He follows not too far off from Danny, but not just after. Still he's looking for the man when he steps into the kitchen doorway that connects from the living room. He doesn't fit. Like hangnail. Catching. Danny Williams popping the top off a beer on to the kitchen island, where once upon a time orange juice glasses and cereal bowls competed for real estate, and dinner pots and pans would be left cooling on woven palm and bamboo mats.
Where turkey's had rested in the middle of their magical transformation and Sunday pancake stacks were built to leaning towers.
The beer top, and the beers themselves, match well enough with the half-forgotten dishes and stacks of mail sitting there now, looking like they were all abandoned long before that shot rang out all the way to Korea, and Danny stands in there, awkward, but fully solid and just as real. Disjointing the phantoms that try to fill spaces that haven't existed in decades, and don't exist now, really. Not entirely. Not when he's focusing on Danny, and not on him, or the room, and reaching out to take his beer.
Giving a perfunctory edge of a a frown, when he's more focused on grabbing up the bottle opener next and lining it up with the top of his bottle, than looking toward the windows or the dinning room area where Danny's headed off to. Talking about. Like the chairs are a surprise. Or a good idea. Except that he really can't stop himself from looking up either. "Yeah, they've had a pair out there since we were--" But that breaks off from an annoyed sound of surprise, that rolls straight into surprised choice swearing.
Trying to raise the bottle and hook his lips on the glass top rim, to stop it from getting everywhere.
Even after dripping it everywhere in his father's kitchen and on himself already.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2014-09-11 01:22 am (UTC)Where turkey's had rested in the middle of their magical transformation and Sunday pancake stacks were built to leaning towers.
The beer top, and the beers themselves, match well enough with the half-forgotten dishes and stacks of mail sitting there now, looking like they were all abandoned long before that shot rang out all the way to Korea, and Danny stands in there, awkward, but fully solid and just as real. Disjointing the phantoms that try to fill spaces that haven't existed in decades, and don't exist now, really. Not entirely. Not when he's focusing on Danny, and not on him, or the room, and reaching out to take his beer.
Giving a perfunctory edge of a a frown, when he's more focused on grabbing up the bottle opener next and lining it up with the top of his bottle, than looking toward the windows or the dinning room area where Danny's headed off to. Talking about. Like the chairs are a surprise. Or a good idea. Except that he really can't stop himself from looking up either. "Yeah, they've had a pair out there since we were--" But that breaks off from an annoyed sound of surprise, that rolls straight into surprised choice swearing.
Trying to raise the bottle and hook his lips on the glass top rim, to stop it from getting everywhere.
Even after dripping it everywhere in his father's kitchen and on himself already.