Calan
"Hold it straight," Calan says under his breath, which is a perfectly reasonable instruction considering the ice cream is leaning dangerously toward becoming street food and they just have the one. They had enough money for one, which is not the same as having enough money for the correct number, and while sharing is caring and during the course of their lives the twins will share a great number of things, this is about the principle, namely that they really should have been given money for two and now are simply rectifying that particular parental oversight.
Calan takes his turn with careful seriousness, licking a melting line before it can get away, then angles the cone back toward his brother without quite letting go. His eyes, however, have already gone past the ice cream, past the press of shoppers, and back toward the stall where the man who sold it to them is wiping his hands on a cloth and looking as if he has not yet realized he is involved in a larger situation. "He didn’t see both of us," Calan murmurs, low enough that the idea stays between them where it belongs. "So what if I go back and say a hel stole the ice cream?"
He glances over one shoulder, not guiltily, because guilt would imply the plan is already bad, but with the narrow-eyed interest of someone conducting an important study on adult softness. The ice cream man has broad arms, a flour-dusted apron, and the sort of expression that might go either way depending on whether he has ever loved anything helpless. Calan considers the cloth, the stall, the neat row of tubs, the way the man had counted their coins twice without smiling, and then, more importantly, the small chipped bowl of extra sprinkles set near the counter.
"It's tricky," he whispers, because some men will take pity on a boy robbed by a horrible bird and some men will tell that same boy to pound sand, which is a rude position to take when there is clearly still ice cream available. "I think he might believe me if I look sad enough, but not if I look interesting." This is inconvenient, since Calan is fairly sure he almost always looks interesting, which means Carlo also always looks interesting as well.
Calan takes his turn with careful seriousness, licking a melting line before it can get away, then angles the cone back toward his brother without quite letting go. His eyes, however, have already gone past the ice cream, past the press of shoppers, and back toward the stall where the man who sold it to them is wiping his hands on a cloth and looking as if he has not yet realized he is involved in a larger situation. "He didn’t see both of us," Calan murmurs, low enough that the idea stays between them where it belongs. "So what if I go back and say a hel stole the ice cream?"
He glances over one shoulder, not guiltily, because guilt would imply the plan is already bad, but with the narrow-eyed interest of someone conducting an important study on adult softness. The ice cream man has broad arms, a flour-dusted apron, and the sort of expression that might go either way depending on whether he has ever loved anything helpless. Calan considers the cloth, the stall, the neat row of tubs, the way the man had counted their coins twice without smiling, and then, more importantly, the small chipped bowl of extra sprinkles set near the counter.
"It's tricky," he whispers, because some men will take pity on a boy robbed by a horrible bird and some men will tell that same boy to pound sand, which is a rude position to take when there is clearly still ice cream available. "I think he might believe me if I look sad enough, but not if I look interesting." This is inconvenient, since Calan is fairly sure he almost always looks interesting, which means Carlo also always looks interesting as well.
you are a victim of the rules you live by
Code stolen from Queen Sky
