milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Well, this is new. And that's OK! New is good. Unexpected is not, particularly, and that's why this particular young man's surprise at finding himself wandering strange corridors has quickly melted to suspicion, and then anger.

He schools himself out of it by the time he finds the stairs. He waits at the bottom of them, perfectly still apart from large, dark eyes that flit over the whole place, taking it all in with no expression on his face. Only the Window gets a second look, and when he's finished his surveillance he walks over to it and stands there, staring in mute wonder, one hand pressed to the glass.

He can investigate the room later. This is more interesting for now.

[OOC: Open all weekend! <3]

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"They are like," she repeats and throws her rock, getting three skips out of it.

"And I weren't laughing at you, I guess I just never heard of someone not knowing what a crawfish was." She's not well travelled.

He stretches his neck to one side, thinking. Then throws his rock and watches it sink without trace.

'Wasn't. I wasn't.'

It comes out cruel, and he snatches up another rock. Think, think, think, visualise, do not fail, think, think...

'We have other fish. Better fish.'

The rock skips out a good way, and his flash of internal temper calms. Better, yes. Better.

So this is what it's like to get corrected all the time. It isn't fun, especially not in that tone. Sill, she gives him a smile when his second rock skips away.

"There's lots of fish out there. What kind do you have?" It's a little stilted and the accent's still there, but she's trying her best to speak proper now.

And look at that. Talk to someone like shit, and they still want you to like them.

People are so weird.

'I don't know. Cold-water stuff. Cod, and bass, and plaice and all that. And all the river fish. Trout. Salmon. Mackerel.'

The natural world is so not his thing. But his mother cooks fish, and they eat it, and crawfish has never been on the menu.

'You can get lobster and crab in Ireland.'

This might be a concession that seafood she'll recognise might not be all bad. It's the closest he'll come to an apology for speaking roughly, mostly because he's not really sorry.

She can't remember the last time she had a friend. James may not officially count, but he hasn't told her to go away yet.

"We have bass, and catfish and sunfish." Lots of bigger fish, too, though she's too small still to catch them. "Is that where you're, from, Ireland?"

'Yeah.'

There's an edge back in his tone, like isn't it obvious? It would never occur to him that an American wouldn't be able to tell the difference in European accents.

'But I live in England. Do you live in New Orleans?'

He pronounces it wrong. Or at least, the European way. New Or-leens.

She won't correct him this time. Even if it is kind of annoying.

"Non, I live in Houma, south-west of New Orleans." Said properly. "I never even been there. Why'd you move?"

He frowns. He thought there was mostly just sea south of New Orleans. He'll check his map when he gets home.

'Work. Parents.'

And just maybe, because some things have happened that caused suspicious eyes to be cast in the family's direction. He gets the feeling that contributed too; a vague sense from his parents they thought at least one of their sons could do with a change in environment...not that he's sorry. He'd do all that stuff again, and no one can prove it had anything to do with him.

'New Orleans,' he says musingly, exactly as she said it, Louisiana accent and all.

'I don't care. There's better schools in England, mostly.'

Back to Irish, switching between them like it's nothing.

It's always parents, isn't it? That's why she doesn't ever get to go anywhere. Well, they're also poor, which she knows but doesn't really like to be reminded of.

"You like it there in England?"

She grins when he says the city correctly. "There, you got it!"

He flashes a hint of a smile at that, though it's dry because of course he can do that, why can't everyone do that?

'No. But I didn't like Dublin much either. There's nothing much interesting to do.'

It's his age that's boring. He's in a hurry to grow up and get onto more interesting pastimes.

'Do you like the swamp?'

Tess isn't in much of a hurry to go anywhere just yet, mostly because she isn't sure what kind of grown up she'll be, but she'll get there.

"Sure. There's lots to do, fishing, chasing rabbits and fox kits, reading in my tree. Can't do that everywhere." She tosses another rock which doesn't perform as well as her last one.

"What do you like to do?"

'I told you. Maths.'

He kicks out at a stone, and then sits on a large boulder a few feet away.

'There's a computer at my school too. I like that. I'm going to get one for myself.'

He doesn't know how yet, but knows he'll figure it out.

"That's it?" She looks at him to make sure. Sure, she likes science and sure, she reads about it in her spare time, but it's not all she does.

"Yeah? I have to use the ones at school." Having one of her own isn't even a remote possibility.

He shrugs at her first question. He doesn't know how to articulate - and will never learn, because there'll be one worth explaining to - what it's like in his head.

'We only get ten minutes on it in school. It's not enough.'

Sometimes he thinks he'd like to disappear into the screen. That, or up in the sky.

Edited 2016-04-12 01:10 (UTC)

The shrug is okay. Boys are weird and James is even more so; he's the first one she's met who'd rather do math than play sports or some other nonsense. She's just going to have to accept it.

"Non, it's not. We have to share, too, but I go to the library sometimes for lunch. And I get extra time cause I'm ahead."

His face twists in a brief, unbidden, stab of jealousy.

'I know you're ahead, you keep saying it.'

He feels like he has a rope around his neck, and he keeps pulling against it but everyone - teachers, school, parents, other kids - just laugh and yank it back. It's hard to breathe.

'We've only got one for the whole school. I'm not allowed extra time.'

And it's only a BBC, built for schools; it's only 1986, when few yet know what'll happen with technology. But he can see the shape of something when he looks into the screen, and knows there's a whole new language out there to learn, and he wants to get his hands on it.

"Sorry." And she means it.

Tess is from the early 90s so technology is a bit better. She isn't overly fascinated with the technology itself, more in what it can do for her. So far it's fun with everything she can search about science and the environment.

"So you make your time count."

'No,' he says, with a hint of grit from between his teeth.

'We're only allowed to do what they same. Stupid games and stuff.'

He got caught going through the system directory once, such as it was. He got in trouble.

"That's no fun." They must the only two kids in the world who think computer games aren't fun. "You should be able to do what you want."

Then, after a moment, "You think they got food inside?"

They're pointless, is why.

'Yeah, I should,' and there's a stab of longing for a time when he will be able to do what he wants.

'Don't know. Probably. The bar was giving it out. Want to go and see?'

Exactly. You don't get anything from them.

She nods. All that running around has made her hungry. "Yeah, maybe they got beignets."

'...whatever. Yeah.'

He's not going to ask. She's the one who gets special classes, so no way is he going to show there's anything else she knows that he doesn't.

'Come on then.'

He springs noiselessly from the boulder and walks off without waiting for her.

She's only two years away from high school!

"What you want to eat?" She asks, once again following his lead. If Tess has her way she'll stuff herself with beignets until it's time to go home and cook dinner.

'I don't care. Anything.'

He eats as many sweets as any kid, but anything cooked for him too. Food is not worth caring about, and the 80s is not a standout year for British cuisine.

'Ask for what you want, and I'll have some.'

And that way he gets to see what these beignets are without having to admit he doesn't know.

"Okay."

She'd think he was being very clever if she knew. But she doesn't, so she merely wanders along back to the bar, keeping pace with him even if she does stray here or there to pick a flower or some such.

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