OOC: Slight Warning for Swearing! A plume of smoke twisted, like a see-through hand. Reaching, trying to catch a watered-down sun between ghostly fingers. Quiet. It was unbearably quiet. He could almost hear his own heart beating. And being reminded of his own mortality, well, nobody likes that. Eric squinted up at the sky, noticing how the cold morning promised a scorching finale later in the day. This would be his own little slice of hell in just a couple hours. Unless he was convinced to leave. Sure, there’s basic needs. Water. Food. Weather conditions that don’t make you want to just walk out of your skin like a pair of footsie pajamas. And yet, he couldn’t fathom taking another step. Couldn’t muster the energy to lift his paw and move. He just sat there. It’s a bit boring, frankly. You’re a bard, aren’t you, Eric? Entertain us! Instead, he lay on his stomach, chin to paws. Was he taking a nap? Had he decided to give up, no more jokes, no more brow lifting or smirking? Perhaps, in all this quiet, he’d finally realized that what he wanted to do for the rest of his life was to perform as a living statue? “Agh,” Eric smooshed his face into his paws, “so fucking wasted.” Oh. Now that does makes more sense. *Pfff*. Living statue, what was I THINKING?! @Open But "Sentimental Boy" is my nom de plume Art by Swan, Code by Swan (fixed by Cala)

A grey wraith of smoke emerges from the cracked earth. Behind it is the ivory yearling, casually sauntering directly through it and dispersing the vapor, seemingly without taking notice. He's at home in the badlands, he grew up here and, for some reason, the dry, arid wasteland has served him well. He's on the trail of... well, something. A desert mouse? It's still a bit chilly; early enough for the mountains to pitch a long shadow over the sands. But he prefers it that way. Better get in some food while the temperatures are still agreeable.

Beyond the wisps of fog, he spots the familiar shape of a lion. A single ear swivels just in time to catch his remark as it rolls despondently across the wastes. Deciding to forego his quest for food right now, he approaches the big male, but keeps his distance. His curiousity is officially perked. And, having been in a similar situation many times himself, he can hardly ingore the male's plight. "Been there, pal." He says rather sympathetically. It's kind of amusing, though. But he's not about to admit it. "Wanna talk about it?"

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The quiet is broken. Footfalls overtake the heart beating in his ears. As if it were to pop out any second now and we’d confirm, he’s not truly undead. Then a voice, unfettered, reaches his tired ears. Can ears be tired? Well, they feel tired. Really tired. In fact, he’s just one big ball of tired right now. So much so that he barely lifts his head to look at his companion, matching voice to body. Instead, he simply rolls onto his side in dramatic agony. “I’m…stuck.” Eric groans, but he seems to have retained the ability to speak. “No matter how many times I leave this place…I wake up one day and realize I’ve crossed the bridge to this middle of fucking nowhere archipelago…island…thingy.” “It’s almost like it’s my…oh gross, like it’s my destiny or something.” It was only then, as he forced himself to sit (so revitalized he was by the grossness of destiny), that he got a good look at his companion. And of course, he did a double take because his head really hurt. His expression turned half-quizzical, half-queasy. “Hey...Hey, you’re a baby! What do you have to drink about? A pop quiz?” @Ambrose But "Sentimental Boy" is my nom de plume Art by Swan, Code by Swan (fixed by Cala)

Surprisingly, the light-coated lion stirs. The suddeness of it almost scares him. Still groggy, but he seems to have his wits about him. Most of them. Ears push back into his mane as he listens. Destiny is something he doesn't believe in. Kind of like luck and fate. The male seems distressed, though. Maybe even depressed? He's never been the best at reading the room, but something is definitely bothering him. "Sounds like this place has got you in a chokehold," Ambrose observes, quietly. He knows the feeling. Stuck in an endless loop, a vicious cycle, a chain of circumstances. It's a dangerous thing. "What exactly keeps drawing you back here? The badlands aren't exactly known to be a holiday destination, you know. The clue is kind of in the name." There goes his motormouth again, but he can't resist.

His interest is positively piqued. "A baby?" He says rather incredulously. How completely emasculating! "Are you challenging me to a game of drink? Because I assure you your old man liver would give out quicker than you can say faded glory." He cants his head, smirking a bit. The old timer is too weak to attack him, anyway. Or so he assumes. "Listen... drinking and the desert don't mix. I know you're too old and cool to take advice from a... baby... but whatever has gotten you this inebriated, it's water under the bridge now. Get over it. Preferably before the desert decides to reduce you to a scorched scrap of charcoal. What do you say?"

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Oh, my bouncy baby boy! What wits are there to have? Had his heart gotten so big there was simply no space for his brain, or had they all simply shrunk together? Like a couple of sun-dried raisins. You know what, he was starting to feel like sun-dried raisin himself. His infant therapist continues, and he…he says all these kinds of things he doesn’t really want to hear. All this soul-searching crap. I mean, is he ready for that stuff, does he have to talk about his dad? Oh, that’d go on for absolute AGES. The kid would be an elder and he, hell he’d be underground when they finished. Eric smirked up at the guy, squinting. “You’re funny, you know that?” A dry laugh leaves his lips. Oh gods, that feels like sandpaper. “I used to be like you.” Says Grandpa Eric with his little cane *hobbles* He licked his lips, letting a wave of nausea roll over him before continuing. “Always wanted to make people laugh,” Eric looked down pensively, “always wanted to make the ladies laugh.” And it looked like he was going to say something else, but his little mind thread just stopped there. Fell off the face of the earth, even, never to be seen again. And what the stranger said next reminded him even more of himself. No young man wants to be called a baby after all. And no old-ish man wants to be called a wet sock. Is it a wet sock? I’m so old now I don’t even remember how the saying goes. Eric’s face regains some of its former fire, and he puffs out his chest in good humored retaliation. “And what would you be drinking, milk?” He scoffs dramatically. “Sounds fun, I’m in.” And then of course he has to be all mature and be like get out of the sun you white-haired weenie, you’re gonna get sunburnt. Blah blah blah. “Ok ok,” Eric got up, stretching out his back legs. And as he took a step, he turned to him, “can I just say something…you’re a very wise baby.” “Maybe you’re not like me at all.” @Ambrose But "Sentimental Boy" is my nom de plume Art by Swan, Code by Swan (fixed by Cala)

Ambrose listens intently as the palomino lion gets all existential on him. He's pretty sure he's accidentally broached some kind of sensitive topic, if the rather sentimental answer is anything to go off of. Is that what it's like to grow old? You spend your days souring in the sun, reflecting on the good old days as you return to the same dry, desolate spot in the desert like a turtle returning to its breeding ground. More like brooding ground, right? Ha. Still, he can't help but feel some sympathy for the pale lion. It seems like he has lost his mojo, or maybe he thinks he's lost his mojo. Ambrose enjoys his fermented alcohol as much as the next lion, but getting wasted out in the back of beyond? The man has midlife crisis written all over him. Luckily, he's here now, to invigorate him, of course, with his youthful spirit.

He's admittedly pleased when Eric's eyes gleam with some kind of edge that wasn't there before. He gets up, stretches his hind leggies, and Ambrose looks on like a proud dad. "I've been called a wiseass before, but never wise." He smiles that self-important smile again, but it's obvious he's pleased with the outcome. For a moment, the male had him worried. He starts lumbering beside Eric while the fog around them is still spraying out of the cracked earth. "I won't ask why you were out in the ass end of nowhere in the first place." He starts. Water under the bridge. Isn't that what he said? "I've been down that road, you know. Albeit with a bit more violence and far more delirious raving, but I've been down it all the same." The desert is already heating up, its seemingly infinite expanse stretching before him. But somehow, it seems to lose its harsh edges with his new compatriot by his side. "I know you're... probably a roaring drunk. No, you definitely are. But, hey—if you ever feel the need to inebriated again, I can mix you up a pretty killer fruit fermentation. Maybe you can even tell me some of your jokes." Mostly so he can use them on his paramours. "Drinking alone is like... singing a duet alone. You know?"

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OOC: Sorry it’s so long and sentimental, I had to process some stuff through him apparently <3 It's these feelings, you know. All these feelings, welling deep inside of him like blood in a wound. It’s sticky, messy. People don’t really like seeing it. They tell you to cover it up, with gauze, or those little band aids with smiley faces on them. Yeah, smile so that they can sleep at night. Smile so that they can feel alright. The truth is, the longer you wait for someone to give a crap the longer things take to heal. Sometimes, the best thing is to leave wounds open. And to hell with what everyone else thinks. Eric swallowed, as he quieted the voices, the outburst of anger, that swelled within him. It’s hard, isn’t it? Not to care what everyone else thinks. And this boy before him, this boy who was more of a man than perhaps he’d ever be, made him feel old and clueless and simply like life had already passed him by at the ripe old age of four. There’s so much more to go, Eric. So much more to go. Things happen for a reason, and at the right time. Poor kid, he had no ill intentions. At least, none that Eric could sniff out right away. Was he good at reading people? Not particularly, but things do look a whole lot clear from the outside. “Hmm, maybe I’m so drunk I got my words confused,” he teased, eyes bent on the horizon. It was enough of an effort to figure out which foot to put in front of the other, but they had some friendly banter to get through. What’s a road trip without it? Eric laughs, breathlessly, “even your sad drunk sob story sounds cooler than mine,” hey, I said he was trying to quiet the nagging little voice inside of him, “must be nice.” Liking yourself is hard. Wallowing, on the other hand, is pretty goddamn easy. Was he…perhaps he was too drunk indeed but…was he offering to be his friend? Of course, to be led down such a path again would be far too painful. He knew what other lions were made of, didn’t he? He knew that at their core, they were all inherently selfish. Himself, regrettably, included. And they would say take it, take the chance. Break yourself down into the easiest, most packageable version of you and befriend this kid. Even if you get nothing in return. Break, while they not even so much as bend. Ugh, there they are again. Can’t you see how easily they slip into his mind? Can’t you see how helpless he is to them? Sometimes…he’s just not strong enough to fight them. Eric stopped and breathed out for a stretched-out moment. He imagined taking the thoughts in his mind and the feelings in his belly, and just rolling them into a little ball and tossing them away. There, now do that a thousand more times. Don’t worry, it will get easier. His teal eyes fix on the other’s face, “I’d like that,” he smiles, a small smile that feels out of place on his brash, boyish face. “I have one condition, though. I don’t sing.” @Ambrose But "Sentimental Boy" is my nom de plume Art by Swan, Code by Swan (fixed by Cala)

ooc: You're fine! Eric is amazing :')

By the way he was giving out undue advice, one might never guess how emotionally constipated he really is. Being on the road with his decidedly stoic, stone-faced sister didn't leave much room for feelings, and he doesn't remember ever discussing the destruction of their home. The betrayal of their parents. Being left alone. He's never really learned to process emotions, so he keeps it all neatly bundled up inside. To reveal your emotional state is to become vulnerable. Keeping others at a distance is safer. According to his sister, anyway. "Hey, no. You're a handsome, funny man," second only to himself, "but somewhere along the way, you forgot that." Maybe all the fermented berries? Eric's small smile is returned with a smile of his own.

The way it tautens his facial muscles feels almost alien: there hasn't been much room for smiles in his short life thus far. It's impressive, really, that he's saying all this whilst not intoxicated in the slightest. "And, hey, Maua didn't create Amaryllis in one day. Baby steps, right?" What this lion needs is a big old hug. He would probably do it too, since they're in the desert with only the smoke stacks as their witnesses. "You don't? I pegged you for the singing type. Nothing gets me out of a funk like singing some of my favorite tunes." He slows down as he realizes something; the lion he's walking alongside doesn't even have a name to him yet! "Oh, hey... what should I call you? I was thinking misery guts, but that might get a little impersonal after a while." He cracks his neck lazily—a joke rather than an insult.

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OOC: Thank you! Also, since this is late and old don’t feel pressured to reply <3 What’s worse? Emotional constipation or emotional diarrhea? Let’s have a poll! “Thanks…man,” Eric’s mouth quirks in an awkward, lopsided smile, “you’re not so bad looking yourself.” And so, all the little Inside Out lions in his brain ran around screaming trying to figure out how to receive a compliment from another guy. Though it seems he wasn’t the only one trying to forget a cold and unloving upbringing. Of course, Eric wouldn’t know that. To him, everyone else was having the grandest old time, not a single drop of self-loathing in sight. Yes, he is selfish in the sense, so wrapped up in his own sense of squandering that he fails to notice the struggle of this young man before him. Or perhaps the sister just taught him all too well. It’s really horrible, isn’t it. To be young? At the lion’s next words, Eric wondered if he might still be a bit intoxicated. Maua? Amaryllis? Was that some hip new drug the kids were using these days? Was Maua his drug dealer? The blond peered at the boy, puzzled, “yeah, baby steps…” He’d figure out the whole Maua drug dealing conspiracy later. When his companion slows down, Eric’s ears swivel forth as he looks to him, attentive. Perhaps the first sign of his returning to normalcy. He snorts at the jab; misery guts did indeed seem a bit…impersonal. “Eric,” he offers solemnly, before the usual programming returns, “what about you? Cause Mr. Know-It-All is sure getting to be a bit of a mouthful,” he makes the classic sour gummy face, tongue wagging past his teeth. At the very least…despite the sisters and the fathers, they’d found someone who knew what it was like to laugh. @Ambrose But "Sentimental Boy" is my nom de plume Art by Swan, Code by Swan (fixed by Cala)