Thorn

The water lapped gently against the hull of the houseboat as it sat docked along the “seawall” (though “river-wall” would be more accurate given they were in fact on the Peka River, not the Peka sea).The town was small enough that they hadn’t even bothered with a dock, just tall pilings spaced evenly(ish) where boats could tether and those on the boats could hop (sometimes daringly if weather was poor) on and off to tend to whatever business had drawn them here.

Not at all uncommonly, Thorn was leaning back in his captain’s chair, neon-green and night-black paws resting on the console and an annotated map unfolded in his lap for review. As with many of their stops, he had stayed on the houseboat – a modestly-sized vessel that was 75% house and 25% surprisingly lush garden. He much preferred the quiet of his home to the bustling crowds and worse - the threat of repetitive small talk - that he would encounter should he depart the boat.

That was Knox’s playground. The field pherret found much joy in taking his time chatting with the locals, catching up with old friends who’s stores and stands he frequented, and learning new things from fresh faces he encountered. Thorn often teased Knox (affectionately), claiming there was no talk too “small” for him. To be fair, it was an accurate assessment; anything and everything was fun, interesting, and worth stopping for in Knox’s mind.

It wasn’t that Thorn didn’t enjoy conversation, his “cup” was just filled from a very different well than his friend’s. He much preferred deep, thoughtful conversation that could leave him mulling and found small talk taxing and difficult to remain invested in. He found he had a harsher perspective on things than many folks did – not quite pessimism but a realism tinted with too much awareness to not feel guarded – and he was often caught between being “real” and being “gentle” with his words. Often during small talk he found himself drifting into his own head, worrying that his face was too blank or he was making too much or too little eye contact or that he was coming across somehow in a way that didn’t align with his actual feelings. One of the rare places in his life Thorn didn’t feel self-assured and confident, it was overall an undesirably taxing activity.

Plus, there was plenty to keep him busy on the houseboat. He often spent part of the day examining seasonal change maps to prepare for upcoming shifts in the river, tinkering with the engine to keep it running smoothly and avoid unpleasant hiccups (though they still happened from time to time), and planning the ins-and-outs for their upcoming stops. Between the responsibilities, or when they had additional downtime and settled their little home along the shore, he enjoyed journaling details of their many travels and reading mystery novels.

Not that he didn’t offboard at times, he was just choosey. He knew what towns had the best chicken sandwiches, what towns held enough trade for him to be a needed “beast of burden” lugging things to and from (as he liked to complain, though he hardly meant it deep down), and what towns had the best small bookstores where he could pick up new novels and score some excellent people watching (he may not like chit chat but he loved to play anthropologist).

And though he would rarely admit it out loud, he had a deep fondness for Knox’s over-stimulated and excited ramblings that happened when Thorn stayed back and “missed” things. Knox would return to the houseboat with arms full and mouth already going a mile-a-minute before his paws even hit the deck. There was something simple and pure in being the person his friend “downloaded” his thoughts and feelings with. No pretenses, no difficult navigation of extraneous social nuances – just comfortable joy.

Hearing a faint cheerful whistling in the distance, Thorn’s ears perked and he grinned. He folded up the map and set it to the side of his control panel then stood and stretched deeply, taking his time to loosen up his back and wake up any muscles that had nodded off while he sat. The whistling was louder now, enough that he could hear all the notes and recognize the tune. That was his cue.

Removing his jacket from the back of his captain’s chair he padded down the narrow stairs, crossing first the soft woven rug of the little family room and then the smooth, cool wooden floors of the galley – erm, kitchen – before stepping out into the garden. The sun’s last rays were beginning to paint the sky with vibrant oranges and reds, and silhouetted against these hues was his best friend. Knox waved an arm in a enthusiastic hello, throwing himself off balance and causing the items in his arms to topple precariously. It was a comedy show – the silhouetted Knox juggling and dipping and swaying to re-center the items – and Thorn almost doubled over with laughter at the sight of it.

“You’d better not be laughing at me buck-o!” Knox hollered as he neared the houseboat.

“I would never dare.” Thorn protested with a playful glint in his eye as he reached out for the box of goods, freeing his friend’s arms so he had his balance stepping off the river-wall. Just as he turned to bring the items inside, his nose picked up a mouth-watering scent. “Is that - ?”

Knox stood on the deck behind him, grinning ear-to-ear as he held out a foil wrapped katsu sandwich and nori fries still so hot they were giving off steam.

“Would you believe our luck!? Wok This Way happened to be in town for some ingredients, and they were more than happy to whip up a delicious dinner for the biggest fan.”

Thorn thumped the box onto the deck and almost tackled Knox with a bear hug – the moody and sometimes stoic montre was always older-brother like, rough but not enough to hurt, in his affection – before snagging the meal.

After thoroughly savoring the delicious dinner, getting the new goods tucked away (there’s not much room for mess on a house boat), and setting themselves puttering gently down the river towards their next destination, Thorn and Knox retired to their garden. Like many an evening, Thorn sat on the short stoop of the open door, novel in his hands. The calls of night birds waking were a familiar melody against the steady thrum of the engine and the soft lapping of moving water as they chugged lazily down the peak river. Gently dancing atop it all was Thorn’s most favorite song, the contented humming of his best friend as he pruned and picked, fertilized and misted, and tended in all ways to his garden.

Credits

Profile Code by: Ringo
Extra Code by:
Johnny and Sunrise
Transitional Code by: Shantal
Edited by: Chrysariel
Story by: Pureflower
Overlay Recolor by:
Chrysariel
Biohazard Symbol by:
vectorstock
Name Art by: Chrysariel