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Christine's mind is a jagged bundle of barbed wire, every spike tipped with possibilities; new heights, new challenges.
She's had it rough, and its made her hard; her voice, her pointed nails, her survivor's instincts, but he likes that. She tells him that she hates fakes more than anything in the world - she'd rather have spit in her face than a knife in her back and he tells her that he understands. He understands everything, and her truth is the echo of his.
"I'm not going to be tied down to a loser" she tells him, as he takes a hit from the inhaler, acting as though he's done it a thousand times before. Which he has, near enough, though never with kick. Who'd have known that childhood asthma would come with a transferable skill?
"Too many girls waste their lives that way. But not me; I'm not going to live or die for anyone." she says with a theatrically apathetic shrug.
"Not even me?" he asks, his voice still a little hoarse from the kick. He's never felt so cocky, and he's never liked himself so much as he likes himself right now, dressed like humanity's worst nightmare, steel caps over his toes, flying supernova high, with her legs sprawled over his.
She looks at him, considering him carefully for a long time and and she laughs. "You're funny, Quire" she tells him.
"Funny haha, or funny weird?" he asked.
"Funny like a switch-blade" she tells him.
What does that even mean, he wonders, and then, just like that, he's in her mind. Or she's in his. Either way he can't tell where he ends and she begins. Her childhood memories mingle with his, she wiggles her toes and he feels the grass beneath them, even though they're sat on asphalt. Their fates are mingled, like blood in water. No matter what she's saying out loud, in her head they're like Bonnie and Clyde, and he knows she wants it that way, that she's looking for someone to pin her hopes on, to weave a dream with. She's looking for someone she can square up against the world with, and so is he. They're going to do great things together. Or awful ones. Either way, they're gonna have a blast.
"Christine?" he asks, suddenly. This feels like the most important moment of his life, the defining point. His fate dangles in her hands and the shine on her black nail polish transfixes him.
"Mm?" she replies, sitting up, immediately ready for action.
The him reflected in her mind; this bad ass rebel who smoked and did kick and didn't take any shit or care that he was an orphan made him feel like he could do anything, be anything, even this; a guy who scores with beautiful, dangerous girls.
"Do you wanna maybe... make out?" he smiles, made brave by the kick coursing through him. "With me" he adds, as though that isn't here.
She gives him another of those long looks and laughs again, pretending to think about it with mischief in her eyes. "Sure" she replies.