Author: Orodruin42

Flavor: Vanilla

Prompt: #4 I can’t believe you (don’t) know how to ______

Rating: PG-13

Story: The Paelenor

Word count: 693


“Auhm,” the teen groaned uncomfortably. He shifted restlessly, the ground hard under his back and something poking uncomfortably into his shoulder from his pack—which he’d decided to use as a pillow.

With a disgusted sigh, the boy opened his eyes, peering up through the darkness and blinking until a vast sky of stars came into focus.

Rester stared—he’d never seen so many back home. They dotted the sky like the spawn of Zerg, scattered here and swarmed there.

“Let’s see… what were those constellations?” He murmured to himself, tilting his head slightly in an attempt to make out any familiar pattern in the dots of light.

A crunch in the grass nearby made the boy start in alarm, rolling onto his knees and looking around wildly for the source.

A snort came from his right, and Rester twisted his head to see Sigmund walking towards him. “Only me,” he muttered, stalking past him to sit heavily beside his own bag, “Idiot.”

Rester scowled. They’d only met a few days ago, but he already hated the other boy. Rolling over again, Rester settled down, leaning against his pack.

The others were all asleep, and the teen let his eyes rove over the still forms for a moment. Finally, his eyes landed on the small mound of dirt next to his pack.

Everything had been so bizarre since that night. He wasn’t sure how it happened—even the genius, Mies, couldn’t say—but it was stranger than any video game he’d played.

His eyes returned to the other boy, watching as the younger teen shuffled around in his bag. Apparently, Sigmund found what he needed, because he drew back from it and turned around, sitting cross-legged and fiddling with something between his knees.

Rester frowned, curious despite himself.

“… What are you doing?” He asked at last.

The other teen glanced up at him, face blank and eyes derisive. He was the one Rester understood the least. How could someone like Sigmund be considered a hero to anyone? Even a slacker like Rester could tell that he was no good.

Then the other boy smiled, a cruel grin with a mocking glint in his cool blue eyes. “You know fluppe?”

Rester stared at him blankly, “… No. What’s it? German?”

“Deutch,” Sigmund said.

Enticed by his curiosity, Rester moved closer. The fire had died down low, but there was still enough light from the red embers and interspertent flames to see the younger boy’s hands move as he expertly formed a small sheet of paper, pressing it into a tight, thin stick.

“What are you doing?” Rester asked again, baffled.

Sigmund let out a dry laugh as he lifted his creation in his fingers and dug around in his pocket with his other hand. His sharp eyes were mocking again as he answered, a sarcastic smile on his lips, “I can’t believe you don’t know how to roll fluppe.”

Rester stared at him in confusion a moment longer until the younger boy placed one end of the paper stick between his lips, the other bringing a lighter to bear on the far end. His eyes widened in realization and his cheeks flushed in embarrassment as he backed away.

“I can’t believe you know how to!” He exclaimed, forgetting to be quiet.

Sigmund laughed again and exhaled a cloud of smoke before holding the smoldering joint out, “Want some, Dumpfbacke?”

Rester glowered—he could tell when he’d been insulted, even if it was in another language. “No thanks,” he grumbled, sitting next to his own pack again with a huff, “Where’d you get that stuff, anyway?”

The other boy shrugged, lounging back with his cigarette, “Earwin found it for me. We have an agreement.”

Rester shook his head in disbelief. He’d known the younger teen was a jerk, but he never would have expected him to abuse his own partner like that. Again, he wondered at the wisdom of trusting the fate of an entire world to someone like Sigmund.

“A drug-addict at thirteen,” he muttered in disbelief, shooting the younger teen one last dirty look before hunkering down for another try at sleeping.

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