Work Text:
If there was one thing that united mankind together, it was an appreciation for the arts.
They say that several Amber Eras ago, long before humanity learned to conquer the stars, even long before the concept of Aeons was within our grasps, our ancestors would live in caves. Entire civilizations had their beginnings in these caves as our forefathers would hide from predators during the day and venture out at night, hunting and gathering for themselves and each other.
They say our ancestors were uncivilized savages who only knew to speak in grunts and vague gestures, who banged stones together to create weapons that would surely break against the predators' tough hides and who didn't even wear clothes. They reject it, abhor it, disown it. For how could we who have taken to the stars possibly be the same as the primitive creatures who could never even dream of grasping the same concepts that we are capable of understanding today?
It's quite possible our forefathers would've been lost to the apathetic hands of time, eroded from our memory as though they were nothing more than mere stone. Perhaps they foresaw such a possibility and it's why they left behind proof of their existence. They left behind irrefutable proof, proof that screamed "We were here and we will always be here for you are me and I am you."
Our ancestors left behind art. They painted entire walls with nature's pigments, depicting scenes of love, loss and community. They left behind stories of who they used to be and who we would one day become. With all these things considered, it's little wonder we grew to love art so much. If art is proof of our existence then we must carry it everywhere, whether in body or mind.
-
Graey tried their very best when teaching the children, they really did. They were patient and gentle and always wore a smile on their kind face, even when their back stooped with age and the years left their marks in the form of soft creases and folds. The children, in their defense, tried their utmost to absorb the wisdom that Graey tried to impart. But you can't quite blame them for finding guns and horses much more exciting than boring old plants that all looked the same unless you knew where to look and let's be honest, none of them really did.
So ol' Graey had begun to resign themself to the notion of generations worth of foraging wisdom dying with them once their time came. Third time's the charm, they'd said to themself but unfortunately, their patience had run thin when Naiche, much like his older sister Winona, had decided he'd much rather pore over the Wild West Weeklies rather than learn about the land they came from.
Truth be told, Graey didn't have too many hopes for the third child. He had a beautiful and resonating name, one that meant "Loaded Gun" in the ancient language of Aeragan-Epharshel. Much like a loaded gun, the boy was always coiled and full of energy. He simply could never sit still nor focus on one thing for longer than ten minutes. The boy had a desperate need to get all that energy out in some form which led to him often playing hooky, much to his teacher's chagrin.
"A darn shame," they'd say while shaking their heads in exasperation when the boy had failed to show up to class for the umpteenth time that year. "He's got a mind as sharp as a tack but refuses t' hit the books. Reckon he'll do great things alright but it ain't gonna be 'cause o' that head o' his."
And well, they weren't wrong. Nick had given the boy a number of stern lectures and even when Graey's patience had run out and they'd snapped, which was a scary sight indeed, the boy was adamant on doing anything but sitting still in one place. Well, he was only a child, after all, so eventually, the couple decided to leave it be. It wasn't like he was doing anything dangerous, really. So long as he grew up into someone that folks could rely on, then they'd consider it a win.
It wasn't until one day that Graey realized that perhaps, they simply needed to take a different approach.
The sun was beating down heavily that day, the earth showing signs of drying out as cracks were beginning to form. It was a particularly dry summer that year. Several gunfights had already started over the creek just a couple miles yonder from the old farmhouse. Thankfully, not all of the wounds from these fights were fatal. On the contrary, the wounds were shallow and more often than not, were simple cuts made by fools who'd bought a knife to a gunfight. But as the fights continued, the townspeople's tempers spurred on by the raging hot sun, Graey found themself swamped with countless people to treat. The medicinal herbs they kept were running low and with the dry season, it felt next to possible to find more than a handful, that too if they'd been lucky.
Graey had never expected help to arrive in the form of an eager 8-year old boy with white and black hair. The little lad had sauntered up to their desk and placed a basket filled with bloodroots. Graey's eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets as they stared at the bounty the child had procured from seemingly nowhere. Thousands of questions fill their mind and they pick a flower up, as if to confirm it really was a bloodroot. Sure enough, the white flower matched the plant and furthermore, the telltale root was there.
"Now what in tarnation is all this?!" Graey exclaimed, their brows shooting up to their hairline. The boy only grinned, puffing his chest out and rubbing his nose, which was broken from being bucked off his horse just a few days ago, and looked so endearingly proud of himself. "Where the hell did'ya find all these puccoons?"
"Wasn't hard. Found 'em by the dozen in the woods. There's a lil' cave near that ol' creek where them fools have been fightin' t' death. I can show ya tomorrow! There's plenty o' the bastards there," he answered.
Briefly, Graey wondered whether he was lying. Maybe he'd instead bought the plants from a merchant, wanting to be a good son. But the streaks of dirt across his chubby cheeks and the dirt under his nails confirmed that he was telling the truth.
"How'd y'know they're puccoons? Don't tell me you were digging up any white flower you found."
The boy made a face, looking both offended and even a tiny bit hurt. Really now! Why couldn't folks just look past his troublemaking tendencies for once!
"Naw. I knew cause the lil' stamens look like a torch, see!"
"... I ain't ever taught ya that."
"Yeh, duh. I overheard you teachin' Winnie 'bout it a couple weeks back. An' hey, don't ya reckon it's unfair you've been teachin' the others how t' forage and not me? I can listen too, y'know," the boy huffed, cheeks all puffed out and arms folded across his chest. He let out a sound of protest when those cheeks, still soft with baby fat, were pinched and pulled affectionately by Graey.
"Alright, alright, kiddo. Didn't think you'd be so interested but... I s'pose it's high time fer ya to try yer hand at foragin'." They smiled. It had been a while someone had shown any proper interest in learning more about the land they all lived off of. Their only wish was that this time wouldn't end up leaving them disheartened and disappointed.
Thankfully, the boy turned out to be an amazing gatherer. Graey taught him all they knew about the lush flora and fauna that Aeragan-Epharshel was full of and the boy absorbed it all like a sponge. He really did have a sharp mind, one that'd been wasting away from trying to sit still behind a desk for hours at a time. Once he had an outlet for his energy, his focus was scary to witness. Not that Graey paid it much mind. They were simply all too happy that at least someone in the family would be passing on the generations-worth of knowledge they'd been holding.
But of course, what the boy really excelled in, was hunting. His marksmanship put even the very best gunslingers on the planet to shame. That didn't mean he'd abandoned all he'd learned from Graey, no siree. A good cowboy should know how to find his own food, whether it be from shooting a deer before it skittered away or from knowing which berries were edible and which would take him to ol' boothill. All those foraging lessons had taught him much more than that, of course. He'd learned how to treat wounds with herbs, how to concoct his own remedies and which plants to carry as if he were an apothecary. Best of all, he'd learned how to create dyes with the plants, with the bloodroot being his favorite.
It was a versatile plant, one whose usage could be adapted to almost any situation. The boy, now a man, liked to believe he was like a bloodroot himself. After all, hadn't he managed to pair up the two members of his gang who tried to act as if they didn't have feelings for one another? Now, thanks to his sneaky efforts, the two men were often seen being closer than usual. He thanked it all to the bloodroot, having told one of the members to wear the vibrant red paint outside of gunfights when speaking to his silly ol' crush. And whaddya know? Now they're as lovey-dovey as two eagles during mating season. A heart-warming sight indeed so long as they kept the worst of their PDA to their rooms.
The bloodroot paint felt magical to the man in its own right. The vibrant warm colors it could produce brought him a sense of security. The day he found the tiny baby girl in the woods, he'd brought her back to his base and swaddled the dear thing in a blanket he'd carefully painted with the dye. A couple weeks later, once the baby had gotten used to his presence, he used the red dye to paint flowers and plants on the cloth he'd later cover a papoose with. The beautiful designs he painted were accompanied with clumsy brushstrokes from the little girl, wanting to help the man with his endeavours.
Mentally, the man clapped himself on the back over the idea. Even if the little girl had gotten used to his presence, it was evident she didn't yet trust him. Nick and Graey told him that he'd been much the same when they first found him in the snow, though naturally, the man himself had very vague memories of such behavior. Personally, the man begged to differ since after all, he can't fathom there once was a time he'd been so distrustful. Yet, having observed the baby and how she avoided eye contact, perhaps it wasn't so hard to believe after all. After painting with him, however, the child--- his daughter, as he liked to affectionately think--- warmed up to him fairly quickly.
Art brought people together, and the man and his daughter were no such exception. They were an endearing sight to see whenever he found the time to visit the farmhouse he'd grown up with and spend time with the child. It was a fairly common sight to see the man and his little girl babbling away to each other despite the language barrier.
In all honesty, he'd love to spend all his time with the little angel but his life was too dangerous to keep her at his base. It felt more reassuring knowing she was being taken care of by the same couple who'd raised him into the righteous man he was now.
But no good thing lasts forever. It was the one constant amongst the universe's chaos. Perhaps it'd been written by HooH THEMSELF.
The men in black arrived like a dark stormcloud. They spoke of worlds the man and his people never knew existed until then. They brought with them objects the man had yet to figure out the workings of. They came and made no sign of leaving.
It was as if the bloodroots knew of the war. The white flowers began growing in the dozens despite being harvested and ground down for war paint. It felt like a joke, seeing pure, white petals amongst grass dyed a murky red. Vaguely, the man wondered whether it was the locals' blood that fertilized the land. For each person that fell in the war, a dozen bloodroots would grow around their body. Pristine and beautiful and oh so wrong in the face of the horrors.
"From the land we come from, and to the land we shall return," was what the man had grown up hearing. But did it have to be like this? Did the grace of death mean his siblings would fall and leave snow-white flowers in their wake? Did the remains of their spirits have to be ground into dye that would then be painted on a body that would soon suffer the same fate?
He couldn't hold a paintbrush anymore. He couldn't bring himself to adorn himself or his comrades with the blood of their fallen. His hand shook each time he attempted to do so but it was never to any avail. Someone else would have to pick the brush up but he couldn't. But in a twisted sense of fate, the man's hands never faltered when he took aim with his six-shooter. It was almost laughable, really. He had no trouble sending colonizers and traitors alike to boothill, dyeing his calloused hands with their blood, but drew the line at painting with the red ichor of his people?
What a fucking joke.
Perhaps the universe heard his pleas to stop the bloodshed. Perhaps it was why cannonfire rained down from the heavens and why the conflagration consumed everything in sight. Nevermore would there be bloodshed for all had turned to ash. Nevermore would the bloodroots grow.
-
When you first got to know Boothill, one thing about him had stood out to you almost immediately. He was a mess. Of course, it's not like it was some deep dark secret that he kept locked behind a vault that most definitely had better security than a certain museum on a certain planet. But rather, it was a part of him that didn't see the light of day very often, at least not in front of others. After all, in the scariest and worst of situations, Boothill had always managed to keep a steady head, no matter how much he'd initially panic. His body was nigh indestructable so why should he be scared?
As it turns out, Boothill's biggest asset was also his greatest enemy.
It had started out innocent enough. You'd known of his inability to sometimes control his strength. You'd had to throw out countless mugs and glasses that the cowboy had accidentally shattered from too hard a grip. As one often does, you liked to moan and groan whilst cleaning up about how many credits had already been spent on restocking the cupboard in your spaceship, a back-and-forth that you and Boothill knew like the back of your hands.
"Again? Boothill, this is the fifth mug you've broken in this week. And mind you, it's only Tuesday," you sigh in a melodramatic tone, crouched beside the dustpan whilst Boothill swept up the shards.
"Y'know I can't help it, darlin'. It ain't like I got this body o' mine thinkin' I'd be havin' tea parties every evenin'," Boothill drawls, shaking his head with a certain exasperation that had little to do with your teasing and everything to do with his own brewing frustration. There was only so many broken things a man could handle before he himself gets crushed.
"I thought you liked having a little something every evening," you sniff before it turns into a sneeze. The bastard had purposefully sweeped a cloud of dust right into your face. He's lucky he looked so adorable with that mischevious grin of his, the dimples only adding to his seemingly endless supply of charm.
"I do, darlin', I do. Never said I don't."
"Then it can't hurt to learn to handle things that aren't just your gun or me."
"Y'sure 'bout that, sweetheart?" Boothill raises an eyebrow, or rather, you assume he did if his skeptical tone was anything to go by. "I wouldn't want ya gettin' jealous when I'm holdin' a glass like I'm 'boutta make love to it."
"Okay, first of all, shut up. Second of all, never put that image into my head ever again and third of all, I am absolutely sure I want you to learn to control that strength."
"But darlin', it's gonna be a pain in the ash! I oughta be spendin' my time shootin' up fudgeheads instead o' bumblin' around like a newborn foal!"
"How many of my favorite mugs do you plan on breaking?"
That shut him up real quick and he was even considerate enough to look guilty over it. Boothill certainly didn't want to spend any more time than what was necessary groveling at your feet and trying to win back your affection. And thus began what you liked to call "Rehab for cyborgs" though Boothill made sure to bitch plenty over the title.
Your very first idea had been to pratice writing with Boothill. There was no such thing as too much writing, after all! Unfortunately for you, it didn't prove to be much of a learning experience for Boothill once he figured he could simply use the same amount of pressure no matter what he wrote.
Then came the bright idea of attempting to learn pottery with the man. Or well, it sounded ingenious to you initially. However, as you should've forseen, the clay constantly got stuck in the grooves and crevices of Boothill's slender, iron fingers and wearing gloves on top wasn't of much help either as the material would tear when trying to put it on.
It was commendable, the lengths you went just so navigating life as a cyborg would be much more easier for your lover. Boothill really did try to be a good sport about it. You just wanted the best for him and he had to agree that learning to control his strength would fix a myriad of issues that he faced, namely accidentally breaking your favorite mugs and tearing a wire that he shouldn't have torn when performing maintenance on himself. The latter had certainly been a sight to see, witnessing Boothill be stuck in serenade mode for several system hours before his doctor found the time to swing by and knock him out.
"It ain't yer fault, sweetheart," Boothill murmurs against the corner of your lips, holding you whilst you laid on top of him, cuddling despite his protests of his metal body being too uncomfortable. The slight guilt in his voice didn't go unnoticed by you. Granted, that gruff and raspy yet smooth drawl of his often tended to come with subtle traces of guilt but something told you that just this once, it had nothing to do with surviving the annihilation of his tribe.
"Reckon I'm jus' a dadgum brute," he says, despite the gentle grip around your waist said otherwise. "Can't do nothin' 'cept fer destroy."
"Don't talk like that. Y'know damn well that's not true," you purse your lips, frowning at him. Boothill is quick to smooth out the little furrow with his thumb, suppressing a soft smirk when you only attempt to scowl harder. Stubborn as a mule, weren't you?
"You create as well. I've seen the sketches you make when you think nobody's watching."
That gets Boothill's attention. He stiffens, something you wouldn't have thought he'd be capable of considering his body was made of unforgiving metal. Boothill had never realized you'd noticed. Hell, it wasn't even something he himself noticed. It'd happen every now and then that his mind would start to wander, like a soul departing from its body. His limbs would move on autopilot and before he'd realized what he was doing, Boothill would've somehow found himself a piece of paper and a pencil and end up with a sketch. He'd crumple the paper almost immediately, tossing it aside before memories he'd rather forget begin to resurface.
Unbeknownst to him, you'd often pick up these crumpled sketches, doing your utmost to smoothen out the folds and creases he'd made in frustration and grief. You couldn't fathom why Boothill would want to throw these away, still can't. The drawings were gorgeous, depicting pieces of a life that Boothill didn't typically share with you. There'd be sketches of the sun rising over a horizon, shining it's rays onto a farmhouse nestled amongst the grasslands with sheep wandering about. Sometimes, he'd have sketched a horse, one that you could only assume once was his dearest companion if the amount of drawings of it were anything to go by. There were even plants, with its flowers cross-hatched with care, oftentimes accompanied with notes of its usage as though Boothill weren't a formidable gunslinger but rather a child recounting the lessons taught by a guardian.
You understood why Boothill chose to hide these parts of himself, or at least, you tried your best. But you couldn't deny that it hurt. Some days, Boothill felt as if were several star systems away from you, even if in reality, he was right beside you and trying his utmost to lay his heart and soul bare for you. Despite all you both had been through, the amount of love and trust shared unconditionally, he still felt distant. You longed to bridge that gap, to connect with him outside of skinship and words.
It's ironic that you don't realize the answer was tucked away safely in a notebook hidden in your drawer. That the answer was the very same that had made Boothill stiffen up. But it's no matter. If something is destined, it will happen one way or the other. Such is the way of the universe.
-
The henna plant is a lush green in color, often retaining that hue even after being ground into powder and turned into paste. Its flowers were a pure white, a sight that Boothill still flinches at every now and then. The paste gave off a soothing, earthy smell, the kind you'd smell when it rains after a dry spell. But best of all, the paste left behind stains on your skin, blood-red in color before turning into a shade akin to terracotta.
There was something calming about applying henna to your hands. It wasn't something that could be applied hastily but instead, required care and patience. It was art on your body, reflecting your soul with each shape looped on your skin. Sometimes, it even made you sleepy, feeling the cold paste be smoothly applied.
Boothill found it hard to figure out how you could sit so still, waiting for the paste to dry so you could scrape it off and marvel at your own handiwork. Had it been him, he'd have been bored out of his mind or already smeared the henna whilst trying to do something else. That's what he thinks he'd do, at least. But a loud part of him, repressed as it may be, nagged at him.
"You know you'd do the same. You've already done the same. Don't you remember? Don't you remember the roots you'd dig up and the white petals of its flowers? Don't you remember the paint? Don't you remember the blood?"
The cowboy jolts himself out of his stupor, eyes landing on you like a moth drawn to a flame. He shakes his head, trying to shake off the voice in his head so he could focus on the tune you were humming instead. He recognizes it. It's the very same that you and him often danced to when your body was tired but your hearts weren't.
After a brief internal debate, Boothill pushes himself off the armchair he'd been lounging on so he could take a seat beside you on the couch. It was a battered and bruised thing, one that you'd stolen from an unsuspecting IPC ship so you could decorate your spaceship. One of the springs always dug into your body and you take it as an opportunity to shift closer to the cyborg.
"Whatcha doin'?" Boothill asks, his hands idly toying with the corner of the pillow your hands were resting on whilst you worked.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" You reply, eyes focused on the palm you were currently decorating.
"C'mon, sugar. Y'know I like hearin' you explain stuff fer a dim lightbulb like me."
You don't bother retorting for the umpteenth time that he was plenty smart.
"I'm putting on henna," you answer, deciding to relent for once. "The previous designs faded away so I figured it's about time I put on some new ones."
"Why?"
"It feels empty without it."
Boothill falls silent at that. He stares at the henna cone and for a brief moment, imagines it as the brushes he used to wield when painting his own skin. His fingers twitch at the phantom sensations of nostalgia in his bones. It does feel empty, doesn't it?
"You wanna try?"
He hesitates at the sight of the offered henna cone. It'd been years since he'd last held something with the intention to create and let his soul speak for once. To let it create something instead of leaving daisies sprouting from the ground.
"Naw, I... I ain't so sure," Boothill replies, looking uncharacteristically insecure. It wasn't often such an expression appeared on his face. "Reckon I'll jus' mess up yer work."
"You can practice on this hand," you suggest, holding out your right hand, palm side up. "Think of it as another part of rehab for cyborgs. You can learn how to switch between different levels of pressure."
"You ain't ever lettin' go of that, are ya?" He snorts.
"Not for as long as I'm alive."
"S'pose I'm in fer a long ride then."
Slowly, Boothill picks up the henna cone, wincing when a glob of henna paste dribbles out. You don't chide him, even in jest. You just hand him a tissue paper and patiently hold out your hand.
"... What do I even draw?" He asks, metal fingers loosely cradling yours. He reminded you of a lost child, scared and unsure of where to go or what to do. It was like looking at the past because Aeons knew all Boothill could do anymore was simply remember.
"Whatever you want. That's the good thing about art. You can draw whatever you want and nobody can stop you.... Unless you draw a tiny penis. Then I'm definitely gonna stop you."
Boothill can only chuckle weakly before adjusting his grip on the henna cone. His hands tremble like a leaf, the lines of henna coming out wonky and messy. He curses lowly under his breath, or well, as much as he can curse with a censor on his synesthesia beacon. It gets to the point where you have to stop him, hand him another tissue to fix his mistakes and press a soft kiss to pierced lips bitten raw.
"Just breathe. You don't have to be perfect," you murmur. Boothill bites back his reply that it wasn't about being perfect. That each line he drew reminded him of the bloody-red brushstrokes he'd paint on skin. That he was afraid that staining your skin with his love would seal your death sentence.
But he breathes, nevertheless. And it helps, slowly but surely. Boothill pushes away the anxiety gripping his limbs and instead focuses on your palm, on the earthy scent of henna and the shapes he was creating. He was definitely seeing the appeal and why you enjoyed applying it so much. For the first time in a long while, the tension coiled in his iron body eases. For the first time in a long while, he opens up, allowing you a glimpse into what made him him.
"Y'know... we had somethin' kinda similar to this," Boothill starts, his head bowed over your hand. You brush aside a few wayward locks of hair and he glances up briefly. His eyes were glittering, like onyx gemstones inside a cave.
"Did you now?"
"Mhm... 'Course, it was a bit different. We had these plants. Puccoons, we called 'em, though I reckon folks from outside call 'em bloodroots. Used t' grind 'em up, the roots. They created this gorgeous red color. Like... like blood-"
"Did you enjoy painting with it?" You cut in gently, before that train of thought could spiral any further. Boothill looks up, silent for a long while. Something in his heart threatened to cave in, like the roof of a bombed home.
"...Yeah. 'Enjoyed' is an understatement," his voice cracks. You make no comment of it, giving him the time and space to process the grief that haunted his every waking moment, lingering in his bones like ashes in a hearth.
"Used t' paint anythin' an' everythin' that I could find," Boothill continues. "Blankets, clothes an' hell, even faces. Was 'bout as good with a paintbrush as I am with my gun, no fibbin'."
"I can imagine. It's beautiful, the things you create," you nod, marvelling at the lillies that the cowboy had etched onto your skin with the henna. The petals stretched out across your palm with vines snaking down to the very tips of your fingers where Boothill's own fingers still remained, as if connecting you to him in body and soul. If you closed your eyes now, you wonder if you could see the same images flashing before the man's eyes. You wonder if you'd fit in beside him in the grasslands and sandy wastelands that he once called home, smiling and painting a future for yourselves.
"Back home... we had a courtin' ritual o' sorts even. Men would wear the red paint when courtin' their partner 'cause-"
"What's stopping you from wearing some right now?"
"Don't flatter yerself, darlin'."
"Spoilsport. But y'know, it's not the same but there's a wedding tradition in one of the star systems a couple ways from here," you pause momentarily, checking to see if Boothill was paying attention. Slyly, you hold out your left hand, where you'd already applied henna on your own. "It's tradition there to hide your spouse's name in your henna so the spouse has to look for it during the wedding ceremony."
Boothill stares at your hand, his cheeks steadily darkening from the rush of cold, blue fuel. Before he knew it, a boisterous laugh spills from his lips as he carefully brings your hand closer for inspection.
"Did you...?"
"Only one way to find out."
Art is what brings people together. To let your heart and soul speak through your creations, to dedicate those creations for the object of your affections, is a form of intimacy that can't be replicated. To paint someone's body and stain it with your adoration is the purest fom of love.
You remember being told that the darker the henna stain, the more a person loves you. Later on, when you scrape away the dried henna off your hands, the lilies on your right hand were stained a dark red, almost black in color. Just like the eyes of the man who'd drawn them.