Slow down, my brother, your life is passing fast...
It's become One of Those Days, somehow, with just one event. He's still got sand under his fingernails as he piles firewood under the little shelter he's made for it, trying to use the very last of the daylight for something useful, working to keep his mind occupied. He's a liar and a shitheel, and he's afraid that this one sin will spread and infect the thing that the sin was covering for, take it where it's good and twist it into something bad. He doesn't regret it, doesn't want to.
When he straightens up he looks off through the trees towards Tom's hut, hoping to see a light flickering or a distant figure moving, but Tom's not back yet from wherever he's been all afternoon, and an ache stabs through him. He'd go to Florence, but she's not involved in this aside from her relationship with him. He wants to be with someone who's as deep in this as he is, and he thinks about just curling up in Tom's bed, holding him or letting himself be held, kissing him until this is pushed away and until he can deal with it.
Like that's not how they got here in the first place.
He sighs and goes back to piling logs, his back starting to ache and his leg throbbing. Sometimes, more often these days, he just feels old.
When he straightens up he looks off through the trees towards Tom's hut, hoping to see a light flickering or a distant figure moving, but Tom's not back yet from wherever he's been all afternoon, and an ache stabs through him. He'd go to Florence, but she's not involved in this aside from her relationship with him. He wants to be with someone who's as deep in this as he is, and he thinks about just curling up in Tom's bed, holding him or letting himself be held, kissing him until this is pushed away and until he can deal with it.
Like that's not how they got here in the first place.
He sighs and goes back to piling logs, his back starting to ache and his leg throbbing. Sometimes, more often these days, he just feels old.