perched on his pickup's tailgate, rust's finger hovers over the send button, the screen of his phone a beacon in the dark. he stares at the images selected: an assortment of three, carefully curated from the dozen he'd taken, these the least blurred, the most in focus; no partial thumb fuzzing the corner. one's the kill, of course, a six-pointer that rust field-dressed with clinical precision; the second photo a zoomed-in snapshot of a red bird that looks more like a blob of color than an animal; the third is him. hunched in the tree stand, awkward as he attempts to keep himself in frame, his face severe. rust stares at himself and tries to figure out why he even took it; as if cole gives a fuck. a little frustrated, rust squeezes his phone, forgetting momentarily that the screen's unlocked - in his rage, a part of his hand makes contact with send, and his blood runs a little cold as the device whooshes, alerting him that the pictures have sent, prompting ruston to say, very loudly, "fuck!" @doomdays ♡
