It's quickly moving to a familiar pattern--Brendan saying maybe two or three syllables, staring, and then talking after he's made his his observations.
Kurt's hands--clean. Well-polished. Matches the rest of him: meticulous. Neat. Doesn't do anything too rough, at least. He glances down, briefly, at his own hands and then his gaze flicks up.
Self-conscious, obviously. Less obviously, looking for a place to belong.
Sorry you're in space now, kid. It's what he wants to say, but he isn't about to crack his own emotional damn. He's never been an optimistic person, always cynical. This is no exception.
Nah, there's something about the way Kurt actually looks at him that Brendan can't place. The blue eyes are bright, are alive, but there's a guarded wariness to them. Something Brendan's seen before, just not in anyone but his world.
You're either a sap, a player, or stuck in the battlefield of San Clemente High. Looks like it isn't just his own high school. Kid may have it comfy, probably comfier than Brendan ever had, but there's no ruling out the kid hasn't been hurt. Maybe not damaged goods like himself, but Kurt's definitely a fighter, even if no one else sees it but him.
"Hey." He blinks, pauses for a few seconds and then rises, sticking his hands in his jacket pocket, immediately talking. It's probably more than he's ever said to anyone that wasn't Wichita, Arthur or Jack Kelly.
"Let's lay it on the square: you're dead weight." No, harsh. Too harsh--dial it down. Pretend it's Em, not Brain.
Brendan begins to pace.
"Truth is, you've never been in a fight. That's fine, not very many of us cats have had the opportunity to dance the Broderick with roundheels. But here's the issue, kid." Like he isn't technically older than him, "It's stupid to let any wiseguy brace you and shake you down. You behind the eight-ball, you take a powder, you let me know."
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It's quickly moving to a familiar pattern--Brendan saying maybe two or three syllables, staring, and then talking after he's made his his observations.
Kurt's hands--clean. Well-polished. Matches the rest of him: meticulous. Neat. Doesn't do anything too rough, at least. He glances down, briefly, at his own hands and then his gaze flicks up.
Self-conscious, obviously. Less obviously, looking for a place to belong.
Sorry you're in space now, kid. It's what he wants to say, but he isn't about to crack his own emotional damn. He's never been an optimistic person, always cynical. This is no exception.
Nah, there's something about the way Kurt actually looks at him that Brendan can't place. The blue eyes are bright, are alive, but there's a guarded wariness to them. Something Brendan's seen before, just not in anyone but his world.
You're either a sap, a player, or stuck in the battlefield of San Clemente High. Looks like it isn't just his own high school. Kid may have it comfy, probably comfier than Brendan ever had, but there's no ruling out the kid hasn't been hurt. Maybe not damaged goods like himself, but Kurt's definitely a fighter, even if no one else sees it but him.
"Hey." He blinks, pauses for a few seconds and then rises, sticking his hands in his jacket pocket, immediately talking. It's probably more than he's ever said to anyone that wasn't Wichita, Arthur or Jack Kelly.
"Let's lay it on the square: you're dead weight." No, harsh. Too harsh--dial it down. Pretend it's Em, not Brain.
Brendan begins to pace.
"Truth is, you've never been in a fight. That's fine, not very many of us cats have had the opportunity to dance the Broderick with roundheels. But here's the issue, kid." Like he isn't technically older than him, "It's stupid to let any wiseguy brace you and shake you down. You behind the eight-ball, you take a powder, you let me know."