Light the Fuse!
It's on the very edge of the light where the dark seems blackest.
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This was where he sat, on the edge of the light, gazing off at the stars in the half-glow, the faintest traces of music playing about his head, the crackle of explosives rattling their short bursts of light and sound, the smells of various things frying drifting through the air. On one side was the light and warmth and love of the festival, on the other was the drawn shadows and blackness of the forest, the dark made a solid curtain by the soft luminance that played in his eyes. Like so much sorrow and longing, staring at the jovial aura the town cast.
Self-imposed exile for another celebration. Harvest festival was the most depressing and frustrating of the festivals, anyway. Or at least to him. 'Him' being a boy named Geraldt, a brooding heap on the edge of things, staring at nothing and hating everything. This festival was nothing but a celebration of the end of life, a depressing homage to the eventually death of the entire world, which sat cold and prone until the glorious spring came and things began again. For him, it was nothing but a headache and a heartache. And so he sat, alone and filled with dread, for the coming winter, and for things in general.
The truth was, he was bored. Nothing satisfied anymore. His life had so far proven itself to be dreadfully average, and he was starting to get the idea that it would stay this way through its course. And more than anything, that scared him. It filled him with an unbelievable emptiness, a paradox indeed, that he handled with bitterness and distance. It was no way to live. So he sat, on the edge of the party, hoping against everything he believed, for something interesting to happen, for adventure to find him before monotony became unbearable. And sometimes those who wish find what they seek.
If there was one thing that Geraldt didn't find terribly boring and unsatisfying, it was desserts, pastries, and sweets. He was given to quite the sweet tooth and always had a bit of something on him to sate it. This day was no exception. Earlier in the evening he had made a stop at his favorite bakery and picked up a bit of seasonal treat, the unique flavors being the only real thing he could enjoy about this time of year. He was quite close with the man who ran the shop, and when he put down the money for a bundle of pocky, the man behind the counter gave him a wink and a nod and pulled out a separate roll of them, wrapped up in a bright orange bow and looking quite tasty. “Special, these,” the baker said, grinning, “I made them with you in mind. I think you'll find them to be just what you're looking for. Smile.” And he did, a genuine turn of his lips, more than just a facade. And with nothing more to say, he left.
Now he was in the half-light of the edge of things, and he decided it was time to break into them, brighten up his evening and see what the baker had meant by 'special.' Pulling one from the bunch, he broke off just the tip, chewing softly and appraising. He was stricken by the burst of bright sweet flavor, that mellowed out nearly as quickly into an almost smoky, mellow aftertaste. He was immediately taken with it, and decided they were special indeed, it must have been quite a discovery to find something that worked like this. It had certainly made his evening a little bit more tolerable, and that was enough, and he helped himself to the rest. Each individual piece was a joy, and he kept feeling better and better, all the sorrow and self-pity fading. There were little things in life, things that reminded one that all wasn't a downhill hurdle, like little firecrackers, full of light and sound, always enjoyable. He almost felt silly for all the time he had spent staring at the wall, the sky, at absolutely nothing, when he could have been out, discovering this on his own. And as he stared at the last stick perched between his fingers, there was a flash.
Geraldt flinched, slightly, as there was a pop that went with it, and dropped the pocky that wasn't quite a pocky anymore. When he sat back up, rubbing his eyes, he surveyed what stood in front of him, soaking up the glow that filtered back from behind them, was a boy. An adorable boy, at that. The old tongue rose to his lips, and he whispered, “Folbran.” Ignite. “I think we can be friends.”
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