Calan
Calan rocks sideways as Carlo finds his shoulder instead of his hand, which is not exactly what had been offered but does, after a brief and undignified shuffle of both feet, result in both of them remaining upright. That seems like the important bit. Standing, he is quickly learning, is less one action and more several bad ideas agreeing not to betray each other all at once.
"Fern," he repeats, tilting his head as if the name might do something useful now that it has been spoken aloud. When it doesn’t, he glances around the marina with open expectation, because they had wanted something and then they had appeared, so there is no immediate reason Fern shouldn’t follow the same rules. A moment passes and when nothing happens, Calan narrows his eyes. "Maybe she needs longer."
His stomach answers Carlo’s with a loud, rude complaint of its own, and Calan looks down sharply, one hand pressing against his middle as if he might catch whatever is trying to escape. The sensation is familiar in shape but not in size, no longer a disaster to be solved by screaming until someone warmer arrived with food, but a problem sitting squarely inside him now.
He looks past Carlo, down the marina toward the huddle of colourful stalls and crooked awnings, where memory offers itself in pieces: being carried, faces above them, the bright press of the port sliding by while fathers did the walking and worrying. Calan lifts one arm for balance and points with the other, not quite steady but very committed. "That way?" he suggests, then glances back at Carlo with a grin beginning to sharpen again despite the cold, the hunger, and the total absence of clothing.
"Fern," he repeats, tilting his head as if the name might do something useful now that it has been spoken aloud. When it doesn’t, he glances around the marina with open expectation, because they had wanted something and then they had appeared, so there is no immediate reason Fern shouldn’t follow the same rules. A moment passes and when nothing happens, Calan narrows his eyes. "Maybe she needs longer."
His stomach answers Carlo’s with a loud, rude complaint of its own, and Calan looks down sharply, one hand pressing against his middle as if he might catch whatever is trying to escape. The sensation is familiar in shape but not in size, no longer a disaster to be solved by screaming until someone warmer arrived with food, but a problem sitting squarely inside him now.
He looks past Carlo, down the marina toward the huddle of colourful stalls and crooked awnings, where memory offers itself in pieces: being carried, faces above them, the bright press of the port sliding by while fathers did the walking and worrying. Calan lifts one arm for balance and points with the other, not quite steady but very committed. "That way?" he suggests, then glances back at Carlo with a grin beginning to sharpen again despite the cold, the hunger, and the total absence of clothing.
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
