1. He likes to watch the water run down the windows in their unpatterned rivulets. It's something that Matt notices the first storm that they sit through together, and every other storm or rainfall there after. It's the only time shutters are pushed aside, blinds raised and the apartment opened to the world. He noticed bi-coloured glasses set aside, and bi-coloured eyed reflected in the glass the boy is sitting in front of. He makes note of it that first time, and watches with a masked curiosity, notes flitting in his head.
He'll wake up at high noon for a storm, something he will rarely do for the rest of his boisterous friends, and often Matt will find him asleep at the sill with the thunder rolling across the city. (Never moving him, simply closing the blinds once the weather begins to break.) He'll look to the ceiling during a session, hours at their respective work stations, when he thinks there's thunder in the air. He'll deflect all comments and questions concerning, and Matt never inquires further.
Often he'll come back from a shift, ducked under an umbrella and cigarette shielded by a careful hand, to find the boy in the street. Soaked to the skin and uncaring, face to the sky and glasses dangling from a hand. He'll stand and watch for a second, two, ten, minutes on end before the kid notices him, or before he notices his cigarette's gone out.
It's one of the few times he ever sees him smile, something that isn't his customary cocky smirk, small and hesitant and he thinks he could even call it vulnerable, like a boy in a world that isn't his own, standing in the rain he's never felt before.
He likes to watch the water run down the windows in their unpatterned rivulets. It's something that Matt notices the first storm that they sit through together, and every other storm or rainfall there after. It's the only time shutters are pushed aside, blinds raised and the apartment opened to the world. He noticed bi-coloured glasses set aside, and bi-coloured eyed reflected in the glass the boy is sitting in front of. He makes note of it that first time, and watches with a masked curiosity, notes flitting in his head.
He'll wake up at high noon for a storm, something he will rarely do for the rest of his boisterous friends, and often Matt will find him asleep at the sill with the thunder rolling across the city. (Never moving him, simply closing the blinds once the weather begins to break.) He'll look to the ceiling during a session, hours at their respective work stations, when he thinks there's thunder in the air. He'll deflect all comments and questions concerning, and Matt never inquires further.
Often he'll come back from a shift, ducked under an umbrella and cigarette shielded by a careful hand, to find the boy in the street. Soaked to the skin and uncaring, face to the sky and glasses dangling from a hand. He'll stand and watch for a second, two, ten, minutes on end before the kid notices him, or before he notices his cigarette's gone out.
It's one of the few times he ever sees him smile, something that isn't his customary cocky smirk, small and hesitant and he thinks he could even call it vulnerable, like a boy in a world that isn't his own, standing in the rain he's never felt before.
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