they took away my faded jeans...
It was one thing to wake up on a desert island surrounded by people who didn’t exist, or only used to exist, or would only One Day exist. It was another to wake up and find you best (male) friend in sudden, unexpected possession of soft skin and an impressive rack.
It was quite another to regress to pre-pubescence and all it’s insolence and remain that way for the length of a weekend.
Now, several days back in his own skin, Hobbes was chopping wood near the edge of what was more or less his lawn, as much as anything belonged to anyone here. The sun and the heat had forced him out of his white beater, leaving him shirtless and sweating in the afternoon heat. It was easy to get caught up in the familiar rhythm of hoist, heave, chop, over and over again, the little pile of wood beside him growing steadily.
He’d been a bratty ten-year-old, the first and the second time both. He’d almost forgotten. Army brat and ten schools in twelve years…it was easy to forget.
“Momma, momma, can’t you see,” he huffed under his breath, landing the ax with a grunt, “What the Army's done to me…”
[wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide open. Old friends, new people, and anyone that might want to punch him in the face. He has an axe. And no shirt! Tag away. Will be back to field threads after work.]
It was quite another to regress to pre-pubescence and all it’s insolence and remain that way for the length of a weekend.
Now, several days back in his own skin, Hobbes was chopping wood near the edge of what was more or less his lawn, as much as anything belonged to anyone here. The sun and the heat had forced him out of his white beater, leaving him shirtless and sweating in the afternoon heat. It was easy to get caught up in the familiar rhythm of hoist, heave, chop, over and over again, the little pile of wood beside him growing steadily.
He’d been a bratty ten-year-old, the first and the second time both. He’d almost forgotten. Army brat and ten schools in twelve years…it was easy to forget.
“Momma, momma, can’t you see,” he huffed under his breath, landing the ax with a grunt, “What the Army's done to me…”
[wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide open. Old friends, new people, and anyone that might want to punch him in the face. He has an axe. And no shirt! Tag away. Will be back to field threads after work.]