10052018–15032019
There is only one illuminated room in their current hideout. Sitting atop an old mattress, Lifty watches his brother count their stolen money from the other side of the room. He can hear Shifty muttering numbers under his breath, barely heard over the light wind outside. One cent, two cents, three cents. Ten dollars, twenty dollars, thirty. The coins are stacked neatly to the left of Shifty, glimmering dully under the light of an old, battery-powered lamp. Similarly, notes are organised into neat piles on Shifty's right, bound by thick rubber bands. When Shifty counts them, he holds them up to the lamp and flicks through each note individually with his thumb, then sets them down with the others.
Although Lifty cannot see Shifty's face from his position, he can imagine the expression on it all too easily. A tongue stuck out in concentration, narrowed eyes looking at only the money, a twitch of the brows when adding high numbers or a quirk of his lips as the numbers grow higher and higher. Even as the lamp flickers, the glint in his eye continues to flash. Not even death can cull this greed of Shifty's.
The wind howls louder outside. Lifty tightly wraps a blanket around his shoulders as a light shiver racks his body. His sweat has long since gone cold, and it remains sticky on his goose bump-ridden skin, but there has been no opportunity to shower, not in this hideout without electricity or running water. Lifty considers peeling off his dirty clothes, but another breeze wafting through the room makes him promptly disregard that idea. He looks up at Shifty, who seems unaffected by the cold even though he is wearing just a dress shirt and a pair of slacks. Another idea creeps to the forefront of his mind.
Surely, Lifty reasons, Shifty is so engrossed in counting that he cannot notice him.
With the stealth of a seasoned robber, Lifty creeps off the mattress with one hand securing the blanket around his shoulders. It slivers after him as he makes his way towards Shifty's side of the room, and Lifty hovers behind him for a moment, just to see whether his brother can sense his presence. He is surprised to see those focused eyes darting up to him for a second, but Shifty ultimately does not acknowledge him and instead continues to sort their hoard. This small action is enough to satisfy Lifty, though, and his plops down next to his brother.
Shifty pauses mid-count. "What are you doing," he asks flatly. His fingers continue to move, though, and Shifty's lips silently form the next sequence of numbers.
Multitasking, as Shifty calls it.
More like dividing attention, Lifty usually retorts.
"I'm cold," Lifty says. He shuffles closer to Shifty until their sides touch, and tosses the blanket over Shifty's other shoulder. It is by no means a comfortable position, but he already feels warmer here than in that lonely, dark corner.
Shifty rolls his eyes, choosing not to verbalise any more comments about Lifty's behaviour, and returns his attention to the money in front of them. However, Shifty falters before he can resume counting. "You made me lose track," he grumbles, irritated about having his time wasted. Not hearing an answer from Lifty, he elects to ignore him too out of spite, and begins counting all over again. One cent, two cents, three cents. Ten dollars, twenty dollars, thirty. He mutters the numbers aloud, and as the numbers grow larger, the time he takes to say them does too.
Eyes sliding shut, Lifty imagines a line of coins jumping into his wallet, and counts them in time with Shifty's low voice. His breaths even out, and with the darkness behind his eyelids, Lifty sleeps warm.