Sequel: Fireworks. ›
First Glance
1/1.
The first time they met, it had just stopped raining. The ground was still soaking up the water and the dirt driveway of the farmhouse was practically a sea of mud, waiting to suck off a boot. The noise of birds slowly started returning, having been silenced by the torrential downpour. One of the chickens crowed, the sudden sound enough to make someone jump.
In the barn, Mikey felt safe, gazing out the window into the fog. He knew that as soon as the dampness in the air decreased, his father was going to come out and threaten him to make him finish his chores or risk a beating, but he was entranced by nature, by the water droplets slowly falling off the overhanging roof, by the sound the wind made blowing through the numerous trees around the barn.
"Is anyone in here?" For a few moments, Mikey stayed frozen in place, entertaining the notion that his father was looking for him, ready to reacquaint him with one of his belts. Instead, after hearing only the animals below scuffling, he silently peered over the edge of the hayloft, wincing as the hay scratched as his neck.
There was a boy there. He was drowning in the dirty fabric of his trousers and work shirt, both of which were patched in numerous spots and his fingers were barely visible, the tips only slightly protruding from the sleeves. His hair was dripping wet, leaving a small puddle on the floor as he advanced further, head turning from left to right.
"Hi," Mikey stammered, barely able to force the word out of his dry throat. He stood up and brushed the grime off his shirt before making his way down the rickety ladder that led to the barn floor, feeling each rung dip under his weight. When he finally reached the ground, his heart started to slow down, returning to it's normal, steady rhythm.
Until he saw that face, peeking out from the curtain of hair that was inappropriately long. Even though the eyes gleamed with childish glee, this was no boy. This was a young man, around his own age and even as he reached up to move his hair aside, Mikey felt like scurrying back up the ladder to safety.
"Who are you?" he asked, wincing at his rudeness.
"Hubert Brodrick's nephew," he murmured, scuffing his worn boots on the ground. "Him and your pa were talking at the store today and he said he could use a little extra help around the house, so here I am." He didn't mention that Mr. Way had also said that his youngest son was "as useless as a fucking faggot." He didn't think that Mikey would have enjoyed hearing that.
"It's nice to meet you," Mikey said, walking towards the door in hopes that he'd be followed. "My father's inside so I'm sure he'll be happy to know you're here."
"Thanks Mikey," he said, flashing a tiny smile that made Mikey look at the horses to hide the blush creeping along his cheeks. "I'm Frank by the way. I hope we'll be friends."
"I hope so too."
In the barn, Mikey felt safe, gazing out the window into the fog. He knew that as soon as the dampness in the air decreased, his father was going to come out and threaten him to make him finish his chores or risk a beating, but he was entranced by nature, by the water droplets slowly falling off the overhanging roof, by the sound the wind made blowing through the numerous trees around the barn.
"Is anyone in here?" For a few moments, Mikey stayed frozen in place, entertaining the notion that his father was looking for him, ready to reacquaint him with one of his belts. Instead, after hearing only the animals below scuffling, he silently peered over the edge of the hayloft, wincing as the hay scratched as his neck.
There was a boy there. He was drowning in the dirty fabric of his trousers and work shirt, both of which were patched in numerous spots and his fingers were barely visible, the tips only slightly protruding from the sleeves. His hair was dripping wet, leaving a small puddle on the floor as he advanced further, head turning from left to right.
"Hi," Mikey stammered, barely able to force the word out of his dry throat. He stood up and brushed the grime off his shirt before making his way down the rickety ladder that led to the barn floor, feeling each rung dip under his weight. When he finally reached the ground, his heart started to slow down, returning to it's normal, steady rhythm.
Until he saw that face, peeking out from the curtain of hair that was inappropriately long. Even though the eyes gleamed with childish glee, this was no boy. This was a young man, around his own age and even as he reached up to move his hair aside, Mikey felt like scurrying back up the ladder to safety.
"Who are you?" he asked, wincing at his rudeness.
"Hubert Brodrick's nephew," he murmured, scuffing his worn boots on the ground. "Him and your pa were talking at the store today and he said he could use a little extra help around the house, so here I am." He didn't mention that Mr. Way had also said that his youngest son was "as useless as a fucking faggot." He didn't think that Mikey would have enjoyed hearing that.
"It's nice to meet you," Mikey said, walking towards the door in hopes that he'd be followed. "My father's inside so I'm sure he'll be happy to know you're here."
"Thanks Mikey," he said, flashing a tiny smile that made Mikey look at the horses to hide the blush creeping along his cheeks. "I'm Frank by the way. I hope we'll be friends."
"I hope so too."
♠ ♠ ♠
The second in the Snapshots series. Yes, I am aware that the order is messed up but that is probably how it is going to be written, with whatever incident comes into my head at the time.xo.