Like Words || Ramshackle

VIII

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Somnolent waves of warmth are brushing against the mere coldness of my skin.

"Soo, how was the library?" The sunshine had has his hands on his mandolin, coated with sprinkles of old dust.
"It was... great. It's really great, actually. I, uhm, feel sorry for not bringing you along with me. You could've loved it as much as I did."
"Awe, It's alright, Stone. At least you had fun!"
He opens his palms to feel the light sensation of the bonfire. I can tell he likes it. "I promise, I'll take you with me when I visit it again." Hopefully. I watch as he carefully brushes off the dust off his stringed instrument. Rust creeping in the corners of the strings. "Strumming tunes this evening, hm?"

"Yeaaaaaah. Also, I can't wait to visit the library with you." The merciful boy hums, taking the first strum of his merry mandolin. "Ou, that's bad... Never thought it would get this out of tune..." he makes a quick flinch amidst plucking each untuned string.

"Oh well, keep tuning it."

"Yeah, yeahh..." step by step, he sounds out each note-twisting the loose tuners until it matches with his voice.
Well, that's a new way of tuning. Normally, I just give up on playing when my fiddle gets out of tune.
"Interesting way of tuning." I would do the same, but my voice doesn't sound as graceful and accurate as Skipp's.
"Thanks, Stone. I just figured it out myself. It's pretty useful." He strums the first chord, a genial smile in his face as he connects with the realm of music. "Ah, beautiful. It's perfect to play while feeling this comfy heat⸺yet also knowing it's cold outside. Y'know what I mean?"

"No,"

I start to hear a melody. A melody so simple, yet bountiful. Skipp plays the musical piece with such ease, consistently glancing at the strings with his vision focused more on the dark surroundings outside the bonfire. "It's like... there's a lot of scraps living like us outside. Lurking around at dawn, searching for food, taking big risks, falling to danger, getting hurt. Whatever situations we experienced, they experience it too."

This is a rare occurrence. This is a rare feeling. You and your best friend sitting in a bonfire while talking and strumming. It feels... surreal. Surreal since we rarely feel this relaxed and safe. A connection.

"But Stone, no matter how many homeless slums are out there, you guys are the only ones I care about."

"Skipp.."

Continuously strumming the instrument, he fixes his gaze at the raging flames in front of us, smiling. "In relation to this bonfire, think of it as us. Me, you, Vinnie. Yellow, orange, red⸺perfect colors that catches the fire! Now, think of all those trees as the random, poor, poor scraps. If all three of us focus on ourselves, we all stay together in this comforting fire. But, if we are to separate and wander around on the woods, we would just become like all the other scraps. Lonely, hungry, and rotting in our own wrath."

I listen attentively, my ears sensing the collision of the music, cicadas, cracking sound of fire, and Skipp's voice. It's amusing, formulating the harmony that never has a note amiss. I nod at Skipp, counting as a small gesture for him to continue talking.

"This mandolin is precious to me. My... parents gave them to me when-"

"Oh, no, no." Swiftly, I stop him. I just know he gets sensitive when talking about his tragic past. "You... you don't have to tell me that. It's okay."

As far as I can remember, Skipp opened up to us about his past not long ago. His parents, loved him dearly. But, nothing ever lasts forever, right?