Re: [At the Carnival]
[He recognized it for what it was. Pitch and catch. Hadn't they practiced, hours upon hours in dusty room cleft high over the street with views of the street and noise and hustle from below, until the bells jangled and the strings were pulled? Pitch and catch. They worked in teams then, interchangeable, nothing so blood-set as Oli&Jude intertwined like two parts of a whole. Jude had preferences, thank you, extended as wide as the morass of boys that piled in 'long the walls and slept three to a bed. He'd a yen for the angelic, the little boys lost who could seize a moment and call it theirs, because Jude lacked angelism, pure boy, thanks, that was all. Oliver flexed old muscle, long since become memory and Jude's smile teased along the edges of being something substantial.
He didn't slide fingers over the fat lip of leather, he didn't flick his wrist and return the wallet to rightful keeper (whoever was watchful enough to keep it, so the saying went. Jude kept fingers to himself, because the carnival king was known, please and hello, Eddie, we've proximity in question. The tourist turned around and meandered back through lights and delights and Jude followed brother's wake, ripstream through apparent old stomping grounds - although when they'd become such, Jude had no idea. He rifled memory, found nothing that matched, and sank into his seat with the pensive look given only to the dark of the audience and not brother-mine at all.
The devil-act was excellent. Crowd-pleaser, if you would, and it did, and given trouble with angels in general (we set aside the angelic one sat beside, who was elbows and paint-stained fingers) it was clever, sly little nudge toward self-and-same. Jude leaned back in his seat when the devil winked out of spotlight in sparks, and looked at Oliver.]