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Eight Threads Of Countless Garments, a name well known within the towering peaks that made up Solara—or rather plainly just ‘Sol,’ if you weren’t attempting to keep a most formal outward appearance. Such a shy little thing he was back in their crèche days, their personality now a diametric opposite to what it was when the cycles had still counted him young enough to be under a nest mother's care. It was a shame, really. Not because he’d grown more extroverted, but rather the significant ego that seemingly came along in a package deal with his new social circle. “Braids! I should’ve foreseen your visitation. I take it that the shoddy little hunk of pyrite you parade around as a mask has all but fallen apart-? No worry then, none at all!~ For I, Eight Threa–”
“Cut your self-indulgent flattery, Threads,” Seamless Braids Beneath Golden Canopies all but gritted out, still fiddling with the clasps of their mask, which was in fact made out of mostly true gold. Not that it concerned anyone but them and their own scraps of pride. Pride that still managed to cling to them like a stubborn, parasitic vine. “Yes. My mask does indeed need some outer polish. I am not interested in any replacements, you should know this by now.” Threads all but scoffed, but didn’t dare to challenge their request by any means—the only sound permeating the incense-filled air of the shop being that from outside.
“Fine, fine. I concede.” Threads stretched lazily, the clink of their jewelry audible as he did so. Standing awfully sluggishly, if only to inconvenience Braids fractionally more. Braids couldn’t help rolling their eyes as soon as the mask slipped off, the cooler air prickling at their cheeks. “How’s business been holding up?” They asked smoothly, tone now far ‘friendlier’ while still toeing the line of neutrality; their mask slipping from their grasp as Threads took a critical eye to its tarnished surface. Despite the clashing that inevitably ensues during any one of their conversations, pleasant idle chatter could be and was still a given due to shared history.
Yet, Braids hesitantly ever called him a friend these days, and regrettably so. Threads was at most an acquaintance at the end of the day, no matter how hopeful a lens you viewed their relations through. Yet something in them, for some Void-forsaken reason, still yearned. Yearned for the closeness they once had, the undeniable connectedness wrought from proximity in both age and physical living space. The inward introspection of their past was abruptly cut off, however, as they were pulled back into the present reality by Threads' own answer. “As bustling as ever, if I do say so myself! With all the fuss in other fields of work, I can’t help but be ever grateful to be so successful in my…” A thoughtful pause, as Threads placed two fingers vaguely where his chin would rest beneath his ornate mask. “… Creative niche, mhm!” He nodded, looking awfully proud of himself, not that pride in this particular case was inappropriate. For once, it was justified.
“To be expected, then. Your work is something to be honored for, after all. I cannot even argue with something so objective.” And they meant every word. Despite whatever gripes they may have with his character, his artistry and craft were nothing short of impeccable. “Why, of course!~ I’m glad we can find common ground on that, then.” Threads nodded in tandem with their speech as he worked, his voice falling into more of an upper register as the atmosphere lightened significantly from what it had been merely a few minutes ago. Braids could only manage a nod, their attention on the sanding stone scrubbing against their mask. The sight of the fine gold dust that lifted off of it, twinkling in the waning light of the oncoming sunset. Distracting enough to quiet them for the time being, leaving Threads to his fastidious work.
Soon enough, the sanding was all but done, the mask now adequately smooth enough to be properly polished. In turn, Braids snapped out of their trance as Threads stood from his work seat to (more than likely) retrieve the polishing compound and their own decorated fingers hanging idly in the air. “You know, I’ve heard of some rather significant ‘drama’ regarding one of our neighboring local groups.” Braids piped up finally. They weren’t one for gossip; this was less gossip and more so a point of real, genuine, major conflict for several important parties. “You do remember The True Anointed Citadel, yes?” The question hung in the air as Threads paused momentarily, his arm half-stretched out towards a supply shelf. “… The one neighboring Looks To The Moon? If those frankly mind-numbing geography lessons did me any good.”
“Exactly that. Onto the point, then. They’re planning to build an iterator right atop it. To say there has been outrage against this would be a terribly sore understatement.” Braids hummed thoughtfully before going on. “I’m not exactly devout when it comes to such an old faith, yet I can’t help but feel some sympathy, no? To have such an important landmark shrouded in total darkness, all for the sake of convenience.” Braids trailed off, frowning. It was no secret that Looks To The Moon, and subsequently Luna, were struggling. The city could only hold so much, and supplies could only be spread so thinly over an ever-expanding population.
“Seriously–? I mean, of course, I knew that the situation was looking rather grim, but to build an iterator that close to another? Can’t some of the populace simply be moved?”
“No, not exactly. Besides, most of them are far too stubborn to take a trek any significant distance to another can. Not to mention the threat of the rains.”
“And the groundwater?” Threads questioned, his tone ever critical.
“… Adequate, at least that is what they claim. As long as both Iterators maintain regular and non-excessive consumption and therefore output, it’s perfectly plausible.” Braids nodded, though they were anything but in agreement with such a proposal. The disregard for surface dwellers always rubbed them in all the wrong ways. Even if the issues surrounding them never affected them in particular. “It’s all rather terrible if you ask me, however.”
. . .
After a moment of clear consideration, Threads all but shrugged—moving to grasp the gold-capped canister of polishing compound, seating himself once more with now both brush and polish in hand. “Well, if that’s truly the case, then I don’t quite see an issue. That was the main hurdle, was it not?” Braids almost gasped at how flippant his tone had suddenly become, taking much offense to how shallow that statement was alone. “The main hurdle? Are you hearing yourself? What about the people of The True Anointed Citadel!? Have you no regard for them??” They took a clawed finger to point at him as they spoke, their tone all but accusatory. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those hyper-religious freaks. Only the most foolish of us still choose to dwell under the clouds; it’s a miracle the rains haven’t all but flushed them out completely.” Threads shook his head, his careful, light brushstrokes a direct opposite to the now tense air between them. Braids was momentarily stripped and disarmed of any response, instead sitting shocked and, quite frankly, indignant.
“What? Grapple Worm got your tongue?” Threads sighed, continuing as if nothing was currently the matter between the two. “I speak nothing but the objective truth, you know? Times change, and those who refuse to move and change with them should suffer the consequences of their own actions. It’s a small citadel’s need over the thousands struggling up in Luna, and as it stands, the latter should take priority. It isn’t as if it’s being bulldozed, Threads. Not that I even see why you care in the slightest. Seven Red Suns and, therefore, Sol and its citizens are all but unaffected by such folly. Why waste your energy defending a group of unbearably pious monks?”
“Why you–” Braids clenched their fists as much as they could without poking too harshly at their palms. “They’re people, Threads! People who will ultimately suffer if this construction isn’t vetoed! Pious or not, they deserve to have the basic right to SEE!” They raised both their voice and arms before making a strong noise of contempt. “No wonder I put off seeing you for so long! With how wretched both you and your viewpoints have become. What happened to the crèchemate I cherished so dearly as a child-!? Are you really as callous as the ones you surround yourself with?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
It wasn’t often that seemingly simple debates clawed their way to such personal matters, digging at scabs that made up what little friendship the two had left. The proverbial blood left behind was anything but pleasant. “Out. Get out of my store.” Threads’ tone was icy. The underlying threat was clear—get out or get authorities involved. The last thing Braids needed was a trespassing charge on their record. So naturally, they were compelled to comply, no matter how tempted they were to stay and continue attempting to prove an already pointless argument. “And my mask?” Braids crossed their arms, eyebrows furrowed as they glared towards him. “Tomorrow, it’ll be done tomorrow. As long as you have sufficient payment by then.” Braids scoffed at the implication, not that they wanted to give the person before them a sliver of their money. It was more or less an obligation. “Fine.”
And so they left.
Many, many hours had passed. Yet they were still stuck in the same frozen spot on their bed. How many times had the same conclusion been reached between them? It was a sick synchronicity, a dance where at least one of them tripped over the other, and both ended up bruised at the end of it. Why they kept trying, they scarcely even knew. Perhaps they truly did end up on two paths far too different for any convergence in the middle. Relationships, and therefore friends, came and went; that was but a simple, undeniable fact. Yet they clawed desperately for a spark that had long been snuffed in the ashes of adulthood and both its responsibilities and nuance. How increasingly pitiful.
How pathetic.