Finch spies two rain-slickered figures by the water and grins to himself, despite the absolutely horrible shit day he's been having and the pain that races through his heart at the sight. Him and another, back when they were that small, used to race paper boats down that stream and come up with stories that attributed their victories. One boat was blessed, the other was cursed, and they'd bicker until the two ended up rolling around in the water, trying to sit on the other's back, thoroughly and utterly soaked.
He breathes through the memory like someone would a stab wound, and all pain triggered immediately flees and is replaced with surprise as one adjusts their hood to reveal an all-too familiar mischievous face. Someone up there had to be laughing at him, right? He scowls at the odds, curing whoever had the sense of humor to send them in his direction just as he was wondering about them, and wearing the shadows of a memory no less.
Finch should keep walking. If he approached them, he'd definitely be veering too far into creeper territory, after approaching them at the Feast. Nope, he was going to keep walking and get warm and dry in his own little hole-in-the-wall apartment and not think about them anymore. He isn't their brother, even though he'd worn that title for a moment. It didn't count. But they could catch a cold in this weather, and someone really should make sure they were alright.
He sighs, scrubbing his hands down his exhausted face. Ambling forward, silent even as his feet drops through puddles on the ground, he calls out, "You know, your boats will last longer if you melt some candle wax on 'em."
He breathes through the memory like someone would a stab wound, and all pain triggered immediately flees and is replaced with surprise as one adjusts their hood to reveal an all-too familiar mischievous face. Someone up there had to be laughing at him, right? He scowls at the odds, curing whoever had the sense of humor to send them in his direction just as he was wondering about them, and wearing the shadows of a memory no less.
Finch should keep walking. If he approached them, he'd definitely be veering too far into creeper territory, after approaching them at the Feast. Nope, he was going to keep walking and get warm and dry in his own little hole-in-the-wall apartment and not think about them anymore. He isn't their brother, even though he'd worn that title for a moment. It didn't count. But they could catch a cold in this weather, and someone really should make sure they were alright.
He sighs, scrubbing his hands down his exhausted face. Ambling forward, silent even as his feet drops through puddles on the ground, he calls out, "You know, your boats will last longer if you melt some candle wax on 'em."
