fifthcurriculum | LOCATIONS

Aren't you fancy. Nothing gets you to crash as hard as fast as tequila, though. Fucking love the whole ritual of it. [he gestures with his hands, trail of smoke following the cigarette-holding one, fingers expressive and wide.]

Would you believe me if I told you I'm a total lightweight?

I drank to keep warm, man, whiskey had the best burn. Now I'm just used to it. I stole all my booze anyway, there's nothing fancy about it.

[He looks Petre up and down - smaller than him, a rarity at their age, and skinnier.]

Yeah. Easy.

I thought vodka was for keeping warm. Like they do in Russia.

[mothalaaaaaand wait no not really]

Not Russian, never had any Russians around to ask. Whiskey worked for me. [He shrugs idly.] What kind of accent is that, anyway?

[That may well be the first real personal question he's ever asked Petre. Whoops.]

[color him surprised.]

Romanian. Or so I've been told.

Can't believe you never ran into the Russian mafia.

Guess the mafia just wasn't my scene.

[He falls into silence for a few steps. Romania. He couldn't place it on a map, but he's thinking Europe somewhere. And not even knowing... that's the first time a bit of Petre's reality has sunk in for him in a tangible way, and it doesn't feel very comfortable.]

I wouldn't be able to pick out and label many accents anyway, maybe I did.

[Well. Reality sinking in isn't something that happens to Petre, ever. His past is just a haze and his present an ongoing road to nowhere. Anything he's told about who he is or used to be is as concrete to him was the abstract concepts of words on a page in a language he doesn't know. They're there; he can do anything he wants with the paper except read it.

(The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. Who said that?)]

Your life would make a pretty good book. I'd read it and write a ten page essay.

Aggression vs. Assertiveness: Why Waste Time When You Can Kick Ass?

[He laughs quietly to himself. A real laugh. Even though he knows better than to trust the events of last night, it still feels like something has changed. And it doesn't feel entirely bad.]

[he makes a space between his indicator and thumb, slashes them across the air like he's delineating a headline.]

The boy who wanted to be a dragon, by Petre Dodrescu.

[He grins, but it's actually a very honest moment. He feels a lot like a study project to Petre sometimes - better than a test subject, but only by a little. And miles better than the conquest he knows he actually is.]

Too bad no one cares about our side of the story, right? [Mutants, he means. Mutant runaways are a dime a dozen, as evidenced by the very school they're in being a boarding school. His desertion is just a splash of colour, not a major event.]

It isn't going to be that way forever. [He lifts a hand, drops it again.] You're gonna make sure of that, right?

You're never gonna let that go. See if I tell you any of my hopes and dreams again. [It's said wryly, but there's just a hint of real indignation beneath it. It's pointless trying to get Petre to take anything seriously, he's accepted it as much as he can, but having that mocked stings from anyone.]

It means I was listening. Means you weren't being ignored. You like that.

[His tone carries a hint of am I wrong? Sure he doesn't take anything seriously. It'd be a weakness of sorts if he did, or worse yet - if people ever knew. Most of all John.]

[A study project, and in spite of his best efforts, Petre usually aces it. He hates those moments when he's so effortlessly pinned by the truth about himself, his ego, the weakness it hides.

They're crossing through the graveyard now, and he points up ahead to a huge old tree that pretty much exactly fits what Petre described. Branches spread wide and thick, leaves just beginning to fall, gnarled old roots bursting up from the ground to create what almost look like seats for them.]

Right up there.

Perfect.

[a murmur as he finishes the cigarette, putting it out on the palm of his hand. Needless to say there's no burn, just black ash on his skin that he brushes and dusts off. Petre's considerate enough not to throw it out, mostly because they'd find it and immediately know it was him who littered the place.

Petre settles down before John, arranges the sleeves around his arms and rolls them up, shaking gold hair from his face. Eyes narrowed, looking up at the sky through the leaves.]

Just like I asked.

I've been all over this place. Being cooped up in there too long makes me crazy.

[He sits with a curving root between them and his back against the trunk, then reconsiders and takes off his hoodie (the lighter goes into his pants pocket) to make a pillow so that he can stretch out on his back. Petre will doubtlessly read something into it, but there's nothing to read; he's just fond of planting himself under a tree and taking in the sun, something most people probably wouldn't expect of him. The days in Central Park were much more pleasant than the nights, and he almost felt like a normal person (when he still wanted to be one) basking in the sun under a tree during the non-winter months.

It's almost a happy memory, and he doesn't have many.]

I can imagine. All the space in the world and then they stick you in this place.

[What did he have. Most likely nothing.]

Makes you feel like a caged animal. ['You' as in John specifically, 'you' generally? Who knows.] Bring the whole thing down, then what - what's left? Everybody realizes how trapped they were in the first place. And now they have nowhere else to go.

[It's one of those moments again. John might know them by now. Those moments when Petre sinks back into his own mind and lets just a little piece of it come out and play.

But he catches himself quickly enough, features relaxed again.]

At least the food's nice.

[He narrows his eyes up at Petre - it's exactly what he was thinking, a vacuum in power and stability. The kind of chaos out of which anyone could take the lead, if they had the initiative and the loudest voice. Are they really so much in sync, or did he just sniff out those thoughts from other things that John said?]

You're talking to the wrong person about that. I'll eat pretty much anything.

[His gaze shifts back up to the canopy of leaves above them, the sunlight dappling through.]

I'd kill for a good burger, though. A really good, greasy as shit bacon cheeseburger.

[His long stare made it clear that he heard what Petre said, and he's digesting it. He's just not commenting yet.]

[People will always find it easier to ignore what Petre says than give him the satisfaction of asking why. Asking for more. Even his counselor won't know what to tell him at times, when he spills his thoughts and watches intently for a reaction. To see just how far and subtle he can pull this until they realize he's a lost cause. He'll play along, sure, but that's it.

He wonders how many times they've discussed what to do about Petre Dodrescu. How to change his mind and help him see the world like they do.

It really just comes down to Petre's petty desires. He's decided long ago that he doesn't want a happy ending. He wants misery. Misery breeds such strong, interesting emotions. Misery stretches your morals and pushes you to do the unthinkable. Just look at him, look at what he's become from the ashes of that church. That's what he wants.]

All you have to do is ask.

[He pops out another cigarette, takes his time to light it, so it stays dry on his lips for another moment.]

[If only John could be one of them. His head is entirely too full of Petre Dodrescu's thoughts and statements to be a comfortable resting place, and yet he's having trouble escaping it.]

There's nowhere good here. I'd know ten places in every borough, and one might not even kick me out for all the dine and dashes. Man, there has to be a field trip sometime.

[It doesn't escape him that the next senior field trip is quickly becoming another "date" for he and Petre, with all the plans they've somehow begun to make for next time they get to the city. In fact, he strongly suspects that a suggestion to break out and take the commuter train will come next, but waits for it rather than heading it off. He's not entirely sure he'll want to.]

[The cigarette leaves his lips and gives place to a thumb, teeth picking idly at the nail. He's thinking, imagining the kind of places John visited, the kinds of places he could take him to. Most of the world Petre knows consists of the institute and whatever culturally relevant sites it's made him visit. Then there are the bars and darker corners of the city he explored, most of the time on his own. There's the temptation to suggest John be his tour guide, and Petre rarely doesn't give in to temptation.]

Why wait.

[There it is.]

And I assume you'd be coming in this scenario you've got in your head. [So ready for it, because it was so obvious, that his answer comes right on the tail of what Petre's said.] What makes you think I'd wanna risk my head skipping out all the way to the city for you?

[He's stalling, buying time. He still doesn't know how he actually feels about it.]

Of course I'd be. What's the fun in planning your grand escape if I'm not gaining anything from it?

[And he finally lights that cigarette.]

Unless you can think of another reward.

Reward? For what, exactly?

[He's losing track of all the things he's apparently done wrong and all the debts he owes Petre. Last he checked, this day together had evened up their ledger. Where's his head going now?]

For breaking you out, Johnny. Remember?

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