we used to play outside when we were young & full of life & full of love
Oh, you see that, Zeph? Cheeky fucker's got your number. "Oi, you givin' this lesson or me?" Rolling your eyes dramatically, you step forward - close enough to reach out and pat him on the head. "But that's very good, Red. We'll make a Torcher of ya yet." With a final ruffle of his flaming locks you step back into teacher-dad position, now with your body turned slightly so you can see him and the sea.
You don't mean to stare, but it's the first time you've actually seen him without long sleeves - let alone a shirt - and you can't help but be curious. The red curls are unlike anything you've ever seen, and the fucking white as bleached coral skin moreso. Luckily his self-depricating remark brings you back to the present. "Auwe, none'a that talk," you chide him with a stuck-out tongue, kicking a bit of sand playfully in his direction.
Turning away (why?) you, too, begin to strip off your layers. There are far fewer of them, and you're much less delicate about it, making light work of your button down and leaving it in a crumpled pile on the sand. When you get to your shorts you hesitate, thumbs stuck into your waistband, suddenly and uncharacteristicly self conscious.
Then you shrug at your own foolishness, shoving your pants onto the sand and leaving only your boxers. You throw a look back to Sam - "Ready?" - and, without waiting for answer, sprint you way towards the waiting water, dipping down as soon as it's waist deep to submerge your greying head.
You don't mean to stare, but it's the first time you've actually seen him without long sleeves - let alone a shirt - and you can't help but be curious. The red curls are unlike anything you've ever seen, and the fucking white as bleached coral skin moreso. Luckily his self-depricating remark brings you back to the present. "Auwe, none'a that talk," you chide him with a stuck-out tongue, kicking a bit of sand playfully in his direction.
Turning away (why?) you, too, begin to strip off your layers. There are far fewer of them, and you're much less delicate about it, making light work of your button down and leaving it in a crumpled pile on the sand. When you get to your shorts you hesitate, thumbs stuck into your waistband, suddenly and uncharacteristicly self conscious.
Then you shrug at your own foolishness, shoving your pants onto the sand and leaving only your boxers. You throw a look back to Sam - "Ready?" - and, without waiting for answer, sprint you way towards the waiting water, dipping down as soon as it's waist deep to submerge your greying head.
zephyr
