Calan
Calan grins at the yellow slicker, the marina feeling like a spawn point for all sorts of useful things: Food, then clothing, and all of it appearing at exactly the right time, which is surely proof that they have been making very good decisions.
He takes the slicker without hesitation, though getting into it is another matter. One arm goes through neatly enough, the second disappears into the wrong place for a moment, and Calan has to fight the coat with the fish burrito still clutched in one hand, which makes the whole thing much more difficult. The yellow slicker drops nearly to his ankles, heavy and bright and smelling sharply of salt and oilskin, and the hood comes up over his dark hair at once, turning the world into something smaller around the edges.
"There," he says, pleased, as if clothing has been dealt with entirely. His bare toes curl cold and damp against the dock boards, and Calan looks down at them with fresh consideration before glancing back toward the rack, then the stalls, then the general shape of the marina as if shoes might reveal themselves through force of expectation. "I wonder if they make these for your feet," he says, perfectly serious, by which of course he means shoes.
Then, because one problem at a time is enough and food has become the louder problem again, he takes a huge bite of the burrito. His eyes widen immediately, not with surprise so much as delight, and he chews with the sort of concentration of someone learning another useful thing about being alive.
He takes the slicker without hesitation, though getting into it is another matter. One arm goes through neatly enough, the second disappears into the wrong place for a moment, and Calan has to fight the coat with the fish burrito still clutched in one hand, which makes the whole thing much more difficult. The yellow slicker drops nearly to his ankles, heavy and bright and smelling sharply of salt and oilskin, and the hood comes up over his dark hair at once, turning the world into something smaller around the edges.
"There," he says, pleased, as if clothing has been dealt with entirely. His bare toes curl cold and damp against the dock boards, and Calan looks down at them with fresh consideration before glancing back toward the rack, then the stalls, then the general shape of the marina as if shoes might reveal themselves through force of expectation. "I wonder if they make these for your feet," he says, perfectly serious, by which of course he means shoes.
Then, because one problem at a time is enough and food has become the louder problem again, he takes a huge bite of the burrito. His eyes widen immediately, not with surprise so much as delight, and he chews with the sort of concentration of someone learning another useful thing about being alive.
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
