the adults are talking, lena & rowan

Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Feb 10, 2023 21:20:50 GMT -5

🙃

His brother comes home to an infernal summer. The sun feels maroon, nights like they're swimming in soup.

There were the cameras and the mayor and the ladies from the church. They'd pinched his cheeks and tittered over how he'd grown in the last year. He's a beanpole now, that's what Ma says, stretched out four inches over a season, but he feels the same. He spent the whole party sitting on the couch staring at the jug of lemonade perspiring onto the table, ice cubes crackling against the glass.

There's Andal, talking to Lena, there's Andal, smiling at the neighbours, there he is, on television – and Rowan hasn't said a thing to Andal since he's returned.

The heatwave makes his head spin when the sun's high in the sky, the smell of light clinging to his clothes, thick and mellow. At night, he lies on the floor and puts a pillow on his chest – same old heavy weight that's been there for weeks. The old window A.C. sputters and starts, a loud hum reverberating through his brain. It kinda feels like it's etched there, a notch in the bone.

A storm brings an interlude.

In the afternoon, the sky darkens and white veins of lightning split through the heat. The house is quiet. The rain comes on and off.

Ma complains about all the fur on the couch for the fiftieth time, and he wants to leave the house so badly that he sends himself to the general store to pick up a lint roller.

It starts to drizzle again while he's in the shop. He stands just outside the entrance, water splashing onto his shoes, and waits for the rain to subside, holding the brown paper bag behind him so it doesn't get wet. The air has an earthy tone, deep and heavy. It goes straight to his lungs and feels like gulping in a mouthful of greenery.

He hears a quiet croak in the midst of all the thunder. He looks down at his feet but doesn't see anything. There's little ephemeral pools in the divots of the path. He looks around until he spots a flash of green.

This frog is very round.

It croaks again and then leaps down the steps in a kind of funny way – and when he's close enough, he sees a bubble of red around its eye, blood pooling and dripping.

The rain starts to relent, softening again. He hesitates for a moment.

And then, he takes a step down the stairs. It jumps another step down.

He's practically inches from it, when it darts away from him and under the porch foundation of the store. There's maybe about three feet of clearing. The croaking continues, faintly beneath him. Shit.

//

He sneaks around to the back of the house, ducks underneath the windows, and kicks off his shoes before he tries to pry open the back door. A loud croak comes from the front pocket of his overalls, hand on the knob, and he freezes there for a second.

It would be fine, really. The lint roller is a little wet. But he'll just stick it in the oven for forty seconds.

Honestly, it would've all been fine if Magdalena wasn't standing right there, in front of the door, when he opens it.

"Hi."

Shit. He looks at her and she stares at him, and then his front pocket moves a little bit. A pool of water slowly gathers beneath his feet onto the spotless floor. He tries to wipe the mud from his cheek with his shoulder because his hands are even dirtier.

"Uh. Please don't tell Ma."