[ The art had indeed been framed. Just a normal sheet of paper, carefully smoothed against a white backing. 'Helping Hand' was written in bold, decorative text across the top, outlined in pinks and creams. Beneath, some skilled printmaker had carefully illustrated a scene at the side of a white-sailed ship. Fishermen young and old clustered awed at its side, helping to haul up a net half-risen from the waves, heavy with gleaming fish. But at the top of the net rest some young merrow man, face and slender hands lifted to the fishermen while a few, faces soft with awe as if at his beauty, reached down to help him. He was cast all in blues and silvers, but the hull of the ship was red, the soft pinks and oranges of dawn or dusk coloring the bend of the sails, the tops of the waves.
The second the box was in Cain's hands, he was quieter. His thumbs brushed along the delicate sides of the bright box, with the reverence of one for whom gifts were unspeakably rare. He felt the contents, but was suddenly... almost afraid to open it. He took a shaky breath. ]
People don't give me gifts, you know.
[ It felt... blurted out. And he flushed almost with shame, inwardly reprimanding himself for saying something so... stupid. He carefully folded open the flaps, as if he were determined to keep the paper box. He set it atop a low shelf, so that he could withdraw the small painted boxes.
It was so strange to think that someone had probably made such delicate things with their hands. That somewhere, a tree had been felled and milled for the wood. Fuck only knew how many years it had grown, quiet and unobtrusive in its forest. Someone's sweat and labor had gone into smoothing the thin boards. Someone had mixed the paint, and applied it into these patterns. Someone had lacquered them to seal them.
Some of the lines of paint were thinner than the edge of his thumbnail. The backs of his eyes burned a little.
With care, he brought one to his face, cracked open its lid with his thumb, and inhaled slow, and deep, with his eyes closed, murmuring a question, ]
no subject
The second the box was in Cain's hands, he was quieter. His thumbs brushed along the delicate sides of the bright box, with the reverence of one for whom gifts were unspeakably rare. He felt the contents, but was suddenly... almost afraid to open it. He took a shaky breath. ]
People don't give me gifts, you know.
[ It felt... blurted out. And he flushed almost with shame, inwardly reprimanding himself for saying something so... stupid. He carefully folded open the flaps, as if he were determined to keep the paper box. He set it atop a low shelf, so that he could withdraw the small painted boxes.
It was so strange to think that someone had probably made such delicate things with their hands. That somewhere, a tree had been felled and milled for the wood. Fuck only knew how many years it had grown, quiet and unobtrusive in its forest. Someone's sweat and labor had gone into smoothing the thin boards. Someone had mixed the paint, and applied it into these patterns. Someone had lacquered them to seal them.
Some of the lines of paint were thinner than the edge of his thumbnail. The backs of his eyes burned a little.
With care, he brought one to his face, cracked open its lid with his thumb, and inhaled slow, and deep, with his eyes closed, murmuring a question, ]
Did he tell you what they're called?