2011-- when they were just comfortable enough to be rich and had just enough loose rein to travel and plan-- they spent a particularly shitty vacation in a particularly shitty suburb of Ipswich, Australia. Suffice to say, the flooding was an experience. "There are sharks in the streets," Dallas grit, leaning against the glass of their hotel room window so that his arm and face pressed against the windowpane. "We could have gone straight for Sydney. Instead, there are sharks and no harpoon guns."
//oh god I’m dying, sharks. sharks in the streets. there are sharks in the streets.//
While Dallas smushed his nose against the chill glass of the window, Dante wrapped wire and knotted it around the end of a thick metal hanger, straightened but for the end, where effort and determination had curled it in on itself. He grabbed the scotch tape from where it lay beside him on the bed, next, and cast a glance to the blond, then the rain outside. “So- we’re going fishin’, right? I mean, just the little sharks, not fucking with great whites or anything.”
