Under the Stars, a Soul Set Ablaze
“Darn!”
Leaning down clumsily, Ned fumbled about from where he was bent forward and hovering above the hardwood floor. He had just completed a long day’s work, struggling with the proclivity to lose his earnings if he wasn’t careful in keeping track of them. Today, thankfully, he spotted the wad of cash out of the corner of one eye and strutted happily out of the factory, on his way.
Ned wiped the soot stains from his nose and sniffed the open air, relishing the cold sensation wafting below his nostrils and engulfing his lungs. The open sky was so clean, in contrast to dull mechanical tarnish all day, not-so-complemented by the scent of smoke.
The teen let out a sigh, wrapping his arms around himself and shuddering in the welcome yet icy chill. The sky was a blanket of ambient darkness, and a warm fire awaited him at home, though it was hardly a building worth being called that. Ned continued his weary path, contentedly gazing at twinkling stars as he followed them down a trail of mottled stepping-stones towards the sound of embers.
Once he had reached a rusted, ivy-covered gate that was far too flimsy for its own good, he peeked between the bars and gently cracked it open. The delightful sound of laughing and deteriorating firewood was louder within his range of hearing, and Ned showed his dimples as he smiled.
“Oi, all,” Ned shouted triumphantly as he approached a run-down stucco structure with a broken door. From inside, two figures hastily stood up.
“Neddie!” A young boy called.
“Peter!” The older teen beamed.
Ned and Peter flung themselves into each other’s arms in camaraderie, each trying to reveal their day to the other and simultaneously talking over themselves. Not long after they had started, a young woman with deeper skin and chocolate curls approached them smugly, a displeased expression on her face.
“You smell like shit,” she sniffed and pointed out. Ned just nodded and shrugged, his tone sheepish and a flush creeping across his cheeks.
“Well, yeah, MJ, I was stuck on packagin’ duty,” he answered, the lady still unconvinced. Then, just as it had appeared, the intimidating gaze was gone, now replaced with one of tender adoration for a loved one.
“Come inside, then,” she beckoned Ned and a still-chattering Peter back into the doorway. “I chopped us firewood, and Peter made soup and sandwiches,” MJ lightly tapped the axe she had leaned against the counter, tilting her chin up with pride. “And they say a woman wouldn’t be up for the job.”
Ned huffed, eyes twinkling.
“Hey!” a voice snapped the two out of their musings, and they turned to where Peter had meekly presented his dish before them. The three had never eaten much, and tonight’s dinner was certainly no exception. Despite how many basil leaves Peter had garnished the lukewarm soup with, it still barely filled up the bottom of the bowl. The sandwiches had been put together sparingly, and arduously divided between the three hungry adolescents.
Even so, MJ praised Peter demurely and Ned applauded his efforts. Somehow, whenever Peter would create even the simplest of meals, it would be done with care and comfort, despite the harsh and unkind upbringing the boy had tasted as an orphan.
“Wow,” Ned gestured to the chipped china Peter had placed the food atop. “This looks great!”
“Thanks,” Peter accepted the words giddily, eating them up as if they were dinner and taking them straight to heart. “Maybe I should cook for us more often?”
“Maybe you should,” MJ ruffled his hair, and the teen boy laughed. Though he was charismatic as ever when it came to his job as a paperboy, Peter had still maintained a presence soft enough to make the other two desire to nurture him at home. He never used his charming wit on them, instead earning their respect with his sweetness and willingness to do hard work, whereas in public his customers were none the wiser.
“Try it, please!” Pete shoved the plates, practically spilling them, into the chests of his friends. They both simply chided him not to do so with such eagerness next time, and sat down, delving into the meal as if it were a steaming tray of world-famous hot buttered buns and mash. Soon the chipped ceramic bowls were laid bare by the doorstep, to be washed and cooled later in the night. Heavy, contented sighs filled the air as the three teens lay back against cold stone.
“I had the most remarkable morning,” Peter breathed after a moment of silence. The other two glanced at him inquisitively, and Pete just continued with an amicable expression on his face. “The Stark Stead’s houseowner encountered me, a fine man, if I do say so myself,” Peter clapped twice for emphasis, palms brushing together. “Stoic, tall, and gruff, with tragedy seeping through his every pore, and yet… wealthy, eccentric, and charismatic.”
“To no surprise,” MJ interjected plainly. “That man and his whole family has puppeted the town’s finances for decades.”
To Peter, this news was somewhat pristine. “Really?” His eyes aglow, he cocked his head. “That explains how he had collected so many expensive decorations, and why his stories of travel appeared so.. lush.”
“Indeed,” Ned murmured. “The house always was rather fanciful. Perhaps the reason it was constantly empty was because of said travels,” he deducted, and the others agreed, feeling like philosophers or some sort because of their conclusion.
“I want to be like him, someday,” Peter said suddenly, and stood up, making his way to the front steps to stargaze. The others followed his lead shortly, watching each luminous orb flicker amidst the chill air.
“I wish I could call that aspiration an admirable one,” MJ breathed quietly. Peter gazed at her rich complexion, her slender hands, her feminine profile and the way the moonlight bounced off of her cheeks. It was surprising she had not found a husband yet to many members of their hometown, but Michelle Jones had other plans, to write about the things Peter guaranteed they would see one day. Michelle Jones was going to be a journalist, right at her friends’ sides rather than some domineering nincompoop who worked in a dull office all day.
“Well, being rich doesn’t equate for having done bad things to obtain your luxuries,” Peter began, not defensively but inquisitively, and the others gave him the look of a cynic.
“Mr. Stark’s past endeavors are not ones to be meddled with,” was MJ’s reply, a far-off gaze in her irises that set Peter’s curiosity ablaze. What on earth had Mister Stark possibly done that was so horrid, so deceitful, so dreadful that it cast that look across Michelle’s face? What made Pete’s friends’ suspicion escalate to such a degree where they didn’t even want the older man anywhere near him? Surely, he wasn’t that cunning a businessman.
“Right,” Peter nodded, choosing to trust the words of his friends, for now. “Stark is a mere customer of mine, one I should hope never to see again if what you’re saying is true,” the brunette finished and leaned against Ned’s shoulder, eyes still turned towards the atmosphere.
Michelle sighed with relief and got up, beckoning Ned to come inside. It was their turn to wash their articles of clothing, which were few and far between, but lace and heavy fabrics nonetheless. MJ could be heard wrestling with her sole pair of stockings as Ned tried to figure out the proper way to turn a petticoat outside-in, the two somewhat expensive things the group owned.
Soon, they would sell the clothes, in order to make enough money and leave that crooked old building, as well as the quaint confines of their town.
But first, Peter had another trip to make bright and early the next morning, and no ill words or harsh rumors being spread about Mister Stark and his manor were about to stop him.