I don't care who I might hurt along the way, I'm fuckin' sinking
Into every word, I don't care if you're lyin' when I'm drinking
Into every word, I don't care if you're lyin' when I'm drinking
Bart doesn’t wear his anger the same way, but it simmers all the same. He isn’t attached to the Society the way Nate is, but he’d cursed himself to hell and back for not getting to the fire in time. Luckily it hadn’t had the chance to do much damage, but anything is too much. Then his brother went off and got involved with a giant chicken chase, Scarface seemingly vanished, and Bart was left with Kamaria and Melita in the fuck-off huge house. Not that he minded the squirt (either of them, though calling Mel that was usually an invitation to lose one of his fingers) but he’d been anxious for Nate to get his ass back home.
Except he isn’t. Home, that is.
It’s not surprising. Nate doesn’t do well with stewing or sitting. Always gotta pace, work, make shit. Bart gets it, he goes back and forth feeling that way himself, even if he’s just as capable of stewing alone in his room with some music and his pen. With no job and no hobby in Torchline though he’s definitely more prone to movement to deal with his aggravation.
Misery loves company though so he goes hunting for his brother. Though admittedly he hopes to help and not add another bump on the metaphorical angry log.
It’s clear upon arrival that most everyone is giving Nate a wide berth. He’s a veritable storm, and nobody wants to be pulled into the eye. Except Bart that is, who waltzes right up as of his brother isn’t eyeing the nail in the beam like it has personally wronged him. Twirling his own hammer (don’t ask whose it is because he just snagged it off a table) he sets up right next to Nate. “What’s goin’ on in that big head’a yours?” Spoken soft but gruff, hammering the nail into the wood with one swift hit and following up with a few more precise blows to sink it flush.
Except he isn’t. Home, that is.
It’s not surprising. Nate doesn’t do well with stewing or sitting. Always gotta pace, work, make shit. Bart gets it, he goes back and forth feeling that way himself, even if he’s just as capable of stewing alone in his room with some music and his pen. With no job and no hobby in Torchline though he’s definitely more prone to movement to deal with his aggravation.
Misery loves company though so he goes hunting for his brother. Though admittedly he hopes to help and not add another bump on the metaphorical angry log.
It’s clear upon arrival that most everyone is giving Nate a wide berth. He’s a veritable storm, and nobody wants to be pulled into the eye. Except Bart that is, who waltzes right up as of his brother isn’t eyeing the nail in the beam like it has personally wronged him. Twirling his own hammer (don’t ask whose it is because he just snagged it off a table) he sets up right next to Nate. “What’s goin’ on in that big head’a yours?” Spoken soft but gruff, hammering the nail into the wood with one swift hit and following up with a few more precise blows to sink it flush.
everything look worse at night - I think I'm overthinking
BARTHOLOMEW
