Tandy Bowen doesn't have to pick between (cloakndagger) wrote in repose,
Tandy/Billy/Atticus: the lake
Tandy was low on existential crisis, or potential for existential crisis. There was the ever-present vague sensation of everything not precisely as it should be compared to the population in a general way, which had been planted by picking up where girl-Tandy left off, but other than that, Tandy was a man comfortable in his skin for the simple fact he had never been made to truly feel uncomfortable in his skin. His crises were purely Maslow in nature: specifically, cash-flow. Since Louis had left town, and the coffee shop did not pay dividends, he had made the most of summer, and the influx of tourists that had flowed through the Capital, with sidewalk sketches that had kept him in charcoal and pastels. Also rent. Which was an important distinction.
That Billy was low-boil simmer and anxiety fermenting was not unnoticeable. Tandy observed. It wasn't scientific, it was convention. It was difficult to draw people if you didn't see them and Tandy looked for all the observable traits that could be captured in a couple slashes of charcoal over construction paper and Billy wavered with energy that sat exceptionally close to the surface. He could see it on the approach to the dock. Tension in the boy's spine, the flick of his foot into the water and the splinter of silvery droplets. Displacement activity, and Tandy loped gently in the direction of the lake with his hands in his pockets and the kind of worn, cotton sweater that looked as if it had been worn until the shape broke beyond the store's overall intention for the piece, and was comfortable instead.
"You know, that could easily become habit, and habit is observably the reason for a large percentage of deaths in America every year." His voice was mellow. Tandy didn't rise above mellow often and it took more than the faintly elastic feeling of tension that emitted from Billy like a chemical reaction that wasn't entirely balanced and contained. He hadn't mentioned the virtual post-it and the exception to Billy's personal drought or the body-language of the boy on the dock that was explicit about what was and was not cool. Tandy was chill. What was not chill would work itself out.
He was also cognisant that he had in fact, prior to parental loss to accident and acquired habit, been brought up right. He was polite. He didn't pick his nose, or scratch his ass in public, there was no visible bad habit that could cause him immediate dislike. He padded down the length of the dock on worn sneakers and with no visible expression beyond calm.