His eyes flicker momentarily from her face to the dance of the sharpie in her fingers — he clocks the green smudge, the wear on the brand label, the flourish — and then yanks them right back up to her expression again. Trying to decipher it, and having... not very much luck, admittedly. He doesn't get a lot of facetime with people — pun not intended but definitely enjoyed — particularly facetime with girls. Never outside of school, save the foster kids who don't spend much time around him if they can help it.
It's definitely not the answer he wanted, and he seems almost put out — precarious like a candle in the breeze — but he steadies when she round-about grants her permission. Perks up, even, if you know what you're looking for. Most people don't. He doesn't want to look too excited, lest she take it away from him.
Maybe he should think it's weird, that she's claimed a spot beneath the tree as her own. Maybe anybody else might have scoffed or poked fun. He doesn't; he accepts it as a written law and obeys it by picking his own spot at a nearly ninety degree angle. He could turn his head and catch sight of her profile if he bent right, but if he looks straight forward he can't see her at all. He tries it out for a few seconds, then gets up, walks around, and tries the spot at her other ninety degrees.
Better.
This one is officially his, in accordance with the Law of the Tree.
It takes a few minutes to let himself actually get immersed in his book. At first he's entirely too aware of her presence, and it takes deliberate effort not to glance over at her like a freak. Eventually her breathing and her rustling becomes a little familiar, his hackles slowly fall, and he can actually concentrate on the words in front of him.
As promised, he doesn't bother her. Quiet as the tree itself, he just sits and reads until he loses track of time. When he tunes back in again the afternoon sun has begun to slink precariously down, which means he needs to go. House curfew is dusk, even though that's designed with the freedom and autonomy of the older kids in mind. He doesn't cause enough of a stir for them to realize he probably shouldn't be wandering out into the woods on his own until the sun's almost down.
He doesn't plan on giving them a reason to today, either.
When he stands, there's an awkward moment where he looks at the path home, then looks at her, then hesitates. Not really sure if he should... say something, or if they're ignoring each other so much that even parting should go unremarked upon.
Ultimately, he settles on a simple, "Bye."
And leaves.
He doesn't come back on Sunday. On Monday, she'll spot him in school for the first time. Her grade, her class, but seated in the back corner in the last empty desk, quiet and focused in a way very few of their peers are. Even during their free time he keeps his head down, not reading but rather scrawling sentence upon sentence into a composition notebook without looking up.
It catches the attention of a few of their other classmates, which is probably why a couple of them knock him down and yank it out of his backpack after lunch.
no subject
It's definitely not the answer he wanted, and he seems almost put out — precarious like a candle in the breeze — but he steadies when she round-about grants her permission. Perks up, even, if you know what you're looking for. Most people don't. He doesn't want to look too excited, lest she take it away from him.
Maybe he should think it's weird, that she's claimed a spot beneath the tree as her own. Maybe anybody else might have scoffed or poked fun. He doesn't; he accepts it as a written law and obeys it by picking his own spot at a nearly ninety degree angle. He could turn his head and catch sight of her profile if he bent right, but if he looks straight forward he can't see her at all. He tries it out for a few seconds, then gets up, walks around, and tries the spot at her other ninety degrees.
Better.
This one is officially his, in accordance with the Law of the Tree.
It takes a few minutes to let himself actually get immersed in his book. At first he's entirely too aware of her presence, and it takes deliberate effort not to glance over at her like a freak. Eventually her breathing and her rustling becomes a little familiar, his hackles slowly fall, and he can actually concentrate on the words in front of him.
As promised, he doesn't bother her. Quiet as the tree itself, he just sits and reads until he loses track of time. When he tunes back in again the afternoon sun has begun to slink precariously down, which means he needs to go. House curfew is dusk, even though that's designed with the freedom and autonomy of the older kids in mind. He doesn't cause enough of a stir for them to realize he probably shouldn't be wandering out into the woods on his own until the sun's almost down.
He doesn't plan on giving them a reason to today, either.
When he stands, there's an awkward moment where he looks at the path home, then looks at her, then hesitates. Not really sure if he should... say something, or if they're ignoring each other so much that even parting should go unremarked upon.
Ultimately, he settles on a simple, "Bye."
And leaves.
He doesn't come back on Sunday. On Monday, she'll spot him in school for the first time. Her grade, her class, but seated in the back corner in the last empty desk, quiet and focused in a way very few of their peers are. Even during their free time he keeps his head down, not reading but rather scrawling sentence upon sentence into a composition notebook without looking up.
It catches the attention of a few of their other classmates, which is probably why a couple of them knock him down and yank it out of his backpack after lunch.