Hearth Jovyal // d4 cb [fin]

It's the smell of the sea that calms him, not so much the ebb and flow of the waves - there's a reason why he watches his father's crabbing boat sink into the horizon amid the crackle of oil and whistling of kettles - salt touched with sun, the beach brought forth through his bedroom window as he finishes a nightcap. A numbness filled with salt, the soft crowing of seagulls gone to rest that quells the churning in his stomach.

Composure, kindness - a goal to reach. His surname, an ideal he strives for each day. He greets patrons of The Bowline with a smile, his friends with a laugh. An ear, always open to listen. Small talk turning to thoughtful conversations, lines drawn thinly in the sand as to not attract attention. Trepidation, Worry, Admittance, drowned in spirits. Spirited, he'd claim, is a better description.

It's spirit that he puts into all that he does: into the dishes he makes, hoping to cheer up someone's day; Into the warm embraces and playful roundhousing; the moonshine he hides under his bed, the insomnia that follows. Into the vigorous wave as the crabbing ship sails off into the distance, or the roar of oil hitting a frying pan. He puts vigor into everything he does, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.

On bad nights you'll find him on the beach, walking along the shore but going shallow enough that only his ankles are wet, a flask or a blunt nestled deep in his satchel. He'll look out towards the horizon, eyes glassed over, sometimes wishing he could find himself out there in a serene sea.

But soon he finds himself feeling for the sand beneath his feet, the texture grounding him back to stable ground.