( it's both welcome and unwelcome. the chatter. the calm. the normalcy. he thinks he'd actually prefer it if she'd yell at him. ask him where he was. maybe throw in an accusation of cheating somewhere in the mix (amber used to do that all the fucking time) and call it a day. it feels like his bones itch beneath his skin, like there's something unsettled making its slow unhurried pace across the sun-surface of his soul.
he sits at the expansive island at the edge of the kitchen. traces veins of good marble with his fingertips, though they ache. he's glad to hear about jace, but by the same stroke he wants to close his eyes and ask, beg her to be quiet. he's too new to himself all over again, scraped raw by a sirocco storm. words are like sand in a wound.
he knows something of deserts, after all.
he's only sitting a moment or two, and then he's up. getting himself a glass. he's got oj in the fridge and he could probably use a gallon or two, seeing as how he has no honest memory of drinking anything while he was up north.
(he must have. he knows his limits. learned them hard. he's thirsty but not desperate.)
he chugs one glass, and then nurses a second. comes back around to his spot and sits down. when he speaks again his voice is even, if a little rough. citric acid's a bitch. )
Little punk really thinks he's QB material, huh?
( however deprecatingly it's said, his tone's fond. an act of will. )
no subject
he sits at the expansive island at the edge of the kitchen. traces veins of good marble with his fingertips, though they ache. he's glad to hear about jace, but by the same stroke he wants to close his eyes and ask, beg her to be quiet. he's too new to himself all over again, scraped raw by a sirocco storm. words are like sand in a wound.
he knows something of deserts, after all.
he's only sitting a moment or two, and then he's up. getting himself a glass. he's got oj in the fridge and he could probably use a gallon or two, seeing as how he has no honest memory of drinking anything while he was up north.
(he must have. he knows his limits. learned them hard. he's thirsty but not desperate.)
he chugs one glass, and then nurses a second. comes back around to his spot and sits down. when he speaks again his voice is even, if a little rough. citric acid's a bitch. )
Little punk really thinks he's QB material, huh?
( however deprecatingly it's said, his tone's fond. an act of will. )