Work Text:
Jo's skin feels like leather—stiff, restricted. He wants to do something, anything.
Where to start? With the easel? The sewing machine? The kiln? His fingers are dented from gliding through yarn and thread, splinters found a home under his calloused hands.
He feels himself.
Maybe he should buy ingredients for cake, or dust off his electric guitar again. When was the last time he played chess? He thinks of going through the boxes—wait, he had language learning textbooks on his shelf, but the wax and blank papers are distracting.
Oh, when did he last see his friends?