"ain't nothin' i haven't done before," he speaks through a quiet grunt, one that betrays his will - power to, in fact, do all of this by himself. even now, with the sun beating down on his bare torso, sweat beading off of his person: he has no idea what possessed him to buy back his childhood home. the county hadn't made much of an effort to clean the place up either, with a foreclosure, john jacob supposed that the overall appearance of the property didn't matter so much as getting their money's worth – which in a place like the cut, was bound to happen – and here he was, yet again, cleaning up the mess of luke maybank. "what are you even doin' here, anyways?" jj swings around to glance at the other, but doesn't hold his gaze. instead, the muscles in his arms work to heave the roll of fly - screen towards the porch. the hostility in his tone is a result of his shame, that despite ridding himself slightly of the stench his father's reputation has tainted him with; it lingers. jeremiah fisher of all people standing in the yard brought it on with a vengeance.
though, jeremiah would never know why the porch screen was broken; that somehow years later, a wrench was still laid down amongst the overgrown lawn. again, his brain ceaselessly questions why he'd deigned to buy the place back. could he ever erase the memories? can he rid the closets of all the skeletons he's hidden? john jacob wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm, swallowing down the mixture of anxiety and discomfort he feels. maybe, he should take a break. "sorry, man." there's a disappointed shake to his head, gaze meeting jeremiah's with a squint thanks to the afternoon sun beating down. he chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, mulling over what to say. "was gonna cut the grass but–" he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, cocking his head to the side, furrowing his brows as if he were listening to something in the distance. "i think. . . yeah, i think i hear a beer callin'. can you hear that?"
