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“I don’t get this game,” Maurice mutters petulantly, collecting the cards into a pile and shuffling it despite them not all facing the same way. It irks Roger, but maybe he just can’t see; the shield to the window is pulled shut, and their little corner at the back of the plane hides in the darkness.
“There’s s’posed to be four players,” Roger mentions, peering over. The seat beside him, the one next to the aisle, is empty—Jack’s run off somewhere, probably to throw up.
Glancing sideways at Roger, Maurice frowns, but his grin remains. “But there’s only two of us?” He’s distributing the cards onto the small tables that hang off the back of the seats, now—one each, then two, then three, and is he even counting?
Roger blinks: his way of saying you’re stupid. Not that Maurice sees—he’s distracted by the cards whipping around; flicking them like there’s a point to be proven. “Right. So we can’t play,” Roger says flatly.
“Then…” Maurice’s brows pull together, drawn with concentration, “we could just make our own game?”
“No.” The passion channeled through this single word alone rivals the total reverence Roger has felt in his entire lifetime —an impressive span of eleven years. “You’ll cheat.”
“Not if I don’t make any rules in the first place,” Maurice smiles inwardly, looking proud of himself. “That ain’t cheating.”
Roger stares.
“It’s not cheating,” Maurice explains slowly, blinking innocently, “if there’s no rules to cheat.”
“Games need rules,” Roger mutters. Settles into his seat, a thing uncomfortably stiff.
“No, they don’t?”
Roger locks his gaze onto Maurice unblinking, his way of a challenge. Usually it guarantees a win—but not with Maurice. Never with Maurice.
“No, like, seriously,” Maurice says, glancing upward towards the ceiling of the plane like God will show him the answers to everything, “why do we need rules?”
What a question. Unfortunately, they’re both no older than twelve and henceforth don’t know—nor care—for the intricacies and defences of social structures and the moral influence on law. So Roger answers wholeheartedly with another question, “How will we know who the winner is if there’s no rules?”
Maurice finds his answer easy, grinning like the recipient of an award. “We can both be winners!” Wow, cheesy. He doesn’t seem to notice that, now, most of his cards have ended up on the floor, the small space around their feet.
Roger looks at him disparagingly. “I don’t want to play anymore.”
“What!?” From the way Maurice’s eyes widen—from the way he actually recoils backwards—you’d think Roger just admitted to being the one responsible for his missing cat. “Okay, wait, fine, I’ll make rules. But play with me.”
Roger doesn’t want to repeat himself, so he doesn’t. Doesn’t say anything else either, though, and Maurice seems to take this as assent.
“So, see the…” he begins, his sentence rapidly dissolving as he frowns at the card he holds up. “uh, the thing next to the number—?”
“The pip?”
“Is that what it’s called?” Maurice doesn’t wait for an answer. “Alright, I’ll…put a pile here, and then— umm…”
Roger watches him, unimpressed.
“No, just hold on, I’m finding it—“ Maurice finds it—retrieves the ones on the floor, although Roger does see a cheeky few of them still hiding—the cards twisting and turning between his fingers as he hurries about. “Okay, listen, I’ll give you, like, seven cards…and then I get seven cards…and then…” His eyes narrow. “Wait, maybe we do need more people.”
Luckily for him, Simon is walking past—probably on his way to see a teacher, not a good sign—and Maurice practically leaps over Roger to grab at his sleeve, saved from flying across the plane by his seatbelt.
Simon, letting out a little yelp of surprise, lands in the empty seat beside Roger with a light thud. Jack’s seat, which will probably end up in murder, but they’ll save that for later.
“Yay!” Maurice grins, picking up a few cards and tossing them into Simon’s lap, “Seven for you.”
Thus begins possibly one of the longest tangents Maurice has ever went on; repeatedly he talks about the colours, red, black, spades and clubs, what to do with a ten and what a King means, and surprisingly, Roger understands. Even if it does take about fifteen minutes of listening to a one-sided conversation.
Simon, on the other hand, isn’t even looking in their direction. Maurice reaches over, flicks his arm. This, obviously, harnesses his attention.
In the end, Maurice instructs them simply with a smile, “Look at your cards, alright? And the pile.”
But as the seconds turn to minutes, Simon’s attention doesn’t grow any more focused—rather, he stares at something down the other aisle of seats, like a lost child who isn’t sure if the person they’ve been following in the shop for the past hour really is their parent.
“What you lookin’ at?” Maurice nudges him harshly, making him jump. Simon’s lost, transfixed expression breaks into something more sheepish, as he murmurs his apology. Tutting, Maurice motions at Simon’s hand, having to lean over Roger to do so and getting a good long look at what both of their cards are as he does. “S’your turn, silly.”
Curious, Roger leans forward slightly, wanting to see the subject of Simon’s interest. He learns rather quickly that there’s, quite literally, nothing worth noting—except for the blonde kid sitting alone by one of the window seats, smiling strangely at the pages of a book held in his hands. A book, how weird: slices of wood, if you really think about it. Dark water stains on sliced wood.
“Hey,” Maurice pinches Roger’s cheek to recapture his attention, pulling away before nails can be dug into his eyeballs per the typical response. “If you don’t want to play, just say so.”
Roger had said so—Maurice just hadn’t listened. But already Roger has forgotten what he was looking at, so instead of saying anything he only nods at Maurice, something reminiscent of an insincere apology. Simon is fiddling with the edge of the card, distracted again, but all three of their heads are pulled upward simultaneously when someone starts crying. Or—no, not crying, bawling.
And it’s coming from a few rows ahead of them.
“What an ugly sound,” Maurice says blankly, eyes flitting over to the others, and he sighs. Begins collecting the cards defeatedly, and begrudgingly packs them away.
Simon looks at him unsurely—pitiful. “Something must be wrong,” he reasons, the first thing he’s said since he’d sat down, but then curls in on himself and shrugs, rendering his defence useless.
Maurice isn’t even paying attention to him anymore. When Roger’s focus shifts, he’s faced with the box of cards held out next to him expectantly, and Maurice juts his head in the direction of the absolute waterfall.
“We could throw it at him,” Maurice observes, and that’s all it is: an observation. In no way will he do it. He is only curious—considering a world in which consequences ceased to exist, and he could learn the works of the world on his own.
Roger glances down at the box in Maurice’s hold; the unspoken offer.
Marching down the aisle now, packets of peanuts tucked neatly into a basket, is a man, tie pristine, shoulders strung back like a taut bow. If he were not here, maybe—if Roger had not been so distinctly aware of his presence the moment he’d passed the curtain—then maybe the kid would finally stop crying. By way of a small paper box to the head.
But Roger refuses, and they all get distracted again when Jack returns, who immediately kicks Simon out of his seat.
Maurice pulls the cards out of the box again, and before Roger knows it, another half hour goes by.