[ he doesn't have a plan for it, whatever the stick in his hand was going to be. he just needs something to do with his hands. it's the kind of impulse that gets him into trouble more often than not. the kind he doesn't pay much attention to because it's just in his nature to want and want and want.
the bark comes away in his hands like the skin of an apple. calloused, but soft underneath. shavings like in a pile between his feet- stick to the worn out boots and equally worn out laces wound twice around the top. it gets cooler at night on the coast. not anything to write home about, but it's just enough for pentecost and his father to set to the occasional brew of hot chocolate- or, when they think no one's paying attention, some shit instant coffee with whatever's left in whatever bottle they have kicking around.
the firelight throws them into gold relief against the rock face at their backs. a world that just doesn't exist beyond where the campfire can reach. it lights up the hairline scars that criss-cross chuck's hands. dot his knuckles, trace his fingers. a fight here. a smashed glass there. learning a new knife or climbing a fence he has no business being on.
there's a marshmellow offered up on his right, and chuck doesn't take it right away (there are rules to this game they've started up. the one where they play at being a family and getting along). instead he just looks up, watches his old man's face as the knife works up the length of the wood- pressed against the pad of his thumb. ]
no subject
the bark comes away in his hands like the skin of an apple. calloused, but soft underneath. shavings like in a pile between his feet- stick to the worn out boots and equally worn out laces wound twice around the top. it gets cooler at night on the coast. not anything to write home about, but it's just enough for pentecost and his father to set to the occasional brew of hot chocolate- or, when they think no one's paying attention, some shit instant coffee with whatever's left in whatever bottle they have kicking around.
the firelight throws them into gold relief against the rock face at their backs. a world that just doesn't exist beyond where the campfire can reach. it lights up the hairline scars that criss-cross chuck's hands. dot his knuckles, trace his fingers. a fight here. a smashed glass there. learning a new knife or climbing a fence he has no business being on.
there's a marshmellow offered up on his right, and chuck doesn't take it right away (there are rules to this game they've started up. the one where they play at being a family and getting along). instead he just looks up, watches his old man's face as the knife works up the length of the wood- pressed against the pad of his thumb. ]