#Francis 'moth'

[r1ng-w0rm]

LBB! OC BIKER GANG (wip/concept??)

․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․

Alrighty sooooooo I was thinking about one of my og/non fandom ocs- Roach [Roach is a hellracer/nascar racetrack owner within the swag pits of hell. He's also an engineer, but that's not important atm] B- and thinking about his character background got me interested in making a biker gang OC(?) for that awesome sim, Loveless Biker Boys (p.s u should play it <3).

CW/TW: Blood Oaths, uh.. Nascar murder durby? Suffocation/inhaling toxic gasses???

․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․

◂◄Flamin' Biker Boys►▸

▸►Feel the burn! [Background info]◄◂

The Flamin' Biker Boys was a gang originally started by the one and only well known Nascar/Racetrack Murder Derby owner- Verner 'Roach' Hemp: A man who considers his racetrack to be the love of his life.

Though as the years passed, 'Nettie' and Matthias had moved near Roaches racetrack to help Roach manage the murder derby.. Then soon after that two more people joined (who'll be discussed later). Then after seeing the more than exciting beef going between the Loveless Bikers and the Rival Bikers, the group wanted to join in on the supposed violence. Thus the Flamin' Biker Boys were born!

But-.. How'd they come up with that name?.. Well they originally started with Irradiated Biker Boys due to the amount of nuclear waste around the racetrack and because their biker suit colors and uniforms were themed towards being neon green, but soon the radiation had bombarded its way into the derbies underground lounge...and as Roach walked down the concrete slab-like steps to inspect the issue- a sulphuric stench had already knocked it's way into Roaches brain, ridding his current state unconscious.. Though instead of killing him instantly, it mutated each sweat gland and pore within his body to produce a flammable substance- but instead of warning the rest, he was like "come down here so we can set our hair on fire and be cool!!🤓"

I haven't fully thought through the gangs status background so don't judge me(plz).

▸►MORE UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO BLOCK UR FEED◄◂

▸►YES AND NO'S TO BECOMING A MEMBER. AKA WAYS INTO BECOMING AN OFFICIAL MEMBER◄◂

If you're thinking of joining these bad boys, here's a few things you gotta remember!

Be just a tad bit vehicle smart! (Whether you know a tiny bit or a lot)

Be able to withstand extremely high temperatures and violent conditions when you're on the race track.

Don't complain about the smell.

Please glare at the other biker groups to make yourself look cool!!

▸►IF YOU DO MAKE IT IN◄◂

While I will talk more about what'd each biker would do to welcome you in(due to each of them having special abilities to mutate you), Roach would most likely be the one to woo you into mutating to officially be a member. He'd probably lock you into the old irradiated lounge room to see if you'll survive.

If you do survive, Congrats! You got cool inflamed hair(or your pores can release a deadly gas.. There's actually multiple things you could possibly end up getting, I'm just naming the two most common).

If you don't survive, you're either a melted blob of flesh and bloody goop or you're charred to death.

▸►IF YOU DON'T MAKE IT IN◄◂

If you're wanting to go into a No Murder/Gore route: they'd probably just be like "I'm sorry, but go bother someone else"

If you want to go into a more violent route: there's multiple things that could happen- they burn you, you suffocate to death, you're handed over to the Rival Biker Boys uh... So on so forth.

▸►ABOUT THE BELOVED FLAMIN' RACER BOYS◄◂

These drawings are quick design concepts for them + Dante's official design

☣︎Dante-

A 30 year old, 6'4 god complexed man who still believes that Dice and Jeff are the same person disguised as two.

Dante's the supposed charisma of the group.

His flaims range between a multitude of colors, but mostly stay Highlighter yellow.

☣︎Moth-

A 26 year old, 6'6 eye sewn intelligent man whos IQ is above 200.

His name isn't actually Moth, it's Francis. The only reason why he's called Moth is because he called a wasp a moth and everyone absolutely destroyed his ego about it.

Moths flames usually remain teal or sea foam green.

☣︎Verner 'Roach' Hemp and 'NETTIE' Hemp

I put these two together because you guys already know a bit about them BUTTTT-

Two completely opposite brothers who don't actually hate eachother. Roach being 42 years old and 5'6, while 'NETTIE' is 51 and stands at 7'0.

The funny thing about these two is that Roach owns a Hellracing nascar murder derby while Nettie owns a hefty metal welding warehouse that specializes in creating absolutely screwed up violent vehicle parts.

Roaches his hair is more lava/corium-like than it is at being pure fire, but his magma hair is usually a salmon pink color.

'NETTIE' On the other hand can change the color of his inflamed skull. It was originally a pastel yellow, but he usually switches from a toxic green to a midnight purple.

☣︎Matthias *insert whatever*

A 35 year old, 6'4 man who deems himself the better twin between him and Tobias.

He's one of the racetracks 'enthusiastic' speakers/radio hosts. He specializes in making his own hazmat suits!

Matthias likes to keep his flames a classicorange! Totally not because he likes to mock his brain fried brother, but because he thinks orange actually suits him. (It doesn't, personally the rest see Matthias being a rose gold/dead pink kind of guy).

☣︎DOOBIE THE NEWBIE

An 18 year old, 5'9 man who idolizes the loveless biker boys just a bit too much.

Doobie (real name being: Dud) is a guy who originally sparked his stupid, drug-ridden way up to the top alongside his supposed childhood friend Neon, but instantly turned down Neons suggestion/invitation to join the rivals.

Doobie doesn't have any cool flame hair since he's the newbie, but his real hair is an auburn color.

․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․

I plan on writing more for them(like their opinions on others etc)

[babacontainsmultitudes]

RIP Will Campos the only person who was murdered this episode.

[holy-moth]

a little messy umbrella crozier to welcome the spring thaw

[jksnrabbit]

Trudy vs. Trudy vs. Tony [w.i.p]

couldnt wait til wip wednesday. peachyville has been driving me insane and im losing my mind

i would definitely put episode 5 up there as one of their best episodes

[hippydippydruid]

Everything is perfect in Peachyville!

And Dood!

These are just some silly rocks I painted while camping, although the everything is perfect in peachyville idea is something I want to do in an proper painting if I have time with the school year coming up.

[leadandblood]

Are you picking up what I'm putting down👀

Drawn side by side... for science

[fluffyfairyzz]

hes so silly <3 /p

shout out to human francis gotta be one of my fave genders!!

[maritime-matchups]

[likeamothtowardsaflame]

IIII DONT NEEED THE WOOOORRRLLLD TO SE E THAT IVE BEEN THE BEEST I CAN BEEEE BUT I DONT THINK I COULD STAND TO BE WHERE YIU DONT SEE MEEEEE </3

[thediscsystem]

Fucked up old gay men

[holy-moth]

Polaroid taken by James Ross in the Swiss Alps, ca. late 60s to early 70s

(continues to have brainrot caused by @nonagethimus and @jacquelying Everest AU)

[mxmoth]

Well obviously Juan/Frankie and #16....

#16 Trying to fulfill their wishes

The house had never been this full before, not even at the height of rodeo season when it was filled with cowboys trying to save a few bucks by avoiding the hotels. Among those presently in attendance were the Padre and a number of his flock, a scattered few missionaries from Charleston, honored guests from Starfall, and complete strangers who had simply heard of the meeting through whispers. Despite the size of the ranch, for one weekend every bed, sofa, and safe patch of floor had been claimed.

If that was the only thing pressing into the back of Frankie's skull, it would have been a hell of a lot easier to cope with, but that sharp spike of anxiety twisted and dug a little deeper yet. They had retreated to the kitchen, as far away from the noise of conversation as they could get while still technically being present. The edge of the counter dug into their palms, a tight knot of heat had begun to burn between their shoulderblades, and counting the dimples in the terracotta tiles just wasn't distracting their racing mind the way they wanted it to.

And yet, they managed to find themself distracted all the same.

The touch, gentle as it was, that fell against their shoulder gave them a start. A wave of hyper-vigilance roared through their body, only to ebb again when they saw who was on the other end of that touch. His smile alone could calm even the most ferocious beast, and theirs had been weak to it for almost two centuries.

"Mi vida," he said softly, his hand soothing down their arm, "you look troubled. Unburden yourself."

With anyone else, that would have been an astronomical request; but with him, it felt effortless. They released their iron grip on the countertop, watching the imprint fade from their palm in a breath, then wound their arm around his waist to curl the bulk of their body into his. They had to stoop to rest their cheek against his shoulder, but it was worth it for the way his arms wrapped around them, sheltering them, molding their forms together.

"Some of the best minds in our world," they started, a waver to their usually smooth drawl, "scientists, scholars, philosophers... all of them in my living room. And I feel woefully out-classed."

"Out-classed?" he repeated, pulling back a little to look at them. He reached up and took their jaw in both large hands, "Mi corderito, they're here because you called them here. I didn't do that, Padre didn't do that. You did."

They dragged their lower lip between their teeth and nodded, accepting his response even if they didn't fully understand it - they couldn't fully settle the knowledge within themself. But they trusted him and that was the only thing that had ever truly mattered. Everything else would eventually turn to ash, but the two of them had been born from the same star. If he said it was so, then it was so, regardless of their own fears.

With a soft sigh, they leaned in again and thumped their forehead against his shoulder. He chuckled and braced one arm around their shoulders again, fingers sliding up into the back of their hair, gripping softly, anchoring.

"It's a lot," they muttered.

"It's meant to be," he replied. "If it were easy, everyone would do it, and then it wouldn't mean anything. But you have to listen to that feeling..." he snaked a hand between their bodies and tapped his fingertips against their sternum, "the one right here. It's a gift that we can feel it at all. Now," he leaned back, kissed their forehead, and disentangled himself from their limbs. "I'm going to make you a drink and you're going to go talk to your guests. The sooner you charm their wisdom from them, the sooner they'll leave."

They couldn't help but smile at that, and the way a few simple moments with him could calm the raging storm within them. While he made his way to the cabinet to pull down a couple of glasses, they drew their hand through their hair and straightened the cuffs and lapels on their too-large flannel. Unlike most nights, Frankie wasn't armored in black-on-black, leather, and heavy makeup. Their face was bare save for a collection of delicate piercings, and they had clad themselves in well-worn jeans and one of Juan's old shirts. Barefoot, comfortable, in staunch opposition to the idea that they had to dress up or make a certain kind of impression in their own home. But the idea of going out and mingling with ages-old academics made them wonder if maybe they should have put in a bit more effort.

Wherever that thought was going, it was halted by the scent of tequila wafting across the span of the kitchen. A few seconds later, Juan was handing them a cut-crystal glass, sending them off with a symbolic show of humanity and a pat on the backside.

Much as they wanted to drag him along with them, they squared their shoulders and started out of the cool sanctuary, winding through the dining room and towards the living room where most of their guests had gathered. They had every intention of making their way over to a cluster of sofas on the far side of the space when a voice from just behind them stopped them in their tracks.

"A moment, child, if I may impose."

Frankie turned on their heel and looked around, seeing no one until they glanced down at an armchair just to their left. Looking back up at them was a face that Murnau himself couldn't have invented in his most unsettling nightmares. It should have taken them off-guard; it didn't.

"No imposition," they answered, lingering where they stood for a moment before settling down in the chair opposite him. The fireplace blazed in front of them both, casting his pale flesh in a golden light, lending warmth and gentleness to what might have ordinarily been horrific. "What can I do for you?"

He smiled, an uncanny expression on a Nosferatu, but one that Frankie found absolutely fascinating. "I suppose I should offer you an apology first, I arrived uninvited."

Frankie snorted, "I've always said the most interesting guests are the ones who ain't got an invitation."

"How like your progenitor," he offered. "I admit, when I heard that there was someone trying to make an open secret out of campfire tales, I was intrigued. And the more I heard, the more intrigued I became. I had to come and meet the Boogeyman myself."

They laughed. "I'm only the Boogeyman if you're a bull," they said, leaning back in their chair and balancing their glass on one denim-clad knee so as to not ruin the leather chair. "And I certainly didn't give myself the nickname."

"No," he hummed, "no... But there are a number of our kind who might echo it if they learned what you were doing here. Which is exactly why I support it." He paused briefly, letting his gaze linger on the flickering flames in front of them, slipping off to another world for just long enough that Frankie could bring their glass to their lips and wallow in the burn of alcohol. "I brought you a gift," he continued, gesturing vaguely with spindly sharp-nailed fingers towards the back hall. "I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of leaving it in your sire's office, but I thought you might find it interesting when you're finished with these clucking cultists and con men. No cost," he added, as though anticipating the question that may follow.

But Frankie merely replaced one inquiry with another. "Why?"

"I find it interesting," he shrugged. "I want to watch your progress. It's been decades since anyone has really tried to find their way to Golconda and you may just be closer than any of those other fools."

Their brows furrowed a little, and they brushed a lank curtain of hair away from their face. "How so?"

"Perhaps it's an unintended gift of your bloodline, of your embrace; perhaps it's been cultivated with some unwitting intent. I could only guess. But you possess a unique spark of humanity that evades so many others searching for the path."

His gaze shifted past them, over their shoulder, back in the direction they had come from. Frankie twisted and followed that line of sight, catching a glimpse of Juan leaning against the archway from the kitchen, watching them. That feeling of safety washed over them again and without having to ask for clarification, they simply understood.

[hippydippydruid]

Some doodles I made while listening to the newest episode of dndads. Trudy’s part of the story was SO good. Bonus Francis being unhinged. The eyeball maneuvering was a real treat. Hopefully Tony, the biggest idiot of all time, lives to level up next week.

[thehungergamesrenaissance]

The Hunger Games Renaissance. The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (2023), dir. Francis Lawrence "“The District Twelve girl tribute is Lucy Gray Baird,” he said into a mic. The camera swept over the crowd of gray, hungry faces in gray, shapeless clothing, seeking the tribute. It zoomed in toward a disturbance, girls drawing back from the unfortunate chosen one. The audience gave a surprised murmur at the sight of her. Lucy Gray Baird stood upright in a dress made of a rainbow of ruffles, now raggedy but once fancy. Her dark, curly hair was pulled up and woven with limp wildflowers. Her colorful ensemble drew the eye, as to a tattered butterfly in a field of moths. She did not make straight for the stage but began to weave through the girls off to her right. It happened quickly. The dip of her hand into the ruffles at her hip, the wriggle of bright green transported from her pocket and deposited down the collar of a smirking redhead’s blouse, the rustle of her skirt as she moved on. Focus stayed on the victim, her smirk changing to an expression of horror, her shrieks as she fell to the ground, pawing at her clothes, the shouts of the mayor. And in the background, her assailant was still weaving, still gliding her way to the stage, not looking back even once."

[leadandblood]

I'm too scared to ink it😭😭😭 just fixed a few things and traced it with a tougher pencil :')

[sketches4mysw33theart]

To Indeed Be A God

The title has almost no bearing whatsoever on the writing, I'm just obsessed with the Dead Poets Society right now.

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A drowsy morning at the country house with Henry Winter involves a row around the lake, a breakfast picnic, and falling asleep in the boat.

Warnings: Google translated phrases, please let me know if these are wrong!

Check out my previous Henry Winter piece!

I awoke to a throbbing in my head, a contrasting harmony to the soft twittering of birds floating in through the open window. I couldn’t resist the groan that forced its way from my mouth. It felt as though my head was being split open repeatedly, like a misguided executioner was standing at the head of my bed and swinging an unsharpened axe.  

It was several moments before I moved at all after I had rolled over, my body feeling scarily heavy yet weightless at the same time. I had little desire to so much as breathe manually, let alone open my eyes and face the merciless joy of the sunlight.  

As I lay there, eyes closed firmly, hands grasping the thin silk duvet, flashes of the previous night came to me as though through a camera’s lens.  

The dinner, a large affair to mourn the passing of the twin’s beloved dog. The wine sloshing in the Abernathy’s prized crystal wine glasses. Those same glasses raised in multiple toasts and clinking together like blood-soaked moths in the candlelight. Charles at the piano playing melodies of sweet summers past. The bottle of Bourbon passed between us without a care for tumblers. Francis plucking Camilla from the armchair she had curled herself up in to stumble around the library in a clunky dance. Bunny’s face, lined with confusion and acidity, watching us all through rolling eyes. Richard’s reflection, gaping at the chandelier-lit room through dazed eyes, as I stared out of the window, looking for stars but finding only my own distorted face.  

And Henry, tall and proud and stoic and quiet. Him I could picture clearly, as sharp and focused as a still life portrait. He’d drank as much as us, more, yet he’d never fizzed over like we did. Only watched from the sofa as we exploded like fireworks, flashing reds and yellows reflected twofold in the whites of his eyes through his glasses.  

Then, me falling into place beside him, head spinning in dizzying circles even as I laid it back on the plush sofa cushions with my eyes shut, light popping behind my eyelids.  

Then, him whispering to me, the soft, cold anchoring of his deep voice, but either I couldn’t tell what he was saying, or I was not in tune enough to listen.  

Then, I was there, waking up in bed. 

I opened my eyes when the pounding in my head began to lessen, allowing the bird song to wash over me rather than suffocate me. The thick curtains were open, weak sunlight creeping across the oak floor and furnishings, lighting them up like whisky. It was cool, that early morning chill before the last of the lingering summer heat could settle in again.  

I watched the floor for several minutes, praying for my headache to cease. Of course, praying never did anyone much good. Henry would be disappointed.  

I didn’t have a clock in the room I stayed in during nights at the country house. Francis’s great aunt, whose room that used to be, couldn’t stand them. She felt they made her rush.  

Still, I could guess it was early. There was no noise. Francis wasn’t singing in the kitchen as he made breakfast, Charles and Camilla weren’t bickering meaninglessly in the depths of the house, Bunny wasn’t honking his laugh at some ridiculous jibe. There was nothing except pure tranquillity.  

I knew of one other person, for certain, who would be up so early. That was motivation enough to get out of bed. Still, it was a struggle. My body fought it as I sat up, pushed myself to my feet, scrabbled through my bag for clothes, and checked myself over in the mirror to make sure I looked presentable. 

Finally, I exited the room, closing the door with a soft click behind me. The hallway was quiet, eerily so, and I paced down it, focusing on the soft, luxurious carpet against my bare feet over the pounding of my head. 

On the stairs at the end of the hallway, Francis was curled up, still fully dressed, like a small child unable to stay conscious on a drive back from the beach, snoring obnoxiously and fiercely cuddling a near-empty bottle of whiskey. His overcoat tails were tangled between his bent legs, pale, slender ankles poking out conspicuously from his half pulled-off socks. In the country house, this was not an uncommon occurrence. 

I clambered over him, trying not to catch his limbs or face with my foot. As though sensing my presence as he slumbered, Francis uncurled his body, spreading himself out across several steps and out of the way of my bare feet. Smiling, I leant down to pat him gently on the cheek, careful not to disturb him. He looked incredibly peaceful, for once.  

I left Francis on the stairs, snoring in the shadows of the half-shuttered windows, and headed towards the library. There was a fair chance Henry would be there and, if not, I would likely spot him on my way over. 

As expected, it did not take me long. Henry valued the morning hours, the weak light illuminating the thick pages of his books, the quietness of a dawn tainted only by the songs of the birds.  

He was sat outside, of course, fully dressed, a suited silhouette through the ornate glass doors, a splatter of ink against the canvas of autumn. Although I pushed open the doors as softly as I could, his head shot up as soon as it began to squeak. 

“Good morning,” he said, with a smile. “Drink up.” A slight gesture of his hand brought to my attention a full glass of water and a sleeve of ibuprofen sparkling in the cool, creeping light. 

“Good morning,” I mumbled, fumbling with the package in my desperation to push out two of the pills. When I managed to do so, I swallowed them quickly with a large gulp of water, which I drained gladly straight after.  

Once I’d swiped at my lips, I took the few steps to his seat. Standing behind him, I rested my hands on his broad shoulders and bent down to press a kiss to his cheek. I caught the smile on his face, which did little to lessen the furrow of his brow. 

“How’s the translation going?” 

This question elicited a heavy sigh from him. “It’s all wrong, unfortunately. The verbs won’t translate well, and these sentence structures are ridiculously tricky.” 

“Boreís na to káneis éfkola agápi mou,” I breathed into his ear, bringing my fingertips to his sharp shoulder blades. You can do it easily, my love. 

He laughed. “Óchi ótan eísai étsi, den boró.” Not when you’re like this, I can’t. 

I hummed humorously, spreading my massaging fingertips along his taut shoulders. Spread out before us was the house’s garden, as pure and fierce as Eden, coming swiftly to life in front of my eyes. The sun was just emerging, lingering in the far east like God, watching His creations come to life as on the seventh day. Henry was watching it too, finally relieving himself of his books in favour of the glitter of the autumnal flowers, Gomphrena and Didiscus and Goldenrod. 

It wasn’t often I was up early enough to catch Henry on mornings like this. Despite our circumstances, we never shared a bed during our stays at the country house, primarily because Henry didn’t want to disturb me during our short vacations, or so he said. But also, because, I believe, he was rather shy about our activities around the rest of the Greek class. They knew, of course – we were never as subtle as we thought - but, still, there was something prudish lying within Henry. Or perhaps it was possessive. Not that it matters now, I suppose. 

“Let’s go to the lake,” he said, suddenly, startling me from my observance of a large bee bumbling its way drunkenly through a flowerbed.  

“Now?” I questioned, surprised. Henry enjoyed the mornings because of the quiet solitude they offered him, the time to be alone with his books and his papers. Things he valued even more, I think, than me. 

“Would you like to?”  

I was still sleepy, even more so after taking the ibuprofen Henry had laid out. Still, I could picture how lovely it would be: the drowsy, sun-laced walk through the dandelions and uncut grasses, the heady smell of nature flourishing around us, the somniferous sound of waves lapping at the gently rocking boat, the mesmerizing feeling of floating on air. 

“Yes,” I said, “I would, actually.” Henry was always confidently persuasive. Eerily so. Not that I would have needed much persuading, really. I just liked to think there was something magic about him.  

He sighed, stretching out his aching limbs as he got to his feet. Pre-emptively, he removed his jacket and folded it meticulously, leaving it on the seat of his chair. “Good. Perhaps we should take breakfast with us?” 

It was a wonderful idea, and we slipped back inside to prepare a breakfast picnic: a full bottle of orange juice, a half-full stoppered bottle of champagne left over from the previous night, a package of strawberries, a selection of pastries bought from Camilla’s favourite bakery on our way to the country house the previous morning, and a packet of large blueberry muffins.  

With our breakfast packed in an old wicker basket, we set off into the morning sun, meandering through the budding flowers and tall grasses, clasped arm in arm. It wasn’t a particularly long walk to the lake, but we lingered meaninglessly on the way, I to admire the nature and wildlife, and Henry to momentarily relieve his arm of the picnic basket and watch me with a smile when he thought I couldn’t see him. 

Eventually, we made it, and eagerly hopped into the lonesome boat oared at the makeshift jetty, picnic basket still in hand. Considering it was so early, Henry was alive with vigour, and rowed eagerly, pushing us quickly to the centre of the lake. He had been somewhat withdrawn over the last few weeks, particularly during our days at the country house, so seeing him come to life among the falling birch leaves was a gift.  

We covered one lap of the lake at a fairly quick pace, talking about our latest classes, Julian’s theory of Dionysiac architects (which was, essentially, that the secret language they spoke was more akin to modern day English than any other language throughout history), and the startling resemblance that morning of the pond and surrounding countryside to Jan Brueghel the Elder’s ‘Odysseus and Calypso’ - one of my favourite paintings.  

Henry slowed as we began our second lap of the lake, and I watched his concentrated expression in the water’s reflection.  

“Aren’t you tired?” I was feeling a little peppier now, despite the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping gently at the boat, and I knew Henry had been up significantly longer than I had. “Can I take over?”  

“No, you don’t have to do anything.” I was still watching him in the warped shine of the water, and he caught my eye through the fairy-dust covering of birch leaves. “Just sit right there and look like you do.” A smile flittered across his face briefly, and I shook my head, laughing.  

“If you say so,” I said, still laughing. Henry rowed on and began to fill the silence with his stream of thoughts on Heraclitus’ ideas of opposites, and how the philosopher decreed Hades and Dionysus as the same God, a belief Henry was strongly against. Occasionally he’d break his speech to mumble a suggestion for his translation, which he no doubt tucked away into another corner of his mind for later. 

At some point, I lay back across the seat of the boat, head coming to rest on the lip, one hand stretching over to trail in the lukewarm water. Francis had said once that one of the neighbours had seen leeches in the lake, and Bunny always swore blind that there were water snakes in there. Yet, still, we all went out on it as often as we could, swimming and fighting and trailing our hands through the ripples.  

Listening to Henry speak tantrically and feeling the warm water kiss my fingertips was as delicious and satisfying as being carried in Charon’s boat across the rivers separating the worlds of the living and the dead. I wanted it to last forever. The best kind of purgatory. Psuche. 

But eventually, we did come to a stop, once Henry, with some difficulty, had managed to turn the boat and situate it towards the centre of the lake. I sat up and stretched, groaning at the creak of my bones.  

As I heaved the picnic basket up on to the seat, Henry balanced the oars properly, wiped at his brow, and rolled up his sleeves, eying the cutlery and plates I was laying out. He must have been starving.  

I looked to him to ask if he had any preference for pastries as I began doling out them onto our plates, but the question died on my lips when I saw a constellation of bruises flowering in a strange pattern along his freshly revealed arm. They were fresh, a shocking purple tinted with red. 

“Henry,” I exclaimed, croissant held in one frozen hand. “What in God’s name have you been doing?” 

He furrowed his brows at me, following my eye line quickly. I saw him flounder for a moment, but in a flash, he was as composed as the Queen’s Guard.  

“Don’t fuss, it’s nothing. I fell in the garden yesterday morning, those damn dogs left more garbage on my front path. Is that for me?” 

I believed him, of course. It was a perfectly sensible answer, and certainly not the first time something like that had happened. If only I’d known... 

I gave him the croissant, and finished plating up the food as he poured two Mimosas into the old teacups we’d packed, using far more champagne than orange juice. We ate in a comfortable silence, broken sporadically by random thoughts and anecdotes; we were both slipping into fatigue once more now the sun was fully risen, not too warm against our skin, and the inebriating smells of flowers and the birch trees were reaching out to us, woody and smoky like winter night’s gone by.  

Four Mimosa’s later (between us), we had finished our breakfast, and were lying, nearly unconscious, in the boat, which was very slowly bobbing its own way around the lake once more. Henry was stretched out completely, arms acting as a pillow, and I was tucked in on my side next to him, resting my head on the broad stretch between his shoulder and chest. 

God knows how long we stayed there in the boat, moving listlessly without direction or need, bumping lightly against the bank until one of us made the effort to lift a foot and push us away, listening to the birds' tweet and fly above us, feeling the gentle caress of the birch leaves across her skin, hearing the soft intermingling of our breaths just over the gently lapping water as it granted us passage, seeing the shades of light and dark through the shield of our eyelids. Zoe. The divine life of God. 

When we were roused, the air, the very nature around us felt different, alive, charged. The sun was crawling towards the centre of the sky, but several dark clouds were on its heels. Hours must have passed.  

I came back to life first, awaking as though from death’s sleep, drowsy and confused. What came to me, however, was the distant call of my name, the familiar cadence of the voice. Francis. It was Francis.  

As his shouting got closer and slightly more frantic, I pushed myself up with one hand braced against the smooth wood of the boat’s sole, using the other to first wipe the sleep from my eyes and then shield them from the sun.  

Francis was on the far bank, heading towards the small jetty, and waving his arms as though welcoming in a plane. He was, I noticed with some amusement, still wearing the same clothes he was in when I’d stepped over him that morning. I waved my free hand at him, and he shouted my name again. “Are you insane? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Is Henry with you? It’s gone 12, you know.” 

I couldn’t muster up the energy to respond to him, but I did lay a hand on Henry’s shoulder to shake him awake. With a bit of resistance, he came to, and sat up in the same sluggish manner as me, stretching out his arms, back, and neck. 

Francis called to him now. “Henry? Henry! Bring the damn boat in, will you? Julian’s coming to dinner tonight, and I need everything to be ready.” 

Henry waved his fingers at him, a dismissive acknowledgement, a king sending away a disobedient courtier. Finally, he opened his eyes, landing his gaze directly on me. He smiled, pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth so quickly I did not have time to respond. “Piso ston politismó,” he said lowly, a melancholy look setting in his features. Back to civilization.  

He situated himself carefully on the seat while I stayed where I was watching him like I was at the feet of one the post-Socratics. He picked up the oars once more and started rowing us back to bios. Back to life.