I will be your lighthouse
The motion of the canteen drew his gaze up, and like a fool he forgot the plate, eager to catch her offering. He grabbed it easily, but on his knees his plate quivered, and in an overcorrection he fumbled for it. It fell sideways. His knees grabbed for it, and like a catapult it snapped between his legs and shot eggs freely. Goose perked up and surged towards them, dropping his driftwood duck momentarily as he gobbled them down.
"Shit," Iskra said, setting the plate on the ground beside him like it was a loaded gun. Her words settled into him easily, as her voice always would, but he also had to peel the jam-side down toast off his pant-leg. He made a face as he unscrewed the canteen top, the water soaking his leg as he ran his fingers back and forth over the sticky residue. When he was satisfied, he brought the rim of the bottle to his lips, drinking like a desert-lost man. At least the movements gave him somewhere to expend that anxious energy, though a flush of embarrassment hid in his cheeks.
"I don't think anyone could," he said softly as he brought the canteen down, wiping the water from his chin on the back of a hand. "Tell you what to do, I mean." He smiled, stiffly. He also wasn't sure she'd really let anyone see her not so strong moments. Hell, even he tried not to let anyone see, he was just bad at it. "I haven't given up, you know." he said gently, as if any additional force might break the truth in it. "Trying to be better. To be alive." This helped. He could not simply shrug off the years of depression and rot like a coat, wallowing one moment then his boyish self the next, but this was one more layer peeled away to let his light shine through a bit brighter. "Whether you need it or not, to decide to be around me. I need it... and I'll keep working on it." Purpose? Did he need more than her, one of the few beacons left in his life?
"Shit," Iskra said, setting the plate on the ground beside him like it was a loaded gun. Her words settled into him easily, as her voice always would, but he also had to peel the jam-side down toast off his pant-leg. He made a face as he unscrewed the canteen top, the water soaking his leg as he ran his fingers back and forth over the sticky residue. When he was satisfied, he brought the rim of the bottle to his lips, drinking like a desert-lost man. At least the movements gave him somewhere to expend that anxious energy, though a flush of embarrassment hid in his cheeks.
"I don't think anyone could," he said softly as he brought the canteen down, wiping the water from his chin on the back of a hand. "Tell you what to do, I mean." He smiled, stiffly. He also wasn't sure she'd really let anyone see her not so strong moments. Hell, even he tried not to let anyone see, he was just bad at it. "I haven't given up, you know." he said gently, as if any additional force might break the truth in it. "Trying to be better. To be alive." This helped. He could not simply shrug off the years of depression and rot like a coat, wallowing one moment then his boyish self the next, but this was one more layer peeled away to let his light shine through a bit brighter. "Whether you need it or not, to decide to be around me. I need it... and I'll keep working on it." Purpose? Did he need more than her, one of the few beacons left in his life?
Iskra
