Chapter Text
They had already dimmed the lights in the cabin. Remaining was a sole lamp attached to the wall above Sylvester's bed, which could easily be shuttered from the switch built into the nightstand, and a thin sliver of white intruding from the perpetually alive hallway. Their belongings were left to relative shadow, but Sylvester could see Luciano's face as he talked from underneath the duvet on the other bed.
Sylvester was his mirror. An almost perfect one, except Luciano still had the energy to shift and gesture throughout their conversation, as if they hadn't spent most of their day embarking on one tiring task after another.
He watched Luciano laugh, mostly to himself, and start: "Think their friends—"
"Wait," Sylvester interrupted. A half-formed idea he'd been marinating on since the morning had finally sharpened into focus. "Wait. Do we have to talk to their friends' parents? I mean, that's what you're supposed to do with kids their age, isn't it?"
"Whatcha mean we? That's all gonna be you, Syl."
"Um. It is?"
"Yeesh, yeah. You're much more approachable."
"I am?"
"Ya' will be." Luciano attempted a wink. Most of the effect was lost given that half his face was smushed against a pillow.
Sylvester rolled onto his back, trying to decide how miserable the idea made him, and stared up at the darkened ceiling. The lamp cast shadows along one edge that danced ever-so-slightly with the movement of the waves.
Luciano could manipulate anyone into anything—Sylvester included, albeit for different reasons than a regular crowd—and if he didn't want to talk to someone, he simply wouldn't, anything Sylvester said be damned. It helped his case that Luciano's reputation tended to precede itself, especially at a place like Blackthorne. No matter its location, it garnered its clientele primarily from the mainland, not the fishing villages that surrounded it.
Still, Sylvester made a weak, half-hearted attempt at protest. "You're really going to make me deal with the teachers and the parents?"
"Oh, please. Mr. Teacher's Pet—No; no protests; I know ya' were—shouldn't have any problems talkin' to the teachers. And then you can corral parents while I corral kids. That's equal exchange."
"They are a lot. It actually might be."
They'd acknowledged before that it would be impossible to talk to any adult with all sixteen ten-year-olds clinging to them, and it seemed poor practice to leave them completely unsupervised when every other parent would be watching their charges. They could, probably, but Sylvester desperately felt a need to leave everyone with the impression that the kids were going back to a good, safe house for the break between quarters. Therefore, they'd agreed that Luciano would watch the kids and Sylvester would attend every parent-teacher-conference-and-or-check-in he could, hopefully reassuring the potentially watching world that they were capable guardians and putting their—and, more importantly, Sylvester's—anxieties to rest once and for all.
Of course, he hadn't phrased it quite like that to Luciano. No need to sound like a complete raving lunatic, especially when trying to prove he wasn't.
In the silence, kept from absoluteness by Luciano's breathing, Sylvester admitted, "I'm excited to see them."
"They'll be excited too. They got attached quick. Apparently ya' know how to make an impression."
Encouraged, Sylvester continued, "I hope they're passing everything. It's okay if they're not, but I hope they weren't too behind and I didn't know about it. I'm—" Abruptly, he became conscious of Luciano staring at him. He could feel the burn of it on his left cheek, turning back to face him only confirmed it. "What? Did I say something?"
"Nah." Luciano averted his eyes back to the ceiling. "Nice that you're excited. Been a bit."
A part of Sylvester wanted to argue: He'd been excited about things within recent memory; he wasn't all dismal, serious conversation. But Luciano was right. "You have to be excited about seeing your kids," was his best line of defense. "That's a rule, I think."
Luciano laughed, somewhere between amusement and incredulousness, and it was Sylvester's turn to stare as he halfway sat up, running hands through his hair, and turned to face Sylvester fully again. "Okay," he started, "where I was tryin' to go before; what're our predictions—I think we need a–a—What's the word? Those stupid things they'd do in high school, or maybe that was just a movie thing, I dunno…" He trailed off, staring down at the the sheets.
"Very descriptive," Sylvester added.
It earned no response. He was too occupied searching for the word, like Reaper stalking the Duckletts at the lake; when he finally pounced on something, he was clearly thrilled. "Accolades." His excitement deflated immediately. "That's not right."
"It's not?"
"No, it's not exactly it." Luciano was gesturing again, as if that was going to help Sylvester fill in the blanks, or as if waving his hands pointlessly in the air was at all analogous to an actual attempt at charades. "It's—Y'know, the thing—"
"Uh-huh."
"The 'most likely to' thing—"
"Superlative?"
"Yes!" Luciano smacked his hand down onto the covers, triumphant; if Sylvester was less used to him, he would've startled at the sudden motion. "That. Thank you." He sank back into the overabundance of sheets and pillows. "I want us to have bets on all the shit they've probably done. And I want them to be in that format."
"That was a very roundabout way of getting there."
"But wouldn't it be entertaining? Most likely ta' have set the science lab on fire… Most likely ta' have bit a teacher…"
I would think they're old enough to have outgrown that last one."
"You would, and you'd be wrong."
"Oh. I'm not sure we should do this; I think it might be dangerous for my stress levels."
"Yeah, but it's fun."
Not that Sylvester would ever say no to Luciano, not when he was staring like that, always effortlessly charming. "Okay, fine. You start."