A Table for Two PV Eldred Grayswell End

She paused mid-reach for her own cup, then gave him a blank look, like she wasn’t sure why he was making a big deal out of it.

"Yeah, whatever," she muttered, taking a sip. "You looked pathetic."

It was the closest thing to you’re welcome he was gonna get.

"Do you live in Romania, Syrah?"

Syrah blinked at him, slow and unimpressed, like she was regretting answering his question in the first place. She wasn’t, really. Just didn’t want him thinking she was too interested.

"I live in Scotland. Inverness. Big old manor, middle of nowhere. Fog, cold, whatever," she said flatly, like she was listing off the weather. “Not Romania, obviously.”

Tearing off a piece of bread, she popped it into her mouth and spoke again after chewing, voice neutral. “My grandma’s Romanian, though. She lives with us. She’s the one who cooked when I was younger.” There was a pause, then she shrugged. “Still does. She’s too stubborn to die.”

Her tone was dry, sarcastic, but there was a glint of something unreadable in her cold, gray blue eyes. She didn’t talk about her family much, but she’d always liked her grandmother the most.

She watched him eat, eyes flicking between his tired face and the way his shoulders weren’t as tense now. He looked... fine. Better than before. That was good, not that she’d say that out loud.

Instead, she exhaled sharply, shifting slightly in her seat. "And you? Where do you crawl off to when you’re not getting punched in the face?" Her voice was still cool, sarcastic, but there was something under it. Something that meant she was actually listening.

Spoken: #75001d Clothes: Casual Untidy / bruised face

Syrah's words only made him chuckle softly, and Eldred continued to eat leisurely. Somehow, he couldn’t take her coldness completely seriously. Her actions were too warm for that. To the brown-haired boy, it felt as though what she did and how she behaved melted the words and icy glares, leaving a warm puddle in his head. What lay behind it was incredibly sweet and once again brought a peaceful smile to his lips.

He listened intently. His gaze was directed to the side and on her while she spoke about Scotland and her grandmother from Romania. It almost felt like he had stumbled into a private conversation. Somehow, the boy feared that if he reacted incorrectly, it would break the spell. He really didn’t want that. Eldred would have preferred it if Syrah would never stop talking about her life.

The wish laid in his mind, that he wanted to ask if she missed her grandmother. Whether she wrote to her occasionally or if she went to visit the old woman during the Easter holidays – but none of this left his lips. Here in the large hall, it felt wrong to ask such a questions. He promised to himself, he would ask later. Maybe on the way to the Room of Requirement? Instead, he continued to look at the blonde, ate a bit on the side, and tried to gain the clarity in his mind that the food gave him. Gradually, his appetite returned, as if his stomach had rediscovered the taste for food.

When she asked him where he was from, he paused for a moment. He chewed the small piece of bread in his mouth and swallowed. His attention was so very intendly focused on Syrah that for a moment, he didn’t even know where he was from!

Fortunately, he quickly found himself again, before apperaing like a completely confused idiot. “Brighton. In England, on the coast. But we moved once when I was a toddler. We actually used to live near Nottingham, but I don’t remember that at all. My mum is half Bhutanese, but unfortunately, we only eat British food… she doesn’t cook – my dad does..” he explained, deliberately adding the information about the food at home because Syrah had mentioned Romanian dishes. After all, he wanted to have her know exactly where he crawled out from!
With the bread almost to his lips, he asked the blonde, “Have you ever been to Asia?”

Syrah turned her head a little as she glanced to see Eldred chuckle. He always did that, laughed as if he thought she was funny. She was not. It made her feel strange, not bad... not bad. Like she just wasn't used to it. Which she wasn't. People either thought she was cold and quiet, or a bitch with a resting face.

When he asked if she’d been to Asia, she blinked once, slow and uninterested. “No.Never really had a reason to.”

It was true. She barely had a reason to be anywhere, really. Places were just places. But some places, her places, were different.

The manor. The forest.

She was not sentimental, not like other people, however she could admit--even if just to herself--that she liked them. The emptiness of the hallways at home, the way the trees in the forest approaching the estate swallowed sound. Made it all quiet. She liked quiet. She did not have deal with people.

But she wasn’t home. She was here, at this stupid table, listening to Eldred talk about his dad’s cooking. And for some reason, she didn’t mind.

She let the silence sit for a second before her gaze turned back to him. “Your dad does the cooking?” she asked, not because she cared much, but because she liked hearing him talk. Eldred had a way of making things sound important, even when they weren’t.

Without waiting for an answer, her eyes dropped to his plate. “Better than whatever that mess was earlier,” she said, nodding toward the sad remains of his massacred omelet. “You butchered that thing.”

That was the closest to bantering that she ever got, with her lips turning just a little. And he didn't seem to mind, which was good; Syrah wasn't the best at this whole talking to people thing, but Eldred was comfortable to be around, and she found that she didn't really have to try to care about what they were talking about. It just sort of happened.

She leaned back slightly, stretching her legs under the table. “Brighton, huh? Never been.” A beat. “Is it nice?”

Spoken: #75001d Clothes: Casual Untidy / bruised face

He wasn’t surprised by her nonchallant response. The blonde girl seemed neither interested nor unsettled, which Eldred somehow preferred. She was honest in her own way, and the twelve-year-old especially respected this type of person. There was a vast ocean of joy he drew from interacting with individuals like her.

Eldred would have loved to know what was going on in her head as the moment of silence lingered. How much he wished he was able to mindread! Before he could fantasize of it, the silence was broken by her question about Eldred’s father and his cooking.

There was no need for him to think for an appropriate response. When her gaze fell on his plate, she reminded him of the travesty he had committed earlier with the fork.
A laugh almost escaped his throat! Instead, Eldred chuckled softly and squinted his eyes to minimize the volume by concentrating on his body and throat. For a few seconds, he had to compose himself before he could explain, “Definitely better“.

He briefly placed the piece of bread back on his plate. Then added more details to his answer. A smile sat on his elegantly shaped face, and his gray eyes shifted sideways to the blonde girl. “He only cooks because otherwise, my mom would make spaghetti every single day. She loves it, but he constantly worries that we’d all grow noodle arms if we only ate that dish.”
This answer was actually the full truth on the matter. His mother, Hanny Grayswell, would eat the pasta dish seven days a week if his father let her.

Eldred watched Syrah, his mood slowly improving. His eyes sparkled despite the purple bruise on his jaw. Hearing her question about his beloved home, a dreamingly joyful shade began covering his expression. The boy could have talked about Brighton for ages! The feeling of homesickness made it the more easier.
Eldred loved the city and knew it like the back of his hand. “It’s often terribly dull and gray,” he stated with utter honesty. It didn‘t fit to the bliss in his eyes.
Then he suddenly turned his head and grinned so brightly as if what he was about to say was nothing short of the best place to call home. “The summer isn’t really summer, the winter is often very wet, and the wind is sometimes so cold that you can’t relax. It’s great. I love it there. The place lives as if it hates you. It really has character! One of a snob that rolls their eyes at you every morning when you pass by.”

Syrah listened to him talk about Brighton while leaning back in her chair and smiling slightly. She could almost hear the love in his voice as he spoke of the gloomy, dreary weather, and the way his eyes lit up made it seem as though the city was some sort of masterpiece. She didn't really have any reason to despise it herself. After all, she was fond of cold, gray and stormy weather, it was all her hometown itself had to offer.

"It sounds...fun," she remarked."It definitely reminds me of home." She stopped with her fork hovering over the last of her food. "Someday, I might go see it. To personally feel the existential dread, you know."

After a few minutes of silence. Syrah put the fork down and with a single swift motion, she removed the wand from her hair and got to her feet without even looking back at Eldred. With the same casual way, as though it were the most insignificant thing in the world—because, to her, it was—she slipped it into her robe.

Before she spoke again in a flat, unconcerned voice, her eyes briefly locked with his, a glimmer of something in her eyes.

“You better show up tomorrow,” She sad in a dry tone, as if it was a command. "Don’t make me drag your sorry ass out of whatever it is you’re doing." She dropped her tone just enough to make it clear that she wasn't kidding when she said, "I'm not going to waste my time if you bail."

She dismissively waved her hand in the air before vanishing down the hallway, her robe swishing behind her. "Then, see you at ten tomorrow. "

And with that, she was gone, leaving the faint scent of incense from her meditation session this morning behind. She wouldn't admit it. But Syrah was particularly exited for tomorow night. It was rare for her to be exited about anything, everything always seemed a bit boring in her eyes.