![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Rhea & Vincent - Treasure hunting.
For Val.
No triggers.
0. We Are Young
--
Rhea's toes sink deep into grey sand; she wiggles them, concentrating mainly on the map in front of her. She turns it upside down and 'hmms' under her breath. Vincent, standing stiffly nearby, the spade an unfamiliar weight in his arms, looks over, anxious. "Hm?"
"Hm," Rhea says in reply.
"Hm?" He asks again.
"Hm," she replies. "I think I might be too English for kilometres. I'm not entirely certain we're in the right place."
Vincent, hesitating, reaches over and takes the map. He turns it the right way up and places it gently back in her hands.
"Oh," says Rhea. "Thanks, Vincent."
"It's no trouble..." He puts the spade into the sand and looks towards the horizon. The sun is just rising and the beachcombers have risen with it. They are distant grey specks on the grey horizon. They are silhouettes more than they are people. They aren't real. Nothing is real at four A.M. "Is it near here, do you think?"
"Hopefully," the archaeology student takes another step forward. She frowns down at the map, no confidence in its direction. Rhea is rebelling. Rhea is a quiet rebel when she rebels. This makes Vincent feel slightly less anxious about defying the Order. They are digging up an old stash of academic books. Studies on Spirits and magic and magicians, hidden on this cold Canadian beach. He thinks Rhea's toes might be turning blue. But she has refused to wear socks or shoes. It doesn't feel right, she said, wearing shoes on a beach. But it's Fall and they've been out here hours and the beach is cold and wet.
Vincent rubs his hands together and looks over the sealine. There are cliffs further down. There is a town here. Everything is quiet at four A.M. Nothing is real at four A.M. He hugs the spade under his arm and thinks of his radiator and his bed. Then he feels guilty for mentally abandoning Rhea. He looks up, determined to be more attentive. She's taken another step forward, more than one. There is a cluster of rocks nearby and now she's standing close to them. He comes and stands next to her, his long strides easily covering the ground she'd put between them.
"I think it's here," she tells him. Rhea points to a small mark in the rock, around seven feet up. Vincent touches it, running his thumb over it. Too small to do so herself, Rhea folds the map under her arm and leans back on her heels. She shoves her hands into her pockets, tucks her chin into her chest and brings her elbows up to her ears. She looks tired. It's four A.M. Nothing is real.
They take it in turns to dig. Vincent finds that it's hard work. He had thought it would be easy. He had pictured the sandcastles he'd made as a child. He had not imagined the six foot hole they'd be digging. Rhea is wiry and strong from archery and rugby. He is better at dealing with cold. Together they make a decent team, if slow. Rhea has to finally put on socks and shoes, her toes gone blue and unfeeling. Vincent discovers that nothing looks real at five A.M. either.
They find the box when his spade clangs against metal. Rhea climbs in and pulls it out. They sit next to each other, feet dangling in the hole they made. Vincent's hand hovers over the lid and he wonders if the men who first opened the pyramids after hundreds of years felt close to how he feels. He undoes the latch and flips the top open. Next to his elbow, he feels Rhea's ribs expand and contract as she takes in a breath and sighs it out. For a moment they sit at the edge, huddled over the box. She's warm against his side.
When she pats his shoulder, he thinks of how bitter it must feel to smile so apologetically after she'd spent so much time researching this treasure. Inside the box is a single piece of paper. On it is the word 'Sorry', written neatly in black ink. "I'm sorry," he offers.
"It's fine, not your fault."
"I really am," he stands. She does the same and brushes sand off of her clothes. They look at the box and then they turn and look out at the sea. They stand unmoving at each other's sides, staring out over the waves. Later she will walk away and he will find it difficult with even his long legs to cover the ground left between them. Later the world will come alive and Vincent will be alone once more. For now, they have the unreal early morning, and the grey of the sea, gently eroding the ground they stand on.
No triggers.
0. We Are Young
--
Rhea's toes sink deep into grey sand; she wiggles them, concentrating mainly on the map in front of her. She turns it upside down and 'hmms' under her breath. Vincent, standing stiffly nearby, the spade an unfamiliar weight in his arms, looks over, anxious. "Hm?"
"Hm," Rhea says in reply.
"Hm?" He asks again.
"Hm," she replies. "I think I might be too English for kilometres. I'm not entirely certain we're in the right place."
Vincent, hesitating, reaches over and takes the map. He turns it the right way up and places it gently back in her hands.
"Oh," says Rhea. "Thanks, Vincent."
"It's no trouble..." He puts the spade into the sand and looks towards the horizon. The sun is just rising and the beachcombers have risen with it. They are distant grey specks on the grey horizon. They are silhouettes more than they are people. They aren't real. Nothing is real at four A.M. "Is it near here, do you think?"
"Hopefully," the archaeology student takes another step forward. She frowns down at the map, no confidence in its direction. Rhea is rebelling. Rhea is a quiet rebel when she rebels. This makes Vincent feel slightly less anxious about defying the Order. They are digging up an old stash of academic books. Studies on Spirits and magic and magicians, hidden on this cold Canadian beach. He thinks Rhea's toes might be turning blue. But she has refused to wear socks or shoes. It doesn't feel right, she said, wearing shoes on a beach. But it's Fall and they've been out here hours and the beach is cold and wet.
Vincent rubs his hands together and looks over the sealine. There are cliffs further down. There is a town here. Everything is quiet at four A.M. Nothing is real at four A.M. He hugs the spade under his arm and thinks of his radiator and his bed. Then he feels guilty for mentally abandoning Rhea. He looks up, determined to be more attentive. She's taken another step forward, more than one. There is a cluster of rocks nearby and now she's standing close to them. He comes and stands next to her, his long strides easily covering the ground she'd put between them.
"I think it's here," she tells him. Rhea points to a small mark in the rock, around seven feet up. Vincent touches it, running his thumb over it. Too small to do so herself, Rhea folds the map under her arm and leans back on her heels. She shoves her hands into her pockets, tucks her chin into her chest and brings her elbows up to her ears. She looks tired. It's four A.M. Nothing is real.
They take it in turns to dig. Vincent finds that it's hard work. He had thought it would be easy. He had pictured the sandcastles he'd made as a child. He had not imagined the six foot hole they'd be digging. Rhea is wiry and strong from archery and rugby. He is better at dealing with cold. Together they make a decent team, if slow. Rhea has to finally put on socks and shoes, her toes gone blue and unfeeling. Vincent discovers that nothing looks real at five A.M. either.
They find the box when his spade clangs against metal. Rhea climbs in and pulls it out. They sit next to each other, feet dangling in the hole they made. Vincent's hand hovers over the lid and he wonders if the men who first opened the pyramids after hundreds of years felt close to how he feels. He undoes the latch and flips the top open. Next to his elbow, he feels Rhea's ribs expand and contract as she takes in a breath and sighs it out. For a moment they sit at the edge, huddled over the box. She's warm against his side.
When she pats his shoulder, he thinks of how bitter it must feel to smile so apologetically after she'd spent so much time researching this treasure. Inside the box is a single piece of paper. On it is the word 'Sorry', written neatly in black ink. "I'm sorry," he offers.
"It's fine, not your fault."
"I really am," he stands. She does the same and brushes sand off of her clothes. They look at the box and then they turn and look out at the sea. They stand unmoving at each other's sides, staring out over the waves. Later she will walk away and he will find it difficult with even his long legs to cover the ground left between them. Later the world will come alive and Vincent will be alone once more. For now, they have the unreal early morning, and the grey of the sea, gently eroding the ground they stand on.
no subject
I want to give them hugs.
<33333
no subject