Hey Resbangers! Time for year three! I know how challenging the event has been for everyone this year, and my experience was no exception! This was a struggle to write, but I'm so proud of how far this story has come. I hope you enjoy this sweet, slice-of-lifey New England AU. So much love to my Resbang partners, sojustifiable and MacabreMermaid, who made beautiful art to accompany this story and who have been so supportive and kind throughout this process. And love to my betas as well, without whom this story would absolutely not have existed this year: skadventuretime, SandmanCircus, guacamoletrash, Aquabella888 and Professor Maka.
I love this story, and my only regret is that I finally, despite my best efforts to the contrary, had to give Black*Star a real person name. I hope you all enjoy. :)
Found It Once, You'll Find It Again
"The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned."
- Maya Angelou
"It's a funny thing, coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what's changed is you."
- The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
-ɸ-
The old house looks exactly the same. In twenty-one summers, Maka doesn't think it has changed at all.
As she turns the corner down the drive, the little cottage by the sea comes into full view. It may be small, but the inside is bigger than it looks, all open windows and arcing ceilings. Painted a comforting beachy-gray, with scores of flowers lining the yard and disappearing behind the house to where the tall grass meets the sea... it's one of the places she feels most at home.
Maka smiles as she walks past the mailbox, which is painted like a green-and-blue striped fish with a smiling red mouth for the opening. Its eyes are extra special: a deep blue-green that matches the color of Nana's eyes - and Papa's as well - with thick black eyelashes painted in broad strokes. When she was little, Pap-Pap told Maka that he had painted it with Nana in mind, and since then, Maka always imagined that it was the first person to greet her to the house. She could always see how it mirrored the little twinkle in Nana's eye.
Feet scuffing against the gravel driveway, she makes her way to the side door of the house as soft green grass tickles her toes. Unlocked as always, the door pushes open easily, and she sets her bag down on the ground to read a note, in sprawling cursive:
At the beauty shop with the girls. Cookies in the jar! Be back by lunchtime.
love,
NN
ps. I know you'll want to start, so there's a pile of wood in the basement with your name on it.
Maka smiles at the familiar signature, at the use of the two syllables in Na-na as her initials.
on it - MK, she writes, and sets off for the basement, grabbing a chocolate chip cookie on her way out of the room.
-ɸ-
"A-choo!"
It's so dusty down here. Maka winces against the bandana covering her face, which is doing little to ward off the dust and debris circling its way through the basement. She picks up the plywood again, hoisting it on her shoulder as she maneuvers her way to the outside basement door, adding it to the pile of accumulated debris on the grass outside.
"Everything all right down there?"
Maka grins beneath the bandana and tugs it off her face to answer, the ocean air touching her face like a salve. She takes in a deep breath of salty air before answering, which is enough time for Nana to sidle across the deck and peer down at her.
"Look at my hard worker. C'mon up, you've done enough this morning. Lunch is ready."
"Just give me another few minutes to clear out some more of this wood," Maka replies, pulling the bandana back up. "I'd like to get this over to the shop in the afternoon."
Nana tuts back at her, but she's already ambling back inside, and Maka's face spreads into a knowing smile underneath the bandana as she gathers up the rest of the wood and heads upstairs.
-ɸ-
The sound of the ocean has always soothed her.
There's something paradoxical about it - it always sounds the same, but every day it brings with it something new, an invigorating sense of vitality. The ocean is freezing, but hermit crabs and snails still manage to make their lives there, crawling and gliding across the sand with the constant ebb and flow of the tides. And there's something comforting about that - the idea of them thriving under the surface, safe beneath the waves. Being close to it eases her nerves.
After lunch, Maka sits on the deck, book propped up on her knees, eyes scanning the pages as the sound of the ocean punctuates each sentence. It's cloudy today, but it's still warm enough to sit outside, glass of iced tea in hand.
"Heeeere we go." The screen door slides open, followed by a hand clutching an iced tea of its own, followed by a flowy white shirt and a pair of jean capris - quintessential Nana Albarn attire for a cool summer day.
"Here!" Maka slides off the chair, jumping up to help Nana, only to be instantly swatted away with a cane. Maka sighs a little and watches Nana lower herself into a chair with zero assistance - which is the way she likes to do just about everything.
"Now you stay right there and read, don't let me bother you!" Nana takes a sip of her iced tea with pursed lips, unimpressed.
"I'd rather sit and talk to my favorite grandmother," Maka says, kissing her on the cheek, and the skin there stretches as Nana tries not to smile. "Or we can just listen to the ocean, if you want."
"I'd like a little peace and quiet, actually, after talking with your Papa for the past few minutes." Nana closes her eyes, brow creasing as she sips at her tea again.
"Did he call again?!" Maka puts her head in her hands. "You should have let me talk to him, I can get him to stop-"
"Are you kidding?!" Nana's cane slaps merrily at the table. "Three times in one morning - he hasn't called this much since you were born! I love it - it gives me a chance to give him a piece of my mind."
"Mmm." Maka glances down at Nana's glass - a bright green one, with the words Everyone's Entitled To My Opinion emblazoned on the side in white. Papa had given it to her as a present a few years back, and it's still one of her favorites.
They sit and listen to the water for a while, the slow sequence of the waves lulling her in to the kind of calm that only Nana's house can deliver. She's slowly blinking at the sun, which is starting to peek through the clouds, when she glances down at her phone and sighs.
"What's the time?" Nana asks, catching on instantly.
"Too late," Maka says, getting up and pushing in her chair. "I'm gonna take this wood into town."
She gets the wood ready, heads out to Nana's car, and stares at the transmission.
"...Crap." She'd completely forgotten that Nana's car is a manual, and completely forgotten that this is the car where the seats don't actually come down to hold all this wood she's lugged down here.
She remembers, however, that in a corner of the basement, well-suited for this job, is an old red wagon.
"Are you sure you don't want to take the car?" Nana asks as she walks down from upstairs, the handrail guiding her to the main floor. "It's a long way to the shop from here."
"I'm sure," Maka says. "It'll be nice to take a walk, anyway. I'll take a crack at the car later."
"I could call someone to help you take it down, too," she offers, though the expression on her face tells Maka that she already knows what the answer will be.
"I'll be fine," she says with a little smile, to which Nana tuts.
"I know that," she says. "My self-sufficient granddaughter. You just let me know if you need a hand, okay?"
"Yes, Nana," she says as she starts to pull the wood away, but Nana stops her for a moment to rifle through her wallet.
"Here." Even though there's no one else there, Nana slips her a ten-dollar bill with all of the smoothness and secrecy of a drug deal, murmuring conspiratorially, "Get yourself a coffee while you're out looking for all those jobs."
Maka smiles, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. "Yes, Nana," she says again.
Soul wakes up in his room, deep red curtains drawn on mid-morning sun. His arm searches around for his alarm clock, and when his fingers finally get a whack at it, it ends up falling to the floor with a loud clang.
"Agh. Why." He blinks down at the clock, lying on its side, legs sticking out like an up-ended cockroach. Groaning, he drags himself out of bed and into a bathrobe, heading for the door and leaving the clock behind.
There won't be anyone here at this time of morning, so he doesn't have to worry about looking presentable. He ambles down the grand staircase, oriental rugs soft at his feet, focused on the coffee machine in the next room.
It's so dark in this house. He's never really noticed it before, and since he arrived two days prior, it's been eating at him. It's easy to wake up slowly, which is something he does appreciate, but for a summer house, it's such an odd choice.
It shouldn't really be surprising. The old Evans proclivity for old, dark wood has long been a permanent fixture in all of their houses. A fitting color palette for an old, dark family.
All right. He is crabby, and acknowledges that the primary reason for his bad mood this morning is probably a lack of caffeine, so he channels his bitterness into the grounds as he pours them into the coffee pot, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers on the table as he waits for it to brew.
Steaming mug in hand, he leaves the kitchen and edges out onto the front balcony, hoping to soak up at least a little vitamin D to offset this terrible temperament. The house, however, is dependably and infuriatingly west-facing, which means that there's barely any sun at all on the deck this morning, and he lurks in the shadows, sipping at his bitter liquid beans and resenting that he'd come here this summer at all.
He wishes Wes were here, and tries to imagine what his brother would say to drag him out of this grump-fest. But look, Soul, the view is so nice! Listen to the seagulls! Feel the breeze on your face! What a time to be alive!
He winces. Even imaginary Wes is too chipper for him at ten in the morning.
With his coffee properly imbibed and his bad mood only exacerbated, he elects to do the only thing that he knows will make him feel better.
He takes out the bike.
-ɸ-
It's not a feeling that he wants to investigate too deeply, the freedom that comes with a motorcycle ride. In one way, it's a predictable experience - the wind whipping his already wild hair into a frenzy, the air on his face, the patterned rubber under his palms. But for some reason, it never gets old - it's always invigorating, knowing that if he really wanted to, he could take this out on the road and never come back to this sleepy, boring little town.
He even makes a half-hearted attempt this morning, driving deliberately away from the center of town, onto the marshy back roads, up and down hills along the coast. He makes a point to drive by the old lighthouse which, in his opinion, is the right kind of old building, a red brick stem against a soft blue sky, and he sits there awhile, watching as the sun casts more and more of a shadow along its structure as the day slips into early afternoon.
But as peaceful as it initially was, white caps rushing towards the cape with a gentle roar, he suddenly feels the immediate need to get on his bike and drive away from here. The silence between the waves is too loud, the waves too unpredictable a rhythm, and he doesn't like be stuck here, alone with his thoughts.
Staying in one place for too long is… uncomfortable, these days, and it's time for work, anyway.
When he drives back up to the manor on the hill, he takes in how imposing it looks. Still dark, and foreign, and empty, and there's a thought that enters his brain unbidden.
Is this what coming home is supposed to feel like?
He cuts the engine and swings his leg off of the bike, walks into an empty house, and climbs the staircase again, the carpet muffling his feet. The silence presses in on him, and he feels his bad mood returning, so he throws his work clothes on and makes a beeline for the door.
The old house looks exactly the same, but in twenty-two years, he doesn't think it's ever felt this suffocating.
Being alone doesn't necessarily imply loneliness, right? Usually he likes being alone, so this is such a new concept that he doesn't know what to do with. Normally his parents won't leave him alone, and he thought having them so busy this summer would be a blessing. But maybe he's just doomed to be unhappy, no matter the scenario.
As he turns the bike away and heads back towards town, he prepares for a summer of being… very lonely.
Shareport is a typical New England beach town - gift shops galore, with a cute post office and even cuter restaurants. Ben and Jerry's sits high on a hill in the corner of town, tempting beachgoers with its familiarity. There's a bridge in the middle of town, connecting the two sides of the bay together - a tiny thing, with rusty blue-green sides that creak when too many cars sit on it at once.
Maka makes her way to the antique shop with the wagon in tow. The pile of wood from this morning is heaped precariously in the wagon bed, planks rattling behind her as her destination comes into view. She'd always loved the way the antique shop looked: a bright red barn, colonial-style, with a huge black front door. She makes quick work of leaving the wood with a smiling man who, while not much older than she is, has the whitest hair she'd ever seen.
"Take good care of this, okay?" she says. "I'll drop more off tomorrow."
"I'll make it into something lovely, I assure you," he says with a wink, and she nods, taking her leave.
Towing around her now-empty wagon, she drops in at the smoothie shop, the coffee shop, and candy shop before crossing the bridge into the quieter part of town. At the coffee shop, she chats with the barista before buying a cup to go, as per Nana's request. She then pops into a whole string of gift shops along the water, leaving resumes behind in her wake, and she gives away her last one before her gaze falls on a restaurant at the end of the row.
Skully's, the sign says. It is clearly pirate-themed, and very different from the rest of the architecture in Shareport: the entire restaurant appears to be raised on stilts, hovering above the old brew pub below. The sign itself resembles a pirate flag, with a skull that differs from the normal pirate brand, long spikes extending from the base of the skull to the bottom of the flag.
Suddenly, Maka finds herself wishing she had not given away all of her resumes.
Curiosity piqued, she walks over to the restaurant. It's just after the beginning of Happy Hour, so the parking lot is fairly empty - only a couple of sedans and a motorcycle parked under the awning. Leaving the wagon tucked away in a corner of the parking lot, she winds her way up the staircase to the landing where she stops for a moment, a little stunned by the view. The restaurant backs up onto the bay, where an array of sailboats and speedboats lie tethered to the docks. In this part of town, the water snakes under the bridge and between the shops, almost as if it's mapping the town out with water. The clouds have returned, casting the whole town in a grayish sheen, but when the sun returns, she's sure that the view from here would be literally sparkling.
Suddenly, she can feel eyes on her back, and she swivels around to see two other women smiling at her through the door to the restaurant, waiting patiently behind a podium. When they see her looking, they raise their hands up and wave in unison, and she heads over to them, blanching a little.
A sound like a foghorn goes off when she enters, which causes her to jump, and she watches the hostesses' faces split into smiles.
"First time in here?" says the black-haired girl on the left, whose name tag reads 'Tsubaki' in looping handwriting.
"...Yeah," Maka says, shooting a glare at the speaker above her.
"Don't worry," the other girl - Patty, according to her name tag - says, shooting Maka a thumbs up. "You didn't even jump that high. We won't tell!"
Maka isn't sure whether to thank her or be mystified as to why a restaurant needs a foghorn to usher in its guests. "I just came to… check the place out. I come here every summer and I've never seen it before."
"Ooooh, you're early for tourist season!" Patty exclaims, grabbing a menu excitedly. "Normally people don't start coming until July when it heats up! Where do you wanna sit?" She gestures to a nearly empty dining room. "You can stay out on the porch too, if you want. It'll get a little cold soon, though."
Maka looks around the room, at the flickering oil lantern lamps over the tables and the pirate flags scattered over the walls. "No, it's okay. I'll stay inside."
The entryway opens up once they edge into the dining room, and the large skull painted on the ceiling, bordered by criss-crossing nautical ropes, makes the whole room almost feel like a ship, guided by its ceiling treasure map.
"Wanna sit at the bar?" Patty asks, watching as Maka takes in the view. "It's raised up, so it's got a really good view of everything."
"...Sure," Maka says, eyes continuing to rove over the decor. In one corner of the restaurant are an array of games - pool tables, pinball machines. As they cross the room and walk up the steps to the bar, the bartender waves them over.
"Special delivery, sis!" Patty says, slapping the menus against the counter. "A newbie!"
"Already?" the bartender, nametag-identified as Liz, says. "But it's May."
"I know!" Patty exclaims with delight. "She's early!"
"I'm here all summer," Maka adds with a smile. "So I won't be new next time."
"Nice," Liz says, turning around and grabbing a napkin. "Then you'll get to try at least three of our rotating taps." She points up to an intimidatingly large board of chalk-scrawled beer names that nearly extends to the ceiling, and Maka leans back in order to actually look at everything.
Liz surveys her with an amused grin. "The old brew pub downstairs is still fully operational, so we make a lot of our stuff right downstairs."
"That's really cool," Maka says, though she's still overwhelmed by the selection. "... What do you recommend?"
A typical beer recommendation conversation ensues, and they drum up a whole slew of words including wheats and porters and stouts and IPAs, hoppy versus not hoppy, and eventually Maka settles on a raspberry wheat ale - though Liz makes her promise that she'll try the blueberry beer next time.
"I'll drink whatever you want as long as you promise not to use the word 'mouthfeel,'" Maka says, taking a sip.
"God, there is someone here who uses that word," Liz whispers conspiratorially. "If you stick around here long enough, you'll probably spot him."
"I've got time," Maka says, and she realizes that she does, and that she's quite enjoying her time here, tucked away in a corner of the bar.
"Great," Liz says. "Well, let me know if you need any food or anything. I'll be down the bar."
"Sounds good," Maka says. After another few minutes of glancing around the bar, she decides to pull out her book, enjoying the background noise of business slowly picking up - though the foghorn does serve as a distraction from time to time. She's finally immersed enough that even the blare of the horn won't pull her attention from the story… until a question comes from behind her left shoulder.
"Are you reading?"
Maka looks up, already ready to fight based on that pointed tone, and the bright blue color of her inquisitor's hair causes her irritation to rise exponentially. Before she can answer, however, Liz jumps in:
"Um, excuse me. What are you doing out of the kitchen?"
"I'm stretching my legs!" he says, bending down into a squat and pulling on his foot. As she tries to catch a glimpse of his name tag, Maka realizes that she can't decipher what exactly is on it, as a large star has been drawn in Sharpie over his name.
"There aren't any chairs in the kitchen," Liz shoots back. "You don't sit. You don't need to stretch them."
"I'm resting them, then," he says, hopping into the chair next to Maka and swinging his feet.
"... And you are?" Maka asks, deadpan.
"Can't you- oh, I forgot," he says, glancing down at his name tag. "Only those with The Sight can read my autograph. Name's Blake Starling," he says, offering his hand.
The handshake is most definitely a Strength Contest, and it gives Maka a little satisfaction to watch him crack his knuckles afterward.
"Why the star, then?" Maka says, and Liz puts her head in her hands at this question.
"Bad idea," Liz mutters.
"Uh, like I said," Blake says. "It's an autograph!"
"But it's just a st-"
"Have you seen John Cena's autograph? It totally looks like a star-"
Liz lifts her head from her hands, exasperated. "But why model your autograph after John Cen-"
"Uh uh, Elizzzzabeth," he tuts, wagging his finger at her. "John Cena stole that from me. I came up with that in two-thousand-two, at the ripe age of eleven. I have the screenshots to prove it. Anyway." He directs his attention, unfortunately, back to Maka. "Why are you reading at the bar?"
"She can do whatever she wants, birdbrain," Liz says, eyes narrowing. "When's the last time you read anything? Get back in the kitchen and go flip something."
"Mmm, good idea," he says loftily. "How about this?" He hops out of his chair and flips her the bird, which Liz reaches up and pretends to catch in midair, placing it in her pocket for safekeeping. With a wave, he turns tail and runs back to the kitchen, nearly plowing over a white-haired waiter carrying two armfuls of food in the doorway.
Another person with white hair. Huh.
"Jesus Christ," the waiter says, holding on to a plate of cheese fries by mere fingertips.
"Yes, my child?" Blake says as he reenters the kitchen, which earns him a triple eye roll from waiter, bartender and patron alike.
"Can't you like, give him an ultimatum or something?" the waiter grumbles at Liz, stopping to rearrange his newly disorderly plates.
"That's a Kid question, and you know it," Liz says, pointing to the schedule on the wall. "He'll be here in fifteen. But you already know what he's gonna say."
Together they say, in an uppity voice, "I've spoken to Father, but the customers love him." They cringe in unison, and once his cheese fries are no longer in danger, the waiter walks away to deliver them.
"The customers love him?" Maka says in disbelief.
Liz shrugs. "He's good at putting on the pirate gimmick. 'Ahoy there, minions!' and all of that. He has no shame, so he makes people laugh, I guess. They find him… charismatic." She and Maka both pull a face.
"They just can't stop talking about me," Blake swoons through the kitchen window behind the bar. "Hey, nerdling." He points at Maka through the window. "Why don't you come and drink with us tonight? You seem cool - y'know, besides the reading thing."
"Thanks," Maka says, and Liz snorts. "I can't, though. I'm back on the job hunt tomorrow morning."
"...Job hunt?" Blake says slowly, his eyes lighting up. "You need a job?"
"Yeah," Maka says. "I'm here all summer, staying with my Nana, so I'm trying to find something... seasonal…"
She trails off because, as she speaks, Blake slowly pulls out a Help Wanted sign from the kitchen wall and holds it in front of his face, wiggling his arms from side to side.
Maka ignores him and turns to Liz. "Wait, really?"
"Yep," Liz says. "Someone was supposed to put that sign up by the entrance today, so… sorry that you didn't see it before."
The sign stops wiggling and Blake sheepishly peeks over the top of the paper. "It's a good tactic!" he insists. "We get to screen the good candidates before they even know we're looking!"
At this, Liz reaches up and pulls the window down to the kitchen, leaving Blake to make pouty faces at them through the glass.
"Anyway, he's right," Liz says. "...About that. You should come in tomorrow. I promise I won't let Kid-"
"You won't let Kid do what?" comes a voice from the door of the bar, belonging to a man in a full black-and-white suit, a skull clasp sitting at the tippy-top of his collar.
Liz regards him cooly. "I won't let Kid stick our new interviewee in the kitchen with the riff raff," she says, gesturing to Blake's still-pouty face, which is now squished up against the glass.
Kid's face contorts in disgust. "I just cleaned that, you idiot--" he grits out as he pushes back through the kitchen door, causing Blake to jump and sprint out of view of the window. Intimidation tactics administered, Kid walks back out of the kitchen, clasping his hands together.
"I'm terribly sorry about that," he says, extending his hand for Maka to shake. "An interview, yes? Come in tomorrow morning from 10:30 to 11:00."
"Oh! Great," Maka says, surprised but not exactly disappointed in how quickly this is all accelerating. "I'll be there."
"Excellent," he says. "If you have a resume, please bring it. Normal margins, center-aligned. No strange colors, please. Thank you."
"Sure. Got it," Maka says, pulling out her phone and jotting the instructions down. Once she looks up from her phone, he heads back toward the kitchen without a word, disappearing through the door.
"...Mouthfeel?" Maka whispers to Liz, pointing at Kid's retreating back.
Liz smiles, nodding solemnly. She takes Maka's empty glass, and places it in a bucket near the kitchen door. "I think you'd fit in around here just fine, new girl. Seriously. Come for the interview, okay?"
Maka nods, grateful for the endorsement. She pays and thanks her for the drink, giving the room one last glance as she gets up to leave. "I guess… I'll see you at ten tomorrow, then, if you're here."
"I'm not scheduled, but I'll come," Liz says with a wink. "Just to make sure everyone behaves themselves."
"...Thanks," Maka says, walking back through the door, jumping again as the foghorn escorts her out.
On the walk back, she thinks about the strange restaurant with its strange staff, and goes home to perfect her resume.
Soul bolts out of work just after sunset, hopping on his bike like he's fleeing a crime scene.
It's not like he has anywhere to be - he's just trying to dodge any attempts on Blake's part to make him be social this evening. His coworker is notorious for roping people into things that they'd rather not do, and since Soul spends essentially all of his time doing things he doesn't want to do, he'd rather not continue the pattern.
So what if he'd complained all morning about being by himself? Those big social gatherings aren't his thing, either. He enjoys sitting in the happy medium of the spectrum of socialization. Being alone sucks, and being with too many people sucks, so instead he opts for a more desirable middle ground.
He heads to the shop. The sky is a rich blue overhead as he makes his way out of town, the streetlights winking on in intervals as he travels east.
Wes is already standing in front of the building, white hair standing out eerily in the twilight. Even more eerie is the excited, almost conspiratory expression on his face as Soul pulls into a spot in front of the house, which sort of makes him want to turn the bike around and drive away before he can get pulled into whatever activity his brother has cooked up for him. Maybe he should have stayed at Skully's.
"Little brother!" Wes declares, running over before he can even get his helmet off. "What a pleasant surprise!"
Soul prickles automatically, though he doesn't show it as he slides his helmet off. He doesn't like when Wes acts they haven't seen each other in decades instead of literally less than twenty-four hours ago.
"Yeah," Soul says. "It is a pleasant surprise."
Wes lets out a little chortle, turning and clapping Soul on the back. "You're so funny."
Soul prickles further, because now he smells something afoot. Wes is always friendly, but when he's too friendly, he's after something.
"Uh huh." He starts to walk toward the house as well and Wes waits for him, swinging an arm around his shoulders.
"Ohhh no," Soul says, sliding out from under Wes's arm. "What do you want?"
"What do you mean?" Wes says innocently. "I can't be excited to see my little brother?"
"You're too excited," Soul says, holding up his thumb. "And you called me funny." He extends his pointer finger and extends the two fingers towards Wes's face, because pointing out the obvious is the only way he ever seems to be able to convince Wes of anything.
"Excuse me," Wes says in faux-shock. "This is a total defamation of my character. Can't a big brother dote on the second-born? Pay him compliments without any ulterior motives other than spreading his affection?"
"No," Soul says, walking past him, and spots something under the outdoor lamp beside the house. "What's the wood for?"
"...Oh, that?" Wes flutters his hand around. "That's just some wood that needs to be moved upstairs. A girl with a wagon brought it over today." He blows out his lips a little, folding his arms and looking skyward. "It's really light, I just, you know, haven't had time… busy schedule today…"
Soul sends him a glare, reaching down to touch it. "This doesn't look light at all."
"Oh, well," Wes says. "I know someone as strong as you-"
"I'll help you move the wood, Wes," Soul says with a huff.
"Thank youuuuu!" Wes singsongs, grabbing a couple of planks. "What a nice coincidence that my kind and helpful little brother happened to swing by today."
"Ugh. Yeah." Soul heaves a few planks of wood up onto his shoulder and starts to teeter up the stairs, ducking around the corner at the top of the stairs to deposit the wood into a little pile by the saws. "You owe me, though."
"Yes, yes, of course," Wes says, and they continue like this for a little while, taking the wood up in shifts.
It is not light. This stuff must be red oak or something. It's not dark enough to give him childhood flashbacks, but it's still dense enough that his shoulders protest when he tries to swivel it around the upstairs corner. Sometime during this process, Wes decides that he'd rather hang around upstairs and 'guide the wood' to its pile, leaving him to do the bulk of - and by the bulk of, he means all of the heavy lifting. Soul begins to silently curse whoever this Wagon Girl is, but he grits his teeth and finishes the task with minimal outward complaining.
"So, how was work?" Wes asks him as he intercepts one of the wood deliveries.
Soul shrugs. "It's work. Blake's annoying." Wes is still looking at him expectantly, so he elaborates. "Business isn't that busy yet, but they're interviewing a new girl tomorrow, so I'm guessing it'll pick up."
"Fun, fun," Wes says, following him downstairs. "And you think the… management is doing well?"
"Yeah," Soul says. "The manager…" He was going to say runs a tight ship, but it's too punny. "... is pretty strict."
"That's good to hear," Wes says. "It's not strange? Being back in there?"
The two of them pick up a last round of wood, Soul's back protesting as he lifts his pile up.
"Nah. It's okay," he grunts as they start up the stairs. "It... doesn't feel like the same place at all."
Once they've got the wood sitting in its little pile and Soul finishes rolling out his shoulder, they amble back downstairs, listening to the sound of cars driving by on the road in the distance.
"I'm glad," Wes finally says, and Soul glances at him. "I'm glad that it feels like a new place. That you can work somewhere that isn't so, uh… monopolized."
Soul nods. He hadn't thought about it much, but… yeah. It's kind of a relief.
"You wanna go home?" Wes says.
Soul shakes his head. "I'd rather go… anywhere else, actually."
Wes grins at him, but Soul can also feel a sadness in the way he turns away, tossing him his car keys.
"Then get in. Let's go get ice cream."
The rest of his night is spent heading into town, grabbing Ben & Jerry's, and driving home to eat it in their driveway, surveying the lights inside the house.
"You wanted Ben & Jerry's," Soul says as he shoves another bite of Phish Food in his mouth. "I'm surprised."
"I always want Ben & Jerry's," Wes says. The shock on his face is more genuine than before. "We just never have it. And I know you always want Ben & Jerry's, too."
"Not always," Soul says. "It's not that good."
"It is that good," Wes counters. "But that's not why you like it. You like it because it's rebellious."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Soul says.
"One of the ten stores in town that the Evans family doesn't own," Wes says knowingly. "You're exercising brand disloyalty. Sticking up for the little man. The proletariat of ice cream shops."
"Ben & Jerry's is like, a massive corporation, you know that right?" Soul says, rolling his eyes.
"Mmm." Wes shrugs with a spoon in his mouth. "But it's the principle."
Soul shrugs back. "Tell mom and dad to make a better cookie dough than Ben, or Jerry, or whoever, and we can have this conversation."
"All right." Wes gives up the fight and looks up towards the lights again. "Wanna go in?"
"...Not really."
Wes lets out a little sigh, head against the headrest. "Okay. I need to get inside and do some practicing. But I'll dodge their questions. Come in when you can."
"Yeah, okay."
And so, as Wes walks inside and another series of lights flicks on inside, Soul is a fly on the wall, wrestling with a gnawing feeling in his gut: nostalgia, jealousy, regret.
It's like he's watching a family other than his own go about their lives, in a home that he doesn't recognize anymore.