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Ferris involuntarily crinkled his nose as black smoke drifted from the kitchen. It was completely unlike the rich, bitter-sweet aroma from Demos's hand-rolled cigarettes. No, this was the breath of an angry fire dragon. Ferris eyed the rickety metal fire escape. He observed Demos from the corner of his eye. The young Italian mobster appeared to be completely at ease with the situation.
A tall, lean figure emerged from the kitchen doorway. The ends of his bleached hair were singed. He carried a shallow baking pan with a blackened oven mitt. A kitschy teapot, decorated with cats and British flags, was in his other hand.
“My cooking has improved! I made some toast to go with your tea this time.” beamed Seamus. After a brief coughing fit, he continued. “Toaster's broken, but I'd say that the oven got the job done. They came out nice and crispy,” bragged the British teenager.
“More like burned to a crisp,” muttered Ferris under his breath.
Seamus acted oblivious to his friend's sour remark. He found Ferris's disgruntled personality to be somewhat endearing. “Marmalade and cups are already on the table. I've got your usual Earl Grey, Fer, but mum drank the last of the Darjeeling this morning. Sorry, Demos. What other teas do you fancy?”
The pale Italian shifted his focus from the outdated floral curtains to his friend. “I'll just have whatever Ferris is having, thanks.” Demos returned his attention to the hideous parlour décor. He was tempted to call Nicky, drop by the warehouse, and deliver a new set of “free” furnishings to Ms. Shuttleworth. This home was obviously in need of a complete makeover. Ferris needed one, too. However, Demos suspected that it would be easier to re-style the Astons' parlour than Ferris's wardrobe.
Seamus slid the charred remains of “toast” onto an antique, hand-painted china platter. He removed his oven mitt and carelessly tossed it onto a nearby chair. Ferris grimaced when he noticed the globs of butter that were lodged between the Brit's long, oily fingers.
“Seamus, how the hell did you get butter in that mitt?”
“Uhmm...” stuttered Seamus. Ferris's dark brows quirked sharply upward. “Well, the butter was awfully slippery and I was holding the knife rather loosely, you see. So my fingers accidentally slid into the butter. It was an accident, honest! But since my hands were already buttery, I decided to spread the butter with my fingers instead of the knife,” he explained. Before Ferris could continue the interrogation, Seamus whined, “But oven mitts can always be washed!”
Demos glanced at the black toast and suddenly felt queasy. “It's true that oven mitts can be washed, but I doubt that you washed your hands before cooking that. Who knows where your hands have been,” he teased. Demos sat straight in a pink Victorian chair, with one leg crossed over the other. He casually met the taller boy's gaze and his suspicions were confirmed. The Italian smirked. “I'm always right.”
Seamus inwardly pouted. This tea party was not going as he had planned. If things continued to go sourly, then his best friends might leave to play poker with the Giorgettis or work at the family restaurant. Ferris and Demos were so close. Seamus envied their friendship; he knew what the Giorgettis did for a living, but he would always remain in the outer circle. There was an invisible wall that Seamus could never scale. Seamus did not want to be left behind. He did not want to be alone this Saturday.
“You Yanks don't appreciate the beauty of my cooking, but I'm sure that you'll like what I have in store next!” grinned the handsome Brit. His toothy smile may have charmed dozens of girls, but it had no effect on Ferris. The conservative Jewish teenager remained skeptical. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.
Seamus dashed down the tiled hall and returned with a small grey cockatiel with bright red cheeks. It was perched happily on his right index finger and chirped cheerfully. “Hey Crackers, meet my mates!”
Ferris's eyes softened marginally. He was secretly fond of most animals, having seen thousands of species at various exhibits around the world. Sometimes he would talk to them in obscure languages so that passer-byers would not understand his cooing.
“Eh, Ferret, you want to hold Crackers? He won't bite. I can set him on your shoulder if you'd like?” offered Seamus. The small cockatiel was studying Ferris. His bright yellow crest was raised inquisitively as he tilted his head.
“Umm, sure?”
Seamus gently coaxed Crackers onto his friend's left shoulder. The bird eagerly tugged at the teen's striped, hand-woven scarf. He strutted toward Ferris's black-framed glasses and pecked at the hinges. Ferris reflexively turned his head, which caused Crackers to sway and catch one of his talons on the scarf. He squawked directly into Ferris's ear. The deafening scream rang in the teen's ear for several seconds. Stan's uncontrollable slobbering was nothing compared to this. The teen's lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “... Get this bird off me.”
“Aww, Fer, I was hoping that you two'd get along,” lamented Seamus. Crackers hopped onto the Brit's outstretched finger and fluffed his feathers.
Ferris adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose. He re-arranged his thick scarf and noticed a wet, yellow-green coil on one of the white stripes. The Jewish teenager took a deep breath and counted the first ten Fibonacci numbers before speaking. “Your damn cockatiel...”
Seamus knitted his eyebrows together. He scanned his irritable friend and noticed a pile of poo. “Ah, Crackers left you a little present! Sorry if it stains. Those tend to be permanent on white fabric, you know.”
Ferris closed his eyes. He held the outer corner of his glasses and smiled through gritted teeth. It was a bad sign; Ferris rarely smiled. Demos decided that it was time to intercede.
“Hey, do you think that Crackers will perch on my hand?”
Seamus's gloomy aura instantly brightened. “Sure, let me guide him to your wrist!”
The cockatiel gracefully hopped onto the mobster's pale hand. Demos gently stroked his warm, feathery breast. The bird looked at him and playfully cheeped.
“Hmm, do you want to sit on my shoulder?” smiled the slender Italian. Demos slowly raised his hand and Crackers jumped onto his black t-shirt. The bird quickly became accustomed to Demos. He cuddled against the mobster's thin neck.
“Aren't you afraid of getting that shirt permanently soiled?” Ferris remarked cynically. His best friend was a notorious fashionista who often spent hours making sure that his clothing and hair were absolutely perfect. The trio had rode the subway so each young man was dressed in casual clothing. However, “casual” was not synonymous with “drab” to Demos.
Ferris noted a familiar glint in his best friend's eyes. “This tee is black, so I doubt that it will get stained. Anyway, it's from last spring's Hugo collection, which is so last year. I don't care what happens to it. Hugo is obviously inferior to Armani,” stated Demos. The corners of his mouth twisted into a devious smirk.
Crackers preened his feathers while the teenagers chatted. He meticulously combed through each feather. The bird then proceeded to “preen” the short, raven hairs at the back of the mobster's neck. The ticklish sensation caused Demos to laugh.
There were brief moments when Ferris envied his best friend's charisma. It seemed unfair that Demos was well-liked by both animals and humans. But Demos was Demos, and Ferris liked him just as he was.
“According to an entry that I read in the fifteenth edition of Encyclopedia Britannica, cockatiels and their relatives, budgerigars, may preen themselves for several hours a day. What a vain pet. It's no wonder that Crackers and Demos get along so well. Birds of a feather flock together.”
Crackers shifted his attention to Ferris, who was currently interspersing several complicated statistics into his rant.
“Fer is hot.”
Demos lifted a thin eyebrow in surprise. The color drained from Seamus's face.
“Fer is hot,” repeated Crackers.
Demos directed the cockatiel onto his finger. “Hey Seamus, you taught this bird to talk?” asked the Italian. Seamus anxiously bit his lower lip. He averted his eyes; the tea party had gone from bad to worse. Demos interpreted his friend's silence as a sign to continue. “You must use the phrase 'Fer is hot' a lot when you're home alone. Talking to this bird is probably like, your form of LiveJournal-ing.” reasoned the skinny mobster. He gently petted Cracker's soft little head.
“Well... Crackers and me have been mates since I was just a tot. He deserves to know what's going on in my life! And whatever happened to your LiveJournal, Demos?”
The thin mobster rolled his eyes. “I got swamped with literally two thousand friend requests, mostly from pre-teen girls who I don't even know. People saw my profile photo and said I was 'emo.' What the fuck? Do I look like an 'emo' person?”
Seamus and Ferris exchanged a meaningful glance but wisely said nothing.
“Anyway, it was stupid, so I de-activated my account. Fuck LiveJournal.”
“Fuck LiveJournal! Fuck LiveJournal!” squawked Crackers. Demos's brown eyes widened in surprise.
“Aww, now look what you've done! Corrupted my poor cockatiel with that foul mouth of yours,” accused Seamus. He took the bird from Demos and reassuringly stroked its head. “It's okay, Crackers, I'll put you back in your cage so that Uncle Demos won't teach you more of those mean words,” he cooed.
“As if your vocabulary is any more wholesome,” shot Demos.
“Don't pay any attention to Uncle Demos; without his smokes, he can quickly turn into a crotchety old man like Uncle Ferris.” Seamus abruptly turned his back on his friends and walked down the hallway. If looks could kill, the Brit would have died twice.
“Fer is hot. Fuck LiveJournal!”