Arun was a meek, solitary individual whose sense of fashion could flip from the downright gypsy to … well, mostly gypsy, in the grand scheme of things. His hair was of an unwieldy sort that, if left to grow too long would look like a frizzy mess atop his head. If left to his own devices, if living alone, he would often look the part of a homeless bum living on a street corner. If it weren’t for the ever-savvy Vasille, Arun wouldn’t look human.
Vasille was Arun’s older brother. One might never have guessed it. Arun was the one with a job that paid most of their bills (though let’s be honest, if either of them hit rock bottom, Mum and Dad would bail them out). They were all artists and creative souls, Arun the only logical one with a scientific mind. And yet, he’d been the one landed with power he could not understand, with abilities he wished not to share with others lest he be thrown into a cell somewhere, wrapped up in a straight jacket.
It was Vasille who eventually pulled Arun away from his books under the pretence of there being no food in the fridge. They needed groceries but all the proper grocery shops were closed, he said. And he was hungry. He’d been complaining about hunger for the last hour and it was all a ruse, of course. At first, Arun dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and flip-flops, not thinking they were going very far. It was Vasille who convinced him to instead put on a dress shirt and jeans. He wanted to go to a restaurant! For once in their lives, they could eat something proper, couldn’t they?
Arun was paying zero attention as they meandered into the University grounds; the University could be an entire suburb all on its own, and though it was where Arun worked, and the little streets and all the old buildings were completely familiar to him, he assumed it was a short cut (given they lived so close to campus).
One of the cafes there—normally closed at night time—was open. From within came the sound of quiet acoustic, some young musician set up on a small stage to provide background ambiance. The tables were all set up for two, each with a candle, a table number, and a single rose in the middle. Arun scoffed, still completely clueless.
”Didn’t know you were such a romantic, Vasille,” he said.
”No no, but you need to learn to be, brother,” Vasille said. The two brothers shared the same accent, one that could not be properly dissected, not unless someone was an expert linguist. Mostly, it was the Romanian that thickened and took control. Vasille’s hand was now on Arun’s shoulder, gripping tight as if he expected his brother to run away. Arun, still completely gullible, had not yet caught on. They approached the podium where Vasille cheerily announced that Arun and Vasille Dumitrescu were here, and the blonde college student behind the podium beamed her Colgate smile.
”You’ll be starting at table number seven, Arun. Vasille, table ten,”[/color] she said. ”We don’t start for another ten minutes so feel free to grab a drink, and something to eat from the buffet,” she said. Arun blinked before it finally dawned on him.
”Oooh, no! No, Vasille. Why… what have you done?” he groaned, but his brother only laughed and pulled Arun further inside, deeper into the mingling crowd.
”You’ll thank me later, brother. You need a girlfriend!” he said, making a beeline for the buffet table, wasting no time in whisking up a plate for himself and for his brother. Vasille could eat like a horse but never put on any weight.
”YOU already have a girlfriend, Vasille. Why are you here?!” Arun asked, holding the plate Vasille had handed him, like it was a foreign object and he had no idea what to do with it.
”It doesn’t matter. She thinks you need a girlfriend too. Look! She’s even here,” Vasille said, pointing to his girlfriend, Amelia, who’d also spotted Vasille and was wending her way through the gathered throng. Vasille was heaping pile after pile of spaghetti onto his plate.
Eventually, Vasille and Amelia went to find a place to perch, keeping an eye on the confused and flabbergasted Arun. He’d put his plate back, hungry but now too nervous to do anything about it, afraid of spilling half his food down the clothes his brother had so carefully helped him to pick out. Ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye and Arun found himself robotically moving toward table seven; the bells had chimed.
Vasille was Arun’s older brother. One might never have guessed it. Arun was the one with a job that paid most of their bills (though let’s be honest, if either of them hit rock bottom, Mum and Dad would bail them out). They were all artists and creative souls, Arun the only logical one with a scientific mind. And yet, he’d been the one landed with power he could not understand, with abilities he wished not to share with others lest he be thrown into a cell somewhere, wrapped up in a straight jacket.
It was Vasille who eventually pulled Arun away from his books under the pretence of there being no food in the fridge. They needed groceries but all the proper grocery shops were closed, he said. And he was hungry. He’d been complaining about hunger for the last hour and it was all a ruse, of course. At first, Arun dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and flip-flops, not thinking they were going very far. It was Vasille who convinced him to instead put on a dress shirt and jeans. He wanted to go to a restaurant! For once in their lives, they could eat something proper, couldn’t they?
Arun was paying zero attention as they meandered into the University grounds; the University could be an entire suburb all on its own, and though it was where Arun worked, and the little streets and all the old buildings were completely familiar to him, he assumed it was a short cut (given they lived so close to campus).
One of the cafes there—normally closed at night time—was open. From within came the sound of quiet acoustic, some young musician set up on a small stage to provide background ambiance. The tables were all set up for two, each with a candle, a table number, and a single rose in the middle. Arun scoffed, still completely clueless.
”Didn’t know you were such a romantic, Vasille,” he said.
”No no, but you need to learn to be, brother,” Vasille said. The two brothers shared the same accent, one that could not be properly dissected, not unless someone was an expert linguist. Mostly, it was the Romanian that thickened and took control. Vasille’s hand was now on Arun’s shoulder, gripping tight as if he expected his brother to run away. Arun, still completely gullible, had not yet caught on. They approached the podium where Vasille cheerily announced that Arun and Vasille Dumitrescu were here, and the blonde college student behind the podium beamed her Colgate smile.
”You’ll be starting at table number seven, Arun. Vasille, table ten,”[/color] she said. ”We don’t start for another ten minutes so feel free to grab a drink, and something to eat from the buffet,” she said. Arun blinked before it finally dawned on him.
”Oooh, no! No, Vasille. Why… what have you done?” he groaned, but his brother only laughed and pulled Arun further inside, deeper into the mingling crowd.
”You’ll thank me later, brother. You need a girlfriend!” he said, making a beeline for the buffet table, wasting no time in whisking up a plate for himself and for his brother. Vasille could eat like a horse but never put on any weight.
”YOU already have a girlfriend, Vasille. Why are you here?!” Arun asked, holding the plate Vasille had handed him, like it was a foreign object and he had no idea what to do with it.
”It doesn’t matter. She thinks you need a girlfriend too. Look! She’s even here,” Vasille said, pointing to his girlfriend, Amelia, who’d also spotted Vasille and was wending her way through the gathered throng. Vasille was heaping pile after pile of spaghetti onto his plate.
Eventually, Vasille and Amelia went to find a place to perch, keeping an eye on the confused and flabbergasted Arun. He’d put his plate back, hungry but now too nervous to do anything about it, afraid of spilling half his food down the clothes his brother had so carefully helped him to pick out. Ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye and Arun found himself robotically moving toward table seven; the bells had chimed.
