[for petre]

[umbralla]

[The weather's already starting to edge past "cool" toward "cold," but that just means Ghyslain puts on a coat before going outside. Everyone needs fresh air sometimes, and while he's not big on the garden area (fall allergies can be as bad as spring when it comes to flowers), there's lots of rolling grass on which he can sit or stretch out, trees under which he can tuck himself.

He's got a book with him today, along with an Mp3 player and earbuds tucked into his ears, keeping the world at bay for awhile; if he doesn't, he'll listen endlessly for the text chime on his phone, and that's the last thing he needs to be doing. They agreed they needed time. He still needs the time. Being antsy is just ridiculous.

But he is, ridiculous or not, so he's outside bobbing his head to a song and barely skimming over the words of his current assigned reading for English Lit. It may have been a bad choice of course, in retrospect, but one of his advisors said it would give him a more complex understanding of English. Complex is about all that's correct in that statement so far.]

Comments

[nowheres]

[He really shouldn't be interrupting, he knows. When someone has pages to look at and earphones to boot, that's pretty much a giant 'do not disturb' sign. There's the added factor of his gift, one Petre has been more inclined to call a curse ever since it (he?) first manifested, too. It has cost him a lot of interactions and possible friends in a place where he's already such an outsider, but it will occasionally be far away enough to let him have a little courage all the same. In this occasion, it strikes him on top of curiosity: for another boy who looks just like him, for another boy who came to this school barely able to put two English words together.

It could be some... gateway in. Whatever that means. Or it could just be some excuse to find out why they're so similar in looks. Doppelgangers aren't really a concept when you live in the middle of nowhere.]

... hello.

[He stands just a couple of meters to his side, just outside the shade cast by the tree. He looks small, shoulders inched up a bit, eyes anywhere but on Ghyslain's, shy and meek.]

[umbralla]

[His volume is just low enough that he can hear the voice and glances up - immediately his eyes lock on the other boy, growing very wide, and he sets his book down without even marking his page.

Yes, he's heard about this one. You don't not hear about someone who looks exactly like you. But seeing his own face in person, just a bit younger, hair styled differently around it, takes his breath away. It's so incredibly strange.

Next his earbuds come out, just as slowly as he's done everything else, almost warily. Nothing can break his stare.]

Salut. You are Petre, ouais? [The question isn't friendly, but it's not outright hostile either. Still wary.]

[nowheres]

[instantly, there's discomfort. One hand comes up to scratch the opposite arm, eyes elsewhere.]

Yes... My name, Petre. Nice to meet you.

[no idea if it actually is nice. They are near perfect copies, except Petre manages to be even scrawnier. His eyebags a little deeper because his gift doesn't sleep.]

We are. [we point alternatively at the both of them. 'the same'.]

[umbralla]

[That's an expression, one he knows. "Nice to meet you." It doesn't really mean anything. He's still watching Petre closely, wondering what he wants just approaching like this, until that gesture.]

We appear the same, ouais. C'est tout, that is all.

{But he doesn't pick his book back up, or put his earbuds back in. He's still engaged with Petre as much as he's trying to cut it off. It's just too fascinating, and there is one other thing we appear to have in common.]

From where - erm. Where are you from?

[nowheres]

[that's easy enough to answer, even if Petre feels those eyes are like daggers.]

Romania. You are french?

[umbralla]

Not France. Québec.

[Just... leaving it at that, seeing if Petre knows where Quebec is, or if he'll have the courage to ask.

Ghyslain really isn't unkind. It's not that at all. He's just defensive, particularly in the face of new company, and this situation is just weird enough to have his hackles way up while still being too weird to ignore. As if to prove that, he picks up the things that ended up on either side of him and tucks them more neatly on one side, leaving room for Petre.]

You may sit, if you are staying.

[nowheres]

Ah... Quebec. Yes.

[He knows where it is. If asked he'd say he's surprised that he's invited to sit, but maybe that's just a sign that he's judging the other boy too quickly. After all the intent of this is to make a friend.

So he sits, keeping to himself.]

We are both... Străin.

[outsiders. Strangers.]

[umbralla]

[And he's surprised that Petre gives some kind of recognition of his province, watching him even more carefully now as he sits. Some of the edge has left the stare now, though, as he just becomes curious.

Străin - he tries to run it through both languages, coming up with something similar to their situation.]

Étranger? [It'll work.] There are many here. More than L'Anglaise. You are here because of my face.

[There's nothing accusing in his tone. He's pretty blown away by the whole thing too, he can't blame Petre for that one.]

[nowheres]

[Again, Petre points at him.]

Face, yes. [then pointing between them again.] Weird. We are family?

[umbralla]

I have no family from Roumanie.

[That's so obviously not it. Come on, Petre.]

C'est - c'est coincidence. What is the - doppelgänger? [And wow, is that a mess of European languages with the wrong accents.] This happens.

[nowheres]

România.

[Since they're trading their native tongues back and forth, he might as well have Ghyslain use his for the country he's from.]

Like this? We are... like gemenii. You don't adopt?

[he looks genuinely curious now, as dumb as the questions are, eyes a little wider.]

[umbralla]

România. [No, it's not right. He can't get the accent right on that, either.

The next question makes him draw back in slightly offended shock.]

I am not adopted! My family, they have been in Québec for many generations. It is a very old name, Belanger.

[nowheres]

[well, it's not like Petre is adopted. He knows that much for sure. How would his parents even do that? Impossible. He looks so much like them too.]

I don't know old is Dodrescu.

[umbralla]

It means nothing.

[He doesn't know what Petre is looking for, but so far it just looks like he's been drawn to the oddity. Nothing about him personally. It's never about him personally.]

[nowheres]

[Well, no. But then Petre doesn't even know what it's like to be approached for either reason, so he sticks to the best option he can manage.]

... What you do?

[umbralla]

[His power. The obvious question.

He closes his eyes, reopening them to a blackness that covers his irises and even his sclera. As he looks up at the wide stretching branches of the tree above them, their shadows below start to shift, curling up and off the ground into apparently living things that pick up his book, his mp3 player, showing off all their dexterity and strength. Then he curls one slowly up the bottom of Petre's leg, deliberately predatory, because if he hasn't warned the boy off with his attitude then this will scare the crap out of him and he'll finally be done with this interrogation.

It's best, really, when people leave him alone.]

[inflori]

[The fear is there, and it's completely transparent, drowning out any curiosity. Shadows crawling out from the ground, turning into living things that sway around menacingly until they're grabbing him, making him shake and yelp in a slight panic. He looks like he should try to kick it off, but instead it's as though a darkness overcomes him as well.

One second later, his hand is going for Ghyslain's throat, throwing him down on the grass.]

You don't wanna hurt the boy.

[The voice is the same, accent still present, but the words flow freely in a language that's not his own. He doesn't look pissed, despite the aggressive behavior; instead he looks like a dragon going 'nah-ah' at the hunter who thought he could sneak up on him.]

[umbralla]

[His shadows are still out, so be strikes back in shock, hitting and tugging with as many as he can create in an effort to get the boy off him. What just happened? He tries to form words, but instead he's just letting out wheezes that want to be screams but for the hand around his throat.]

[inflori]

I said - [He struggles with the shadows, yes, hissing out through gritted teeth with remarkable strength, the kind that some scrawny sixteen-year old should never have, but the grip on Ghyslain's throat only loosens so he can grab the shirt, lift him up and slam him back down.] Don't hurt the boy. Stop.

[umbralla]

[Stars explode in front of his eyes when his head hits the ground again, and he knows he can't fight. That was dangerously close to a knock-out, which would leave him at the mercy of whatever's happened to Petre. So he withdraws his shadows, eyes clearing, and stares up in something close to a panic now.]

What are you? [This isn't a gift. It's separating itself deliberately through its manner of speech. This is something that shouldn't be here.]

[inflori]

I'm Petre. He said that already.

Though I guess you could say I'm the other part.

[because as much as 'it' distinguishes itself from the boy, it considers them to be one and the same. A snake with two heads.]

Apologize.

[umbralla]

I - do not understand. How can a person have two parts?

[But okay, he gets it. He doesn't want to be attacked with that superhuman strength again.]

Je m'excuse. I - I am sorry.

[inflori]

There we go. [And Petre's grip loosens just enough so that it's not painful anymore, but it still keeps Ghyslain down.] Good boy.

[The smile on him is so strange. it's the same smile an innocent kid like the real Petre would pull, looking down at Ghyslain like he's seeing something truly beautiful. Not unlike a monster gazing at its own reflection for the first time.]

It really is uncanny. You should be a part of us too.

[umbralla]

A part of you? [He can't recoil, not in this position, but the reaction is plain in his expression and voice.] I am myself. The face, it is a coincidence. Please let me go.

[inflori]

No...

[His tone is airy, his hand now moving to stroke Ghyslain's face gently. It's something Petre (the gift) has wondered about every time he looks in the mirror and wishes he could be... more a part of the real Petre. So much that they would be seamless, that there would not be a division between who (what) is in control of this body.

If he could show him somehow... comfort him with words he can hear, with hands he can feel.

Petre leans down, face coming dangerously close to Ghyslain's, like he's just that same reflection and can't move or protest. Then he angles his head and buries it in the crook of his neck.]

No... It's not a coincidence. We were meant to meet.