john lets out a breath through his nose, something halfway to a laugh and not making it all the way. ❝ yeah, ❞ he mutters, turning the bottle once in his hand. ❝ real flattering. ❞ the night presses close around them, all dark timber and black hillside and the restless hiss of the fire eating through kindling. crickets work the silence.
his body complains at every stage of sitting down. bruises speak up. muscles draw tight. the old aches turn sharper by fresh ones. freedom, it turns out, still hurts some. he rests with his back against nothing, elbows on his knees, the bottle hangs loose between his hands, and stares at the flames. john's jaw sets. grief has a way of making a man feel watched. makes his face feel too open, his hands too uncertain. ( hosea. lenny. ) names that ought to have still been attached to voices, to movement, to campfire talk and unwanted advice and youth and patience and all the things this life has a knack of taking first.
the whiskey burns hard, a straight line of fire from tongue to throat to gut. he coughs once through his nose, swallows again, and feels it settle somewhere low in him without helping much at all. ❝ should've been there, ❞ he said after a while. ❝ how was it? ❞ he asked, and the question comes rough, carrying more than just the burial in it. ❝ the spot, i mean. have you been there before? ❞ his fingers tighten once around the bottle's neck before easing again.