beloved, after this comment is posted, this post will be 3 comments away from the being the LONGEST THREAD ON MY LIVEJOURNAL. omg.
the airport at negros oriental is one small field and one small building. there are no walkways to waiting lounges -- they descend the steps of the plane and follow the crowd across the tarmac like slightly disoriented wildebeest during migration season. in t-shirt and jeans and sunglasses, they look like backpackers seeking paradise 'off the beaten path', waves more merciless and beaches more golden, and they look very little like they've got mafia problems half a world away. from looks alone they could be from anywhere, australia, canada, germany, with a glint in their eyes that the locals recognize: youth whose restlessness feeds their strength, whose strangeness in the landscape imbues them with certain pretensions of invulnerability.
a car is waiting for them outside the airport, and the driver piles their bags in the back while edmund and peter climb in and corin gives him instructions in a mix of english and tagalog.
"i think i'm getting sunburnt," peter mutters, gingerly touching the back of his neck.
"i told you to put on sunscreen, man."
"god, you sound just like susan."
edmund rolls his eyes. "you wish."
peter does, a little, and he knows edmund knows it so he doesn't say anything.
edmund says, "she'd love it here."
"she'd hate it." pause. "lucy would love it though."
"yeah," edmund muses. "lucy would."
corin gets in the front seat and tells them lune will drop in in a few days, or else will send someone. "and," says corin with a pointed look, "we got out of manila just in time. people have begun asking questions about the pevensie brothers. we don't know who yet exactly, but we're working on it."
"oh christ," edmund concludes, and as the car pulls through the little town, he grills corin about exactly what kind of questions, who when what, what the hell is lune up to anyway, etc. peter falls to staring at the window, at the worn little buildings that drift by, shop signs that say things like "bongbong's sari-sari store" and "erminda's traditional buko pie", the audacious jeepneys and the serious-faced men who drive them. he sees a woman selling cigarettes wearing a 'hard rock cafe dubai', and wonders if she knows someone in dubai, or if the factory that made those shirts is around here somewhere.
"dad's got contacts all over the northeast," corin is saying. "there's gotta be at least a couple who got ins with any one of the five families, and more than that who know miraz. you say your sisters are shacked up with him right now?"
"yes," peter says flatly.
"hmm," says corin, like he's maybe not sure it's a good idea. well, peter can agree with that.
the beach house is in a secluded part of the island, and by 'secluded' it means the compound is gated and patrolled by armed guards. the air smells like the sea here, and the susurrus of the waves is always within earshot, even inside the beach house, which is a more modest affair than lune's dasmarinas monstrosity.
"we've got no maids here," says corin as they settle into the living room, "so we've got to like, fend for ourselves."
peter and edmund exchange glances. "well," says edmund. "we'll try."
"but the good thing about that," says corin, and reaches into his duffel and takes out a little baggie, tosses it onto the coffee table. it is half full of small bunched green leaves.
edmund says, "corin. is that marijuana?"
"yeah."
"corin," edmund says again. "were you carrying that ON THE PLANE?"
"naw, of course not," corin shrugs. "i'm not stupid, though i think you like, think that. i called ahead and told the driver to get some for us before we got here. hey pete." he tosses something at peter and peter catches it in one hand. rolling papers. "if i remember correctly, you roll the ill j."
peter says, "i haven't gotten high in ages." he won't vouch for lucy, though.
"oh shit," corin grins disarmingly. "you're gonna get blazed."
no subject
the airport at negros oriental is one small field and one small building. there are no walkways to waiting lounges -- they descend the steps of the plane and follow the crowd across the tarmac like slightly disoriented wildebeest during migration season. in t-shirt and jeans and sunglasses, they look like backpackers seeking paradise 'off the beaten path', waves more merciless and beaches more golden, and they look very little like they've got mafia problems half a world away. from looks alone they could be from anywhere, australia, canada, germany, with a glint in their eyes that the locals recognize: youth whose restlessness feeds their strength, whose strangeness in the landscape imbues them with certain pretensions of invulnerability.
a car is waiting for them outside the airport, and the driver piles their bags in the back while edmund and peter climb in and corin gives him instructions in a mix of english and tagalog.
"i think i'm getting sunburnt," peter mutters, gingerly touching the back of his neck.
"i told you to put on sunscreen, man."
"god, you sound just like susan."
edmund rolls his eyes. "you wish."
peter does, a little, and he knows edmund knows it so he doesn't say anything.
edmund says, "she'd love it here."
"she'd hate it." pause. "lucy would love it though."
"yeah," edmund muses. "lucy would."
corin gets in the front seat and tells them lune will drop in in a few days, or else will send someone. "and," says corin with a pointed look, "we got out of manila just in time. people have begun asking questions about the pevensie brothers. we don't know who yet exactly, but we're working on it."
"oh christ," edmund concludes, and as the car pulls through the little town, he grills corin about exactly what kind of questions, who when what, what the hell is lune up to anyway, etc. peter falls to staring at the window, at the worn little buildings that drift by, shop signs that say things like "bongbong's sari-sari store" and "erminda's traditional buko pie", the audacious jeepneys and the serious-faced men who drive them. he sees a woman selling cigarettes wearing a 'hard rock cafe dubai', and wonders if she knows someone in dubai, or if the factory that made those shirts is around here somewhere.
"dad's got contacts all over the northeast," corin is saying. "there's gotta be at least a couple who got ins with any one of the five families, and more than that who know miraz. you say your sisters are shacked up with him right now?"
"yes," peter says flatly.
"hmm," says corin, like he's maybe not sure it's a good idea. well, peter can agree with that.
the beach house is in a secluded part of the island, and by 'secluded' it means the compound is gated and patrolled by armed guards. the air smells like the sea here, and the susurrus of the waves is always within earshot, even inside the beach house, which is a more modest affair than lune's dasmarinas monstrosity.
"we've got no maids here," says corin as they settle into the living room, "so we've got to like, fend for ourselves."
peter and edmund exchange glances. "well," says edmund. "we'll try."
"but the good thing about that," says corin, and reaches into his duffel and takes out a little baggie, tosses it onto the coffee table. it is half full of small bunched green leaves.
edmund says, "corin. is that marijuana?"
"yeah."
"corin," edmund says again. "were you carrying that ON THE PLANE?"
"naw, of course not," corin shrugs. "i'm not stupid, though i think you like, think that. i called ahead and told the driver to get some for us before we got here. hey pete." he tosses something at peter and peter catches it in one hand. rolling papers. "if i remember correctly, you roll the ill j."
peter says, "i haven't gotten high in ages." he won't vouch for lucy, though.
"oh shit," corin grins disarmingly. "you're gonna get blazed."