Conversations With Cranes | South

( A T T I C U S J E R I C H O J A C Q U E S )




Balancing on one wounded wing
Circling the edge
Of the neverending
The best of the vanished marvels
Have gathered inside your door

The paper is cool against my fingertips, its predominantly smooth surface marred with the occasional knot of twisted pulp. Those are my favorite places, where the fibers gather in a whorl of braille, transcribing some forgotten language I am unfamiliar with, but wish I knew. Still, their elusive words resonate somewhere within me and we reach a silent understanding, these flaws and I. I am no stranger to imperfection, so whenever I encounter a new one, we are like old friends.

My adventures of solitude are broken by the arrival of a girl who is the embodiment of everything that is the opposite of my paper. There are no defects sullying her skin, her pale features so pristine as to spark a moment of jealousy within me. Her face makes perfection appear effortless, and it must be, when you're born with it. It is this thought that prevents her from feeling wholly exotic to me — if flaws are friends, perfection is family. It is a trait everyone surrounding me seems to possess, always so close that I could reach out and touch it, but elusive enough to escape whenever I attempt to claim it for my own.

"What are you doing?" Voice gilded with a sharpness that cuts through her initial appearance, she suddenly reminds me of my parents and all those difficult years of homeschooling. Try as I might to ignore the memories, I can't help flashing back to the tone in their voices after having explained something for the fiftieth time and my being no closer to understanding than before they'd begun. I feel myself flinch instinctively against the sound, that familiar sense of inadequacy welling up in my chest, before glancing up at her, meekly, wishing I had the words to reply, but knowing I'll be unable find them now. Not when the intimidating echoes of that particular tone are still caught in the memory of my ears.

When I first open my mouth, determined to speak despite the difficulty, nothing comes out but silence. The release of air is unable to find purchase with my vocal chords. My face blooms red, flushing with mortification, as I cast my eyes to the ground, eyebrows knitting together with renewed effort. "I-I-I—" I am folding paper cranes. "I-I a-a-a—" I am, I am, I am— "I—" The simple words ignore my silent pleading. I can feel my fingers curling into frustrated fists and gather my knees a little closer to my chest, so thankful I'm not standing. The steadiness of sitting is comforting. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out my nerves, and sigh. The exhalation chases out all my inner discontentment.

As the tightness within my chest begins to ebb, I look to the paper cranes scattered at my feet for help. The answer is in them. I know this thought is true and before I've even finished it, I am pulling a blank sheet of paper toward me, my teeth tugging the fountain pen's cap free once more, and writing with a penmanship as flawless as her face. What confidence I have returns to me with each lithe swoop of my hand. Where speaking was slow, writing comes like a lightning strike — a split second and it's finished. I hold up the paper so she can read it, the trembling in my hands all but imperceptible now, masked by a quiet breeze that sends a nervous wave shuddering across the lettering. It is a white flag, of surrender or peace, it doesn't matter, if only it can ward off that judgmental tone in her voice.

Hello, stranger.

Breaking into a shy grin, I realize the metal pen cap is still gripped awkwardly between my teeth. I leave it there; I've got other things to worry about now. Retracting the paper, I balance it awkwardly on my knees, still unwilling to let go of the comfort of curling into my own body, but intent on completing my silent explanation. Perhaps I can't tell her what I've been doing, but I can show her. Pressing folds into it, I tilt my head against their crookedness as if shifting my perspective will push theirs into alignment, but each one manages to fall into place, until my greeting has been reshaped into yet another, rather homely, crane. Tentatively, I hold it out to her, the small bird cupped within my palm. Fresh scars, ghosts of recent binding mistakes, crisscross around it, evidence of other things I don't know how to do quite right, but insisted on attempting anyway. There is pride in effort, even when there's not perfection.

"T-three hundr-r-red and eight-ty-t-three."

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(OCC — This is my first thread with Attidarling too. No worries, hun. XD)

( A T T I C U S J E R I C H O J A C Q U E S )




Less than forget
But more than begun
These adventures in solitude never done
To the names of our wounds
We send the same blood back from the wars

Beginnings have always been the most difficult for you. It's the first words that consistently trip you up, your uncertainty slipping into each syllable and misplacing all the pauses. Knowing what to say has never been your strong suit, but as with cards, you've dutifully tried your hand at any combination that seems promising. Your dogged determination doesn't seem to pay off too often, but that's never stopped you from putting in twice as much effort the next go-around and it's certainly not going to stop you now.

"How cute." Despite the girl's catty undertone, the snide compliment catches you so off-guard that your heart actually skips a beat in a moment of misguided euphoria. It's rare that you cross paths with so much as the most offhand of praise and although you know because she would never, never ever, never ever ever mean it... that it's not a real accolade ...but then again, you don't seem to know half the things you think you do you can't help being appreciative of her dismissive words. There's a quiet desperation within you that's willing to not only accept her disingenuous remark, but that mentally folds it into a paper crane of its own and tucks it away for safekeeping. Three hundred and eighty-four. Your imagination even goes so far as to draw an itsy-bitsy smile onto its face, don't forget the dimples, but since you can't seem to do anything perfectly, even in your mind, it ends up crooked. Even if you missed all the other hints, this should have tipped you off to her follow-up words; yet, you can feel your lips pursing in agitated response, almost as if tensing from betrayal. "—and utterly useless. You would think that after folding so many of these things that you'd be able to make one that looks halfway decent."

Of course she doesn't understand and it's probably for the best. Loneliness manifested as a flock of woefully lackluster paper cranes is perhaps the last secret of yours this wicked girl needs to discover. Perhaps if everything speaking came as easily to you as it does to others, then you could find a less conspicuous coping tactic for your forlorn little soul. However, talking to yourself is often as useless as your failed attempts to converse with others and writing your fragile thoughts into such kind friends as these birds has always felt much more natural and therapeutic. And they are halfway decent, you insist to yourself, more than that even. You're not wrong for once. They are the best of everything you have to offer, mute representatives of your unspoken pride and the eggshell-delicate army you protect yourself with.

This is why you absolutely bristle when she disdainfully ignores your offering and takes one of your personal guards hostage between her spindly fingers, not because of her scathing criticisms — you've long grown used to being inadequate. She might as well have snatched your heart directly from your chest for all the difference it would make now, her perfectly groomed nails feeling as if they're viciously clawing their way past the feeble armor of your ribcage as she slowly unfolds your creation. Effervescent smile transformed into a scowl, you feel your lips pulling back to bare your teeth with a territorial instinct you didn't know you possessed until now. Tension ripples through your entire body as you release the grip that's held you in an upright fetal position since she appeared and shift towards her into a predatory crouch, both of your gazes so attentively trained on her hands that neither of you seems to notice that you're a split-second from lunging at her.

The only thing that saves you her no, definitely you are her next words as she reads the impossible wish that had been enshrined within your clumsy effort in origami: I want to see everything. "Do you now?" Once again, you are lulled into a false sense of amity as you cast your eyes over the creased calligraphy, despite knowing — again, how many other things have you thought you'd known and been wrong about, so maybe — that no, she can't possibly be genuinely curious about me. Yet, you want to answer her as if she were, tell her about all the faraway places you want to see, maybe— because you cling to whatever hope for companionship you cross paths with —maybe ask if she wants to climb the fence with you and go find them. This insistent voice in the back of your mind keeps whispering how real people must be better than paper cranes, even when they say terrible things. At least they're saying something to you. But she—

You suck in an awestruck breath as you realize she's putting your crane back together, wings practically fluttering back to life against her touch. Every fiber of your being flashes with a foreign emotion that you are helpless to identify. Mouth dry and palms damp with sweat, you take in another awkward gulp of oxygen, throat clenching uncomfortably as you realize that your body seems to have momentarily forgotten how to function on its own. All evidence of your previous animosity disappears as quickly as it came, but you don't withdraw into the defensive curl of your arms. Retreating is somehow the last thing you want to do right now. Instead you lean in a little closer, your jaw hanging slack as you study her refined movements that are so concerned with rebuilding the home you created for one of your most earnest aspirations. You are so immersed in your observations that you almost miss her follow-up comment — "Good luck with that. You won't see much when you're holed up in the woods making a flock of crappy paper birds." — but you do hear it, although it certainly doesn't inflict the intended reaction. Oh, but I am. Don't you see? I'm witnessing things that are so much more unfathomable than oceans or canyons.

"My name isn't 'stranger,' you know. It's Helena. Helena Scott," she chides while completing the final crease, preening each perfected fold into its ultimate position and raising the reborn bird up as if presenting the messiah of paper cranes. Her name holds a spark of recognition, but a lifetime of social isolation and your current distraction prevents you from sorting out precisely why. Despite their reclusive tendencies, you're certain that your parents must know hers, much the same way all of high society simply must know Olivia and Dimitri Jacques. You are no master of deduction, but clairvoyance isn't required to see that her blood is all but made of liquid gold — she is undoubtedly the daughter of the kind of wealth that strikes fear and reverence into the average district denizen. Prestige is inherent in her posture, the kind of familiar, dignified poise that you lack and have always envied your younger brother for inheriting. Still, you can't help feeling an odd twinge of disappointment; money has always been one of the few things that disinterests you.

So instead of fretting over exactly which member of the elite beau monde just reconstructed your heavy-handed origami into something as refined as the society she hails from, you are fixated on the tiny paper bird. Every ounce of your attention is devoted to following its flight path as she perches it atop the highest peak of the mountain range formed by its comrades. It is then that you are truly able to see the contrast — the awkward pinions of your own handiwork jutting out around it, beaks snared in the gaps between folds, and stubby necks prompting them to shy away from the elegant newcomer.

She is speaking again, but the words don't quite register with you this time. And how strange it feels to suddenly be deaf to the rarity of words intended for you. "I've never made one of those before. It's rather dull. How on earth do you find entertainment in that?" You are preoccupied by the hesitance within your own hands as you reach out and lift the avian anomaly of perfection from the flock, cradling it in cupped palms as you bring it so close to your face that its nose brushes against the tip of your own. Head tilting absently as you study the angular planes of its anatomy, the improvement is undeniable. Yet, while each of her creases are in flawless alignment, they cannot entirely erase the paper's memory of your own, every pale cicatrix reminding you of the faint scars stretching across the surface of your own hands.

These thoughts trigger the memory of the last crane you held and you realize it's missing from your grasp, lost in your earlier shift of ire. Tearing your attention away for a brief moment, you spy it laying on the ground near your left foot and hastily retrieve it. Nestled next to one another, the two cranes form a peculiar pair. You decide that although they are opposites, they are unexpectedly complementary. The perfection of one speaks to the potential of the other, while its earnest flaws strike you with a sense of humanity and reminds you how its companion possesses such traits as well, regardless of how well hidden they may be. Feeling an abrupt urge to name them, how can I not, when the monikers are so apt, you move to sit cross-legged as you reach for your fountain pen once more. In the impeccably arcing helices of your script, you painstakingly write Helena beneath the wing of the reassembled bird and Atti in the same place on its partner.

Panic beats its wild fists against the part of your chest where your heart lives as you become aware of your own movements. Having stashed the pen in your pocket and pulled yourself up from the ground, you cross the barrier of cranes to sit at her side, leaving the safe haven that had protectively encircled you before. Despite your alarmed palpitations, you feel downright courageous and, as you take her hand — I insist — and firmly press the Atti crane into it, you wonder if perhaps you're not a little drunk on the exhilaration of this newfound bravery. "H-h—" Still, it spurs you through the difficulty of speaking, coaxing actual words past the tripwires of your vocal cords, "H-h-hello, Mi-miss Helena." The triumph of saying her name without stuttering only bolsters your confidence and suddenly you're convinced you possess moxie. "I-I'm At-atti-Atticus J—" Jacques—

No.

Your frantic pulse is absolutely shrieking frustrated warnings at you now and this time you actually listen: don't tell her that. The same spark of recognition you felt from her name will inevitably be duplicated within her mind over yours, but while hers was probably meant to inspire awe, yours is steeped in shame. While your family is renowned for their genius and the extensive wealth they've reaped from it, you are the black sheep. Ownership of the Jacques title may prompt respect and more than a little curiosity, but that fame turns to infamy in conjunction with Atticus. You are the son who fell short of everyone's expectations, inheriting none of your parents brilliance or composure — such trait's were passed along only to your brother. Although you have come to fragile terms with your shortcomings, you still despise the expression of realization that crosses other people's faces at the mention of your name: Oh, you're that Jacques. How disappointing.

Treading carefully, your stutter ironically camouflages your blunder as you continue, "—j-just call m-m-me Atti, if you-you'd li-like." You don't think she will; she doesn't seem to like many things, particularly about you, but you appreciate her blunt honestly. It's better than the false sympathy you've received before. People tolerate you, because society says they must, so you like her defiance, even if she is unaware of it. You are each rebelling against social expectations in your own way, we have that much in common. This thought is enough to summon the smile back to your face as you meet her eyes for the first time since your fascination with the Helena crane that you still hold possessively within your hands. "I-I'm pl-pleased to m-make your acqu-qu-quaintance." And you are.

The corners of your lips are pulled so wide that they bury themselves in the creases of your cheeks — you are absolutely beaming: eyes shut, head thrown back, shoulders curling forward — and have to bite your lip to hold in a bout of spontaneous laughter. You wonder if she's aware that this grin was ignited by her. You're doubtful; she doesn't seem like she's very good at making people smile, you are simply a rare bird. Maybe this is something you can help her improve on. Before you can stop to consider the repercussions, you have released the crane you've been clutching into your lap, impulsively reaching out to steady your fingertips along the edge of her jaw as your thumbs catch onto the corners of her mouth — "You would be even prettier if you smiled." — and gently nudge them upward. You are not thinking, your actions crossing lines you normally wouldn't dare to so much as look at. However, due to this lack of awareness, you forget to be nervous which you should be and your words flow without restraints. "Like this." That's when the horror of what you've just done sinks in, eyes widening and mouth dropping open in shock as you stop dead in your tracks like a rabbit caught in the cross-hairs. You blame it on the moxie.

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(OOC — I've never tried this 2nd person business before, but Atti thought it sounded fun and of course Atti must try everything. Sorry if it's awful. D:)