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a storm comin' (
2017-01-01 09:06 am (UTC)
"That ain't gonna work."
Raury had himself a light, sharp voice, like gravel with glass mixed in. Mayhaps one day it would darken, bloom like the butcher's blade of a timbre his father had, but all he had now was a promising scratch under that high and lonesome song of his. Other boys' necks had started stretching, but Raury's voice kept steady and strong and he hated it for that.
He hated a lot of things.
You could see it on his face when he wandered up, and Raury was a wanderer, because he was a curious fellow. So shiny with it you'd think he'd been spat on. He'd been wandering past the girl's desk -- he always had to, he sat behind her -- but stopped to stare stupid at her, perching his bony behind on the lip of it like he had mind to sit a spell and gabber. His eyes swam wet and dark in his head, and he had a petulant, rubber mouth that curled perfect around curses, and slashed easy into smirks and cheshire grins. His vocabulary had not caught up with that mouth, yet.
He had skin the color of paper and he possessed himself tiny, sharp teeth. He colored easy, and so his cheeks and lips were rosy with the cold, which was made worse with the purple fog peeking out from inside the big front pockets of his hoodie.
"You got any more of that sick kid candy left?"
That was a request. Raury hooted and bullied his way through life, but he treated Marron with a shade more respect. No one knew why, and it upset him to wonder at. So to make up for it, this unfairness, this unearned deference, he wanted some of her candy. Sometimes Murk would lick the back of her neck or steal her pencils, too.
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