01-14-2011, 07:47 PM
[html] No problem <3 SSWM: 441
The gruffer voice of the father came in answer to the more youthful of the son. Pripyat was surprised to hear Jefferson just entering the house, and with a small tinge of guilt realized that Geneva or Jefferson might have realized he was missing early this morning and gone out to look for him. Well he was here now and he let the realization die away, determined now to dwell on anything he couldn’t change, and he turned to find his father entering the room he occupied. Brilliant aqua eyes searched the one lonely green iris of his father’s face but found no reprimand coming. Instead the man went about his business, and Pripyat watched as Jefferson performed a task that could only be done in optime. If he could, he wondered, would he ever light the fire? Or would that always be his father’s job? It seemed so silly and unimportant, who lit the fire in the morning, but Pripyat wondered if he would have the nerve to do anything that he had grown up knowing mostly his father to do.
"I slept at the lighthouse." His words were dry and unsure. Mother would ask why, or simply wait for Pripyat to explain. Geneva had always been privy to the boy’s feelings and thoughts and even if they did not talk as often as they once had, she could ask and he would answer and they both knew that. It had not always been so with Jefferson. So much between the two of them was unspoken. Pripyat knew he could never lie to his father, and the idea of disappointing the man depressed him, but if Jefferson was to prod too deeply into Pripyat’s words, the boy wasn’t sure he could come up with sufficient answers. He hoped that he could tell Jefferson the reason, without explaining it. He hoped they shared enough of the same mind frame and emotions that he didn’t have to explain any further than he did. "I met Miriette last night."
The bright eyes still searched his father’s face, looking for any flicker of emotion that he could latch onto. He looked for anything that he father might reveal that he could have and know and experience without asking for it. Without being told. He wanted to just know, and then he wanted it to be over with. Wanted to move on. Want to distract his father to something else. Something productive. "Dad, how old were you when you first shifted?" Again his voice, unsure, hoping that Jefferson would slide easily into this conversation and forget that his son had not come home last night.
The gruffer voice of the father came in answer to the more youthful of the son. Pripyat was surprised to hear Jefferson just entering the house, and with a small tinge of guilt realized that Geneva or Jefferson might have realized he was missing early this morning and gone out to look for him. Well he was here now and he let the realization die away, determined now to dwell on anything he couldn’t change, and he turned to find his father entering the room he occupied. Brilliant aqua eyes searched the one lonely green iris of his father’s face but found no reprimand coming. Instead the man went about his business, and Pripyat watched as Jefferson performed a task that could only be done in optime. If he could, he wondered, would he ever light the fire? Or would that always be his father’s job? It seemed so silly and unimportant, who lit the fire in the morning, but Pripyat wondered if he would have the nerve to do anything that he had grown up knowing mostly his father to do.
"I slept at the lighthouse." His words were dry and unsure. Mother would ask why, or simply wait for Pripyat to explain. Geneva had always been privy to the boy’s feelings and thoughts and even if they did not talk as often as they once had, she could ask and he would answer and they both knew that. It had not always been so with Jefferson. So much between the two of them was unspoken. Pripyat knew he could never lie to his father, and the idea of disappointing the man depressed him, but if Jefferson was to prod too deeply into Pripyat’s words, the boy wasn’t sure he could come up with sufficient answers. He hoped that he could tell Jefferson the reason, without explaining it. He hoped they shared enough of the same mind frame and emotions that he didn’t have to explain any further than he did. "I met Miriette last night."
The bright eyes still searched his father’s face, looking for any flicker of emotion that he could latch onto. He looked for anything that he father might reveal that he could have and know and experience without asking for it. Without being told. He wanted to just know, and then he wanted it to be over with. Wanted to move on. Want to distract his father to something else. Something productive. "Dad, how old were you when you first shifted?" Again his voice, unsure, hoping that Jefferson would slide easily into this conversation and forget that his son had not come home last night.