DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
Damien rolled up his sleeves, gloved hands brushing against the edges of his shirt to shake off any lingering sawdust. He crouched beside Kaisel, eyes narrowing slightly at the mortar smeared along the brick edges, assessing the work with a practiced precision. “Alright,” he said, voice low but steady and unintentionally in unison with Kaisel's. He added, “We’ll get it done.”
He dipped a cloth into a bucket of warm water Noah had left nearby and pressed it gently against the rough patches, dragging along the edges to lift away the excess grout without smearing the carefully set bricks. Each swipe was measured, slow, methodical, matching the rhythm Kaisel had set with the mortar. Damien moved in sync with him, wiping a strip, pausing to glance at the alignment, then circling back to smooth over a stubborn smear.
“Careful there,” he murmured once, tilting the cloth at an angle to reach a corner Kaisel’s hand had missed. There was no teasing, no impatience—just the quiet attention of someone who understood the value of doing it right. Even the small, repetitive task became something deliberate, almost meditative.
When the last streak of grout had been lifted and the bricks gleamed against the warm glow of the cabin, Damien leaned back on his heels, flexing his fingers. He let himself take a small, approving nod at their combined work, then met Kaisel’s eye and gave the briefest of acknowledgments, a quiet camaraderie in the shared labor. “Looks solid,” his tone carried the weight of satisfaction without any fanfare. “We did good.”
Then, dipping the cloth once more, he began a final pass along the edges, leaving nothing undone, nothing sloppy—his way of saying, silently, that he had their back.
G r o u t
He dipped a cloth into a bucket of warm water Noah had left nearby and pressed it gently against the rough patches, dragging along the edges to lift away the excess grout without smearing the carefully set bricks. Each swipe was measured, slow, methodical, matching the rhythm Kaisel had set with the mortar. Damien moved in sync with him, wiping a strip, pausing to glance at the alignment, then circling back to smooth over a stubborn smear.
“Careful there,” he murmured once, tilting the cloth at an angle to reach a corner Kaisel’s hand had missed. There was no teasing, no impatience—just the quiet attention of someone who understood the value of doing it right. Even the small, repetitive task became something deliberate, almost meditative.
When the last streak of grout had been lifted and the bricks gleamed against the warm glow of the cabin, Damien leaned back on his heels, flexing his fingers. He let himself take a small, approving nod at their combined work, then met Kaisel’s eye and gave the briefest of acknowledgments, a quiet camaraderie in the shared labor. “Looks solid,” his tone carried the weight of satisfaction without any fanfare. “We did good.”
Then, dipping the cloth once more, he began a final pass along the edges, leaving nothing undone, nothing sloppy—his way of saying, silently, that he had their back.
G r o u t
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
