a few days ago i went to a bar with my mom and my middle school gym teacher was the bartender and he was like “wait how old
are you??? you’re not done with college are you? you are??? holy fuck im so goddamn old” so he served me wine and we chatted about the middle school i went to and his marriage and my tattoos and how we both hate the new iPhone update but the whole time i was just like “i remember when you gave my friend detention and the last time u saw me i was 13 and extremely emo like there’s a good chance i was actually wearing my chemical romance fingerless gloves at the time”
jamie keeps the hideout comfortably busy to the eye. messy, but in a cozy, “home sweet home” kind of way. it’s especially pleasing during christmas.
they’ve got some tires of varying sizes for a couch, with a soft leather skin slung over it as a makeshift blanket. tables topped with gadgets and eskies full of lukewarm beer and salted lizard strips surround it in a circular formation. a radio sits in the center.
the couch is nested in the lowest part of the hut, with the ceiling hanging snugly over it, casting a constant shadow over the couch no matter the time of day. makes for a good nap location.
during december, jamie drapes some makeshift fairy lights from the ceiling over the couch. they cascade over the inset in the room like one of the bead curtains in the bars in sydney. when jamie connects them to the portable generator, they cast a warm golden glow over the room.
jamie always feels the need to justify putting the lights up. mako lets him ramble on about keeping the spirit of christmas alive, and the importance of national holidays to the human psyche and whatnot.
in all honesty, mako doesnt need a justification. he enjoys the lights. but he knows jamie typically doesn’t like wasting resources, and this is his way of justifying it to himself.
on christmas eve, they tune the radio to one of the local junkers station. they’re playing christmas hits from america and england, stuff from ancient movies and covers by musicians from another age. some beer cans and shishkebab sticks litter the floor. they’re lying comfortably on their couch, looking at the night sky through the large, glassless window on the other side of the hut.
jamie’s on his back with the blanket haphazardly covering him. he’s fiddling with the fairy lights, delicately weaving them in between his fingers.
the song cuts abruptly for a message from the broadcaster; real old dude, voice deep and cracking from age. he tells them that the clocks have just hit 12. jamie looks over at him with a lazy smile on his face, and laces his fingers with mako’s own.