gooseberryhigh | (no subject)

Dear Trapped in a Hell-Forest,

I'm going to be real frank with you. The lack of access to basic modern conveniences at your school is a concern. I mean, what do you guys even DO with your spare time? Because it's been three years and I STILL can't imagine Guppy skipping around a forest for fun. Not that your forest seems like my idea of a good time in general. Because, yeah. Bash is definitely forthcoming as shit and your school is an actual disaster.

(I haven't told my mom. Or your mom, for that matter. So you don't have to worry about that.)

Okay, level with me here: How worried am I, Lucas? I trust you to take care of his dumb ass, but my brother likes to play things off when he's in deep shit and I can't exactly trap him in the elevator and pull him around by his ear when he isn't home. And, yeah, you're gonna have a hard time with him if you aren't willing to get a little mean. Gup took mom's "if you don't know how to do it with your own two hands, then it ain't worth doing" lectures real serious. That's how you play fair. Though I can't fault him TOO hard. It's worked well for us so far.

Though - wow. What am I talking about. You ain't going to be mean to him at ALL. He's going to go off on an impassioned, pointless rant about being nice and how of course he can take care of himself, don't worry about it and then he's going to grin like a moron and you're just going to fold like a cheap deck of cards. Aren't you, Kowalski?

HOLD ON.

Okay. Please hand the attached note to my idiot brother. Or, I'll do you one better: Open the envelope, remove the note, and stick it directly to his idiot forehead. Then inform him that I'll tell you about that one time with our third grade teacher and the lime wedges if he doesn't do exactly what you tell him to.

See you soon - don't die!

P.S. - Thanks for the presents! Maybe had to forcefully convince Sarah that I was writing you back and not her. And you can always being your friends here. You know my parents don't mind.

[A note. To be attached to one Sebastien Lacroix:]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A series of minute changes flicker across Lucas' face as his gaze darts back and forth across the page. His expression still inscrutable as he folds the letter from Ariel back up, carefully.

Then, he does as he's told: removing the sticky note and, with light pressure, applying it to Bash's forehead. Now, folding his hands together on the table in front of him, his grin draws up dramatically on one side. "I'd appreciate if you'd attend a couple of those DADA lessons after class - maybe the patronus training sessions. Ariel said she'd tell me something about lime wedges and the third grade if you don't."

There's a quickly-glancing moment where Bash experiences an intimate familiarity with the handwriting on the letter in Lucas' hands that allows him to catch a handful of words (trapped, general, forthcoming, disaster, elevator, cards) with an absent sort of inattention that is so routine that he dismisses it and continues eating for a full thirty seconds.

Because it's just Ariel. Writing to his boyfriend. About ... disasters.

Which is - Okay, so he maybe chokes on his bread a little and jolts slightly in his chair, eyes narrowed at the top of the now tilted up piece of paper until it's folded back up and placed back onto the table and oh, okay - his eyebrows beetle together, eyes crossed to regard the note being tacked to his forehead.

"She w-" No. No, that's not even a vaguely true thought. Ariel would absolutely dare. He coughs, cheeks heating and bread still making an attempt asphyxiate him.

Lucas pushes Bash's drink closer to him, watching intently to make sure his boyfriend doesn't choke and pass out. When he's relatively sure that death is not imminent, he lowers his head, hunching forward to steeple his fingers in front of his face.

"So," Lucas starts, trying his best to look serious and not seriously amused. "Gonna do it?"

Bash plucks the sticky note from his forehead, skimming it quickly and frowning down at the handful of capital letters.

"Dude," he complains, lower lip jutting out as he turns the paper over between his fingers. "You aren't even gonna let me pretend I ain't afraid of my sister?"

The desire to crumble when Bash levels those sad eyes in Lucas' direction is overwhelming (Ariel totally has him pegged). So, he shuts his own, instead. It gives him a thoughtful sort of look. Kind of. Mostly, he just looks ridiculous.

"Nope," he says. "Although that would be an Oscar-worthy performance."

The note is pressed down into the tabletop for a moment, fingers smoothing it out before folding the whole thing in half.

"My masculinity," he says, not dialing his pouting up any further. (Though, admittedly, not dialing it down any either.) "Is very fragile, Lucas."

This is very hard. And keeping your eyes closed while holding a conversation with your boyfriend? Pretty dumb looking. So, squinting, Lucas opens one eye. And then the other. It's as bad as he's feared.

But he can't give in.

It's a struggle. "That is...unfortunate for you."

Bash, on the other hand, has moved all of his concentration onto petulantly folding his note into a miniature paper airplane. (His masculinity, it might be noted, is doing totally fine.) Which has twitched his mouth to the side and crinkled his nose clear up on one side.

"All right." He glances up, tilts his head slightly and launches his tiny plane into Lucas' chest. "What d'you want me to do?"

"Well..." Lucas pauses to watch the plane do a lazy little loop in the air before colliding with his sternum. He huffs a laugh and picks the tiny thing up to flatten its nose back out between two fingers. "Ms. Lilywhite offers tutoring in Defense Against the Dark Arts, even to students not in the class. Just attending a session or two of that could be helpful."

He glances up and, shutting one eye, carefully aims at his target. "Next Monday they're going over the Patronus Charm, again. It was...one of the only things that worked against the ghosts. I don't...Maybe..." Lucas sighs at himself and launches the paper plane back across the table toward Bash. "You should go to one of those sessions, too."

"It's not that I don't -" Bash starts, before making an attempt to Mr. Miyagi the plane out of the air that ultimately fails, papercraft veering off-course and making a crash landing down and into the front of his hoodie. He pulls it forward by the zipper, peering down into the void for a moment and attempting to justify his own stupidity.

It doesn't work very well.

A sigh. "But I guess I can -" He glances back at Lucas, one shoulder ticking upward. "Go, y'now, defense some dark arts. If you want."

All of Lucas hesitates for a moment, a bunch of small movements stuttering to an awkward stop as he starts to shift in his seat, starts to talk and starts to reach out all at once. That's too many things. Pick a boot order, Kowalski.

The plane? Well, that's a good place to start. It makes him smile. A small thing, but terribly fond - or, no, something warmer and more familiar even than fond - as his gaze tracks up from Bash's sweatshirt to his face. There, his words finally find him.

"Pain in the ass. It'd make me feel better, though. I'm afraid." Lucas admits. And then interrupts himself, "--I know. I'm always afraid. But..." He extends a hand, careful but comfortable with the space invasion it commits, fingers reaching for the zipper on Bash's hoodie. "You-- you're a ton of wonderful things. A-and I want you to be safe. And I believe that you can do anything - even take out a mimic with, I don't know, a pool cue and a pocket full of flour. But...those things in the woods-- knowing some defensive magic is going to help."

Edited 2018-03-15 04:52 (UTC)

It's not that he doesn't understand the need for the things Lucas is asking of him, or even that he doesn't support everyone knowing them. Being prepared is never a bad thing. And better over than under. He just isn't - He just doesn't -

(There's something stupid and stubborn at the center of him that feels like, somehow, he can fix things without it. Like somewhere in the disorganized jumble of his thoughts or the jittery twitching of his fingers there's an answer. One that's soft and simple and entirely unrealistic.)

"You ain't -" Lucas' fingers curl around his zipper and he stills, not embarrassed or even particularly startled, just sort of - watching. Just for a few seconds. Still and attentive. "You're not a pain in the ass or - or scared of nothing. You're -" His nose crinkles. "You're right. I'm just - kinda stupid sometimes."

"Not stupid," Lucas says with a sharpness that betrays a sudden twisting in his chest. Defensive of Bash, to Bash. It's an automatic, frazzled reaction. One called up by past battles with young tormentors. One he knows is ridiculous.

And so he breathes before going on. "Never stupid. Just..." Lucas lets his gaze fall back to Bash's hoodie. Slow and deliberate, he pulls down on the zipper, far enough to retrieve the paper plane.

"Really, really, really stubborn." His gaze flicks back up to meet Bash's eye, tone exasperated, yes, but endlessly admiring, too. Downright gooey, with one corner of his mouth pulling wide on that last 'really.'