JAVS AND JAZZ'S SCRAMBLED IMPROMPTU PARTY SUNDAE

[blythe]

[/i] count--heading his way. Absolutely delicious if his ooc persona could remark, but as he cannot, that part should duly be scratched from the record. Perhaps that opiate headed his way would be able to divert him from the catastrophe the day would be for approximately four hours until the day began to cool down. One could certainly only hope. And as if looking out for the mysterious pair heading his way, Llewelyn ran a hand through his hair and reclined against the tree to get a good panoramic view of most of the school.[/ul]

[Javert]

“We are going,” said Opium Waybright, with the air of someone who is not usually denied their wishes, or the air of someone who is continuously denied but refuses to take no for an answer, “to go swimming.”

Standing with one hand just above the jut of her hip, the other shading eyes silvering in the gold of the sunlight, Opal admired the lake from afar, fully intending to admire it from within its aqueous embrace within minutes—or moments, depending on how fast the other girl could run. The heat was oppressive. If she had bothered to withdraw a knife from about her person, she fancied that it would have been able to slice right through the atmosphere, creating a tantalizing pocket of cooler air that would be immediately overcome and overpowered by the heat. She could feel the cotton of her dress beginning to adhere to her skin by the sweat of her back, unpleasantly.

Damn, thought Opal sourly, rolling her shoulders, attempting to set the beads of sweat lingering there into motion. This was only one of the reasons she hated clothing. The rest she benevolently allowed others to figure out themselves.

Lingering still in the doorway of the school, her back embraced by cooler airs as her face was assailed by humidity, Frances Crawford followed Opal's gaze. Admittedly, the lake did appear particularly inviting, but Fran knew that it was merely an illusion, a mirage in the desert, something completely forbidden masked in the guise of something tantalizing, as such things often were. She did enjoy swimming, but she did not enjoy the prospect of being expelled from the school a week or so following her entrance. “Well,” said Fran noncommittally, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear as she squinted into the sunlight, “as much fun as that would be—and I do think that it would be very much fun—I don't think that it's allowed. Is it? No,” she convinced herself firmly, shaking her head, “it's definitely not. Who knows what could be in that lake? There could be jellyfish...” As Opal threw up her hands, exasperated, Fran hastily corrected, “Well, alright, not jellyfish, that was silly of me, but... You know...”

“No, I don't,” said Opal, cheerfully enough to assure Fran that she had lost her argument, and miserably. “C'mon. I won't take no for an answer.” Grinning mischievously, with undertones of triumph in the set of her jaw, Opal turned to take the Floater by the hand, and she gave her a playful tug before the gesture became more insistent and Fran tumbled into her. Laughing, Opal snaked an arm around Fran's waist and began to march towards the lake, forcing the girl to walk with her, as Fran smiled, dutifully lifted her skirts a bit to dissuade her feet from tripping on them, and quietly wondered what exactly she had gotten herself into, and if she even wanted to know.

“Well,” repeated Fran breathlessly as the unlikely pair proceeded across the grounds, Opal's long legs consuming space at a pace that Fran was unfortunately being forced to match, “maybe you can swim, and I'll just garden and watch, ow, sorry,”--only Opal's firm arm around her waist had kept her from stumbling into a mole hill--“because, you know, my little garden is right there, and the bluebells have been very thirsty lately with this heat, and I would feel terrible if I just neglected them...”

They were nearing the lake, now, and, unconsciously, Opal was nearly running, requiring poor Fran to stumble helplessly along, one arm flailing out to steady herself. A drop of sweat formed at Opal's temple and followed the strong lines of her jaw in its descent. Only a few more yards, she told herself, the words repeating themselves like a mantra against the torridity, a few more yards more, and then they were flying past a blonde boy of questionable attractiveness, and Opal looked over her shoulder to snag a closer look, and Fran frantically yelled something in her ear before they were barreling into something too soft and too short to be a tree and collapsing in a tangled mess of limbs against the hard ground.

Opal withdrew her smarting arm from underneath Fran—who was certainly heavier than the corsets made her out to be—and spat a curse past vibrating teeth, only to explode into paralyzing laughter moments later. Fran, dazed, enjoyed the coolness of the soil against her bare arms for a moment, wondering if anyone would object to her burrowing like a mole into the ground in pursuit of a hiding place from the sun's rays. Fran was shaken into reality by Opal's laughter beside her, however, and she bolted to an upright position, clutching her head as it protested the action. Her eyes focused on the tan face before her. “Oh, my goodness,” she gushed, horrified, “I am so very sorry—I mean, I'm clumsy, I know, but I'm usually not even that bad, usually I manage to get out of someone's way before I run into them, and... Are you alright?!” She didn't recognize the girl, and thus felt twice as awful, since the poor soul wasn't used to her frequent displays of gracelessness.

“Blondie,” yelled Opal, supine, towards the boy she had seen, mirth distorting her words, unwilling or unable to move further, “you had better be worth this.” Finally, slowly, she sat up, running both hands through her tangled hair, confident that no bones were broken and that her own knife had not stabbed her. Fran was spewing apologies like a geyser to the girl they had collided with, so Opal did not consider herself obligated to offer any apologies. Instead, she looked back towards the boy, quirking a brow. “Come here," she demanded, "so I can get a closer look.”[/size]

[blythe]

[/i]

Goodness, she was spot on. Though, considering how the girl seemed to her, she was surprised there weren't a few other well-meaning questions and apologies tacked on in the flailing way she was speaking. The only proper thing to do would be to sit up, shake off the fall and wave off the apologies with laughter. In fact, if Natalya hadn't been in such a lousy mood and so hot from the lousy sun, she might have actually joined in the laughing party with the other girl and a strange male voice. As it was, she was still in a lousy mood, so Natalya laid there with a blank expression for her own face's decoration.

In fact, it would be a few more moments before she could summon the composure she needed. When it did arrive-- late, as usual-- she pressed her palms firmly against the ground and wriggled herself up into a sitting position, meanwhile letting a smile trickle onto her face once again because she really wasn't Natalya without it. "Oh, please, don't worry in the least bit! It's certainly my fault because people are always running into me. Perhaps I crouch down in awkward positions? I'll have to do better next time, certainly! But sometimes I just get so caught up in nature. Like I'll admire the butterflies and flowers instead of picking up litter like I'm supposed to which is probably why I'm in trouble, but, well, we can't help nature can we? So don't you worry about a thing."

At least the spill hadn't damaged her tongue. Regretfully, some might add, but Natalya had a feeling that this girl before her acting very much Tali-ish had to be someone who was very friendly and easy to get to know, and you couldn't hold anything against any such persons as that. As for the other perpetrator... Judgment would be held until she could prove herself to be a wonderful person that she probably, maybe, hopefully was. Tilting her head in the other's direction, Natalya pushed herself up once more to shakily get back to her feet.

And once balance could be recalled-- it was also late, I'm afraid- her hands moved to brush the dirt against her dress and then hold themselves out for Fran. "If you are injured, though, miss. I could certainly run to the school to get you something."[/ul]

[/i] Of course I am, he mentally answered before she could finish. He was worth a hell of a lot of things, and a fall was certainly on the list. Rolling his shoulders back, he flashed her a smile and then looked away. Not towards the lake, he decided suddenly because the glaring reflection of the sun threatened to blind him, but out at the gardens and then past her shoulder to the two still left on the ground. Sadly, he noted, none of them seemed to be wearing bathing suits. Then happily, he assumed that they would rather strip into their underwear and jump in which was always a more intimate view.

“Come here, so I can get a closer look.” Just as he finally decided it would be polite to ask if they were alright, he was being commanded to come over. Goodness, the girl acted like a damned Pretty Face... or, if God was really benevolent, a Heartbreaker. Oh, Lord, he did answer prayers, didn't he? Pushing off the tree, he took a lazy step towards Opal, his eyes resting on an object of interest just past her shoulder. I can't dawdle much longer," he admitted. "I did something despicable recently to my brother, and I'm sure his temper won't allow him to find the humor in the situation."

He was telling her this for her protection, of course. Not for any other reason because Llewelyn always has only the noblest of intentions.[/ul]

[Javert]

Fran's alarm intensified as the girl opposite her said nothing in reply. Immediately her brain sputtered into overdrive, like a chaise with a pair of feverish stallions pulling it. What if she had a concussion? Had she hit her head hard upon the ground? Fran had been too indisposed to notice. Immediately, her lips twisted into a frown of worry, her eyes searching the girl's cranium as if expecting a cartoonish bump to suddenly appear and distort the curls of hair around it. Or, thought Fran, worrying still, perhaps she was very angry with her, and had no wish to respond with petty niceties to the fervent spew of nonsense issuing from Fran's mouth. Worse still would be if the girl was both caustic and concussed.

Since Opal's vocal cords seemed able to produce only bellowing laughter, Fran (after shooting her a glance that could have been interpreted as cross if it had been on the visage of anyone else) opened her own mouth to apologize once again, or to pose a hesitant query as to the presence of any unbearable pain in the girl's head, when a smile touched the girl's lips and she spoke, not, observed Fran, in the manner of one who was either grievously injured or incensed. In fact, she spoke somewhat in the manner of Fran herself! Fran, however, considered herself often long-winded, and she would not attach so undesirable an adjective to this girl; instead, she decided as she listened, smiling, this girl simply had a lot to say.

“Oh, no, it wasn't your fault at all,” protested Fran with a shake of her head, wincing as she realized that her head plainly desired to remain stationary. “I should have been watching where I was going, and we were moving quite quickly. I couldn't really put on the brakes very well. Even if I had, I probably would have ended up stumbling into you anyway, and we would be in the same spot of trouble as we are now!” Shrugging at the words, her hands quickly flew to her mouth as the girl confided a love for nature. Certainly the gesture was histrionic, and certainly many students of Florence's were as enamored with the natural word as Fran was herself, but the discovery of a kindred spirit had surprised and set Fran all aflutter—especially, she thought as she dilatorily digested the rest of the girl's words, since she seemed not to be a student at all, for why would a student be picking up litter? She must be a gypsy, concluded Fran as a smile continued to dawn like sunlight upon her face, and this further intrigued her, because she had yet to encounter one, and knew embarrassingly little about them excepting an assumption all must love nature very much to live on the grounds so near the woods and the gardens. Therefore, in Fran's eyes, the girl was being continually elevated from injured innocent bystander to kindred spirit to a sort of mysterious celebrity.

“You do that, too?” gasped Fran in a sort of reverent awe. “Oh, goodness, I know exactly what you mean! I'll be trying to get something accomplished, you know, outside, doing something for my mum or something, or for my sisters, except that usually Jenny is helping me out because she knows how easily distracted I am, and even if she is helping me I'll get so distracted by the gardens or the trees or the sky—especially clouds! I love looking for shapes in the clouds!” She cast her gaze momentarily upward at this and discovered a faultless blue sky, which elicited a giggle. “Not that I could do that now, thank goodness, because I'd probably forget to keep talking... Anyway,” she said with a dismissive flap of her hand, “don't feel sorry at all, because it's not your fault, and I feel perfectly awful about this. I hope you're not upset.”

When the girl rose, her suspicions seemed confirmed, and Fran was suddenly convinced that the girl was rising to stalk away and whisper to the other members of her gypsy camp how awful and clumsy this red-haired buffoon was, but then the girl was holding out her hands, and Fran happily accepted them, thanking her profusely as she pulled herself up. She blinked as the girl offered to run to the school. “Injured?” she echoed, dusting off the front of her own dress in vain. “Me? I'm perfectly fine. I was worried that you were the one who got hurt. It was two of us toppling into the one of you! That's very kind of you, though,” she said, and meant it, and wondered again just who this girl was, and regretted that this was only the first time she had seen her, since Fran was already on her merry way towards considering this stranger a friend.

Meanwhile, Opal, effectively ignoring this stranger in favor of another one, placed her hands behind her and shifted her weight upon them, leaning back to better inspect the approaching male. She had no preferences in the opposite sex, no favored hair or eye color, no required aura they were to exude—they simply had to be attractive. As he approached, however, Opal, lifting her chin and her lips into a slight smile, found that he was the kind of attractive that she hadn't seen for a while, and that he very obviously knew the havoc his exterior could cause. If it couldn't launch a thousand ships, it could possibly launch some fists from warring jealous girls. Whether confidence or arrogance, it pleased Opal immensely, and as he drawled something, not even looking at her, she resolved to become the center of his attention immediately. Shifting back into a sitting position, she held up her hands to him. “Help me up, then, so we won't waste any time.” She paused, then, one hand dropping slightly to run through her hair, as if she was already debating changing her mind. “Wait. Maybe we should dawdle. Is your brother as handsome as you are?”

Fortunately for Opal, her question was answered almost immediately, as a distant figure burst from the school and seemed to be sprinting towards their miniature impromptu congregation. As he came into view, Opal was thrown into hysterics again, her arms descending at her laughter before she thrust her hands up at the boy again. “Christ,” she laughed, “you should have told me he was your twin. I would have gone and run into someone again just so we could dawdle some more.”

As Fran turned also to regard the newest subject of Opal's affection, Lou Bishop slowed his run to a stalk, hands curled already into fists at his side. He needed a smoke, by God, and he needed it now, but, more importantly, and thus at the top of his to-do list, he needed to slam his fist into his brother's nose. An inflamed shape on Lou's cheek that strongly resembled a hand flared almost as intensely as his eyes did. “YOU DIE,” was what Fran's innocent ears deigned to hear, whilst Opal clearly heard every other obscenity that was thrown into and mashed with the aforementioned.[/size]

[blythe]

[/b] came an answer a full minute after she spoke. His eyes flickered to her once during that time just to see what she meant by “help me up.” When he caught her in a sitting position, his shoulders rolled back more as if he were irritated rather than interested, but the amused smirk remained, and he started taking the necessary steps to be within the radius of help. He entered the circle around the same time she was forced back into strident laughter that assailed his ears before they became used to the sound.

Meanwhile, his own amusement both skyrocketed and plummeted simultaneously, causing a motley of emotions to cross his face, anywhere from discomfort to antipathy to the expression of one very near laughter or a sneeze. In then end, however, whatever emotion the arrival of his brother eventually provoked the most, it didn’t matter too much for his body, as always, decided upon high amusement. The smirk that had momentarily vanished to hide decided at once that it was safe once again to resume his post and did so in full force. The girl before him only heightened the experience of seeing Lou’s face with her laughter, even if it wasn’t aimed at the same thought.

“Christ, you should have told me he was your twin. I would have gone and run into someone again just so we could dawdle some more.”

”Does he look worth dawdling for? Oh, wait, you’re a masochist, aren’t you?” Llewelyn asked quietly when she managed to calm herself, and then he crouched down to take her hands. Gently he moved his fingers over her palms and then tightly gripped them so that he could drag her onto her feet once again because it was more effective to have a standing shield than one his brother could make a running jump over to tackle and successively eliminate his doppelganger. As for what his brother was spewing forth in a frothy mess? It went right in one ear and out the other. It’s really a daily occurrence to hear abhorrent insults and threats coming from his own—er, brother’s—mouth, so they didn’t phase him as much as when they were kids.

”Tsk, Lou, remember what happened the last time you punched me royally? Do you really feel like switching schools yet again?” asked he curiously, his eyes not leaving Opal’s face this time. It was a habit of his to focus on an object he wasn’t talking to, which allowed him to multitask and not seem so, well, one track minded. Thanks to his brother’s impromptu appearance, he allowed himself to study the girl closely, trying to decide what exactly her face hinted at for her personality. A dry sense of humor was something he already picked up, but… Was there anything else? ”Not meaning to be rude, but do you care for my face enough to convince my brother that pounding it in does no woman any good?”

It was really rather funny. The last girl he talked to today was the reason Llewelyn’s brother was so pissed. The evidence laid in the bright, cartoonishly red hand print along the contouring of his brother’s face. Now, the blonde hair boy debated between antagonizing his brother and pretending he didn’t exist and that if he did, his fists wouldn’t be primed for attack. Letting his eyes flicker to the lake, he studied the scenery before glancing back to Opal. ”Your name?”

Pretending his brother wasn’t there was always a wonderfully provoking tactic. Just let him simmer as Llewelyn went on his day just magnified the fact that while he could go prancing around naked, it would be Lou who would be branded as the nudist. Oh, life really was worth living with entertainment like that. All it took was a small nickname change. Granted, there were times when people mistook him for Lou, but a flourish of ornamental language and sweeping gestures usually turned them off his trail—or just bathed Lou in a homosexual light—both of which agreed well with him. ”Oh, hold on, I should introduce myself first. I’m Llewelyn Bishop. I don’t have any nicknames by which you can refer to me, but just calling me ‘Handsome’ should suffice. The wonderfully charming young man over yonder happens to be named Llewelyn Bishop, but you don’t have to call him anything at all. Just focus on me, please.”

Opal must have been a very lucky girl. Not many people heard the words “thank you” from Llewelyn when a request—command-- was completed, to get a “please” was a rarity being studied by major scientists all over the globe, and to get a “please” on a day when he was particularly annoying was like seeing Hayley’s comet three times in your lifetime. Unheard of.
[/ul]

[/s]

Her bosom was just smashed more in general than by a specific body part, so the pain was widespread and dull rather than concentrated and throbbing. Really, though, the kisser for her was her cheek which had already been abused by a number of occasions. At some point in the tumble, it had managed to hit a rock or something hard and unfeeling in her purse because it was beginning to throb painfully again after the shock had successfully worn off. There had been hope it would be gone relatively soon. The swelling was nonexistent and it was beginning to turn that sickly green shade again which meant that it would soon be caramel colored and normal once more. However, with the new pressure, it—once more—was going to turn pink and purple, starting the process all over again.

While blinking back tears so that she wouldn’t have the girl’s face marred by blurriness, Natalya let her talk on uninterrupted, feeling empathy when the wince crossed over her face. “Oh, no, it wasn't your fault at all; I should have been watching where I was going, and we were moving quite quickly. I couldn't really put on the brakes very well. Even if I had, I probably would have ended up stumbling into you anyway, and we would be in the same spot of trouble as we are now!” came the flurried words marking another shared trait besides a tendency to ramble—again, she apologized for adding another unintentionally negative word to the descriptions of Franala. A lack of grace at times was something to which she could certainly relate.

Within the school, she found that everything that could appear in a hall or room was in serious danger as soon as she entered it. Not used to being so crowded by things that were breakable, her wide gestures and meandering way of walking never seemed to add a loud crash to the music of her life. It was a wonder that her boss didn’t just confine her outside to the gardens and then risk this sort of thing inside. Actually, it was a wonder that they still kept her on the payroll, though, most of her money went to replacing things. Perhaps she had actually racked up a debt that was going to take twenty years to pay off, and Florence’s intended on keeping her that long. How depressing.

”I am a very clumsy person too! There are so many vases and picture frames I’ve smashed since starting to work here,” she finally remarked verbally, being very good at reigning her talkative nature in. It was always a pity to her when the dam failed because it meant that someone’s ears were being constantly assailed by the voice of an eight-year-old which really isn't that pleasant when one considers how children do love to talk on and on about nothing in particular at all. She then moved to reply to the next nicely sized paragraph of words that Miss Crawford decided to grace her with next; the smile on her face grew a fraction of an inch at each word. Yes, meaning that it was quite wide now, brimming with a sense of camaraderie at the recollection that was being shared.

“Oh, if I weren’t suddenly determined to keep your mind on track, I would lie back and study the clouds this instant. That’s how sad my concentration level is. Pathetic, right? But, Miss, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. Obviously your friend and you were in a rush somewhere, and I don’t want to make you late.” Even if she wasn’t the one talking up a storm, the young woman was certainly encouraging the talk, and though it was more than nice to listen to, she really did believe that being there was causing a terrible inconvenience.

“Injured? Me? I'm perfectly fine. I was worried that you were the one who got hurt. It was two of us toppling into the one of you! That's very kind of you, though.”

“I’m perfectly fine as well. Isn’t that grand, Miss…?” the question hung so that she could deny giving a name if it wasn’t something that appealed to her. Meanwhile, Natalya was completely distracted by the newest addition and his loud exclamation of curses and a threat of death. Shifting to take a step towards the young man, it became apparent to Natalya that she needed glasses. Or sleep because to her, he looked exactly like the other—Oh, dude, twins! They were very handsome twins, handsome and intimidating because even if she wasn’t on the receiving end of the curses… they were slightly nerve-racking. As the gypsy girl let her head bounce from side to side to see if she could tell a difference, she caught the tail end of one of Llewelyn’s statements which happened to boggle her mind.

“Uh, Mr. Bishop,” she began, facing the newest Lou rather than the old one. “The Headmaster tends to come out occasionally. Maybe you could wait… a few hours until he goes to bed?” Something about seeing enough students expelled in front of her pushed the need to stop anything before it happened. Awkward situations weren’t her specialty, though. Oh well.
[/ul]

ooc;; 2000 words even. bah. xD

[Javert]

((2306 words. <3))

One full minute, 60 glorious seconds, allowed Opal to begin a more in-depth study of the face still ignoring her; such an expression would not stop her, however, because despite being ignored, she had no intentions whatsoever of returning the gesture. Instead, she stared, openly and unabashedly, as she tended to conduct most of her affairs (the double-meaning is benignly being left open to interpretation). He was, she decided, tilting her head, brows arced, more than attractive. Much more. He was divine. While not a connoisseur of beauty in all of its forms, she was an expert in beauty of the human anatomy, and she recognized the near-perfection of the face before her. She did not so much appreciate the alabaster of his skin--it labeled him as an upper-class pretty boy who had possibly never experienced a hard day's work in his life, but the adjectives 'pretty boy' attached to the preceding statement forgave him, in her eyes--as she did the deep blue of his eyes, the thick gold of his lashes catching and reflecting the sunlight, the pink of his full lips that she already decided would fit like puzzle pieces with her own. His face housed hues that any artist would crave to place on a palette and transfer and translate to paper, yet no painting could do justice to the visage before her.

60 seconds later, Opal decided, much more succinctly, that he would look even better with his clothes off. She was somewhat surprised that her less-than-spotless mind had not provided this conclusion from the get-go. It must have been the heat.

Most girls would have been schooled to blush at such a thought, the broad term encompassing the pristine red-head not so much beside her, anymore, as above her, yet Opal was not most girls, and anything that contained or even suggested the word school in a subtle, roundabout manner made her sneeze and possibly raised her internal body temperature (already hotter than some due to a constant supply of body heat from others) to a feverish degree. Therefore, Opal did not blush, but smile. This was a mein that many females construed as a sneer and were immediately infuriated by. "I'm only a masochist when I think I deserve it," she said, truthfully, and this curious smile conveyed more than any further explanation would have. If Fran had so much as glanced at her smile, let alone heard her words, she would have immediately blossomed into a blush to rival the color of her hair. It was that potent.

The expressions that paraded so obstreperously across the now quiet boy's face quirked this smile into one of genuine amusement. If his twin was more or less some bestial monstrosity hellbent on crushing the school beneath one gargantuan claw, he himself was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde juxtaposed, captured just between transformations. "Hmm." She humored him, pretended to consider. "I'd definitely dawdle for him," she soon informed him, nodding, then shrugging as if he were not to be offended since it was merely her nature to be willing to dawdle for any mildly attractive human being, especially one that was the mirror image of the man before her. It was, in fact, unsurprisingly, in her nature.

It was also idiosyncratic of her to immediately invade his personal space upon her return to a bipedal stance, remaining close, closer than most would deem comfortable, not nearly close enough for Opal but at least a tiptoe in the right direction. The distance between them, or lack of it, allowed her to hold his hands a moment longer than was necessary, and for the gesture to be conveyed in a manner that would assure him it was not accidental. She noticed him studying her. She did not wonder what he was thinking. This close to her, she reasoned, not so much arrogantly as out of personal experience, they all tended to think close to the same thing. Instead, she lowered her chin slightly, allowing him a better view of the crystalline eyes surveying him just as intently, and not lending but returning coquettish shadows to the curve of her lips that previous angles had borrowed from her. Without warning, excepting, perhaps, a flicker of a smirk detectable by a particularly keen eye, she pressed a hand to his cheek, her fingertips memorizing on impact the planes below them. "I think I might," she told him, quietly, and just as quickly, her hand was returning innocently to her own hair, coaxing it to fall over one shoulder, looking him square in the eye, as if willing some sort of nonverbal dare to issue from her gaze.

When he looked away, she did not interpret that as an admission of defeat; instead, she remained looking at him, knowing that, momentarily, she would become the center of his attention again. She did. She opened her mouth to give her name, closed it into an expectant line to mirror the arch of her brow as he deigned to give his instead. "Llewelyn?" she repeated, somewhat incredulously, obviously amused. "Sounds like a name for a girl or a doll." She had never heard the name before and doubted that she would hear it again--and then did, approximately 6 seconds after it had reached her dubious ears the first time. "Well, I'll be damned," she said cheerfully, as her gaze shifted from twin to twin, her smile widening perceptibly as thoughts which shall not be repeated presented themselves at the pair of them. "Llewelyn A and Llewelyn B? No... I'd have to call you both Handsome, I think. I'll have to think of a nickname just for you. Give me time." She winked, the gesture intended solely for him, as opposed to his equally attractive twin. At the moment, Llewelyn A or Handsome A or whoever the one she was currently nose-to-nose with was the one monopolizing her attention; she would reserve some time for the other one eventually, though. She was quite certain of that.

Her turn. She often offered a hand for shaking to other females, just to see their responses, gauge their alarm or horror or disgust or confusion on a scale from 1 to 10. To Llewelyn A or Handsome A or whoever the one she was currently nose-to-nose with was, she tilted her head, and grinned. "I'm Opium Waybright. You can call me," she assured him, the words accompanied by a hand on his shoulder, "whatever you'd like. I tend to go by Opal, though, mostly because no one's creative enough to come up with anything better.” She rolled her eyes. “Feel free to give me some new material to work with."

She created some space between them after long last, more than a hair, less than a smidgen, so that she could look over at Llewelyn B or Handsome B or whoever the one she was currently not nose-to-nose with was. "So, Handsome A," she said to the other, one hand on her hip, inspecting with distaste the red mark upon the face of his twin, "what did you do to him, anyway?"

"Yeah, Llewelyn," growled Llewelyn. "Do tell." Sarcasm oozed from Lou's words with the general consistency of molasses and the potency of acid rain. He had finally stalked close enough to clearly view the smirk that he had known would be on his brother's face, and was even more annoyed to see a similar grin of amusement upon the face of the girl he was speaking to. He was, to put it politely, not in the mood. At all. At all at all. At all at all at all. At all at all at all at all. At all at all at all at all at all, in fact. This image was reinforced by Lou rolling his shoulders back and his sleeves up to his elbows and generally looking rather menacing. He grudgingly assumed that it would be below Llewelyn to innocently pose the question, 'does your face hurt?', and follow it up with some demeaning, inane response like, 'it's killing me!', and yet if such a query were to be posed, Lou would have to respond, why, hell yes, it does. The Pretty Faces may have had heads full of helium or less, but their hands were definitely comprised entirely of flesh and bone, and when they connected solidly with one's face, it hurt like a sonofa... Er. Gun. Unconsciously, he almost went to rub the smarting face in question, hoping to quell the pain and erase its presence, but he knew that such a gesture would go unnoticed by his brother, and, therefore, he kept his hands closed into fists.

Nostrils flared, chest just short of heaving, Lou was forced to stop before the smirking girl (who was now quite obviously eying him up and down), glaring over her shoulder at the infuriatingly placid visage behind her. He was used to Llewelyn's shields, and although they usually served to amuse him with the cowardice that was betrayed by his brother's employing them, his vexation was now only increased tenfold. "Getting some girl to protect you since you can't do it yourself, Llewelyn?" he observed, already stepping round the girl, gauging the distance between their current position and the lake and estimating how far a mighty shove would send Llewelyn sprawling, before the girl pressed both palms against his chest. Behind her hands he felt a surprising strength that stopped him just as efficiently as his surprise did.

"Look," said Opal to Lou, in a conversational whisper, "I don't know what he did to you, but it must have been really funny and I wish I had been there to watch"--she was laughing; Lou barely repressed a growl--"and I would really appreciate it if you didn't mess up that gorgeous face of his." A pause. "Yours." An eyeroll. "Whatever." Her eyes hardened. "Here. If you lay a hand on him I will beat your sorry ass from here to the slums, where some others will be right pleased to finish the job." She patted his inflamed cheek, condescendingly. "No hard feelings. Your face is pretty, too, but I have a feeling you'd go for his nose or eyes, and that would be like blasphemy or something. I'd be sure to keep damage to you below your neck." As Lou was unusually speechless—even for him—Opal stepped backward, a twin on either side, looking from one to the other, smiling benevolently, arms outstretched so that one of her hands was on two identical shoulders. “Now kiss and make up.”

As this general tomfoolery was occurring mere feet away from her, Frances was completely preoccupied by her own conversation, and by the fast friend that she was quite certain she was making in this complete stranger. Fran was already discovering in the girl a small plethora of similarities between them, and, thus, her smile was growing wider and wider, the sparkle in her eyes gaining in brilliance, although the latter could have simply and less poetically been caused by the sun reflected in the murmuring waters of the lake. She observed, too, that the other girl's face had also donned a wide grin, and this only served to increase Fran's happiness, which was gaining momentum in its ascent with every passing moment and word. “Oh, goodness, don't you worry one bit,” she said in response to the girl's admittance to slaying breakable objects. She glanced in both directions, as if the blades of grass or the pebbles in the lake were eavesdropping, before confiding in a stage whisper, “I only came to the school last week and I've already shattered a little glass figurine that my mum gave to me! Isn't that awful? It was a sweet little horse that looked like my dear pony Duchess. I was quite upset, for it was such a quaint little thing, but now I can look back and laugh because it was my own darn clumsiness that broke it, as usual!” She laughed indeed, giggling behind her hand, blushing at the memory of it alone.

“That isn't pathetic at all!” Fran assured the girl, then, gnawing her lip, she corrected, laughing slightly as she shrugged, “Well, even if it is, at least we can be pathetic together!” She blinked, unwilling for this pleasant conversation with this pleasant girl to end. “Don't you worry about it at all,” said Fran with a wave of her hand. “We were just, um, on our way to look at the lake”--swimming was against school rules, after all—“but here we are looking at it now so it's just fine! Oh! I'm Frances Crawford, silly me, I should have said that earlier,” she told her, bobbing a very small curtsy, not out of a lack of respect but because she didn't want to fall again; the breadth and genuineness of her smile, she hoped, would make up for it. “But, please, feel free to call me Fran, if you'd like. What's your name?”

Alas: their exchange was interrupted by the newest addition to their party, and Fran turned to regard him as the other girl did, and her response was quite similar to the other girl's. Fran's eyes widened and flickered from twin to twin, trying to discern any difference between them despite their radically different expressions and bearing. She saw none. The one, however, had his sleeves rolled up, and Fran's imagination suggested that steam would soon be rolling from his ears, and, becoming slightly alarmed despite Opal's cool grin, she said, hastily, “Now, now, I'm sure a nice little chat could solve any, er, disagreements between you two... Right?”

The glare she was suddenly transfixed by from one twin, and the one that was then directed to the other girl at her words, assured Fran that she was wrong.[/size]

[blythe]

[/i] came the that statement caused him to quirk his left eyebrow up and his mouth to simultaneously dip and arch into a Cheshire cat smile. There was nothing too cryptic about her, he decided, there was no doubt he had a Heartbreaker on his hands unless she deviated to an even less respected female clique, the Suck-Ups. While trying to decide how much pride the girl before him had, his eyes glanced to her hands on his and then to study absently the distance between their bodies. He breathed out hard through his nose and then once again, always again, returned his eyes back to the girl’s face, taking the moment to survey his own model for the afternoon’s art class. Except he instinctively reached to hold her chin in his hand, preferring to capture the angles he wanted rather than what she allowed him. Capture he did, as his eyes slide over the contours—the shadows—marking her face and accent the slope of her nose and the color of her eyes, both of which, unfortunately, were too small of details for Llewelyn to pay attention to at the moment.

"Hmm… Definitely dawdle for him," she said and his hand dropped instantly from her chin, shaking as if it had caught fire from her words. He took a step back from her, increasing the space between him and her, recognizing his own flammability when it came to his brother. To even have someone consider Lou as a potential ogling target was enough to sour his expression. There was nothing remotely romantic about him, the oaf, the ogre, the ridiculously comical boy who had been nicer than a sugary girl in childhood and so made many people predict that he would grow up to be one of them, snogging his boyfriend in private to hide the sin from all eyes but God. The only comfort Llewelyn got out of Opal’s remark was that it meant his brother would soon be there in person and any brush with his attitude should be enough to turn every girl off within his vicinity if not turn them into one of them.

Licking his lips and setting his jaw, the young man moved so that her hand would be caught on the ripple, rising and falling at his command instead of moving at hers. It was a sense of control that he desired over people and while her forwardness provoked a flash of amusement and approval in his eyes, it was in his nature to take any control that he felt would cross the lines of gender roles in this dance if Opal were to accidentally slip over the line. His brother might be confused and overwhelmed by pretty girls enough to let them dip him into the feminine role, but Handsome A before her was far too stubborn a weed to bend—and forgive Raina for using multiple metaphors that clash like dancing and boundaries and plant life.

"I think I might.” The smirk/smile/whatever was there before the disapproving frown returned to center stage at those words, and he leaned closer so that the finer emotions stitched into the details of his expression could be further examined. Slowly, softly, he spoke again for her, giving less responsibility to his words since his face was fully accepting of being the major conveyor. “Then I shall be eternally be in your debt.”

On her remark that his name was doll-like and girlish, his smirk widened, ”I’m the best doll on the market. A Collector’s item. Only two were ever made, and I’m the one that wasn’t scrapped with an imperfection. Aren’t you lucky to find me lying around.” During the rest of her talking, his attention was grabbed by the mark on Lou’s face. Fingers could be discerned, highlighting his face much like someone painting his cheek with make up which, with his brother’s dramatics, wasn’t too unlikely. Not a flutter of sympathy or regret disturbed his stomach. Llewelyn just found his imagination was keen and ready to fill in the empty spaces of this story with a hilarious girl yelling his brother’s ear off about trying to use her and exactly how meek he had been to let someone get a perfect handprint on his unguarded cheek.

"So, Handsome A what did you do to him, anyway?" Letting his eyes flash over to his brother when he added his two cents as if he’d listen to Lou. Miss Opium Waybright was enough of a reason to speak with her alluring face than anything his brother might have to say. R0lling his own shoulders back and touching his palms to the cuffs of his shirt, he debated mirroring his brother’s moves and then decided against it, instead relaxing into a slight slouch with his hands pushed into the pants of his pockets. ”All I did was break into his room, mess it up a bit, invite a Pretty Face in under the pretext that I was Lou. Then I gave her some kisses, pretended I was going to take advantage, made a rude comment and left. I hardly see how it’s my fault he’s upset when I didn’t tell her to go looking for ‘Lou’ Bishop and attack him.”

"Getting some girl to protect you since you can't do it yourself, Llewelyn?" Oh, he shouldn’t really gaud Llewelyn like such. He usually protected his face with girls because, well, it was his face. Any damage would lessen the persuasive power he had over those who judged solely by physical beauty, and dampers in his plans weren’t accepted subserviently. Besides, most of the girls would giggle nervously and allow him to escort them away before the “Does Lou hit girls?” question could be answered once and for all. Therefore, it was more than a surprise to see Opium actually confront his brother, condescend to him, and then threaten to kick his ass. Now a new question was posed in his head, but feeling that that was too low to say about his brother—even for Llewelyn—it will remain unwritten. So, Llewelyn just reveled in the smug feeling overcoming him at seeing the pair and Lou decidedly surprised. Yet another girl felt the need to threaten him thanks to his brother, and so be bowed when Opal wasn’t looking, miming “thank you, thank you.”

“Now kiss and make up.”

”I’m usually open to fulfilling the fantasies of girls,” he began, shrugging his shoulder up so that he could kiss her hand, ”but there are some things even I shirk away from as being disgusting. I feel my lips would do better service to you than to the young man on the other side of you.” Taking a step back from the pair, he again shrugged his shoulder but so that he could let her hand run down his arm into his own hand, and again, he ignored his brother’s presence, finding him much like a wall in terms of presence. There, but forgettable and not notable.
[/ul]

[/i] which makes me feel absolutely terrible! I’ll have to work at Florence’s forever to pay them back which means I’ll only do more damage and and and and… I really do feel bad, you know? If I could make new vases, I would. Florence’s is so crowded but the pretty empty rooms make it so easy to imagine things like adventures and meeting new people—I’m getting off topic, but, Miss, do you ever imagine different adventures?”[/b] she asked hesitantly, as if scared that it would be one thing they didn’t have in common and would forever mar whatever friendship was blossoming.

“That isn't pathetic at all! Well, even if it is, at least we can be pathetic together!”

”Really? That’s comforting. One day, I hope you could spare the time to sit out and watch the clouds go by. Or, if you don’t mind dirt, I love to garden. I really do more than anything else. You seem so wonderfully nice that I can just feel having you around could make any day so so so so much better, you know? I’m very happy we bumped into each other,” Natalya continued speak, not really wanting to stop talking but felt that any longer she’d begin to wear on the girl’s nerves. It was always inevitable except the last time she found a best friend in the halls of Florence’s. Last year was her last year, but she had been phenomenally kind and understanding. In return for providing a listening ear into which the gypsy girl could pour her honest thoughts, she did the same, forming a friendship that kept her stable when waves of self-doubt would try to drown her in negativity.

Natalya would never expect to find someone like that again, but she was always on the look out, investigating any bleep on her radar. Would Franala’s beep be one to rival Agnes’? Was she putting too much pressure—subconsciously, of course—on a perfect stranger?

Don't you worry about it at all, We were just, um, on our way to look at the lake. but here we are looking at it now so it's just fine! Oh! I'm Frances Crawford, silly me, I should have said that earlier, But, please, feel free to call me Fran, if you'd like. What's your name?” Letting go of Fran’s hands slowly, she then moved a free one to touch her cheek tentatively, wincing hard as soon as the slightest contact was made with the skin. Oh, yes, for the third time this week, something else had decided to add to the undefined shape of her injury. It should’ve been three-quarters of the way healed by now, but with a grouchy supervisor and a misplaced rock, it would seem she’d have another few days to go before her face was unblemished. The momentary distraction of her face, however, wasn’t enough to make her miss Franala’s introduction. ”I’s wonderful to meet you, Miss Crawford! I wish I could call you F—but that wouldn’t be proper.”

And there was when the two sub-plots merged back together, to the relief of the followers because their thumbs were probably becoming increasingly tired. Taking the glare valiantly and not shirking from it as she might on another day, Natalya ran a hand over her bun, pulling at loose curls and resolved herself to help out. While it appeared to be going decently well, she had the sudden thought that the poor injured boy might end up with a few more bruises with a capable looking girl and a boy who would probably match him in physical strength on the opposing team. After taking a deep breath she moved to pick up her bag and walk over slowly, glancing back to Fran for a moment with a faint smile and then back again to her new target. The other girl had her hands on both their shoulders, and so her usual tactic of plopping herself in front of someone and sticking out a hand for it to be shaken in hello would cause the small amount of grass to be overwhelmed with people.

So instead, she broke a rule of society and reached out for one of the clenched fists of Mr. Lou Bishop and moved to force an awkward handshake dominated by her. Her eyes focused on the skin contact with a burst of apprehension that the already irate fellow would be further indignant at her audacity to place a finger on him produced an early spring in her stomach that set the butterflies free from their chrysalises. One shouldn’t ask what provoked her to take her interference further than a sane person might. They should only assume that that desire not to see a student expelled for another time was strong enough to force Natalya to move into action, risking the displeasure of people involved. ”Excuse me… I think I fell too hard… I’m not too good with my way around the school, so could you please take me to the infirmary?”
[/ul]

[Javert]

The swirling, labyrinthine, ever-changing abyss of fire and brimstone, heaven nor haven and more of a hell, that Opal often darkly interpreted her mind to be, thought--
--something that shall not be repeated, but which would send her the neighboring redhead into hysterics, if not banish the pristine innocence of her starkly contrasted mind into the realms of insanity and her helpless body into a coma. Slowly, almost lazily, effortlessly taking in every detail, she allowed her gaze to slip from the flawless face before her and fall down the rest of him. She was not disappointed by anything. Thus, her grin was well placed, and a bubble of genuinely delighted laughter escaped her throat when she felt him tense, saw him swallow. This was going rather well; this could rather well go other places.

Although her sight proved to be keen, her sense of touch was the one she valued and utilized most frequently; thus, as he took her chin in his hand, she did not resist, but allowed him to seek whatever he wanted to in her visage. Opal met his gaze unflinchingly and instead allowed her mind to wander. His fingers were pleasantly cool against the warmth of her skin, like pennants of cooler air parting waves of heat; she appreciated the strength she felt behind his grip, imagined pulses at his fingertips, remained unimpressed by the softness of hands that had never known a day of work yet was comforted by their cushion against the line of her jaw. She leaned into his hand, very, very slightly, enough to increase the pressure of his fingertips against the line of her jaw an infinitesimal amount, as if she endeavored to tattoo his fingerprints upon her skin for future reference without his noticing.

To say that she didn't act like this with every boy—intoxicated by their presence, absorbed in every detail, as if they were some amoebous entities—would be a lie. She did. Yet her actions were no act, her gestures no jest, no matter how habitually or how histrionically they were employed. She was enamored with the opposite sex as a whole, everything pertaining to the Y chromosome, and when a member of the gender presented themselves to her, Opal relished the gift. There would never be a shortage of men, she knew, yet she never took them for granted. The attractive ones, admittedly, weren't always the most treasured gifts, but they had the best wrapping paper; this one was possibly the prettiest present of them all, or of most, so she was keen on enjoying his presence to the fullest extent.

She was released unceremoniously from his grasp, and she pressed for a moment two fingers to her own jaw in an effort to pretend that his were still there. At the anger flashing in his eyes, her smile only widened. He obviously disliked having someone with his wrapping paper, whereas Opal was quickly calculating the truth in the mantra 'the more, the merrier'. “That should be a compliment,” she informed him, hands now on hips, as from the flames of lust rose a quick tongue of annoyance. She knew rejection as intimately as she knew a man or two from the slums (she knew them better than the back of her hand, anyway), and yet its sting was never lessened and its salve never found. When she recovered enough to regain her senses and press her hand to his cheek, she noted his own vexation in the disturbance in the planes of his perfect face. Oh, hell no. Her desire to keep his visage unmarred would not prevent her from vexing him if need be—until he leaned closer, and again her ill will melted into intrigue, and desire, and she very nearly closed any distance between them until she decided, somewhat petulantly, that he would have to work for such a privilege—at least until she grew impatient and decided to reward his efforts prematurely. “Good,” breathed Opal, barely a whisper, more of a smirk, already plotting ways for him to repay such a debt.

She laughed as he called her bluff. So he was an arrogant bastard. Fine. He had right to be, she deigned. “Do I get to play with you?” she asked innocently, although her smile was mischievous, as was the lack of distance she left between them, the touch of her hand to his arm. As a child, she never played with dolls, but she supposed that in her maturity she could make an exception.

Now, standing between Llewelyn and Llewelyn--who had hated their lives enough to name their children Llewelyn, anyway? Even Opium was better than that, she decided--, there were thoughts frequenting the metropolis of her mind that would have expelled them from the city with the escort of an angry mob.

The metaphor was so twisted that it reflected the current state of her mind.

Lou, naturally, was feeling somewhat similarly in that his thought process was not nearly as lucid as usual; he preferred it this way, however, because if he didn't allow himself to think clearly, then he would be unable to regret any acts of violence that he came to commit. Murder, he reasoned, unreasonably, could be much more easily forgiven and forgotten. He could plead insanity.

Recovering from slight shock administered by the smirking woman with the big nose, for he was unable to see anything appealing about her since he was on his brother's side and therefore must have been both hideous and delusional, Lou was now plotting revenge again, but the woman had her hand in his brother's, and she was saying, peeking up through red-gold lashes in a manner that Lou found nauseating because of the man to whom it was directed, "Why don't you show me, then?"
Lou was not thinking rationally. Later, that would be his excuse, as now, unceremoniously and without warning, he bestowed upon his beloved brother a rough shove that resulted with his becoming suddenly submerged in the murky water of the lake. Lou had not planned for the girl to follow, but he supposed, the muscles of his jaw rippling as she shrieked a curse and went under, that she deserved it. Perhaps it would bring her to her senses.

Completely oblivious to the innuendo-laden conversation of the smirking girl with the big nose and the pretty boy with the ego, and to the simmering wrath and out-of-character gestures of the pretty boy with the personality that Javs is having difficulty remembering, Fran was completely content. "I love imagining adventures!" she squealed, not said. "My little brother and I, he was very shy, but I would always convince him to play make-believe with me when we were younger. Sometimes my sister Jenny would join and we would go slaying dragons and riding unicorns. I know that sounds so very silly, but it was ever so much fun. Not that I ever personally slew dragons," she explained, shaking her head, "for that wouldn't be considerate of their poor families."

Quite suddenly, Fran appeared to suffer from an internal explosion. Her eyes widened and brightened, her face flushed, her palms went to her cheeks in a comical gesture of utter surprise and joy, and, almost tremulous with delight, she repeated, "Gardening? Your favorite thing to do... is garden?" She could no longer contain herself, and, with a squeal, she more or less attacked the girl with a violent embrace. "I love gardening!" she exclaimed at far too close a proximity to Tali's ear. She drew back only far enough to allow her to say, "WemustgogardeningassoonaspossibleIlovegardeningIcan'
tbelieveyoulovegardeningIdidn'tthinkanyoneelse
likeditinthisschoolOHweshouldstartagardeningclub! OHwe'rejustgoingtobethebestoffriendsIcantellthatlaready!" When she had recovered enough to take a desperately needed breath, Fran said, smiling, "Oh, please call me Fran, it would make me so happy. I don't understand why you couldn't."

There was a splash, and an expletive. Fran watched the scene in horror and did nothing more of interest because now the point of view is reverting back to one of its previous owners.

Lou, who, moments after introducing his brother to the lake, had been about to plunge into the water himself and attempt to execute a drowning, which he could excuse as an attempt at baptism to save the corrupted soul of his twin, felt a touch at his hand. He swung his gaze to the right. A small girl with huge eyes was saying something. He narrowed his eyes. "You can't go yourself?"

Ouch, Llewelyn. Ouch.