Scars, Mr. Keane says, and John's stomach twists. It's not surprise, exactly, because he doesn't know what else they could be. But he can't imagine what would make scars like that, and he isn't sure he wants to. He doesn't want to know his life is going to leave him looking so terrible.
Mr. Keane adds the bit about Martin as if it's supposed to help, but it doesn't. John barely knows Martin, but that's only part of why he shrinks from the idea. The other reason is because Martin seems nice — nicer than John, for certain — and John has already seen scary things without him. He remembers the prickle he'd felt on the back of his neck back in that flat (their flat?), how sure he was that someone else was there, watching them, but he can't remember if Martin felt it, too, or if he was just frightened and following John's lead.
And if Martin hadn't felt it... maybe the feeling was only for him. Maybe something has noticed him, but not Martin — not yet. Maybe it would be smarter for Martin to not be friends with him, to not get noticed, to not have to help with whatever ends up leaving all those scars.
John twitches in surprise when Martin speaks, louder and more insistent than he has so far. Distantly, he thinks it's a good question, a smart one. There must be others who know them, if Mr. Keane isn't lying; they must be earning money somehow. He can't fully grasp onto his earlier curiosity, though, not when all the answers are so awful.
The little screen dims, then blackens, showing John only his own print-smudged reflection. He feels a brief surge of worry that he's somehow broken the device, but he doesn't see how he could've done, and when no scolding follows, he just passes it wordlessly back to Mr. Keane.
no subject
Mr. Keane adds the bit about Martin as if it's supposed to help, but it doesn't. John barely knows Martin, but that's only part of why he shrinks from the idea. The other reason is because Martin seems nice — nicer than John, for certain — and John has already seen scary things without him. He remembers the prickle he'd felt on the back of his neck back in that flat (their flat?), how sure he was that someone else was there, watching them, but he can't remember if Martin felt it, too, or if he was just frightened and following John's lead.
And if Martin hadn't felt it... maybe the feeling was only for him. Maybe something has noticed him, but not Martin — not yet. Maybe it would be smarter for Martin to not be friends with him, to not get noticed, to not have to help with whatever ends up leaving all those scars.
John twitches in surprise when Martin speaks, louder and more insistent than he has so far. Distantly, he thinks it's a good question, a smart one. There must be others who know them, if Mr. Keane isn't lying; they must be earning money somehow. He can't fully grasp onto his earlier curiosity, though, not when all the answers are so awful.
The little screen dims, then blackens, showing John only his own print-smudged reflection. He feels a brief surge of worry that he's somehow broken the device, but he doesn't see how he could've done, and when no scolding follows, he just passes it wordlessly back to Mr. Keane.