'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan is rarely anywhere without Carlo, but his twin is presently home sick in bed, which means there’s only one extra set of hands and feet thundering up the lighthouse stairs behind Fern instead of two. He makes enough noise for both of them anyway, galloping around each curve like an angry buffalo with absolutely no respect for indoor voices, sensible pacing, or the broom bouncing awkwardly against his shoulder.
When Fern stops, Calan very nearly barrels straight into her. He jerks himself short with a startled scuff of his shoes, wobbles dangerously, then drops onto the next stair with all the dignity of someone who’d meant to do exactly that. His chest heaves as he tips his head back, squinting suspiciously towards the unseen top as though the lighthouse has personally arranged this insult. "I bet the gods said it has to be this way," he decides, dragging in another breath before lifting his chin with grave importance, "so that only the very strongest can get to the top."
When Fern stops, Calan very nearly barrels straight into her. He jerks himself short with a startled scuff of his shoes, wobbles dangerously, then drops onto the next stair with all the dignity of someone who’d meant to do exactly that. His chest heaves as he tips his head back, squinting suspiciously towards the unseen top as though the lighthouse has personally arranged this insult. "I bet the gods said it has to be this way," he decides, dragging in another breath before lifting his chin with grave importance, "so that only the very strongest can get to the top."
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
