[ The first thing Flynn notes is that there are two bedrooms upstairs, and that they both have beds in them. The second thing he notes is that everything in here is filthy.
At least that thought fills him with joy. Even if Yuri won't clean it, Flynn will, although—Yuri's chest-smoke-bird led him here.
The first bedroom is at the front of the house, looking over the narrow cobbled street, with a bed and grimy coverings haphazardly thrown over it, a weaving on one wall that's certainly seen better days. Curtains hank lank over both sets of windows flanking the bed.
This is a house that Yuri found, that has enough room for Yuri and Repede, and Flynn has been, what, assuming it's for them both? That's presumptuous of him.
Frowning at himself, Flynn presses carefully into the second bedroom toward the back of the house, separated from the other by a short hallway. They seem to be flanking the two ends of the house, taking up half of the top floor, respectively. One room has a four-poster bed shoved up against the opposite wall. Fading light illuminates sun-stained dusty blue sheets and a coverlet, thick enough to ward off what must be a fierce winter chill to merit such heavy coverings.
It looks a little like Flynn's room at the palace, now that he thinks about it. Perhaps that's just the desk shoved up against the other wall, scattered with papers. He runs a finger along its dusty surface. His finger comes away black-tipped and grimy.
The windows, overlooking both the small front yard and what looks like it must be a walled-in backyard, overgrown with half-dead thin-stalked plants and mushrooms, are just as grimy. Their layer of filth weakens the already wan light spilling in from outside.
It would likely be safer for them to live together, but Flynn can't just assume that will be the case. It's been years since they did: Flynn stayed in the barracks near Zaphias Castle until his promotion moved him into the castle proper, and he's been there ever since. Visiting Yuri every day is not the same as living with him. They're on very different paths.
Or, well. They were.
He has no right, still, to be thinking of this room as even remotely his, or to be thinking that he'll have plenty of time to clean this place up, or that it will make a nice home.
Something, deep in him, thrums at the thought. Flynn frowns at it, wonders, and sinks down onto the edge of the bed with a puff of dust. What a strange feeling. It's the same one he's been feeling all day, telling him to let go, telling him to look forward instead of into the past—
Smoke is pouring from his shoulders.
Flynn makes an alarmed noise, lurching back up off the bed. It's much more smoke than was coming out of Yuri, and though he should probably be very alarmed by it, he doesn't really have time to wonder what's going on because a shape is forming out of the smoke coalescing in front of him, and it's— ]
no subject
At least that thought fills him with joy. Even if Yuri won't clean it, Flynn will, although—Yuri's chest-smoke-bird led him here.
The first bedroom is at the front of the house, looking over the narrow cobbled street, with a bed and grimy coverings haphazardly thrown over it, a weaving on one wall that's certainly seen better days. Curtains hank lank over both sets of windows flanking the bed.
This is a house that Yuri found, that has enough room for Yuri and Repede, and Flynn has been, what, assuming it's for them both? That's presumptuous of him.
Frowning at himself, Flynn presses carefully into the second bedroom toward the back of the house, separated from the other by a short hallway. They seem to be flanking the two ends of the house, taking up half of the top floor, respectively. One room has a four-poster bed shoved up against the opposite wall. Fading light illuminates sun-stained dusty blue sheets and a coverlet, thick enough to ward off what must be a fierce winter chill to merit such heavy coverings.
It looks a little like Flynn's room at the palace, now that he thinks about it. Perhaps that's just the desk shoved up against the other wall, scattered with papers. He runs a finger along its dusty surface. His finger comes away black-tipped and grimy.
The windows, overlooking both the small front yard and what looks like it must be a walled-in backyard, overgrown with half-dead thin-stalked plants and mushrooms, are just as grimy. Their layer of filth weakens the already wan light spilling in from outside.
It would likely be safer for them to live together, but Flynn can't just assume that will be the case. It's been years since they did: Flynn stayed in the barracks near Zaphias Castle until his promotion moved him into the castle proper, and he's been there ever since. Visiting Yuri every day is not the same as living with him. They're on very different paths.
Or, well. They were.
He has no right, still, to be thinking of this room as even remotely his, or to be thinking that he'll have plenty of time to clean this place up, or that it will make a nice home.
Something, deep in him, thrums at the thought. Flynn frowns at it, wonders, and sinks down onto the edge of the bed with a puff of dust. What a strange feeling. It's the same one he's been feeling all day, telling him to let go, telling him to look forward instead of into the past—
Smoke is pouring from his shoulders.
Flynn makes an alarmed noise, lurching back up off the bed. It's much more smoke than was coming out of Yuri, and though he should probably be very alarmed by it, he doesn't really have time to wonder what's going on because a shape is forming out of the smoke coalescing in front of him, and it's— ]
A horse?