[action]
I hate birthdays, [ he remarks, a little offhand. ]
[ the tree is soothing enough, but the boredom is still agitating. claude still isn't here. that nothing is right can't be replaced by petaled branches overhead.
and, ribbons.
ribbons is just as aggravating as claude can be in his own way. almost exactly the same. alois plants a blank look at the tree branches above them, and then smiles quietly to himself. he draws his knees up and rests small wrists over them, all precise and delicate and to anyone who'd care to pay attention he would be the picture of darling. ]
Do you suppose Guy Fawkes would be fond of a boy like me? [ the movements are subtle, quiet ghosts, that mean a lot of things. allowing eyelashes to come down part way, just so, as he glances at ribbons next to him. the question itself vague as it may be has a lot of meaning, too.
'Do you think Guy Fawkes would think I'm pretty?' 'Do you think Guy Fawkes would find me tolerable?' 'Do you suppose Guy Fawkes could fall in love with someone like me?'
it's all done for a lot of reason, also. because he misses claude, because it's like him to do things for any kind of reaction or any kind of attention, at all, as long as he gets it. because he's uncomfortable. always uncomfortable. distrusting. he's no mind reader himself, but it's better safe than sorry, isn't it? if he cuts to this behavior first, should anything happen later, he can reassure himself that it happened because he made it happen, and it was all under his control. ]