[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

[umbralla]

Ouais, ouais, I will. I swear it.

[Just bring the other boy back, please, if he has to stay here.]

[nowheres]

Good.

[He says nothing when the shift happens. First it's like the smaller Petre just woke up from sleep, but memories are quick to flash back and the awareness that he blacked out only means something horrible must have taken place. He doesn't take in the apparently peaceful image of lying down next to the other boy; he just immediately jumps up with a look of horror in his face.]

No - no, no, he hurts you -

[umbralla]

[He sits up as well, alarmed at the sudden change in Petre's demeanour, and holds his hands out placatingly.]

Please. Be calm. [Then he lets his hands drop to his knees, looking down at them.] I was not kind. I can be very unkind.

[nowheres]

[He looks like a frazzled little animal, staring back at Ghyslain with the very same shade of ice blue he has until he's give a reason to calm down. The other boy isn't hurt, it seems, just like it seems his gift has come and gone. So the threat has passed - for now.]

He - he speaks?

[umbralla]

[Ghyslain is confused for a moment, because his own grasp of the language isn't perfect, so he's not sure if Petre is asking about whether the gift can speak or if he did. In the end, he just answers as best he can.]

He said - we are meant to be friends.

[nowheres]

[He... what?]

Why he says that?

[umbralla]

You are alone, like me.

[He doesn't mention the unsettling desire to become one with him as well. That would probably just disturb Petre. Best to leave it at the simplest explanation.]

[nowheres]

[He turns his gaze away when he hears that. It was... the reason he came here. He's alone, and the boy with his face sounded like the best and only excuse he had to approach anyone.]

You don't must be my friend.

[It's 'have to be', Petre...]

[umbralla]

[Petre mixes words so oddly that Ghyslain keeps having to pause, work out the words in French, then re-order them into phrases that make sense. He's actually better than he thought with spoken English, but he's through being cruel, so he won't say such a thing.]

I am - [And as soon as he thinks that, he's not sure of the word he's looking for.] - it is not bad, to have a friend.

[nowheres]

[And it's... pretty clear on Petre's face that he has no idea what to make of that. Is that Ghyslain saying yes to an offer he didn't make?]

You are not scared?

[umbralla]

[... well, he can't exactly lie right to his new friend's face.]

Ouais, I am scared.

[nowheres]

[Well. Petre couldn't possibly say he's surprised, but it breaks him a little all the same. This gift insists it's helping him, but it only makes him afraid of himself. How can he make any friends when there's the constant fear that they might get hurt?]

... I am sorry. I-I go.

[umbralla]

Petre - [He almost reaches out to grab the boy's arm, but all he can hear in his head is you don't wanna hurt the boy and his hand freezes in midair. Probably not the best argument to stay, but he can't help it.]

You - it is not - [Damnit, why is he reaching for words now? That hurt, lost look in Petre's eye actually made him look past his promise to stay near Petre at risk of bodily harm, made him think of what really happened. Some part of him was willing to threaten for friends, and the other hated it so much that he'd reject any acceptances that came after the fact.

It's awful. It's the loneliest thing he's ever heard. And suddenly, he does want to befriend him.]

- you cannot be forever alone because of the fear. [Because of fear, he means, because Petre is scared and others are scared and everyone's scared. But it's close enough.]

[nowheres]

[The words do resonate with him, especially because this time it isn't some counselor talking to him about how to control and live with his gift. This time it's a fellow student, someone who's seen it happen and take over, someone who was almost hurt by it, and now is - in a way - forgiving him anyway.

He didn't think anyone would ever do that for him.]

I - try to control.

[It's not a promise. It's him opening up, which means maybe he'll stay after all.]

When I am scared. He speaks. He hurts.

[umbralla]

If I am more kind, he will not come.

[There. It's that simple. Don't scare Petre and they'll be fine. Still some communication issues, but they'll be fine.]

[nowheres]

If you do not like me?

[Because... really, if Ghyslain forces himself to be nice to Petre, it's just as fucked up and hollow.]

[umbralla]

I do not know you.

[They've just met, and so far Ghyslain's been a jerk and Petre's... gone into his crazy other self. Neither of them knows the other yet.]

I can know you. [It's a gentle, clumsy offer, almost a question. The newly ESL "wanna hang out?"]

[nowheres]

[Not like Petre doesn't want to - he really, really does - but he's not anywhere near fully relaxed about the idea. Then again it was his idea to approach the boy, so backing away now when he's extending his own hand would be incredibly foolish.]

We do that. [a nod.] Okay.

[umbralla]

[He's left at a bit of a loss for what to say next, so he makes a vague, flailing attempt at small talk:]

What do you like?

[Interests. Hobbies. Passions. He hopes Petre will get the gist of the question, because it took him awhile to figure out how to ask it.]

[nowheres]

[Petre starts to fidget a bit, taking that as a cue to sit down comfortably. He was, after all, getting ready to part just moments ago, so whatever position he was in wasn't conducive to a lengthy pause.]

My mother. My father. I look at the books. With the - photographs.

[Can't say he loves to read, because there aren't many books in Romanian (if any) around and he's still too easily frustrated with English to try the kind of literature that would interest him. So photographs it is.

Ghyslain may now conclude that he's an incredibly boring boy.]

You like-?

[umbralla]

It is good. To like your family.

[He can't say the same, other than his sister. They claim to love him, but then why can't he come back? He probably still loves them too, but he doesn't like them very much.

Maybe boring, but also very lucky. The distance between himself and his mother and father can't be measured in miles or kilometers.]

I like music. I play the piano, since I was young.

[nowheres]

[Unfortunately, Petre takes that as a sign that Ghyslain's close to his family as well. He did mention something about his family having been around for a long time, didn't he?]

Oh? [his expression brightens up a little.] I never play. Uhm - no money. For the musics...

[the instruments.]

[umbralla]

[That can probably be cleared up when they both know a little more English. For now, he's glad that music seems to be a good topic.]

It is - erm, cher, ça coût - it takes a lot of money. [He nods, finally having found a way to express what he meant.] Do you listen?

[nowheres]

[He nods.]

Some times. You play what? Uhm - Mozart?

[umbralla]

I like modern songs, but I learn classique - erm, classical. In school and lessons. Beethoven is good. And Bach.

[This is actually turning into a fairly decent conversation. Colour him surprised.]