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Some kids have rain boots; he's seen them--bright like splatters of paint, crisper and closer than any rainbow he's ever seen, in blues and purples and greens and yellows. Lucien wishes he had rain boots, wishes his mother could afford them, that they could go tromping through leaves and mud together as he watched everyone watching him in his plastic boots, his rain boots. But that's okay, he can imagine.

For now, he'll just sit on the swing in his rain-drenched sneakers and soaked socks, in his sweater two sizes too big, and become one with puddles. Adults say things like that all the time, say "Become one with--" and tack on something weird and implausible. But that's okay too, because he really likes the implausible.

Lucien steps one foot up onto the seat of the swing, then the other, and grasps the rusty chains in his fists. Raindrops gather and cling to the woven knit of his sweater, a little gritty, a little grimy, and blotch his crumpled jeans. The rain running off his forehead catches on his eyebrows, then his eyelashes, then falls, and with the water squishing between his toes, who needs plastic? Who needs rain boots when you can have the rain?

Lucien closes his eyes and shakes his head, smiles, and that unusual artifice, become one with--, he feels it; he feels implausible. And maybe...

Maybe that's a pretty okay thing to be.
Rown's avatar

Friendly Hunter

Water, in all its forms, has always been a welcome gift to the teenage male. He spends his time in the pool as often as he can, or in the tub during times when the weather is too cold to venture, but on days when it rains he finds himself outside and walking on the ground welcoming drops of life. He's barefoot, uncaring, and his eyes raise themselves up to the sky trying to will more to fall and continue to drench his form; the storm is almost complete in its passing however and he is left outside wet and longing. There is no desire to return home in his steps as he continues down the sidewalk, no destination in his mind, and a hand with fingers ending in pointy nails runs itself upward and through hair that is steadily dripping water itself.

People stare at him as he passes but he pays them no mind, their whispers about his appearance barely registering like the buzzing of flies inside his ears. Long ago he learned how to ignore the comments and looks, his 'mother' raising him to be proud and strong in the only way she knows how. It was funny to always think back that she knows what she is doing, raising him with the rest of her family like some common creature, but on the days that it rains she leaves him to himself and his needs.

On the days it rains, she lets him go out and hunt.

His path intends to take him to a local pond, a place where vagrants cool themselves when the temperatures soar too high. He knows the way well enough that he need not look, need not even try to ensure he is heading down the right path, but for an unknown reason today he happens to turn his gaze from the ground and up as he passes a place of his childhood. The swing sets, the park, he played in them often as a toddler and as a child, but now he has no real desire to go back yet something seems to be calling him.

Is it a scent he recognizes, or a feeling of nostalgia? Either way he turns off the path he knows so well and heads to the park, dark eyes glancing downward as white swirls moved with interest. There is something there, he can feel it and he can smell it, and the blood in his veins rolls with excitement.


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