keep your eyes on me - part 2.
here is part 2! These are very short little bits but I'll be adding to them and combining them most likely.
--
She’s late again.
He taps his fingers on the back of his iPod unconsciously, unaware that the song has changed and the melody now blaring through his ears is one he would normally skip. It’s cold again; his fingers tremble slightly. He can hear the seagulls faintly.
Barney watches some younger boys kick a grubby football between two bins and barely registers their shouts of victory. She should arrive five minutes after him, cheeks flushed and nose pink, then babble about her new notebook with the flowers on it, and show it to him as if she has found the greatest treasure. Some days she finds a photograph, a feather, a ring.
She always cups her hand around it when she shows it to him and he always smiles.
He loves that she embraces the freedom in her mind and loves anything, everything. She finds colour and light where he would only see the dull of black, and she can sit and stare at something for hours; she finds the beauty.
The bell rings, and he sighs. Winding his earphones round his iPod he shoulders his bag and heads after everyone else into the school building. He is shoved and pushed but he’s more worried about Cassie.
Registration, Assembly, double Maths - it’s all hazy. He hears that they beat the girls’ school in Newquay at netball for once, no, Barney, the x goes there, and there’s something about a school production of Death of a Salesman, but he doesn’t care.
This is the tenth time this month, and she never wants to explain why or where she was, and he knows she was probably just fine and it’s a little weird how concerned he is, but she’s his best friend. Only friend he has, really. They look out for each other; a silent agreement (he thinks all best friends make those, surely). He lets her hug him lots and she lets him glare at the boys who smile one day and sneer the next. It’s how they work.
It’s break time when she finally, finally, skips into the lunch room, fraying threads of her bag swaying.
“Hi,” she trills, plopping onto the seat next to him. “It’s so cold today, Barney, did you notice?”
He can’t help the smile that pulls at his cheeks. “I did, Cassie-girl. Where have you been?”
“Oh,” she unzips her bag and brings out a chocolate bar. “I went down to the Well.”
The Well, or St. George’s Well, is a quiet little beach, via a lovely walk past Stile and the war memorial. It’s less busy than Rock, the small village on the other side of the estuary with the long bay, and the water is bluer on the Padstow side, and he loves that beach most of all.
“Ooh,” he frowns and taps her wrist. “What were you up to?”
“I tried to build a sand-castle,” she says, breaking off a piece of the chocolate and popping it in her mouth. “Di’n’ work.”
“The tide’s in,” he tells her, nudging her shoulder with his. “The white sand’s a bit wimpy.”
She beams. “Yes. I paddled a bit, but it was freezing.”
“It’s November! What did you expect?”
She pokes her tongue out at him and shoves more chocolate past her lips.
“You missed maths, lucky,” he remarks, resting his head on his bag. “It’s more simultaneous crap.”
She nods, fingertips tracing the stripes on her bag. “I hate Maths.”
“High five,” he says, and she slaps his hand obediently. “Chemistry next.”
She groans. “I didn’t finish that sheet.”
“Nobody did,” he assures her, squeezing her shoulder. “C’mon, I need some junk food.”
“You eat too much of that.”
“Yes, Miss Aero.”
“Shush, you, or you won’t get any.”
--
She’s waiting by the gate, dotty scarf tucked underneath the collar of her coat and gloved hands stuck in her pockets. He hurries over to her, his position similar.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbles as he meets her. “I think it’s minus twenty.”
“Don’t be silly,” she says, strands of coppery hair sticking to her face. “More like minus thirty.”
He grins and shuffles closer to her. “Bus?”
“Dear God, yes.”
The bus isn’t too crowded, thankfully, and they find seats at the back. Barney considers starting his homework, but Cassie’s started knitting and there’s something about the way her fingers are moving and her forehead is furrowed and her tongue is just poking out that distracts him a little.
“Socks?” he mumbles, and she hums shortly in response.
“For Oliver,” she replies quietly.
He really does pull out the maths problems then, and although the bus jogs him it’s okay.
Because Cassie leans against him and she smells a bit wonderful and he could stay in this cocoon of quiet for a long time.
Their stop isn’t too far away, and the seagulls are getting louder and he can already smell the lobsters and crabs when they hop off the bus.
Cassie is silent most of the way round the harbour, hands clamped over her cold ears until he steps over the threshold of the estate agents’ and fishes his keys out from his bag for the flat.
“Barney,” she says sweetly. “Do you have hot chocolate?”
“We do,” he answers, pushing the door open and kicking off his shoes. “Up you go.”
She gives a little giggle and races up the stairs, half out of her coat already.
“Leave me some, Cassie,” he calls, following her but slower. “Shall we do the Chemistry?”
“Yep!” she replies over the kettle and the clanging of various mugs. He tries to fight another smile into the coat rack but fails miserably.
--
“Wait, is it two plus?” he asks, toying with his empty mug.
“Erm,” she flicks over some pages in her folder. “...No, it’s three plus.”
“Oh. Oh, that works,” he mutters, fountain pen scratching the formulae down. “And - done.”
“I have three more,” she moans. “I hate Chemistry.”
“Hey,” he says, and she looks up at him. “Seven more months. Then you can do your Art.”
Her eyebrows raise in a surprised but content expression. “Yeah.”
“And I can study Physics to my heart’s content,” he snarks, toeing her leg under the table.
“Strange boy,” she murmurs, returning to her sheet.
“But you wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t,” he says.
“No,” she replies softly, eyes flicking back up to his again. “I wouldn’t.”
--
constructive criticism is like broccoli. it's good for me and I really don't mind it. :D
--
She’s late again.
He taps his fingers on the back of his iPod unconsciously, unaware that the song has changed and the melody now blaring through his ears is one he would normally skip. It’s cold again; his fingers tremble slightly. He can hear the seagulls faintly.
Barney watches some younger boys kick a grubby football between two bins and barely registers their shouts of victory. She should arrive five minutes after him, cheeks flushed and nose pink, then babble about her new notebook with the flowers on it, and show it to him as if she has found the greatest treasure. Some days she finds a photograph, a feather, a ring.
She always cups her hand around it when she shows it to him and he always smiles.
He loves that she embraces the freedom in her mind and loves anything, everything. She finds colour and light where he would only see the dull of black, and she can sit and stare at something for hours; she finds the beauty.
The bell rings, and he sighs. Winding his earphones round his iPod he shoulders his bag and heads after everyone else into the school building. He is shoved and pushed but he’s more worried about Cassie.
Registration, Assembly, double Maths - it’s all hazy. He hears that they beat the girls’ school in Newquay at netball for once, no, Barney, the x goes there, and there’s something about a school production of Death of a Salesman, but he doesn’t care.
This is the tenth time this month, and she never wants to explain why or where she was, and he knows she was probably just fine and it’s a little weird how concerned he is, but she’s his best friend. Only friend he has, really. They look out for each other; a silent agreement (he thinks all best friends make those, surely). He lets her hug him lots and she lets him glare at the boys who smile one day and sneer the next. It’s how they work.
It’s break time when she finally, finally, skips into the lunch room, fraying threads of her bag swaying.
“Hi,” she trills, plopping onto the seat next to him. “It’s so cold today, Barney, did you notice?”
He can’t help the smile that pulls at his cheeks. “I did, Cassie-girl. Where have you been?”
“Oh,” she unzips her bag and brings out a chocolate bar. “I went down to the Well.”
The Well, or St. George’s Well, is a quiet little beach, via a lovely walk past Stile and the war memorial. It’s less busy than Rock, the small village on the other side of the estuary with the long bay, and the water is bluer on the Padstow side, and he loves that beach most of all.
“Ooh,” he frowns and taps her wrist. “What were you up to?”
“I tried to build a sand-castle,” she says, breaking off a piece of the chocolate and popping it in her mouth. “Di’n’ work.”
“The tide’s in,” he tells her, nudging her shoulder with his. “The white sand’s a bit wimpy.”
She beams. “Yes. I paddled a bit, but it was freezing.”
“It’s November! What did you expect?”
She pokes her tongue out at him and shoves more chocolate past her lips.
“You missed maths, lucky,” he remarks, resting his head on his bag. “It’s more simultaneous crap.”
She nods, fingertips tracing the stripes on her bag. “I hate Maths.”
“High five,” he says, and she slaps his hand obediently. “Chemistry next.”
She groans. “I didn’t finish that sheet.”
“Nobody did,” he assures her, squeezing her shoulder. “C’mon, I need some junk food.”
“You eat too much of that.”
“Yes, Miss Aero.”
“Shush, you, or you won’t get any.”
--
She’s waiting by the gate, dotty scarf tucked underneath the collar of her coat and gloved hands stuck in her pockets. He hurries over to her, his position similar.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbles as he meets her. “I think it’s minus twenty.”
“Don’t be silly,” she says, strands of coppery hair sticking to her face. “More like minus thirty.”
He grins and shuffles closer to her. “Bus?”
“Dear God, yes.”
The bus isn’t too crowded, thankfully, and they find seats at the back. Barney considers starting his homework, but Cassie’s started knitting and there’s something about the way her fingers are moving and her forehead is furrowed and her tongue is just poking out that distracts him a little.
“Socks?” he mumbles, and she hums shortly in response.
“For Oliver,” she replies quietly.
He really does pull out the maths problems then, and although the bus jogs him it’s okay.
Because Cassie leans against him and she smells a bit wonderful and he could stay in this cocoon of quiet for a long time.
Their stop isn’t too far away, and the seagulls are getting louder and he can already smell the lobsters and crabs when they hop off the bus.
Cassie is silent most of the way round the harbour, hands clamped over her cold ears until he steps over the threshold of the estate agents’ and fishes his keys out from his bag for the flat.
“Barney,” she says sweetly. “Do you have hot chocolate?”
“We do,” he answers, pushing the door open and kicking off his shoes. “Up you go.”
She gives a little giggle and races up the stairs, half out of her coat already.
“Leave me some, Cassie,” he calls, following her but slower. “Shall we do the Chemistry?”
“Yep!” she replies over the kettle and the clanging of various mugs. He tries to fight another smile into the coat rack but fails miserably.
--
“Wait, is it two plus?” he asks, toying with his empty mug.
“Erm,” she flicks over some pages in her folder. “...No, it’s three plus.”
“Oh. Oh, that works,” he mutters, fountain pen scratching the formulae down. “And - done.”
“I have three more,” she moans. “I hate Chemistry.”
“Hey,” he says, and she looks up at him. “Seven more months. Then you can do your Art.”
Her eyebrows raise in a surprised but content expression. “Yeah.”
“And I can study Physics to my heart’s content,” he snarks, toeing her leg under the table.
“Strange boy,” she murmurs, returning to her sheet.
“But you wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t,” he says.
“No,” she replies softly, eyes flicking back up to his again. “I wouldn’t.”
--
constructive criticism is like broccoli. it's good for me and I really don't mind it. :D