'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan laughs at the question, shaking his head hard enough to send his already-disordered hair flopping across his forehead. "Nah, she just has a house full of spirits," he explains, his shoulders bouncing in a cheerful little shrug as though there’s nothing especially strange about that either.
With the matter settled, he leans the broom against his chest and holds his hands out in preparation. His face draws into the same grave concentration as hers, brows lowered and lips pressed together while he watches her fists carefully. The loser might be condemned to handling cursed offerings, after all, so there can be no room for distraction or poor strategy.
Fern says they’ll go on three, and Calan braces himself accordingly. His fist begins to bounce in time with hers as she starts the familiar chant, waiting for the number that will tell him when to choose. Rock. His hand rises. Paper. It falls. Scissors. It rises again, and he’s ready for three to follow when Fern says shoot instead. Calan’s fist freezes between them. For a moment, he stares down at it in mild confusion, realizing too late that the game has apparently already begun and that his failure to open his hand has chosen rock for him. He could point out that she never actually said three, but that would sound suspiciously like someone trying to escape the consequences of an extremely official contest. Instead, he keeps his fist exactly where it is and lifts his gaze to whatever Fern has revealed, wearing the solemn expression of a boy who absolutely meant to play rock all along.
With the matter settled, he leans the broom against his chest and holds his hands out in preparation. His face draws into the same grave concentration as hers, brows lowered and lips pressed together while he watches her fists carefully. The loser might be condemned to handling cursed offerings, after all, so there can be no room for distraction or poor strategy.
Fern says they’ll go on three, and Calan braces himself accordingly. His fist begins to bounce in time with hers as she starts the familiar chant, waiting for the number that will tell him when to choose. Rock. His hand rises. Paper. It falls. Scissors. It rises again, and he’s ready for three to follow when Fern says shoot instead. Calan’s fist freezes between them. For a moment, he stares down at it in mild confusion, realizing too late that the game has apparently already begun and that his failure to open his hand has chosen rock for him. He could point out that she never actually said three, but that would sound suspiciously like someone trying to escape the consequences of an extremely official contest. Instead, he keeps his fist exactly where it is and lifts his gaze to whatever Fern has revealed, wearing the solemn expression of a boy who absolutely meant to play rock all along.
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
