To be more true to factual events, Luciano was sitting on the door step, staring out at an unfamiliar lawn and unseasonably warm weather, tugging at the collar of his winter jacket uncomfortably.
He wasn't exactly sure how he'd gotten here, but it was hotter than rachadura de Satanás bunda.
The door behind him opened (he hadn't thought to knock with the sudden wave of heat pressing down on him and making him feel dizzy) and he tipped his head backwards to be greeted by the view of an upside-down old man staring at him.
"...olá," Luciano said slowly to the velho, "...parece que estou perdido. Eu acho."
not ooold ;A; /sobfoundtheindiesJuly 15 2011, 07:51:49 UTC
Afonso blinked. A young man dressed in winter clothes, with a tuft of dark hair and bright green eyes--for a moment, the thought of 'he looks a lot like me' flitted across Afonso's subconscious, and the journalist batted it away, trying instead to figure out where in the world this kid had even come from. Obviously, he spoke Portuguese, but the accent and wording was off--so, Brazilian. And it looked as if he'd literally been plucked right out of Brazil and dropped right here on his stoop.
...Not that that could happen, or anything.
At least he'd come to Afonso and no one else, right? After all, there weren't a lot of Portuguese speakers in this city. He couldn't help but feel...sorry, for the kid? No, that wasn't the right phrase. Almost...worried. Unless he was just messing with him, or something, but Afonso's gut feeling told him otherwise.
Setting his briefcase down slowly, the Portuguese journalist looked at the man with a raised brow, voice cautious if not a touch confused."Falas Português? Penso que estás perdido. De
( ... )
crianca mimada 8| foundtheindiesJuly 15 2011, 08:23:49 UTC
"Whoa--não!" This strange guy thought Afonso kidnapped him? When he had just shown up at his door like that! Bristling just a little bit but brushing it off, the journalist summoned all of his patience to speak with the young man.
...Besides, it was sort of cute that he was standing in front of him like that, trying to look all tough but giving off the aura of a puffed up kitten. Afonso waved his hands as he responded, going to dismiss the large accusation immediately. "Está a pessoa que acabou de chegar na minha porta! Tinha tentado ajudar-te--e não tenho tua carteira!"
Wincing mentally for the poor boy, the Portuguese waited for Luciano to convert the number on his phone, sipping from his Somal and watching him turn colors. "So, I'm guessing you don't have enough. Well, there's no way to get to Brazil besides flying, so.."
So, this was awkward. Stroking his beard as he thought, Afonso weighed their options. "It seems like you're out of luck. Or.." The journalist winced a little, his barebones wallet already singing in pain. "..I guess I can pay for your flight back. But you have to wait until I get paid at the end of the week."
That meant a week. Alone. With the pau who had kidnapped him.
His reluctance showed on his face as he toyed with the (weird looking) feijoada on the plate in front of him, pushing the (weird) white beans from one side to the other.
"A week? Então, that means I have to put up with...a week of roofie stew, weird feijoada, some old guy who doesn't know what refri is, and estupid weather?"
What a little brat! Afonso shut his computer and set it aside, meeting Luciano with a flat expression. Well, it was to be expected--he'd sort of shown nothing but being a brat since he showed up--and Afonso sighed through his nose. "It means a week of someone taking care of you, buying you clothes and a plane ticket, especially considering its someone who's not in the best of financial situations right now."
This kid was going to cost him an arm and a leg. He tried not to think about it as he picked up Luciano's empty can and went to go throw in it in the trash. "I have an extra room across the hall from mine you're welcome to, I guess.. And I'll take you shopping or something for some clothes that aren't for sub zero. Are you sure you didn't bring anything..?"
"I didn't, unless you went through my closet when you kidnapped me, velho. How did you get me through customs anyway? Então, I don't want to know. Don't treat me like a little kid, meu Deus. You could be a little more gracious, since you're doing the whole 'guilty conscience kidnapper' thing and acting like you feel bad for me. I'm stuck here in a country where everyone waves around guns and you're treating me like the burden when I'm...not...aaactually sure how I got here."
Luciano pushed the weird white beans around a few more times before fixing Afonso with a penetrating stare.
"So how did you get me through customs? Or were you like a pirate and did the boat thing? Do you have a jar of dirt just in case?"
Well, that sounded like the sweet sound of Afonso not having to pay for two plane tickets. Digging through his pockets, the brunette pulled out his cell phone and pressed it into Martín's hand. "Sure. Call me Afonso, okay? Or Senhor Silva, I guess." Even if that made him feel really old.
Ever the parrot, Martin also repeated it, looking at Luciano. "Silva?" He asked. "Like... Luciano Da Silva?" That was weird. How did Luciano manage to get into the same house as some weird guy with the same last name...?
"I will not," Tincho grumbled, elbowing Afonso. "We will behave, señor, for you are so nice to us!" He shuddered a little. "Unlike those who would leave us to the armed Americans!" He looked over at Luciano and stole a bite of feijoada, raising his brows. Wasn't that bad. At least they had someone who cooked better than the U.
"Well, good then." Looking down at the plate of near finished feijoada between them, a thought occurred to Afonso. What did teenage boys even eat? All he could remember from his own childhood was that he...ate a lot. Like a vacuum cleaner.
If inanimate objects could moan, you would be able to hear Afonso's wallet sobbing. Running a hand through his bangs, Afonso let out a long suffering sigh. "So, I guess I'll take you two...you don't have any clothes either, do you, Martín. Food and clothes shopping tomorrow. I can call into work and write from home for a week."
This was like a full time job. Ai mãezinha. "...What do you two even eat?"
Afonso gave him a deadpan look. "...Yes, I got that. What kind of food? I don't know much besides Portuguese food and some American things, so you're going to have to help me."
And the Ukrainian food Katya had taught him. Flushing involuntarily, he shoved that thought down and looked between the two teens. "...I guess I can just take you to the grocery store, And we'll go from there."
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He wasn't exactly sure how he'd gotten here, but it was hotter than rachadura de Satanás bunda.
The door behind him opened (he hadn't thought to knock with the sudden wave of heat pressing down on him and making him feel dizzy) and he tipped his head backwards to be greeted by the view of an upside-down old man staring at him.
"...olá," Luciano said slowly to the velho, "...parece que estou perdido. Eu acho."
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...Not that that could happen, or anything.
At least he'd come to Afonso and no one else, right? After all, there weren't a lot of Portuguese speakers in this city. He couldn't help but feel...sorry, for the kid? No, that wasn't the right phrase. Almost...worried. Unless he was just messing with him, or something, but Afonso's gut feeling told him otherwise.
Setting his briefcase down slowly, the Portuguese journalist looked at the man with a raised brow, voice cautious if not a touch confused."Falas Português? Penso que estás perdido. De ( ... )
Reply
"Isto não se parece com Fortaleza..."
He glanced out at the sun-parched grass and cracked pavement, face crinkling into an unsure look of confusion.
"Eu estava seqüestrado?"
Luciano looked up at the old man with wide eyes.
"Você me sequestrar?!"
He glared and rose to his feet, dismayed to find he was...several inches shy of staring the man in the face with all the intimidation he could muster.
"...pelo menos, dar-me a minha carteira, seu babaca!"
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...Besides, it was sort of cute that he was standing in front of him like that, trying to look all tough but giving off the aura of a puffed up kitten. Afonso waved his hands as he responded, going to dismiss the large accusation immediately. "Está a pessoa que acabou de chegar na minha porta! Tinha tentado ajudar-te--e não tenho tua carteira!"
Reply
Wincing mentally for the poor boy, the Portuguese waited for Luciano to convert the number on his phone, sipping from his Somal and watching him turn colors. "So, I'm guessing you don't have enough. Well, there's no way to get to Brazil besides flying, so.."
So, this was awkward. Stroking his beard as he thought, Afonso weighed their options. "It seems like you're out of luck. Or.." The journalist winced a little, his barebones wallet already singing in pain. "..I guess I can pay for your flight back. But you have to wait until I get paid at the end of the week."
Reply
Alone.
With the pau who had kidnapped him.
His reluctance showed on his face as he toyed with the (weird looking) feijoada on the plate in front of him, pushing the (weird) white beans from one side to the other.
"A week? Então, that means I have to put up with...a week of roofie stew, weird feijoada, some old guy who doesn't know what refri is, and estupid weather?"
Luciano shrugged.
"Sounds like the university dorms."
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This kid was going to cost him an arm and a leg. He tried not to think about it as he picked up Luciano's empty can and went to go throw in it in the trash. "I have an extra room across the hall from mine you're welcome to, I guess.. And I'll take you shopping or something for some clothes that aren't for sub zero. Are you sure you didn't bring anything..?"
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Luciano pushed the weird white beans around a few more times before fixing Afonso with a penetrating stare.
"So how did you get me through customs? Or were you like a pirate and did the boat thing? Do you have a jar of dirt just in case?"
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Well, at least it was better than Don, right?
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"Silva?" he echoed.
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"Silva?" He asked. "Like... Luciano Da Silva?" That was weird. How did Luciano manage to get into the same house as some weird guy with the same last name...?
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Wasn't that bad.
At least they had someone who cooked better than the U.
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If inanimate objects could moan, you would be able to hear Afonso's wallet sobbing. Running a hand through his bangs, Afonso let out a long suffering sigh. "So, I guess I'll take you two...you don't have any clothes either, do you, Martín. Food and clothes shopping tomorrow. I can call into work and write from home for a week."
This was like a full time job. Ai mãezinha. "...What do you two even eat?"
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And the Ukrainian food Katya had taught him. Flushing involuntarily, he shoved that thought down and looked between the two teens. "...I guess I can just take you to the grocery store, And we'll go from there."
He had no idea what he was getting into.
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