It was late when Mustadio crept into the workshop where he and his father spend a vast majority of their time. The situation of having to be in the shop itself was not what made Mustadio and his weary body groan; it was the consistent reality that he has to get up at such an odd hour at all.
Besrudio Bunansa would consider himself a man of vision; of panache and initiative. He was certainly right on one of those descriptors. Many of his concocted devices were little more than visions led astray.
And it was Mustadio's self-made duty to dismantle each and every one of them when his father was asleep, no doubt dreaming up another scheming schematic.
These were not prospects; such things were far too simple for a man such as Besrudio. He made passion projects, not soulless mechanics! Coincidentally, he also made his son very exasperated with him.
He didn't need to directly teach Mustadio too often either. The young man was quick to learn skills he considered important, such as separating the good salable scrap from the scrap that his father had bent into niche shapes. More impressively, he learned how to do it quickly and without the bright glaring sunlight from the many windows of the shop to illuminate his hands at work.
So long as Mustadio kept his pinched, cut, and oil-slick hands away from his father's gaze in the coming day, Besrudio was rarely ever the wiser as to where his grand inventions would ultimately end up.
Besrudio worked to keep his yearnings alive; Mustadio worked to keep the both of them alive.
And though it was thankless work at large, young Mustadio could not help but admire his father's machinations at work even as he pried them apart piece by piece.