So Not Tubular

Luka

I know there are angels singing somewhere
I hope they sing for us

Luka feels supremely out of place, and perhaps like he’s been duped.

Deimos’ advice had been helpful in his slow, meandering journey of self-discovery, but Luka isn’t sure when the straightforward path between career suggestions and job shadowing turned into…this.

‘This’ being holding a surfboard he definitely didn’t ask for, likely far poorer than necessary, and uncertain where the whirlwind of a man who’d caused both disappeared to in the half-second Luka spent blinking, apparently. “What in Eirachi’s frosty nipples am I supposed to do with a sled?” It comes out less frustrated than he’d intended and infinitely more bewildered, but it’s impressive to make Luka’s opinions exit the comfortable space of his own brain in the first place. There are a few people out in the water using what he thinks might be one of these, but it’s clearly the off-season (laughable, considering it’s still so hot compared to what Luka knows) and he can’t just march into the water and ask one of them to explain what he’s supposed to do with this.

Wait. “This better be a fucking rental,” he growls to himself, horrified by the prospect of having to either litter or pawn it off onto someone else who might swindle him into something even more unwieldy. Gods, how does Soleil love this place? Luka grumbles as he hefts the surfboard, checking each side and inspecting it cluelessly without a care for its impressive (and dangerous) reach.

For our bruised mouths are an act of resistance
and our singing hearts, together, make a beautiful prayer