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[lostandfinder]

Ficthings, because making an entire new entry when writing like... a paragraph seems very wasteful. (Yes, okay, I will probably rethink this entry text. Not right now.)

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[lostandfinder]

He doesn't have anything from the start — nothing tangible, anyway. It's a well-worn memory, but one he keeps to himself. Who wants to hear about a sleepless night that led to skinned palms and reluctant friendship? Even if there were someone to tell, he's pretty sure he wouldn't. It's his in a way that things can't be, not entirely, even if it's faded at the edges and patched over with fiction and nostalgia.

Even if he doesn't have a particular keepsake, that night is still tied to things. The memory of things. There's the necklace and the jeans with their split knees. The bag he hadn't managed to hold onto. But even in his mind, none of these is the right anchor, and he's not sure he could imagine one if he tried. Probably the closest he'll ever come is Sefton himself, and just imagining prickly's reaction to that comment is enough to set him grinning. That still isn't right, though, because Sefton's a reminder of more than just that meeting, and it's important enough that it needs a more prominent position. So maybe Chivy is the memory's resting place, which is just fine with him. It can stay with his other favorite moments, the ones too far back to have physical counterparts, safe from everyone else's clumsiness and misunderstanding.

[lostandfinder]

A tattered stuffed animal, its body like a teddy bear and its is head fashioned after a rabbit. Its ears flop in different directions: one charmingly over its eyes, and the other off to the side. The eyes are nothing more than x's stitched with black yarn, one a little larger than the other. It may once have been pink, but years of love and adventures have left it a faded off-white and some of the seams have been patched over more than once.

Chivy had been on his way out of town. It wasn't for any particular reason — the week he had spent in Mont Vernon had been largely uneventful, without even a Sefton-sighting to shake things up, but he didn't feel comfortable with just how much he wanted to stay.

It was a small town, the kind of place where everyone knew each other's name and everyone worried about everyone else. Usually, that kind of atmosphere meant he was kept at arm's length — even if he kept on his best behavior, you couldn't manufacture years of history in a few days' time, and he didn't push very hard for acceptance. This time, one of his first stops had been in a small shop owned by an elderly couple where he had helped find a lost cat before it was caught outdoors in a storm. In thanks, they had welcomed him into their home, and vouched for him to the community.

Listening to how the couple spoke, as if he would be there in a few months when their nephew returned from his trip, and how much help he would be when the cat had kittens, he knew he had to leave. Slipping out before the couple woke was hard, but reminding himself what would happen if he stayed and something went wrong (which it would, it always did) made it easier to creep out of his borrowed bedroom, leave some money as thanks, and make his way into the quickly lightening outdoors.

It was early enough that he didn't run across anyone, which was a relief to say the least.

He was nearly at the town limits when he felt a tug to the side. It was tempting to just keep walking, but a quick glance around showed there wasn't anyone nearby to pay him any mind, and he didn't much feel like starting the day with a headache anyway.