[attr="class","angelotag"] skyler dross

[attr="class","angelomain"]Amongst all the white noise, weight of an approaching calamity buzzing in the back of his mind like an aggravating beedrill, Skyler’s sharp defiance smashes through. Outrage over theoretical paint options like a wave slapping against the rocks in a furious crash, washing it away.

“Think you mean our house.”

A lighter and more mischievous edge inches onto Angelo’s mouth. Its a comforting feeling, the familiarity of their back and forth.

“Fine. Let’s compromise. That’s what married couples do, right?” He chases her annoyance with an intentionally teasing nudge, ignoring the sensation of her eyes burning into the back of his neck.

“We could do one of your colours, and one of mine. How about… figy yellow for the door and your storm purple around the frame?”

It sounds absolutely hideous but Angelo doesn’t take it back.

Eventually sanding takes over, the muscles in his arm beginning to throb with a dull ache from the repetitive motion. It feels satisfying, working away the hardship of abandonment the beach house had been subjected to over the years. Transforming it into something that was theirs.

Eventually the door is completely rubbed down, notches smoothed away into wood dust and flecks of old paint that now speckle Angelo’s hair like snowflakes. Clinging to his skin where sweat dews, too.

He’s rubbing beads off his forehead with the back of his stinging, roughened hand when Skyler’s stomach announces itself.

“If you've found your community spirit,” he muses, wetting dry lips to pull back the threatening curl of amusement. “We could head into town and get some lunch.”

[attr="class","angelopoke"]