(no subject)

[tu_vas_triompher]

Of course, as usual, Feuilly has his work. Notebooks, books. Laptop. Sketchbook. And he's been hard at it, writing a draft in his notebook, when the television over the bar flicks on abruptly.

He frowns, starts gathering his things to move somewhere a little quieter, but--oh! It's football! Tottenham! And...hm, Crystal Palace? Feuilly checks his laptop--typing carefully Are Tottenham Hotspur currently playing against Crystal Palace in any world?--but he's long given up trying to make the Milliways television schedule match with anything his computer can show him.

Is Harry there? Anyone else want to watch? Or, you know, talk or something. He can tear his attention away from the match, really he can. (No, really. He can.)

Comments

[harryhotspur]

Of course Harry is here! Or at least, he's eventually there, making his way in from outside. When he spies Feuilly, he makes a beeline, calling cheerfully, "The snow is near gone!"

--ooh, hey, TV. He climbs up onto the neighboring stool.

[tu_vas_triompher]

Near gone, maybe, except for the snow on his sleeves, which are now almost on top of Feuilly's notebook. But that's all right, notebooks can move. Feuilly sorts that out, and gives him a smile. "Your team! Hm, should we ask Bar for--something? I don't think I've had lunch yet."

[harryhotspur]

"Ever industrious, thou art," Harry says with a grin. "And this? What makest thou here?"

[tu_vas_triompher]

He laughs. "The same thing. It's--I was working on an introduction for the, the literacy book, but I was getting too, um. It started seeming like too big a project, so now I'm just copying over some, some example sentences, making them into things that work for my time--"

He shrugs, a sort of apology for going on about it. "What were you up to outside?"

[harryhotspur]

"I was but walking," Harry says, his attention starting to drift towards the television, though he quickly snaps it back to Feuilly. "We may soon practice out-of-doors, methinks."

[tu_vas_triompher]

That's fine, Harry! Feuilly is watching the game too. "--Yes? I was out with the dogs earlier, it looks like it's going to be muddy for a while. But I guess that's--oh!"

The goalkeeper has made a foolish and uncharacteristic sloppy pass, giving the ball right to one of the Palace players, but the rest of the guys have him covered. Okay. It's okay.

"--um--" What were they saying?

[harryhotspur]

What were they saying? Harry clutched hold of Feuilly's arm-- now he releases it, once it's clear there's no harm done.

"--practice!" That was it! "A touch of mud would do thee no harm!"

[tu_vas_triompher]

Yes, they're away down the field now; everyone can breathe again.

"--I wasn't complaining, I was just saying. It's going to be muddy. But I don't mind." (...if he tells himself so firmly enough, anyway, he won't mind very much?)

[harryhotspur]

Harry nudges his shoulder against Feuilly. "Why, 'tis a sign of spring, is't not? To march home all besmeared..."

[clayforthedevil]

"Oooh, they're killing the guy with the ball?" Bahorel perches on one of the nearby stools, his grin entirely at odds with his mourning black outfit. A wide, shallow bowl full of nuts and strange little crackers and popcorn mixed together appears at his elbow; he passes it over to be in Feuilly's reach, too. "What are the teams?"

[tu_vas_triompher]

"They're supposed to try not to kill each other." Feuilly nudges some of his work to the side, and tries a handful of the crackers and nuts. "It's English teams. Both from London? The, the red and blue ones are called Crystal Palace and the ones in white are, um, Tottenham Hotspur."


(yes he's watching a team named after his ~specialest friend~)
(shut up bahorel)

"They're very good this year? I think?"

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel's grin can be very expressive, and is, when Feuilly mentions Tottenham Hotspur.

"Then you're no objective judge, I fear; your affections too well spoken for. --But at any rate they both seem to be doing a grand job of not killing each other, at any rate. What's the point of even playing ball if you're going to--hi! What's that?" One of the players has, as far as Bahorel can tell, thrown himself violently onto the ground for no reason at all.

[tu_vas_triompher]

Ugh shut up with that grin. Feuilly sets his chin stubbornly. "It's just what I've read on the, the computer. They're having a very strong season--why should I be objective, anyway?"

Now you've flustered him, Bahorel. Feuilly has to regroup and look back at the screen. "--Oh, ha, that's just--he wants the referee to give a yellow card, but--no, see, ref's ignoring him, he's fine--ah! aaaah!" They're all scrambling around down by one of the nets, and now the ball has gone in--not at all what was supposed to happen, judging by Feuilly's pained expression. "--Um--yes, it's, they have a, a lot more rules--oh, no--"

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel starts laughing. "It's a drama! Ah, you didn't tell me! Very new form, comedy in with the usual story of the combat on the field, I approve, I approve entirely! Well done, all of them, a fine bit of farce!-- And my judgement in the matter is of course entirely fair and without favor; I applaud them both, you see." He does!

[tu_vas_triompher]

"It's not--" No, no. He knows better than to try to argue Bahorel out of laughing at something. Feuilly lets him run on and watches the match with great determination. And there, see, they're running down the pitch, amazingly fast.

He hadn't ever had much time for games when he was a child, but what he remembers of little skirmishes over a ball--or a reasonable substitute--bears little resemblance to this brilliant emerald-green expanse of grass, the lightning speed and precise passes, the stadium full of people singing. The players are different too, with their bright matching shirts, not grubby barefoot farm kids. But-- "The, the goalkeeper is French," he observes suddenly. "A Catalan family, I think--but from Nice--"

It's not their part of France at all really, but it's the Midi. "And--oh--they're from all over the world. Belgium. South Korea."

[clayforthedevil]

Hey, Bahorel's not going to laugh at that. His smile, while Feuilly's transfixed by the action onscreen, is only fond. Hearing that bit of news, here, from Feuilly of all people, makes him quietly furious, and melancholy in a way he wouldn't try to explain with the game going on and Feuilly all caught up in excitement. Still, he is smiling, because his friend is happy about it, and because the game's by far the least absurd thing in this little tableau, by Bahorel's consideration.

"When did they start that?-- Having players from all the nation together, I mean." Feuilly will have found out, by now.

[tu_vas_triompher]

"I don't actually know--" And now it's half-time, and he can pull his attention away. (...To be fair, if it had been anyone but Bahorel, he wouldn't have indulged himself so much in watching. Almost anyone else would have gotten polite, focused conversation right away. Friendship is good?)

"--I don't really know, for the, the English leagues. There's--oh, it's complicated, there are many different leagues within every country, and then you also have national teams, so that--oh, many of the Tottenham players also play for their national teams. France, England, Belgium...Argentina...South Korea, Algeria, Denmark...Cameroon..." He's probably missing someone in the litany, but Bahorel likely gets the idea. "--Wales, yes, Wales has a national team. And isn't Wimmer Austrian? He doesn't play much--"

His face gradually sobers, falls even. "There's absurd--terrible--amounts of money in it all. And corruption to go along with that. And, and racism." That's a newer word for Feuilly, but hardly a new concept. "So it's--oh, it's like everything people come together to do, there's something really wonderful there, and somehow there's still room for, for awfulness."

...Dammit, people. Stop disappointing Feuilly.

[heatherandsteel]

Quentin keeps hoping that the television will show hockey but soccer's good and he pauses near Feuilly at a tight moment and mutters in a dialect of French, Quebecois, "Don't let him through.."

Sports are odd, he likes them but doesn't search them out but he looked over at an exciting moment.

[tu_vas_triompher]

When the danger is past, Feuilly lets out an audible breath--and glances sheepishly over at Quentin. "Exciting match?"

[heatherandsteel]

"Yes, who's playing?" He didn't mean to get that caught up but that was a stressful almost goal.

[tu_vas_triompher]

"English teams. The red and blue are Crystal Palace, and the white shirts are Tottenham--" He catches his breath again, but the little surge of activity near the goal doesn't turn into anything serious. "Do they play it where you come from?"

[heatherandsteel]

"Yes, it was popular at the school I went to. I always liked hockey better but these guys are really good,"

Quentin orders some chips and salsa and queso fresco and guacamole, watching sports food that he sets between them.

[tu_vas_triompher]

"They really are--it's not like anything people used to do at home. Kicking a ball around a village field isn't--" There's only the thinnest thread connecting that to what's on the screen. "--I don't think I've ever seen hockey?"

[heatherandsteel]

"Hockey's great, its played on ice and the players are fast and tough, but skating and what they do, big difference. You have to be really good to be a player."

[tu_vas_triompher]

"Oh! I've seen pictures, then. Just not a game. They have--sticks, sort of bent? And a little flat thing, not quite a ball? But it's like football, with nets and a goalkeeper?" It looks interesting! It looks...like something that people do in a place with very long and very cold winters. "May I ask--where are you from?"