Re: The Priest's Hole: Jules & Ford
For Ford, there had not been shelter anywhere; not in church or in school, not at home, and not away from it. It was him, his backpack, and his headphones, and the only really safe thing he could do was keep his broken sounds to himself. Silence was smart. It kept him from being a victim, and it kept him from revealing just how stupid he was. Ford was agile and strong, and very rarely was he the victim, because he'd learned early to watch close and get out quick. Mom's last boyfriend had been a little stronger than usual, that's all, and Ford a little slower. That was the way it went, sometimes. There was always a bigger guy who hit a little harder and shouted a little louder.
Ford made an impatient little wave of his hand (the one not holding the bottle) at the correction of spelling. Of course he knew the difference between Wales and Whales, but it was funny, didn't Jules see? Ford actually knew that first word, because you couldn't live on an island like this for more than a week without hearing about fish. There was this funny stew that the Bird cooked for the little kids... it had that word in it, and it tasted better than canned tuna.
Shifting so that the headphones rocked back and forth, making the tinny tantrum of sound murmur in and out, Ford scooted closer to the skinny angel and put his arm around Jules sharp shoulders in an unabashedly welcoming movement. There was nothing overtly sexual about it, but it was close and friendly and joyful with a lot of apple liquor. He handed Jules a card from his backpack, torn up at the edges and tumbled through his many belongings and the sandy detritus at the bottom of the bag. It had the big white and blue Vegas sign on it. The postcard's writing had been soaked at some point, and was unreadable.