Click.
“0800 hours, three days since I learned that Cye is left-handed. I'm a leftie as well – kinda weird that considering only ten percent of the population is left-handed and of a group of two, both people are lefties. I mind my mam once said that left-handed folk have a shorter lifespan than righties. Funny how that worked out – look at who's still here.”
“I think that's probably just an urban myth.”
“Go. To. Sleep.”
“You're the one who woke me up. Why do you need to record consistently at eight am? What's wrong with one in the afternoon? Fuck, even eleven would be a rather reasonable compromise. Eight am is just sadistic.”
“Oh my God, leave me alone. I've been doing recordings long before you got here, so if one has to go...”
There's a screech of springs as one body leaves the mattress while the other huffs contentedly and throws their weight back onto the protesting pad with a dull thud.
“Shut up. Do you want breakfast? I'm going to boil some water.”
“Mm, yes please. Gonna chuck me some Hob Nobs too, while you're up?”
The deeper voice emits a snort, which is soon followed by a startled “oof!” as biscuits collide with boy.
“There.”
“Ow! Cye. You didn't have to ricochet them at me!
“Don't be so melodramatic. I lightly launched them.”
The conversation stills, and the white noise of chewing and crumpled plastic fills the gap left behind. This continues for a few minutes, the pattern only broken by the frustrated clicking of buttons on the stove.
“I thought you were making breakfast, you useless freeloader.”
A frustrated growls hums low in the other teen's throat.
“I'm trying. Your shitty stove won't turn on.”
“Press and hold the button when you turn the dial.”
“I am, you tit.”
“Ok, ok, ok, I'll come operate the cooker for you. I know you city slickers have trouble looking after yourself when left to your own devices.”
“Tch. Highlanders.”
The echo of footsteps on ceramic are a prelude to a symphony of furious clicking, swearing, and dismayed grunts.
“Just let me –”
“Cameron, stop –”
“No, I almost had it there! There was a flicker!”
“No there wasn't!”
“I just need to –”
“Pressing the button harder won't solve the problem!”
“Argh!”
Abruptly and without warning, the frantic fumbling over the hob decrescendos into a dispirited silence.
“... How did you know I'm from a city?”
“Huh?”
“Earlier. You called me a 'city slicker'.”
“Oh, right, yeah. I don't know really. You've just got that vibe.”
“Vibe?”
“Country folks all live in each other's pockets. We don't fuck around with small talk; we talk sincerely to everyone. It's like, I don't know, a dead close knit community or something. You're different, I guess. You hardly ever tell me anything about yourself unless I ask you first.”
“... Ah.”
Awkwardness creeps in, a shadow on a wall and suddenly their hushed breathing becomes a torrential deluge, the thick blanket of tension smothering all other sounds.
“Anyways, do you think there's a problem with the generator? The cooker's entirely electric. Try turning on the lights or something, would you?”
Click.
“Fuck.”
“Oh, that's not good.”
“What if the generator's out? We can't stay here without power forever.”
“Fuck, I don't know. I'll go out the back and look, ok?”
“Ok.”
“... Can you come with me? I don't want to go alo–, uh...”
“Sure. Also, Cam?”
A startled squeal.
“Y- yeah?”
“... You've left your recording running.”
“Fuck!”
Click.