'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan listens to Finch’s origin story with the same serious attention he might give a map, a locked door, or a grown-up saying something they clearly expected him to believe. Washed up on shore with lockpicks is a good answer, admittedly. Better than most answers adults give, because it has tools in it. Still, as Carlo turns that challenging look on Finch, Calan’s own gaze sharpens to match, brows lifting as if to say that if there are multiple approved methods of arriving in the world, they are prepared to hear the full list.
When Finch clarifies what he’d meant, Calan meets his eyes without flinching. Dangerous, Finch says, and shouldn’t, and choice, all in the sort of voice adults use when they have suddenly remembered children are meant to be kept away from interesting things. Calan glances sidelong at Carlo, weighing whether this is a trick question, then looks back at Finch with his chin tipped up. "That is how we’re surviving," he says, completely sincere, though perhaps not in the way Finch means. A boy can only be expected to stay alive through so many afternoons of being told not to climb that, don’t touch this, put that down, where did you get that, before stronger measures become necessary. The pair would surely have died of boredom had they not taken it upon themselves to put their talents to work. "Our dads are usually busy making sure bad things don’t happen in the world," he adds, counting them off in his head as if the whole family has been arranged into a list of unavailable supervisors. "And our sister’s usually busy being queen or planning her wedding, and our oldest brother won’t let us help in his shop anymore because he says we don’t water the plants right."
There is a pause, brief but deliberate, while Calan’s mouth twists with the grave injustice of this. "Which isn’t true. We watered lots of them." Possibly too many. Possibly in the wrong order. Possibly with something that had not been water by the end. "And our other brother is still recovering from spending so many years as a ghost," he finishes, shoulders lifting in a small shrug, as if this is all very straightforward.
When Finch clarifies what he’d meant, Calan meets his eyes without flinching. Dangerous, Finch says, and shouldn’t, and choice, all in the sort of voice adults use when they have suddenly remembered children are meant to be kept away from interesting things. Calan glances sidelong at Carlo, weighing whether this is a trick question, then looks back at Finch with his chin tipped up. "That is how we’re surviving," he says, completely sincere, though perhaps not in the way Finch means. A boy can only be expected to stay alive through so many afternoons of being told not to climb that, don’t touch this, put that down, where did you get that, before stronger measures become necessary. The pair would surely have died of boredom had they not taken it upon themselves to put their talents to work. "Our dads are usually busy making sure bad things don’t happen in the world," he adds, counting them off in his head as if the whole family has been arranged into a list of unavailable supervisors. "And our sister’s usually busy being queen or planning her wedding, and our oldest brother won’t let us help in his shop anymore because he says we don’t water the plants right."
There is a pause, brief but deliberate, while Calan’s mouth twists with the grave injustice of this. "Which isn’t true. We watered lots of them." Possibly too many. Possibly in the wrong order. Possibly with something that had not been water by the end. "And our other brother is still recovering from spending so many years as a ghost," he finishes, shoulders lifting in a small shrug, as if this is all very straightforward.
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
