Old Flames (Can't Hold a Candle) [Joshua/Temple]
Mar 8, 2019 17:52:24 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 8, 2019 17:52:24 GMT -5
Joshua Lexington
Joshua spent the time before sunrise in the barn tending to the milking. Sentinel wasn’t the type to name any of them, but Joshua couldn’t resist giving each of them a different moniker. He told himself it was easier to keep track of all of them, which was true. He had been around the farm for six months or so and was just starting to make heads or tails of everyone. Sentinel kept his distance – after the first few weeks he’d gone and made sparing appearances with the boy. Josh wasn’t sure if it was a level of trust he earned or that Sentinel was keen on not saying too much to anyone. He didn’t mind. It was better than his aunt Willow Ann, who took every opportunity to pry. She dreaded silence like flies and vinegar.
“Mornin’ Layla,” He said, his right hand patting the side of the gentle milk cow. Her black and white coloring shown in the hum of the incandescent light from above. A soft moo escaped her as she stamped in the milking quarters. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting ol’ girl.” He put both hands to her udders and started the tedious process of getting a bucket of milk, then another, carrying each to the troth that would carry out to the holding container.
After Layla was Twyla, then Amber Lynn and Ashleigh, and last but not least, Devon. He whistled as he went along, stopping every so often to settle down one that got a little too anxious. His calloused hands pressed against their hides and he whispered to them, sometimes putting his head against theirs (even though this could result in a slobbery sneeze or belch in his face). He smiled most when he could get them to be absolutely still. In that moment he could listen to the sounds of winter. The wind would creep through the rafters of the barn, and the wood would creak and moan.
The sun was up by the time he finished. He washed his hands in the cold running water of the old sink at the edge of the barn, his hands frozen under the ice cold water that shot out. He scrubbed clean with the soap and wiped his hands dry against his jeans. He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck and buttoned up his wool coat (a hand me down from his father’s closet, itchy as all get out). If he was right, this would be about his favorite time of day.
Temple Jones had been famous for a year now, but Joshua had thought she was special even before the girl wound up in the eightieth hunger games. He liked the way she never said much of anything at all – the sort of quiet type that would let Joshua build space between them. When he’d watched her on the screen he’d felt dirty, as though he was stealing secrets from her. Briar had asked him what he thought of Temple, and he’d made the mistake of pausing a bit too long. His sister could see the way his face flushed and he was flustered, and wouldn’t let him forget that he (for what seemed the first time in history) had any feelings about anyone, ever.
His aunt would later say that she was relieved he was interested in anyone at all (she’d talked to him three times about how it would have been okay if he wanted to bring a boy home instead of a girl, to which Joshua had rolled his eyes and stormed off, which didn’t help settle the idea).
He was out along the fence of Sentinel’s property checking on the horses when he started to stare up out at the road. He’d noticed that Temple seemed to amble along the path every Wednesday or Thursday – enough weeks for him to notice, and practice in his head what he was going to try and say to her. He assumed that she was famous enough that all sorts of folk wanted to speak with her, and didn’t want her to think that he was just another fame chaser.
He still remembered the early years on the farm, when his father was still around. His mother had given birth to he and his sister just before she was thrust into the sixty-first. The first few years after the games, he and his twin sister had all manner of looky-loos trying to get a sight of them. It went on for a few good years, until, like every death in the hunger games, folks started to forget.
Ambling along the fence line, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized jacket and kept his head down. Sure enough, he could see the hazy blob of her figure a few hundred yards along the way. Josh froze for a moment, and turned away to look at the horses. Act natural, he told himself. Did she ever notice how often he was by the fence when she walked by? Shit. Maybe he was going to be that weird boy that had spent way too much time looking at her, and go ahead and ruin the whole thing.
Get your shit together, man. He told himself as she drew closer, and after a little prayer to himself, he turned back to the fence, pressing his elbows atop the old wood.
“Howdy!” He grinned a little too wide, and hated the word as soon as it came out of his mouth. “Um. Ms. Temple?” He called to her. His auntie had always taught him to call folks by Miss, on account of being the polite thing to do. “You got a minute?”
“Mornin’ Layla,” He said, his right hand patting the side of the gentle milk cow. Her black and white coloring shown in the hum of the incandescent light from above. A soft moo escaped her as she stamped in the milking quarters. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting ol’ girl.” He put both hands to her udders and started the tedious process of getting a bucket of milk, then another, carrying each to the troth that would carry out to the holding container.
After Layla was Twyla, then Amber Lynn and Ashleigh, and last but not least, Devon. He whistled as he went along, stopping every so often to settle down one that got a little too anxious. His calloused hands pressed against their hides and he whispered to them, sometimes putting his head against theirs (even though this could result in a slobbery sneeze or belch in his face). He smiled most when he could get them to be absolutely still. In that moment he could listen to the sounds of winter. The wind would creep through the rafters of the barn, and the wood would creak and moan.
The sun was up by the time he finished. He washed his hands in the cold running water of the old sink at the edge of the barn, his hands frozen under the ice cold water that shot out. He scrubbed clean with the soap and wiped his hands dry against his jeans. He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck and buttoned up his wool coat (a hand me down from his father’s closet, itchy as all get out). If he was right, this would be about his favorite time of day.
Temple Jones had been famous for a year now, but Joshua had thought she was special even before the girl wound up in the eightieth hunger games. He liked the way she never said much of anything at all – the sort of quiet type that would let Joshua build space between them. When he’d watched her on the screen he’d felt dirty, as though he was stealing secrets from her. Briar had asked him what he thought of Temple, and he’d made the mistake of pausing a bit too long. His sister could see the way his face flushed and he was flustered, and wouldn’t let him forget that he (for what seemed the first time in history) had any feelings about anyone, ever.
His aunt would later say that she was relieved he was interested in anyone at all (she’d talked to him three times about how it would have been okay if he wanted to bring a boy home instead of a girl, to which Joshua had rolled his eyes and stormed off, which didn’t help settle the idea).
He was out along the fence of Sentinel’s property checking on the horses when he started to stare up out at the road. He’d noticed that Temple seemed to amble along the path every Wednesday or Thursday – enough weeks for him to notice, and practice in his head what he was going to try and say to her. He assumed that she was famous enough that all sorts of folk wanted to speak with her, and didn’t want her to think that he was just another fame chaser.
He still remembered the early years on the farm, when his father was still around. His mother had given birth to he and his sister just before she was thrust into the sixty-first. The first few years after the games, he and his twin sister had all manner of looky-loos trying to get a sight of them. It went on for a few good years, until, like every death in the hunger games, folks started to forget.
Ambling along the fence line, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized jacket and kept his head down. Sure enough, he could see the hazy blob of her figure a few hundred yards along the way. Josh froze for a moment, and turned away to look at the horses. Act natural, he told himself. Did she ever notice how often he was by the fence when she walked by? Shit. Maybe he was going to be that weird boy that had spent way too much time looking at her, and go ahead and ruin the whole thing.
Get your shit together, man. He told himself as she drew closer, and after a little prayer to himself, he turned back to the fence, pressing his elbows atop the old wood.
“Howdy!” He grinned a little too wide, and hated the word as soon as it came out of his mouth. “Um. Ms. Temple?” He called to her. His auntie had always taught him to call folks by Miss, on account of being the polite thing to do. “You got a minute?”
