Calan
Calan frowns at Carlo’s announcement, because being followed by yourself sounds like the sort of thing that should either be useful or alarming, and he hasn’t decided which yet. Then he looks down, and there he is. Or, something like him. A flat, dark boy stuck to his feet and stretching oddly over the sand, moving when he moves with no manners at all. Calan laughs once, sharp and delighted, then bolts three steps to the side as if he can outrun it. The thing comes with him. He tries again, faster this time, yellow slicker flapping around his legs and burrito clutched safely out of danger, and when it still keeps up he stops dead and points down with the kind of satisfaction reserved for solving important cases.
"It’s him," he declares, meaning himself, or the other himself, or possibly the version of himself that has decided to live on the ground. "He’s fast."
The ocean makes its long rushing sound ahead, and Calan’s attention snaps up again as Carlo gives the noise a shape. "I bet it is," he says, because the sound is tucked somewhere inside him with warmth and rocking and arms around him, and that seems like enough evidence to build a whole theory on.
He is just about to put one foot into the reaching edge of a wave when Carlo’s shout pulls his gaze up and out instead. The Northaven sits nearby, and even from here there is movement on her deck that looks nothing like calm. Calan’s grin appears at once. He throws one yellow-sleeved arm high into the air, nearly losing the burrito in the other hand for the effort. "DADS!" he yells, bright and triumphant, as if being found is another thing they have arranged properly.
"It’s him," he declares, meaning himself, or the other himself, or possibly the version of himself that has decided to live on the ground. "He’s fast."
The ocean makes its long rushing sound ahead, and Calan’s attention snaps up again as Carlo gives the noise a shape. "I bet it is," he says, because the sound is tucked somewhere inside him with warmth and rocking and arms around him, and that seems like enough evidence to build a whole theory on.
He is just about to put one foot into the reaching edge of a wave when Carlo’s shout pulls his gaze up and out instead. The Northaven sits nearby, and even from here there is movement on her deck that looks nothing like calm. Calan’s grin appears at once. He throws one yellow-sleeved arm high into the air, nearly losing the burrito in the other hand for the effort. "DADS!" he yells, bright and triumphant, as if being found is another thing they have arranged properly.
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
