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fandomweekly2025-04-21 10:00 am
crabkick) wrote in fandomweekly2025-04-21 10:00 am
Entry tags:
[#257] Basil, Bay (ORIGINAL)
Theme Prompt: #257 - Chemistry
Title: Basil, Bay
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: General Audiences
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 418
Summary: Gwyn attempts to make a potion, and reflects.
There's so much he doesn't understand.
The methodology of magic. The history. The chemistry, the language (god, the language. He will never get the hang of Welsh). Magic has haunted Gwyn all his life, has always been a shadow just round the corner—but he has always pushed it away. Hidden from it. It has always been a stranger to him, a dangerous one, and his understanding of it suffers because of that.
More than that, though, he does not understand Llŷr—but not in the way most people misunderstand him. Llŷr is flighty and fickle, bright but sad. He spins tales and tells elaborate jokes and is only truthful half the time. But Gwyn is used to the caprice of people.
What he doesn’t understand is the kindness that Llŷr shows him, even when Gwyn doesn’t understand. Even when he fails. Even when he retreats in on himself for days and does not—cannot—speak to anyone. It is unfailing and it doesn’t seem to come with a price or strings attached; at least none that Gwyn can see.
Because of it, he is eager to please. He will keep trying to understand.
Llŷr stops in front of the sunlight that filters through the kitchen window. It lights his pale hair up like a halo, illuminates the curve of his cheek. He peers down at the herbs Gwyn has been chopping. Tsks.
“Basil, fy machgen,” he reminds him. “Not bay.”
Oh. Gwyn’s face grows hot. Stupid mistake. He should know this by now.
Llŷr circles around behind him, rolling up his sleeves, and he takes Gwyn’s hands in his and sweeps the chopped bay to the floor with all the other abandoned plant cuttings. He breaks three or four basil leaves off of a potted basil plant on one of the racks and begins to help them chop it. His movements are easy, practiced; his skin warm and slightly calloused. Gwyn’s heart skips a beat.
“We want this couple to avoid the arguments,” Llŷr says in Gwyn’s ear. “Purification is good, but it’s gilding the lily a bit in this case, don’t you think?”
“Sorry,” Gwyn mumbles, embarrassed. Llŷr’s laughter is gentle and warm.
“The wonderful thing about plants is that there is an abundance of them—and there is something to be said for just throwing out what you’ve got and beginning anew, no?”
Gwyn nods, flustered. Then he catches a glimpse of his cauldron.
“Um,” he says, “Should it be turning that color?”
“...Oh, bollocks.”
Title: Basil, Bay
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: General Audiences
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 418
Summary: Gwyn attempts to make a potion, and reflects.
There's so much he doesn't understand.
The methodology of magic. The history. The chemistry, the language (god, the language. He will never get the hang of Welsh). Magic has haunted Gwyn all his life, has always been a shadow just round the corner—but he has always pushed it away. Hidden from it. It has always been a stranger to him, a dangerous one, and his understanding of it suffers because of that.
More than that, though, he does not understand Llŷr—but not in the way most people misunderstand him. Llŷr is flighty and fickle, bright but sad. He spins tales and tells elaborate jokes and is only truthful half the time. But Gwyn is used to the caprice of people.
What he doesn’t understand is the kindness that Llŷr shows him, even when Gwyn doesn’t understand. Even when he fails. Even when he retreats in on himself for days and does not—cannot—speak to anyone. It is unfailing and it doesn’t seem to come with a price or strings attached; at least none that Gwyn can see.
Because of it, he is eager to please. He will keep trying to understand.
Llŷr stops in front of the sunlight that filters through the kitchen window. It lights his pale hair up like a halo, illuminates the curve of his cheek. He peers down at the herbs Gwyn has been chopping. Tsks.
“Basil, fy machgen,” he reminds him. “Not bay.”
Oh. Gwyn’s face grows hot. Stupid mistake. He should know this by now.
Llŷr circles around behind him, rolling up his sleeves, and he takes Gwyn’s hands in his and sweeps the chopped bay to the floor with all the other abandoned plant cuttings. He breaks three or four basil leaves off of a potted basil plant on one of the racks and begins to help them chop it. His movements are easy, practiced; his skin warm and slightly calloused. Gwyn’s heart skips a beat.
“We want this couple to avoid the arguments,” Llŷr says in Gwyn’s ear. “Purification is good, but it’s gilding the lily a bit in this case, don’t you think?”
“Sorry,” Gwyn mumbles, embarrassed. Llŷr’s laughter is gentle and warm.
“The wonderful thing about plants is that there is an abundance of them—and there is something to be said for just throwing out what you’ve got and beginning anew, no?”
Gwyn nods, flustered. Then he catches a glimpse of his cauldron.
“Um,” he says, “Should it be turning that color?”
“...Oh, bollocks.”