Work Text:
Crackling wood, woodsy smoke, the scent of burning logs, the heat of the flames as they light up Gorgug’s face. He sits a little too close, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the chill of the Red Wastes. In his hands, a marshmallow on a stick. He toasts it carefully, browning the sides evenly as he slowly rotates the skewer. His friends do the same, though Kristen’s marshmallow is on fire (“Just how I like it!”). They sit in relative silence, the occasional clearing of the throat interrupting the crackle of the fire; marshmallow-roasting is serious business.
Marshmallow toasted to perfection, Gorgug assembles his s’mores. He chews his sticky sandwich, eyes shifting between each of his friends as they similarly construct their snacks and dig in. Aside from the chewing, everyone is still quiet, too tired from their trek to stop the Night Yorb to make conversation anymore. He finishes his treat and lays back on the sand. It's cold; too long has it been since the sun baked the earth to give it any warmth, and Gorgug shivers. He rolls over to be closer to the fire and sighs. He’s tired, weary, ready to give up.
But they can’t. The world is counting on them to save it. Again. The s’mores had been his idea several weeks ago – an easy treat to boost their morale each night before they sleep – but now it’s rote and tedious, another reminder of their grim mission. He can see it on the others’ faces; they hate the s’mores just as much as he does, but no one wants to end it because it means they’ve given up. So they resolutely eat their s’mores like it’s part of the mission. He closes his eyes and tries to relax. Sleep doesn’t come.