do note these are my characters, i do as i wish with them. joel is 15, slinger is 27—and they're humanized in this story. do not whatsoever see them as "dating" or whatever. they are related by blood. get away from me if you are a fucking freak. anyways, have fun reading.
slinger grimaced, twisting the wrench around that damned, stubborn bolt. "christ.. finally," he murmured to himself, exhausted from doing his tech shit all day. too tired to catch himself anything to eat, he went straight to bed—with an interruption. hearing the call of his name from joel, he groaned. "what, joel?" he replied. "can we get that new fighter game everyone's talking about?"
"what, no. we don't got the money."
"but–"
"joel."
"fine, fine!"
slinger pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and made a quick promise—one he might not keep, but it would at the very least keep the bratty juvenile at bay. "i'll buy it when i got some more money, kid. ya betta leave me 'lone bout it till then," he uttered as he climbed the stairs, his body desperate for even a little rest. joel was quick to complain. "you don't get paid for weeks! what if it goes out of date before we even buy it? what if–" "do ya ever shut up? it's a game. we got plenty. suck it up, buster," slinger quickly interrupted, "it ain't like yer gon' die."
few hours later, joel was out like a light, slinger finally having gotten up to make some dinner. dragging his own weak body down the stairs, he groaned. "what a nap.." he complained, pinching the bridge of his nose to wake himself up before adjusting one of his snakebites. with weak, strained legs, he walked into the kitchen and snatched up a decently sized pot and treated it to the sink to be filled. whilst that, he left it there to fill, and went searching for spaghetti.
yada, yada. he made spaghetti and shit. i ain't typin' allat.
"joel. up. dinner's ready," slinger grunted, trudging back off to his room with a bowl of spaghetti.
k this'll count as a wip for now. it's late, i got shit to handle. take this shit i guess.
