Nate
“Turnips are orange. I don’t know what this fuckin’ thing is, or what you said, but,” Nate turns, ready to continue his argument only to find his opponent gone, leaving him with a basket of disappointment on top of his already boiling over pot of emotions. The line that his lips tug into isn’t exactly a frown, but it is severe and upset, quiet and internal in a way Isla might recognize from his less put together moments. The basket is heaved onto his jenga tower of supplies, even his bounteous grip struggling with the load he’s carrying. “Stuff for Longnight.” He explains, about to shrug but thinking better of it. “The boys and Sunny still need to eat, and my gardens fucked this year, so…” His real hands gesture up at his load.
A crooked grin starts to pull across his face, tugging at one corner of his lips before it’s stopped by the thought that he was missed. His mouth opens immediately, dark brows furrowing above his eyes, and just when it seems like something dark and angry is about to come spitting out of his throat Nate just… stops. Clamps his face down and swallows and manages the worlds least convincing smile. “Well I’m back now. You’ve all got your blunt instrument back.”
Do you read fuck-up in my walk?
Do you see fuck-up on my face?
Do you see fuck-up on my face?
Do I mean anything at all?
