i'll keep all your secrets by the dozen

Despite himself, an amused (albeit confused) smile grows on Finch's face as the two brothers squawk and prattle, talking over each other and weaving their sentences together in and out until he feels like he's talking to two halves of one chaotic entity rather than two individual little boys. His eyebrows slowly creep up his forehead as the twins speak of being grown(?), and thieving since they learned how to walk, which would have been normal except one of them said that merely a few weeks ago. They speak with the unfettered confidence of a child believing they're telling the absolute truth, so either there's people whispering in their ears lying about how babies are made, or these two little boys are significantly more bizarre than he initially thought. 

He carefully ignores Carlo's swerve into a clear pseudonym halfway through his introduction. In his line of work, no one used their real name with a stranger -- and perhaps these two weren't as clueless as he'd thought if they already had figured that out. "Finch," He replies, clasping his hand formally into Carlo's and shaking, his grip firm and professional, dodging the use of his own last name. There were more than a few wanted posted with his name on them throughout the city and the less these two little thieves got sucked into his disaster of a life, the better chance they had to escape childhood unscathed. He turned and shook Calan's hand as well, keeping the solemn air of formality. 

"And yeah, you huck it out over your shoulder before the con begins. Otherwise you'll have orange peel in your mouth the whole time." He continued smoothly, as if the two never started prattling off about their strange backgrounds. He crossed his arms again and gave the two quick once-overs, catching their airs of confidence that only nine-year-olds could have in themselves. "You learned how to walk a few weeks ago?" He asked slowly, trying to make sense of their overlapping phrases. "And... You were grown? That's now how babies are made, kid," he said with a cheeky grin, more than ready to come up with some other preposterous lie about how babies are made. "Why in the Gods' names are you stealing from people on the street?" Never mind he was doing it at their age. And his current age. That was different. His careful hands ghost down to his pocket, checking his belongings once more, ensuring these little sneaks hadn't pilfered him while he was making his introdictions.

'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean

"Ohhhhhhh," Calan says, the sound stretching out as understanding dawns with all the solemn importance of a trade secret being passed down. "I thought you kept the peels in your mouth so it garbled up your words, and then swallowed for the sick." This is said without embarrassment, because Calan sees no shame in having attempted the advanced version by mistake. If anything, it means he has suffered more thoroughly for the craft than strictly required, which ought to count for something. He files Finch’s correction away immediately, already imagining how much better the next rotten-meat collapse will be when his mouth isn’t full of peel and regret.

When Finch offers his name and hand, Calan is just as prompt as Carlo, wiping his sticky fingers against his shirt before presenting his palm with all the grave professionalism of a boy entering into serious business. His grip is small, firm, and slightly orange-scented, his chin tipping up as he looks Finch over in return. "Well, yeah," he says when Finch tries to make sense of how recently walking had come into the matter. He meets the scrutiny without so much as a blink, because none of this is confusing to him and adults really do waste a lot of time getting stuck on the easy bits. "We got tired of not being understood or being able to move around on our own as newborns, so we channelled some spirits to take us to Ludo’s shrine." He says this exactly the way another child might explain climbing onto a chair to reach a biscuit tin. There had been a problem, they had found a way to solve it, and now here they are, taller, faster, and much better equipped for pocket-work. Simple.

The question about babies has Calan tilting his head toward Carlo, more than happy to let his brother handle whatever ridiculous educational trap Finch is setting there. The important part, as far as Calan is concerned, comes after. "Where else should we be stealing from them?" he asks, brows drawing together as if Finch has pointed out a flaw in their choice of venue rather than their entire activity. "The beach has people with bags and towels and snacks, and half of them aren’t wearing proper pockets, so they have to put things somewhere stupid."

if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

no thank you is how it should have gone, I should stay strong

"Finch," Carlo echoes, as if repeating the older thief's name will etch it permanently into his memory. "Like the bird?" he adds helpfully, because whatever Finch believes, they really did only learn to walk a few weeks ago, and a lot of other learning besides. Reading is still a bit hit and miss (mostly because there are better and more interesting things to do than stare at letters), but understanding flora and fauna has been the sort of necessity that stops inquisitive boys from getting stung by jellyfish or trampled by a herd of ramphire.

Nodding along with Calan's explanation, as the proverbial reins are handed to him when it comes to Finch's reproductive education, he straightens a little more, like he's about to deliver a lecture. "Our dads can't have babies the normal way because they're dads, so they went to the baby garden in King's End and we were grown as flowers in a magic plant. Why, how were you made?" The last part is fired out almost like a challenge, because if there are different ways to grow babies, Carlo thinks it's important that he and his twin are aware of it.

"And if they put their things somewhere stupid," he adds to Calan's point, like doing so might add to its veracity, "then we're teaching them a good lesson by taking them." And also gaining a bag of candy, which he remembers very promptly. "Did you mean it that you were going to keep the sweets?"

but I'm weak, and what's wrong with that? boy oh boy I love it when I fall for that

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

"Yes, Finch like the bird, and I was found washed up on the shore with a set of lockpicks in my hand," He lies smoothly. "That's how all good little thieves are made." His mouth was moving faster than his brain, as it so often did, as his mind races to piece together the bizarre fragments Calan and Carlo fire at him like they're normal fact. Okay, so they were grown in the magic-baby-garden by two loving, albeit perhaps a little negligent, fathers. Alright, sure. That would explain why they were running around, completely unsupervised, trying to see if they could nab things from unsuspecting tourists. He had heard weirder things here in Touchline, and if they were three-week-old little spirit babies, that perhaps explained a decent amount about what Finch has observed about them.

His eyebrows crinkle together a little. "No, you're right that the beach isn't the worst place for stealing, but it's a hotspot for it so people will be on high alert. And they're not going to be bringing their best stuff here." Why was he giving advice to these little boys? That seemed like a bad idea. He rubs a hand down his face, wondering how he got involved in this. Was this some sort of divine punishment? One of the Gods playing a prank on one of their unluckiest followers? Perhaps Ludo was giving him a little wink here, a taste of his own medicine. 

Trying to follow a conversation between these two's seemingly-shared brain is like trying to follow a game of poker in a bouncy house. The threads of their conversation overlap, weaving knotted between each other until they're presenting a wild and messy tapestry and calling it art. "I wasn't asking why, in the sense of 'why this particular area of the city,'" He clarifies slowly, looking each twin in the eye as he speaks. "I was asking why, in the sense of, do you have somewhere else to go? Another way to survive? People looking out for you?" His face darkens a touch as a spare cloud drifts over the bright sun, casting his long shadow over the face of Carlo and Calan. Straightening up from the wall, his shoulders unfold backward, the full lanky, scarred mess of his body on full display for the little weasels, trying to muster up whatever Adult authority he can in the face of this childlike surety. "It's dangerous. You shouldn't do it unless you have any other choice."

'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.

if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

no thank you is how it should have gone, I should stay strong

"So that's what you are?" Carlo asks earnestly. "A good little thief?" From an older boy's mouth or with a slightly sharper tone it might sound mocking, but he means it with all the innocence of a child seeking clarification from someone older and more worldly than they are. "Also how do lockpicks work and where do we get them? We see a lot of people down by the docks getting through doors without keys, but they make it look so quick and easy." And there's only so much that can be learned through watching something brief in bad lighting, as any teenager peeking through a brothel window can tell you.

Oh, but then Finch is getting Serious, and his shadow stretches over them like fingers of darkness that should be intimidating were it not for the yelling pantomime the three of them have judged engaged in out on the beach. "So we don't have any other choice, you see," he says, picking up what Calan puts down seamlessly. "What else do you expect us to do all day? We don't know how to swim or read yet and everyone is too busy to teach us, so if you think about it, we're doing everyone a favour, staying occupied."

And since Finch has neither confirmed nor denied whether he's keeping the bag of candy that Carlos pilfered fair and square, the boy merely juts out his hand for it expectantly. He'd given the stupid wrinkly bit of parchment back, after all.

but I'm weak, and what's wrong with that? boy oh boy I love it when I fall for that

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

"I," Finch says with all the gravity and severity of an incredibly important announcement, "Am a great little thief. That's why I washed up on the shore with the lockpicks." He leaned in, ruffling Carlo's hair (and ew, it was a little sticky, he probably shouldn't have done that). "You had to be born with lockpicks or else you can't use them, sorry," He shrugs, refusing to feel bad about the lie because he was really doing these kids a favor. Carlo's hand is out in front of him and Finch knows what he's waiting for, but he stole that candy fair and square and he isn't going to give it back just because someone shot him the puppy-dog eyes. It wasn't his first time around the block, and definitely not his first time stealing candy from babies. 

It was a rather bleak picture painted by these two, a negligent family too preoccupied with other (probably rather important, if he followed Calan's meandering story threads correctly) duties that took priority over the whip-smart, curious kids grown in their garden. He'd been nine once, and a nine-year-old thief at that, dreaming of adventure and thieving had seemed rather exciting and glamorous before the realities of the trade had set in. Something rises up in his chest, something hurting and furious, and he clenches his fist against it, gritting his teeth against the swelling of fury that threatens to overcome him. No wonder Calan and Carlo resorted to this life; they were scrabbling for something, anything to enrich them as their family floated past them, queens and heroes and botanists who somehow didn't have time for these two smart, funny, admittedly annoying little firecrackers who were clever enough to make it this far in the world on their own. Calan and Carlo should grow up like little spoiled princes, not scrabbling around in the mud for entertainment, Finch thought. 

"You are going to get yourselves killed," He says, dark and quiet and hurting, and it's not a threat but his words are laden with all the omnipotence of an oracle. "You still have a family to miss you. This game isn't as fun as you think," and the scar on his cheek burns like a brand. "Go join a theatre troupe, or something. You'd be good at that. Or ask your dads to get you, like, a tutor. I don't know. Just don't do this. Go home. The thrill isn't worth it."

'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean

Calan accepts the lockpick information with the same grave seriousness he’d given the orange peel lesson, because Finch has already proved he knows at least two things worth knowing. Being born with lockpicks seems inconvenient, but not impossible. Lots of important things are inconvenient before someone finds a better way to do them. He nods slowly, then glances toward Carlo with a small, practical shrug. "Guess we’ll have to keep asking the spirits." 

Calan hears the words Finch is saying next well enough: killed, family, miss you, thrill, worth it. He hears the shape of the warning too, dark and heavy and grown-up in a way that makes the air feel like it’s trying to sit on his shoulders. What he does not hear is the hurt underneath it, not properly. He is nine, and three weeks old, and his stomach still feels orange-peel wrong, and adults are always saying things will get them killed. Their dads have said it about roofs and boats and cannons and sharp things and going places without telling anyone, and while Calan has gathered that death is meant to be avoided, he has not yet been convinced that death is all that bad. Not when his babysitter is also his dead nonna. 

His expression shifts as he looks at Finch, the bright interest from moments ago cooling into something narrower. Finch had been very cool when he caught Carlo. Finch had known about orange peels and pockets and common distractions. Finch had seemed, for several excellent minutes, like the sort of person who might tell them where the good doors were and how not to get grabbed by the wrist next time. Now he sounds like everyone else.

Calan flicks a glance toward Carlo, sharp and quick, the kind that says he is reconsidering the quality of this arrangement, then looks back at Finch with his chin lifting by a fraction. "Why?" he asks, not whining exactly, but not softening either. "Just ’cause you say so?"

if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

no thank you is how it should have gone, I should stay strong

"I bet Enzo or Mateo would know something about how they work too," Carlo considers, because being born without lockpicks sounds like the kind of problem solved by spirits, and knowing how to use them sounds like something their brothers should probably have come across. Either way, it's evident that whatever obstacles Finch intends on setting up before them, the Taliesin twins plan on getting through via cunning, contacts or, if neither of those work, a well aimed swan-dive.

But then Finch is getting all morose and Adulty in a way that is less cool now and feels more like the sound of their fathers yelling be back before lunch! and don't do anything too interesting or you might accidentally have fun! (Creative liberty may have been taken with that second one, but Carlo thinks the point still stands).

In fact, after exchanging that quick, sharp glance with his twin, his hand drops back to his side as if he's determined that Finch is not going to be as good and fair as he had been in returning what he'd pick-pocketed. That calls for at least a small amount of retribution, and Carlo delivers it promptly.

By kicking Finch in the shin.

"You're not a great or a little thief, you know. You're just a bad... businessman." His eyebrows raise at that, and he's already swerving backwards as if anticipating being swiped at or grabbed.

but I'm weak, and what's wrong with that? boy oh boy I love it when I fall for that

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

Finch is about to give him many, many good reasons beyond just saying so, starting with mentioning what usually happens when an adult finds a little hand picking their pocket and explaining the specifics of a broken wrist, but then a little foot connects with his shin and he doubles over in pain. The shin is one of those places on the body where it’s soundly unfun go get kicked by a child, shoe connecting strict with bone, and he crumples to one knee, breathing fast through the fire licking up his leg.

“Okay,” He gasps, “We’re doing this.” He grabs Carlo by the scruff of his neck, like he’s nothing more than a little, wiggly kitten, and hauls him up until his feet are just barely dangling on the cobblestone street. The hand that isn’t holding onto him reaches out and snaps at his wrist, squeezing it tight.

“The thing is,” He says, casually and conversationally, like he’s remarking on the weather or the price of eggs, “It’s not just ‘cause I say so. Some of us have had a little more experience in pickpocketing. Some of us know that usually, if someone gets caught, they lose a finger. And that’s the best case scenario. And you, my friend, are very catchable.” He gives Carlo a little shake before dropping him on the ground unceremoniously.

Out of his pocket, he reappears the candy and tosses it up a short distance before it lands back on his palm. Surreptitiously, he disappears his money and the map into a pocket deep in his jacket right by his heart, nearly unreachable by those with itchy fingers. The bag of candy goes up and down, up and down, a gentle arc, dancing tantalizingly in the air.

“Tell you what,” He says, lifting an eyebrow at the two sneaks. The candy disappears into a pocket, fingers snaking in and out before Finch can even blink. “If you can pick it out of my pocket without me feeling it, you can get it back. If not?” He leaned back against the cool wall, ignoring the way his shin was throbbing. He’d have to ice that later. “I’ll break your wrist and tell your dads. Deal?”