dead!” M.D. signs back.
“Your honored associates are also not dead, I hope?” the bug asks.
“They are indeed not dead,” M.D. replies, ignoring Biff’s snort. “Yours?”
Which sets the bug off on a long list of out-of-town friends, family, and neighbors, all of whom are not dead, but the kid nods and pays rapt attention.
“We will be having the ceremony later this set. You’ll be there, of course?”
“Sure,” she says, and they move on.
There is food everywhere, berries and winter fruit and leafy greens. (The carnivores, M.D. explains, have to eat elsewhere to keep the peace today.) There is water and juice and other drinks sweetened or fermented. M.D. gets food for them both, refuses to let Biff carry anything (“T-rex arms, you know that,”) and they sit down next to M.D.’s bosses and boyfriends in the crowd building at town center. Biff is uncomfortable around Raige and Thomas, but doesn’t leave; he doesn’t want to get stuck without a translator again.
At the talking platform, a blue bug gets up top. M.D.’s mind tells him it’s one of the Dead-Carrier Beetles, who organized the festivities today, and all around, people’s conversations stop.
The beetle starts talking about all the people who have died in the past year, sick or old or eaten by trees. They talk about how great those people were, and relatives and friends get up to share their stories. When they’re done, there’s silence. No one moves.
After long enough Biff is starting to wonder, the beetle starts signing again.
“Elder Sister is not dead,” it signs.
Soft, like sign language whispering: “Hooray, she lives.”
“Younger Sister is not dead.”
“Hooray, she lives.”
“Mother is not dead. Brood Brother is not dead.”
“Hooray, they live.”
And it goes on like that, every name of everyone in town who aren’t dead. As it goes on, it goes faster and faster, with “louder” signs, like they’re moving from grief to celebration, and people start to stomp to the rhythm of it.
“Ribbonblack is not dead! Her house is not dead!”
“Hooray, they live!”
“Great Writer is not dead! The house of the Record-Keepers is not dead!”
“Hooray, they live!”
Somewhere along the way, it stops sounding funny. Maybe it’s because he’s hooked into the kid’s brain, and through her he can feel all the years, all the fuck-ups and fights and fatigue. Maybe it’s because he can tell everyone really means it. Into the dark, over and over again, they sign:
“We are not dead! We all are not dead!”
“Hooray, we live! We live, we live, we live!”
When it’s gotten so dark that the lanterns have been lit, they finish. And the festival really kicks off.
Dancing. Acrobatics. Weaving and spinning and wrestling. M.D. won’t take part—she won’t let him out of her sight—but he watches her bellow encouragement for her stegosaurus boss during a wrestling match. She and Raige scream themselves hoarse rooting for their Mexican boyfriend as he competes in what seems like a Treehouse equivalent of a nighttime obstacle course race. Biff lets her be healer until the dances start up, when he kicks her into the ring and tells her he’s a fucking adult for Chrissakes.
He has no idea how so many different kind of bodies can all do the dance, but they do. There’s no music, and the beat is kept with a huge drum on the dance floor. Biff can feel the vibrations pounding in his bones like a second heartbeat.
There are three layers to the dance—canopy, branch, and ground—and M.D.’s on the bottom level, spinning and swapping partners in a series of interlocking circles. She dances with her stegosaurus boss, with her boyfriends, with bugs and birds and nightmares, and she’s beaming. Above her, enormous fireflies dance and weave through the air.
It must go on for ages, because Biff’s exhausted and aching, but he doesn’t want to interrupt, so he tries to ignore it. It’s no good; M.D. glances over her shoulder, and he sees her frown, and then she’s backing out, slipping out of the dance. The circles mesh behind her.
Her breath is quick fog in the night air. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you home.”
He’s pretty sure she sneaks out again once he’s asleep.
Notes: Testosterone does indeed come in gel form; Androgel is the most famous. It’s not as common as the shots, on account of it being really expensive and a daily dose rather than weekly or monthly. Injections aren’t as popular in Treehouse as they are here, which is why they go the goo route.
Despite its reputation for causing anger and rage, testosterone actually stabilizes mood in some people. Biff is one of them. Some surgeons require trans men quit hormones before surgery, including mine; it was only while writing this story that I discovered that other surgeons don’t do that and there doesn’t seem to be any medical reason to demand this. Oops! I am also not exaggerating how unpleasant it is to go off hormones. Seriously, it sucks.
The translation Biff is getting is pretty wonky, on account of it being his interpretation of M.D.’s subconscious interpretation of Pidgin Sign. The ceremony sounds a little less weird natively.
Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day
Word Count: 1333
Summary: Winter is ending, and so Treehouse celebrates the renewal of the seasons. Biff, however, is recovering from major surgery and doesn't feel like celebrating much of anything.
Notes: Takes place between Bodily Reconstruction and Time to Go; the former is recommended reading, but you can get by without it. For more notes, see end.
“What?” Biff asks.
“It’s a holiday,” M.D. explains with beleaguered patience, stripping off her dirty gloves. “At the end of winter, the town gives thanks for the replenishing of the seasons.”
“Like Thanksgiving?”
“More like Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day, but sure.”
Biff does not feel like celebrating Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day. He feels tubes under his arms, bandages around his chest, and fucking pain. He feels that the entire town of Treehouse is mocking him, and should go fuck itself.
“You going?”
“Of course I’m going,” M.D. says, changing out of her work clothes. “It’s a holiday. If you don’t come out to celebrate holidays in Treehouse, people get worried about you and then they never leave you alone. I’m a good citizen now.”
“Aw,” Biff says.
“Up yours, Bandage Boy.”
“What do they do on Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day?”
She pauses from tying her shoes. “That’s right. You’ve never seen a Treehouse holiday, have you?” She grins. “Oh, we are so solving this.”
“I ain’t a citizen. Fuck you.”
“You’ve been working for Ribbonblack and living with me for six and a half months. By Treehouse standards, you’re an in-law.” She jumps to her feet, putting her hands on her hips. “Come on, you don’t want to spend the day rotting in my room and taking root to the recliner, do you? It’ll be fun.”
Biff does not believe in the concept of fun. Not with gore grenades pinned to his chest. To show her so, he cranks the recliner back. Carefully. His arms still don’t have much mobility.
“Oh, by the way,” she pulls out a bottle. “Ribbonblack approved you going back on testosterone today.”
Oh, thank God. “Gimme.”
She holds the bottle back. “Promise you’ll come celebrate Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day with me. Nothing strenuous, just come out for a little bit.”
“Sure, whatever, give it to me.”
It turns out to be a goo, not a shot, which Biff finds suspicious until M.D. tells him it’ll hit faster, at which point he couldn’t care less. And she’s not lying; within half an hour of her rubbing it into his back and shoulders, the constant gnawing rage at the back of his brain starts to ease.
He doesn’t know how he ever made it without the stuff.
…
The holiday comes after Biff’s tubes are out and his bandages can fit under his clothes. Thomas and Raige show up and Biff sneaks out before M.D. notices. He doesn’t want to fuck things up.
Outside, the festival is in full swing. The platform at town center is fixed up, but nothing’s happening yet; everyone seems to be out shopping at the food and goods stalls. Branches are crisscrossed with shimmering webs, and paper has been put up to block to drizzling rain. It’s cold and damp, but the monster people seem happy.
They also seem to want to talk to him. Which is uncomfortable. Biff has almost started getting used to how social everyone is in Treehouse, but he’s only learned enough Pidgin Sign to not get killed, and he doesn’t like looking stupid, so mostly he just tries to be invisible.
When he sees M.D. coming down the street without boyfriends, he hastily makes his way to her.
“Don’t sneak off like that again, I’m supposed to be watching you.” She sees his face and smirks. “Everyone wanted to talk to you, didn’t they?”
“They fucking read by smell,” he grumbles. “The vanish just pissed them off.”
“I’ll bet. It’s in bad taste to try and hide like that, just so you know. Good thing you’ve got me.” She’s wearing fingerless gloves and grabs his hand. It’s weird and her hands are like ice, but Biff doesn’t complain; it gives him an instant, if idiosyncratic, translation.
A bug comes up to them. “Hooray we’re not dead!” It declares.
“Hooray we’re not dead!” M.D. signs back.
“Your honored associates are also not dead, I hope?” the bug asks.
“They are indeed not dead,” M.D. replies, ignoring Biff’s snort. “Yours?”
Which sets the bug off on a long list of out-of-town friends, family, and neighbors, all of whom are not dead, but the kid nods and pays rapt attention.
“We will be having the ceremony later this set. You’ll be there, of course?”
“Sure,” she says, and they move on.
There is food everywhere, berries and winter fruit and leafy greens. (The carnivores, M.D. explains, have to eat elsewhere to keep the peace today.) There is water and juice and other drinks sweetened or fermented. M.D. gets food for them both, refuses to let Biff carry anything (“T-rex arms, you know that,”) and they sit down next to M.D.’s bosses and boyfriends in the crowd building at town center. Biff is uncomfortable around Raige and Thomas, but doesn’t leave; he doesn’t want to get stuck without a translator again.
At the talking platform, a blue bug gets up top. M.D.’s mind tells him it’s one of the Dead-Carrier Beetles, who organized the festivities today, and all around, people’s conversations stop.
The beetle starts talking about all the people who have died in the past year, sick or old or eaten by trees. They talk about how great those people were, and relatives and friends get up to share their stories. When they’re done, there’s silence. No one moves.
After long enough Biff is starting to wonder, the beetle starts signing again.
“Elder Sister is not dead,” it signs.
Soft, like sign language whispering: “Hooray, she lives.”
“Younger Sister is not dead.”
“Hooray, she lives.”
“Mother is not dead. Brood Brother is not dead.”
“Hooray, they live.”
And it goes on like that, every name of everyone in town who aren’t dead. As it goes on, it goes faster and faster, with “louder” signs, like they’re moving from grief to celebration, and people start to stomp to the rhythm of it.
“Ribbonblack is not dead! Her house is not dead!”
“Hooray, they live!”
“Great Writer is not dead! The house of the Record-Keepers is not dead!”
“Hooray, they live!”
Somewhere along the way, it stops sounding funny. Maybe it’s because he’s hooked into the kid’s brain, and through her he can feel all the years, all the fuck-ups and fights and fatigue. Maybe it’s because he can tell everyone really means it. Into the dark, over and over again, they sign:
“We are not dead! We all are not dead!”
“Hooray, we live! We live, we live, we live!”
When it’s gotten so dark that the lanterns have been lit, they finish. And the festival really kicks off.
Dancing. Acrobatics. Weaving and spinning and wrestling. M.D. won’t take part—she won’t let him out of her sight—but he watches her bellow encouragement for her stegosaurus boss during a wrestling match. She and Raige scream themselves hoarse rooting for their Mexican boyfriend as he competes in what seems like a Treehouse equivalent of a nighttime obstacle course race. Biff lets her be healer until the dances start up, when he kicks her into the ring and tells her he’s a fucking adult for Chrissakes.
He has no idea how so many different kind of bodies can all do the dance, but they do. There’s no music, and the beat is kept with a huge drum on the dance floor. Biff can feel the vibrations pounding in his bones like a second heartbeat.
There are three layers to the dance—canopy, branch, and ground—and M.D.’s on the bottom level, spinning and swapping partners in a series of interlocking circles. She dances with her stegosaurus boss, with her boyfriends, with bugs and birds and nightmares, and she’s beaming. Above her, enormous fireflies dance and weave through the air.
It must go on for ages, because Biff’s exhausted and aching, but he doesn’t want to interrupt, so he tries to ignore it. It’s no good; M.D. glances over her shoulder, and he sees her frown, and then she’s backing out, slipping out of the dance. The circles mesh behind her.
Her breath is quick fog in the night air. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you home.”
He’s pretty sure she sneaks out again once he’s asleep.
Notes: Testosterone does indeed come in gel form; Androgel is the most famous. It’s not as common as the shots, on account of it being really expensive and a daily dose rather than weekly or monthly. Injections aren’t as popular in Treehouse as they are here, which is why they go the goo route.
Despite its reputation for causing anger and rage, testosterone actually stabilizes mood in some people. Biff is one of them. Some surgeons require trans men quit hormones before surgery, including mine; it was only while writing this story that I discovered that other surgeons don’t do that and there doesn’t seem to be any medical reason to demand this. Oops! I am also not exaggerating how unpleasant it is to go off hormones. Seriously, it sucks.
The translation Biff is getting is pretty wonky, on account of it being his interpretation of M.D.’s subconscious interpretation of Pidgin Sign. The ceremony sounds a little less weird natively.
no subject
Date: 2014-11-16 03:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-16 06:21 pm (UTC)--Rogan
no subject
Date: 2014-11-17 08:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-23 03:12 am (UTC)Also, someone on the LJ post of this story asked about Treehouse black humor and what they would do if someone dropped dead during the recitation. I thought you'd enjoy the little anecdote that resulted:
Before M.D. came to town, there was a Treehouse geriatric who knew she was on the way out, and was determined to wreck the ceremony by dying during it. Everyone knew what she was doing, desperately tried to persuade her otherwise, but she stubbornly insisted on carrying on until she dropped dead during the ceremony. (On a mat she had laid out specifically for the purpose. If she was going to die, dammit, she was going out in STYLE.)
They paused the ceremony to arrange for her rites (easy, since she'd prepared it all in advance), then adjusted the recitation and carried on. Everyone was a little put out at the time, but afterward, everyone agreed that she had chosen a truly death suiting to her and told the story about her for generations to come.
no subject
Date: 2014-11-23 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-23 03:50 am (UTC)--Rogan