BART
All things considered, Bart is hanging in there. Maybe more like the equivalent of that poster with the kitten hanging from a branch, perilous at best, but he’s clinging to some form of sanity for all he’s worth. Which ain’t much but. Still. You get the gist.
The Halenani’s destruction had led to far more house guests than he’d been warned of. Not great for someone who generally rubs people the wrong way with his mere existence, but he can’t complain when he’s being given free housing and square meals. The land itself is still a confusing jumble, but the names are starting to straighten themselves out in his brain if nothing else.
He still writes in his journal to Nate. It’s a comforting habit, and until he lays hands on his twin he won’t be convinced he’s really alive. Bartholomew’s in the middle of a sentence, lounging on his borrowed bed when the knock comes. Frowning more at the words than the man who speaks them, Bart tucks his pen back into his journal and it finds its way to its home in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Swinging the door open in one swift jerk, his eyes are halfway to suspicious slits and mouth already opening for some form of snarky remark when his eyes land on the aforementioned guest.
Scars and all, he knows that face. That figure. The changes wrought by time and tests of spirit can’t conceal the intrinsic familiarity that sparks the moment Bart lays eyes on his brother. "Jesus fuck it’s really you," he manages to whisper, a little strangled and at a loss for anything better to say. Hand limply falling from the door handle, Bart takes a halting step forward, keenly aware of Sunjata’s presence and his own disbelief in the same moment. “Nate?” It’s a tremulous question, seeking out his older brother’s comfort in a way he hasn’t been afforded for nearly half his life now.
The Halenani’s destruction had led to far more house guests than he’d been warned of. Not great for someone who generally rubs people the wrong way with his mere existence, but he can’t complain when he’s being given free housing and square meals. The land itself is still a confusing jumble, but the names are starting to straighten themselves out in his brain if nothing else.
He still writes in his journal to Nate. It’s a comforting habit, and until he lays hands on his twin he won’t be convinced he’s really alive. Bartholomew’s in the middle of a sentence, lounging on his borrowed bed when the knock comes. Frowning more at the words than the man who speaks them, Bart tucks his pen back into his journal and it finds its way to its home in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Swinging the door open in one swift jerk, his eyes are halfway to suspicious slits and mouth already opening for some form of snarky remark when his eyes land on the aforementioned guest.
Scars and all, he knows that face. That figure. The changes wrought by time and tests of spirit can’t conceal the intrinsic familiarity that sparks the moment Bart lays eyes on his brother. "Jesus fuck it’s really you," he manages to whisper, a little strangled and at a loss for anything better to say. Hand limply falling from the door handle, Bart takes a halting step forward, keenly aware of Sunjata’s presence and his own disbelief in the same moment. “Nate?” It’s a tremulous question, seeking out his older brother’s comfort in a way he hasn’t been afforded for nearly half his life now.
Even if I do a little just to get me through the night
Always getting me in trouble, smoking like I wanna die
Always getting me in trouble, smoking like I wanna die
