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The youth always listened to Johnny – perhaps it was the excitement, the enthusiasm, the bursting, blinding lights of colors and sounds and utter ridiculousness that settled him, that tethered him there, instead of out into the wild world where he’d only walk around in misery. He kept his smile on his face, drowned out the vivid, haunting noise of his melancholy with the sugared stag’s rapture, with the incoming of others, swinging his head to beckon them all in, nodding enthusiastically, trying not to feel so desperate, so aloof, so god damned depressed – but the notion still clawed at his insides, threatened to choke, threatened to strangle, and he attempted to hush it all away in his greetings. “Wessex, Albrecht,” he tipped his head in salutations, didn’t allow his grin to fall off in a spiraling wake of anguish, and then turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
Candy - sweet little treats – and the sentiments, descriptions alone allowed him to bend down, to fully inspect what the little beast had been conjuring. Orsino sniffed at them too, then made a giant sneeze, hardly encouraged, but the prince was all the more intrigued when the plants transformed (always eager for new things, avaricious, greedy, hungry for information, for secrets, for sustenance over grief), curling away from their raspberry form and into small gumdrops littered at their feet. The Basin had never been known for its sweetness - while there were kind creatures coiled in their lairs, more often than not the mountains had been described as persevering, as enduring, as masterful, dominating, strong, tough, and tenacious, and the notion of this saccharine conjecture was enough to ensnare the General’s curiosity. He looked up, smiling again, proffering a piece of himself, embarking on a noble quest, trying to solidify a portion of his heart as many distractions as possible. “Could I?”
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