So he goes hunting, but even that doesn't help. The ritual of waiting, moving, stalking and springing doesn't do anything to soothe him. He stands in the snow with his breath a cloud in front of his face and he listens to his heart beat, unsure of any word for what he's feeling. He's lost a lot. Maybe more than this, before. Maybe he shouldn't be ( Read more... )

It's a hot night. Too hot. He's left Tom dozing with the girls on the basement floor and come up to look for a glass of water and something to take his mind off things. Even in the air conditioning, the days of heat have gotten to his brain and he's found himself more distracted, more short-tempered even than usual. Certain things in his mind feel ( Read more... )

He's making wreaths out of the red blossoms. They're rough and half falling apart, and he's doing it without giving much thought to it, weaving the stems round each other, and the flower petals are crushed between his fingers, leaving red stains on his hands. On either side of the doorway, the little vines are curling tender green lengths ( Read more... )

It used to be he could go for days on a few hours of sleep. It's a learned skill, training your body to simply need less, to more efficiently use what it gets. But here, he's lost it, gone soft, and after four days with hardly any sleep he's starting to feel ragged around the edges, wavering and uncertain in everything. Eventually, he's sure, ( Read more... )

The tree is still blooming and it's still raining. The wind's lashed the branches, scattering hundreds of flowers onto the ground around it, and with a carpet of white it looks like an early winter has come to this little corner of the jungle. Which is almost funny, considering ( Read more... )

"Better use the time I have, then," he breathes, the hand at Neil's cheek sliding around to the back of his neck and tangling in wet hair, dragging his head back just a little to expose his throat. In the water all his movements are at half speed, and he slowly rolls his hips forward, already starting to harden, pressing Neil's legs further apart ( Read more... )

( Dear You, )

He's not sure why he should feel so tired. He's taken it easy today, spent time with the girls in the morning, checked his snares, sat with Neil for a while on the ballfield, sat with Florence for a while on the beach. He shouldn't be tired, but he is, and maybe it comes back to Florence's face, the pain in it, the loss, though he knows she was ( Read more... )

With task force, with hunting, and with the building crew, he's starting to find his free time in less abundant supply than he used to. Which is good in some ways, but it means that when he has a free hour or two it's hard to know what to do with it, with the pressure to use it well. Today he's figured, fuck it, a walk on the beach, maybe a joint ( Read more... )

It's become One of Those Days, somehow, with just one event. He's still got sand under his fingernails as he piles firewood under the little shelter he's made for it, trying to use the very last of the daylight for something useful, working to keep his mind occupied. He's a liar and a shitheel, and he's afraid that this one sin will spread and ( Read more... )