“What in the hell are you doing here?” There’s no animosity to the question, in spite of how it might sound to anybody else still within earshot. If anything, Rhys is surprised, confused at the sight of a familiar blonde head of hair several feet away at the counter of the nearest concession stand. Hands attempt brush away the dirt and debris clinging to rough skin as he swipes palms against denim that’s arguably just as coated in the clay-colored dust, a half-assed attempt at cleaning them off. It wasn’t unusual, nor was it something he minded, either — he’d given enough of his time to the rodeo grounds over the years to know that there was no escaping the dirt, or the way it stained the creases in his knuckles, the beds of his nails. Doesn’t take much for the broncs to start knocking up enough dry soil to start a damn dustbowl, after all. But there’s something about the weekends that leaves him filthier than usual — Rhys will blame the Mutton Bustin’ show they put on for the kids before the rodeo on the weekends, all the sheep and all the children kicking up dust and filling the arena with clouds of errant chaos. And Rhys, of course, right down there on their level with his knees in the dirt, gets the brunt of it.
He’s grinning as he approaches his sister, a rare sight for anyone outside of immediately family and his closest of friends, and a hand tugs through his hair. Not that he’s never seen her here before, but her aversion to horses means Dylan’s visits to the rodeo grounds are somewhat few and far between. “You have a craving for fried oreos that outweighed your fight-or-flight or something?” Rhys leans against the counter, glances up at the menu and debates whether it’d be worth it to dig out his wallet and order a drink. “All the places you could go to grab a bite downtown, and still, you end up here,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll never get it.”
Dylan loves what comes along with the rodeo; the food, the rides, the shows at night, but she blatantly does not like nor will ever like the main feature: horses. Ever since she was a little girl Dylan had feared them, like seriously scared. Being around such large creatures makes her feel vulnerable and smaller than she already is. The idea of being kicked in the head by one of their hooves or trampled by them as they stampede always seemed to play on her mind when she found herself in their presence. Everyone in the family had tried to work out where the phobia had come from and how to break it but eventually, they all gave up, even Dylan. It was her curse to bare. Typically, she would let her friends go see the horses whilst she ate food or played at the games and rides when there were bigger shows on. But then there were occasions she wanted to foolishly see Rhys, the man who shared her blood and practically raised her, and she had to force herself into an uncomfortable space just to see him sooner. Look, she had abandonment issues, sometimes that resulted in being a little clingier than usual. It didn’t help she was fighting with Conor right now.
“I see, I see. I make an effort to come to you for once and you don’t even want me here,” she dramatically sighs, sticking her bottom lip out into a pout. But then the idea of fried oreos has her pursing her lips in thought. “Shit, now I *want* fried oreos.” That actually sounded delicious, and a perfect snack to tie her over. “Uh, here has something nowhere else has: the bank of Rhys. I think I should have a grant just for oreos.” Dylan’s whole face lights up as she grins up at her brother, fluttering her lashes hoping that perhaps he would treat her to the snack she had not considered picking up until now. “Are you on break soon? Or like, handling *any* other animals than horses? ‘Cause I got a few hours to kill so I could keep you company.” Dylan looks down at her jeans and boots, shrugging internally at the idea of keeping them clean. Laundry mat was on Thursday, she’s sure she won’t get too messy just being near her brother.
