Infinity Smashed: Thomas's First Spring
Apr. 16th, 2016 01:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeThomas's First Spring
Universe: Infinity Smashed
Word Count: 2250
Summary: Thomas has been in Treehouse for almost a year, and everyone's getting gussied up for spring. But formalwear means different things to different people...
Notes: This story was prompted bystarfallhaven and sponsored by the Patreon crew! Thank you very much! More notes at bottom.
Thomas came home to feathers everywhere. Soft fluffy little dun ones, on the floors and stuck to the walls of the big hollow banyan-tree-thing Thomas and Strong-Legs called home. Some still floated in the air—Thomas almost inhaled one by accident and promptly sneezed.
“Strong-Legs!” he shouted. “You home?” It didn't know Spanish, of course, but it knew his voice.
Sure enough, he heard a, “Whoomp!” from its room. Thomas followed till he came to Strong-Legs's nest of sands, scraps, and many, many feathers. Strong-Legs was currently pulling some more out of its chest, which looked goose-pimpled and uncomfortable.
“What are you doing?” Thomas signed, a little alarmed. The last time he'd seen Strong-Legs doing this, it'd been very upset.
But Strong-Legs raised its crest and fluttered its wings reassuringly, sending a flurry of fluff down. “Worry not, worry not, this is good! It is spring!”
Thomas looked dubiously at Strong-Legs's patchy plumage. “You look...” he fumbled for a good sign. “...smaller.”
Strong-Legs did its little bobble-head dance of laughter. “Of course! My winter plumage is very thick, yes? To keep warm? But is spring now, so no more winter plumage.” It reached down and pulled more feathers out of its chest. “Is so?”
It seemed in a good mood, and Thomas felt better. “It doesn't… come out? Without you?”
“Eventually yes, but so itchy! And unattractive. Is spring now, I must look like spring!” It looked at its scruffy coat and its crest fell back with disappointment. “You see me before I'm ready. I will look beautiful later, when the festival comes.”
“Festival?”
“Yes, for spring. Very special. You must look absolute best! It is your first spring!”
True, it was. Which meant Thomas had been here (he took a moment to mentally count) almost a year. Wow. Treehouse almost felt like home.
“What should I do for it?” Thomas asked.
“Your crest needs plucking. Is not winter now; you look silly.” It made an attempt to grab his hair in its mouth; Thomas ducked.
“It's not seasonal. It just grows.”
Strong-Legs's pupils dilated and then contracted again. “Even in summer?”
“Even in summer.”
Strong-Legs apparently thought this hilarious; it hopped up and bounced around him, bobbing its head. “You look like you're in winter, all the time! And you come from a hot desert place like me! Truly, your people are poorly designed! Don't you get hot? Don't you die?”
Thomas rolled his eyes, ran his fingers back through his hair, and grimaced. It was long and shaggy now, past his shoulders, and probably looked awful. He knew guys who rocked braids and ponytails, but he wasn't one of them.
“I do need this cut,” he admitted. He glanced down at his clothes. He'd inherited them from his big brother, accent on the 'big,' so they actually fit better than they had a year ago. (Though Thomas still needed his belt.) Unfortunately, while Army pants were tough, after all the dirt, sweat, and labor of two Rodriguez boys, they looked worse for the wear. “And new clothes.”
“Of course!” Strong-Legs signed. “I am your senior helpmeet. It is my job, my most honored job, of greatest importance, that you look good for spring. After all,” it added, “if you look bad, people will think poorly of me.”
“Don't love me too much,” Thomas retorted.
“Tell me, what do your people do for spring ceremonies? So you feel at home.”
“Uh.” Thomas tried to think of something that'd qualify in Strong-Legs's eyes as a 'spring festival,' but could only think of Spring Break (“sure, Strong-Legs, it's the celebration of beaches and drinking”), Cinco De Mayo (“mariachi everywhere, oh, and drinking,”), and prom (“really awkward dancing, also drinking”). “We… cut our hair and dress nice?”
Strong-Legs flattened its crest and looked at him with condescension. “Handsome Boy, pretend I know nothing of 'nice' among your impractical people.”
There was the problem. Thomas's Pidgin Sign had gotten a lot better, but explaining a monkey suit to a giant dino-ostrich who wore no clothes at all, except wood saddles and digging boots, sounded like a special level of immigrant hell.
“I don't know!” He signed helplessly. “I don't think I could even get them made! Everything's so different here! All the stuff you'd even need to make them just aren't here!”
It was true. No sheep meant no wool. No cows meant no leather. No cotton meant… well, no cotton. Silk—or at least, close enough that Thomas didn't know the difference—was readily available, because of the multitude of local spinning insects in town, but the amount Thomas would need would cost a wad. Treehouse bugs were big, but not that big. And except for silk, cloth just didn't seem to be a big thing in Treehouse. People wove grasses and reeds all the time, but Thomas didn't want to wear that.
“Let's fix your crest,” Strong-Legs signed, seeing Thomas's frustration. “That sounds easier.”
“Yes, good,” Thomas signed back, deeply relieved. “That.”
This led to its own problems. There were no mechanical shavers in Treehouse. Or even scissors, a kind Thomas could use anyway. Bugs were the dominant form of life here, and most of them had cutting jaws. (He'd been using Marcus's old Leatherman since he got here, but he wasn't going to try cutting his own hair with that.) So if someone like Thomas needed their hair cut, they went to a hive.
“Welcome, honored laborers!” signed the hive-mother as Strong-Legs and Thomas walked in. “Welcome to our humble store! How may we assist?”
“Handsome Boy needs his crest trimmed,” Strong-Legs signed with authority. “It is terribly overgrown and he looks trapped in mating season. Most unfortunate.”
Thomas sighed. At least his year in Treehouse had raised his shame tolerance a lot. “Thanks, Strong-Legs. You're the best helpmeet.”
“Yes, is so.”
The hive-mother buzzed over. She was a bloated, pear-shaped thing, barely able to fly for her enormous abdomen, which pumped out eggs on an hourly basis. Around her buzzed a halo of much smaller, nimbler hive-daughters, about the size of Thomas's thumb. They seemed to move as almost one unit—though Strong-Legs had strongly affirmed that they were not, and that Thomas should never voice such a sentiment if he valued his social life.
The hive-daughters buzzed over Thomas's head.
“May we touch you?” Asked the hive-mother.
Thomas braced himself. “Sure.”
And the hive-daughters crawled all over his head. Thomas twitched but through iron self-control didn't squirm. They were neighbors—it'd be rude. They were just getting his measure, and they weren't going to do anything horrible like crawl into his eyes and ears, no matter what his hind-brain thought.
“How do you like it cut?” The hive-mother asked.
God, his head itched. But Thomas endeavored to explain the concept of a medium bald fade to the hive. As testament to his Pidgin Sign skills, he succeeded.
“Understood! Hold still, please.”
And the hive-daughters set to chewing on his hair. Thomas, determined to be a good neighbor and a credit to the neighborhood, tried extremely hard not to squirm, swat, or think about that time his younger brother Christopher got a bee in his ear. Or how it died there. The hive family were perfectly nice, sapient bug people, and crawling into his orifices and dying there would be unforgivably rude.
Surprisingly quickly, it was over, and the hive-daughters dusted him off with their wings. Hanks of black hair flew everywhere, but Thomas ended nice and clean.
Strong-Legs twisted its head almost upside-down. “You look so different!”
“We will fetch you a viewing silver,” the hive-mother signed with regal dignity, and sure enough, her daughters came in with a little mirror. “Have we mowed your crest adequately?”
Thomas looked in the mirror, braced for the worst. But he looked… mostly fine, actually. The trim wasn't quite right around the ears, and a year of long hair meant everything stuck out at weird angles, but on the whole, the hive had done a great job.
“Yes! Thank you.”
“You are very welcome, honored customer. Happy spring!”
Thomas smiled, helped Strong-Legs pay, and even made it out the door before finally caving to the urge to scratch all his itchy head-parts and writhe all over while going, “Gaaaaah! Gross gross gross gross!”
Strong-Legs watched him perform the dance of revulsion with benign curiosity. “Local social more?” It asked.
“Yes,” Thomas signed firmly. “Local social more. Don't worry about it.”
Next stop: clothes shopping.
First of all, Texas formal wear just plain wasn't going to happen, so forget about it. Thomas was willing to settle for something he could wear. And it turned out that while cotton didn't exist, flax did, and thus a sort of yellow linen-thing. Thanks to swamp mud, and Freeport merchants, he could even get it dyed red, black, orange, or brown without costing him through the nose.
“Do you have a preference?” Strong-Legs asked.
“Not really. Why?”
Strong-Legs ducked its head, fluffed and flattened what remained of its feathers awkwardly. “Among my people, we have family markings, based on our feathers. When I come through the world-hole, I lost my family, and I was sad. I would be honored to share my family markings with you.”
Thomas was silent for a moment. Strong-Legs was many things, but it was rarely shy, and now it looked small and sad. And while it had spoken very little about its people, he'd always been under the impression that it too came from a very large family.
“Wow. I… yes. Thank you.” He patted Strong-Legs's head, and it closed its eyes happily.
“Also, family markings change over time, with new people coming in, you understand?” it explained. “It is a family history. Is there a color you'd like to add?”
Thomas thought about his family's favorite football team, the Texas Longhorns. “Burnt orange,” he said.
“Oh thank goodness! I was worried you'd say purple. I could never afford that!”
Which was how Thomas ended up with a new poncho, and a new pair of pants that buttoned down the front, all in striping shades of burnt orange, dun, and white. As a special spring gift, Strong-Legs also got him a sort of big plaited collar/necklace thing of flax and plucked blue feathers from Strong-Legs, which hung in a diamond shape down in points to Thomas's chest and mid-back.
“Please forgive me,” Strong-Legs signed unhappily. “Blue is part of my family colors, very important, but the only dye that's the correct shade is beyond my ability to get. I had to make do with my plumage.”
“It's beautiful.”
“But of course! It's from me, after all.”
Over the next week or so, Strong-Legs also spruced up. Its feathers were groomed and oiled. Now that its spring coat had had time to replace the plucked winter plumage, it looked bright and blue-tinged for spring. It had its own collar over its neck… though it was made of grass, not flax, since Strong-Legs didn't need to worry about it rubbing on bare skin.
“See?” It declared, spreading its wings and fluttering them. “All fancy!”
Thomas had to admit, it did look quite dressed up. And though he'd worried he'd look awful, he actually looked pretty formal himself, in his poncho, collar, and with his hair waxed to keep it in place. (He'd long since given up on any sort of hair gel.)
And then they were off to the festival. The sports, the food, the recitations of the year's dead and living. Thomas was greeted by so many people that it made him dizzy.
And then the Dead-Carrier Beetle on the announcement platform declared, “We have new citizens this year!”
Everyone wiggled their applause.
“Please come forward, Brewer, Sprint, Handsome Boy...”
Thomas looked around, bewildered, and Strong-Legs shoved him forward. “Go, go! Make me look good!”
And Thomas found himself on stage, being anointed with oil, being watched by what seemed to be the entire town.
“You have been with us four seasons,” Elder Sister declared. “This is your first dawn of spring, and with a new spring dawn, there is a new beginning.
“You have been through great loss. There is no changing that. We hope, as we all hope, that one day, you will be reunited with your people. But until then, we hope to be your people, your home. If you will accept the title, we will like to call you 'citizen.'”
Thomas stared out into the crowd of townspeople. The scaly reptiles, the bugs, the spook-monsters. The sweetmeat seller, and the healers, and the Elder Sister who'd helped him through Dia de Muertos, and the hive family, all the people he'd befriended over the year.
And Strong-Legs, who was practically dancing in place with excitement.
This wasn't Texas. It never would be. And maybe, just maybe, Thomas could live with that.
“I accept citizenship,” he signed.
And the townspeople waved a cheer, and the dances and fireworks started.
Notes: If you're curious what Strong-Legs sounds like, this is in the right ballpark. Despite its birdlike appearance, its people aren't particularly known for singing--mostly they dance to communicate. And yes, the spring festival they're celebrating is 'Hooray-We're-Not-Dead Day,' which M.D. and Biff celebrate six years later.
Universe: Infinity Smashed
Word Count: 2250
Summary: Thomas has been in Treehouse for almost a year, and everyone's getting gussied up for spring. But formalwear means different things to different people...
Notes: This story was prompted by
starfallhaven and sponsored by the Patreon crew! Thank you very much! More notes at bottom.Thomas came home to feathers everywhere. Soft fluffy little dun ones, on the floors and stuck to the walls of the big hollow banyan-tree-thing Thomas and Strong-Legs called home. Some still floated in the air—Thomas almost inhaled one by accident and promptly sneezed.
“Strong-Legs!” he shouted. “You home?” It didn't know Spanish, of course, but it knew his voice.
Sure enough, he heard a, “Whoomp!” from its room. Thomas followed till he came to Strong-Legs's nest of sands, scraps, and many, many feathers. Strong-Legs was currently pulling some more out of its chest, which looked goose-pimpled and uncomfortable.
“What are you doing?” Thomas signed, a little alarmed. The last time he'd seen Strong-Legs doing this, it'd been very upset.
But Strong-Legs raised its crest and fluttered its wings reassuringly, sending a flurry of fluff down. “Worry not, worry not, this is good! It is spring!”
Thomas looked dubiously at Strong-Legs's patchy plumage. “You look...” he fumbled for a good sign. “...smaller.”
Strong-Legs did its little bobble-head dance of laughter. “Of course! My winter plumage is very thick, yes? To keep warm? But is spring now, so no more winter plumage.” It reached down and pulled more feathers out of its chest. “Is so?”
It seemed in a good mood, and Thomas felt better. “It doesn't… come out? Without you?”
“Eventually yes, but so itchy! And unattractive. Is spring now, I must look like spring!” It looked at its scruffy coat and its crest fell back with disappointment. “You see me before I'm ready. I will look beautiful later, when the festival comes.”
“Festival?”
“Yes, for spring. Very special. You must look absolute best! It is your first spring!”
True, it was. Which meant Thomas had been here (he took a moment to mentally count) almost a year. Wow. Treehouse almost felt like home.
“What should I do for it?” Thomas asked.
“Your crest needs plucking. Is not winter now; you look silly.” It made an attempt to grab his hair in its mouth; Thomas ducked.
“It's not seasonal. It just grows.”
Strong-Legs's pupils dilated and then contracted again. “Even in summer?”
“Even in summer.”
Strong-Legs apparently thought this hilarious; it hopped up and bounced around him, bobbing its head. “You look like you're in winter, all the time! And you come from a hot desert place like me! Truly, your people are poorly designed! Don't you get hot? Don't you die?”
Thomas rolled his eyes, ran his fingers back through his hair, and grimaced. It was long and shaggy now, past his shoulders, and probably looked awful. He knew guys who rocked braids and ponytails, but he wasn't one of them.
“I do need this cut,” he admitted. He glanced down at his clothes. He'd inherited them from his big brother, accent on the 'big,' so they actually fit better than they had a year ago. (Though Thomas still needed his belt.) Unfortunately, while Army pants were tough, after all the dirt, sweat, and labor of two Rodriguez boys, they looked worse for the wear. “And new clothes.”
“Of course!” Strong-Legs signed. “I am your senior helpmeet. It is my job, my most honored job, of greatest importance, that you look good for spring. After all,” it added, “if you look bad, people will think poorly of me.”
“Don't love me too much,” Thomas retorted.
“Tell me, what do your people do for spring ceremonies? So you feel at home.”
“Uh.” Thomas tried to think of something that'd qualify in Strong-Legs's eyes as a 'spring festival,' but could only think of Spring Break (“sure, Strong-Legs, it's the celebration of beaches and drinking”), Cinco De Mayo (“mariachi everywhere, oh, and drinking,”), and prom (“really awkward dancing, also drinking”). “We… cut our hair and dress nice?”
Strong-Legs flattened its crest and looked at him with condescension. “Handsome Boy, pretend I know nothing of 'nice' among your impractical people.”
There was the problem. Thomas's Pidgin Sign had gotten a lot better, but explaining a monkey suit to a giant dino-ostrich who wore no clothes at all, except wood saddles and digging boots, sounded like a special level of immigrant hell.
“I don't know!” He signed helplessly. “I don't think I could even get them made! Everything's so different here! All the stuff you'd even need to make them just aren't here!”
It was true. No sheep meant no wool. No cows meant no leather. No cotton meant… well, no cotton. Silk—or at least, close enough that Thomas didn't know the difference—was readily available, because of the multitude of local spinning insects in town, but the amount Thomas would need would cost a wad. Treehouse bugs were big, but not that big. And except for silk, cloth just didn't seem to be a big thing in Treehouse. People wove grasses and reeds all the time, but Thomas didn't want to wear that.
“Let's fix your crest,” Strong-Legs signed, seeing Thomas's frustration. “That sounds easier.”
“Yes, good,” Thomas signed back, deeply relieved. “That.”
This led to its own problems. There were no mechanical shavers in Treehouse. Or even scissors, a kind Thomas could use anyway. Bugs were the dominant form of life here, and most of them had cutting jaws. (He'd been using Marcus's old Leatherman since he got here, but he wasn't going to try cutting his own hair with that.) So if someone like Thomas needed their hair cut, they went to a hive.
“Welcome, honored laborers!” signed the hive-mother as Strong-Legs and Thomas walked in. “Welcome to our humble store! How may we assist?”
“Handsome Boy needs his crest trimmed,” Strong-Legs signed with authority. “It is terribly overgrown and he looks trapped in mating season. Most unfortunate.”
Thomas sighed. At least his year in Treehouse had raised his shame tolerance a lot. “Thanks, Strong-Legs. You're the best helpmeet.”
“Yes, is so.”
The hive-mother buzzed over. She was a bloated, pear-shaped thing, barely able to fly for her enormous abdomen, which pumped out eggs on an hourly basis. Around her buzzed a halo of much smaller, nimbler hive-daughters, about the size of Thomas's thumb. They seemed to move as almost one unit—though Strong-Legs had strongly affirmed that they were not, and that Thomas should never voice such a sentiment if he valued his social life.
The hive-daughters buzzed over Thomas's head.
“May we touch you?” Asked the hive-mother.
Thomas braced himself. “Sure.”
And the hive-daughters crawled all over his head. Thomas twitched but through iron self-control didn't squirm. They were neighbors—it'd be rude. They were just getting his measure, and they weren't going to do anything horrible like crawl into his eyes and ears, no matter what his hind-brain thought.
“How do you like it cut?” The hive-mother asked.
God, his head itched. But Thomas endeavored to explain the concept of a medium bald fade to the hive. As testament to his Pidgin Sign skills, he succeeded.
“Understood! Hold still, please.”
And the hive-daughters set to chewing on his hair. Thomas, determined to be a good neighbor and a credit to the neighborhood, tried extremely hard not to squirm, swat, or think about that time his younger brother Christopher got a bee in his ear. Or how it died there. The hive family were perfectly nice, sapient bug people, and crawling into his orifices and dying there would be unforgivably rude.
Surprisingly quickly, it was over, and the hive-daughters dusted him off with their wings. Hanks of black hair flew everywhere, but Thomas ended nice and clean.
Strong-Legs twisted its head almost upside-down. “You look so different!”
“We will fetch you a viewing silver,” the hive-mother signed with regal dignity, and sure enough, her daughters came in with a little mirror. “Have we mowed your crest adequately?”
Thomas looked in the mirror, braced for the worst. But he looked… mostly fine, actually. The trim wasn't quite right around the ears, and a year of long hair meant everything stuck out at weird angles, but on the whole, the hive had done a great job.
“Yes! Thank you.”
“You are very welcome, honored customer. Happy spring!”
Thomas smiled, helped Strong-Legs pay, and even made it out the door before finally caving to the urge to scratch all his itchy head-parts and writhe all over while going, “Gaaaaah! Gross gross gross gross!”
Strong-Legs watched him perform the dance of revulsion with benign curiosity. “Local social more?” It asked.
“Yes,” Thomas signed firmly. “Local social more. Don't worry about it.”
Next stop: clothes shopping.
First of all, Texas formal wear just plain wasn't going to happen, so forget about it. Thomas was willing to settle for something he could wear. And it turned out that while cotton didn't exist, flax did, and thus a sort of yellow linen-thing. Thanks to swamp mud, and Freeport merchants, he could even get it dyed red, black, orange, or brown without costing him through the nose.
“Do you have a preference?” Strong-Legs asked.
“Not really. Why?”
Strong-Legs ducked its head, fluffed and flattened what remained of its feathers awkwardly. “Among my people, we have family markings, based on our feathers. When I come through the world-hole, I lost my family, and I was sad. I would be honored to share my family markings with you.”
Thomas was silent for a moment. Strong-Legs was many things, but it was rarely shy, and now it looked small and sad. And while it had spoken very little about its people, he'd always been under the impression that it too came from a very large family.
“Wow. I… yes. Thank you.” He patted Strong-Legs's head, and it closed its eyes happily.
“Also, family markings change over time, with new people coming in, you understand?” it explained. “It is a family history. Is there a color you'd like to add?”
Thomas thought about his family's favorite football team, the Texas Longhorns. “Burnt orange,” he said.
“Oh thank goodness! I was worried you'd say purple. I could never afford that!”
Which was how Thomas ended up with a new poncho, and a new pair of pants that buttoned down the front, all in striping shades of burnt orange, dun, and white. As a special spring gift, Strong-Legs also got him a sort of big plaited collar/necklace thing of flax and plucked blue feathers from Strong-Legs, which hung in a diamond shape down in points to Thomas's chest and mid-back.
“Please forgive me,” Strong-Legs signed unhappily. “Blue is part of my family colors, very important, but the only dye that's the correct shade is beyond my ability to get. I had to make do with my plumage.”
“It's beautiful.”
“But of course! It's from me, after all.”
Over the next week or so, Strong-Legs also spruced up. Its feathers were groomed and oiled. Now that its spring coat had had time to replace the plucked winter plumage, it looked bright and blue-tinged for spring. It had its own collar over its neck… though it was made of grass, not flax, since Strong-Legs didn't need to worry about it rubbing on bare skin.
“See?” It declared, spreading its wings and fluttering them. “All fancy!”
Thomas had to admit, it did look quite dressed up. And though he'd worried he'd look awful, he actually looked pretty formal himself, in his poncho, collar, and with his hair waxed to keep it in place. (He'd long since given up on any sort of hair gel.)
And then they were off to the festival. The sports, the food, the recitations of the year's dead and living. Thomas was greeted by so many people that it made him dizzy.
And then the Dead-Carrier Beetle on the announcement platform declared, “We have new citizens this year!”
Everyone wiggled their applause.
“Please come forward, Brewer, Sprint, Handsome Boy...”
Thomas looked around, bewildered, and Strong-Legs shoved him forward. “Go, go! Make me look good!”
And Thomas found himself on stage, being anointed with oil, being watched by what seemed to be the entire town.
“You have been with us four seasons,” Elder Sister declared. “This is your first dawn of spring, and with a new spring dawn, there is a new beginning.
“You have been through great loss. There is no changing that. We hope, as we all hope, that one day, you will be reunited with your people. But until then, we hope to be your people, your home. If you will accept the title, we will like to call you 'citizen.'”
Thomas stared out into the crowd of townspeople. The scaly reptiles, the bugs, the spook-monsters. The sweetmeat seller, and the healers, and the Elder Sister who'd helped him through Dia de Muertos, and the hive family, all the people he'd befriended over the year.
And Strong-Legs, who was practically dancing in place with excitement.
This wasn't Texas. It never would be. And maybe, just maybe, Thomas could live with that.
“I accept citizenship,” he signed.
And the townspeople waved a cheer, and the dances and fireworks started.
Notes: If you're curious what Strong-Legs sounds like, this is in the right ballpark. Despite its birdlike appearance, its people aren't particularly known for singing--mostly they dance to communicate. And yes, the spring festival they're celebrating is 'Hooray-We're-Not-Dead Day,' which M.D. and Biff celebrate six years later.
