marty (who still keeps his in its original box at the back of his night stand and takes it out to mull it over in his hands sometimes) asked what ever happened to rust's wedding band.
he shrugs. "lost it."
"lost it." and there's that warning flare of nostrils, the way marty puffs his chest out a little bit when his temper gets high.
"or pawned it. don't remember. hope i at least got something for it."
and marty is livid, looks damn near ready to break his nose, because, fuck, rust, that stuff's important, you don't just go throwin' it away. while rust is irritably trying to explain that, yes, it's valuable, that's why it's stupid for it to sit in a box forever. let the cycle continue, maybe someone else will appreciate it more, and what if he did sell it? jesus christ, it's not like every precious memory he's got vanished with the damn ring.
what he doesn't mention while marty's chewing him out about the sanctity of family and all that is that he's got a shoebox in his closet, resting on top of the ugly red steel rattletrap of his other memories, that's full of crayon drawings on the backs of receipts, pipe cleaner people, a 25¢ vending machine mood ring --all worthless junk he can't bring himself to throw away-- and a photo of the little girl it all belonged to dressed as a construction paper tree for her kindergarten class play. cause you don't just go selling the important stuff to anyone who asks.
