(no subject)
The kitchen hasn't changed much over the years. Tom found a mug, found tea, put the kettle on and waited for it to start howling. He wandered aimlessly, fingers brushing over counter tops, gaze wandering to the scuffed up floor. He thought a little and remembered a lot and maybe he offered up a soldiers' kind of prayer. He hadn't ever really believed in Christ or Satan or God. Mostly what he believed in was people. People let you down, people betrayed you.
People died.
Tom remembered Mike holding a gun to his head, remembered his arm wrapped around him in bed, remembered the look on his face the first night when Neil had crashed perfectly in place. The heat off the pyre when they burned him, the light in his eyes when he held his daughters. Tom swallowed hard and wished he could chalk this up to Island cruelty, but that delusion had already slipped away.
Tom stood in the kitchen, holding an empty cup in his hands and, somewhere along the line, the kettle had started to scream.
[man, this hurts. He's been away a long time and I'm a terrible mun for it, but tag him, ST, late, new and old. He's aching and very much alone. <3]
People died.
Tom remembered Mike holding a gun to his head, remembered his arm wrapped around him in bed, remembered the look on his face the first night when Neil had crashed perfectly in place. The heat off the pyre when they burned him, the light in his eyes when he held his daughters. Tom swallowed hard and wished he could chalk this up to Island cruelty, but that delusion had already slipped away.
Tom stood in the kitchen, holding an empty cup in his hands and, somewhere along the line, the kettle had started to scream.
[man, this hurts. He's been away a long time and I'm a terrible mun for it, but tag him, ST, late, new and old. He's aching and very much alone. <3]