notverywise | (no subject)

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cameron winklevoss

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There are days when Jenny doesn't know how she ever managed to like it here. She'd say as much, anyway, though the logic still makes sense. (Of course she would have liked it. The island is exotic, beautiful, about as far from Twickenham as it's possible to get, and it isn't as if she came from a particularly good time.) It's just that, while there are times it's easier to ignore the size and limitations of this place in favor of focusing on the atmosphere, there are likewise times when the exact opposite is true, when everything feels as stifling as it did back home, when she was still just a schoolgirl, before everything turned on its head. Here as well, there's nowhere to go and nothing to do, and no way of trying to put back together the pieces of the life she left behind. In that way, it's worse than home.

Were it not for the fact that half the things on the island are apparently bloody magic (and she'll never understand that, she thinks, not in a million years, not even if it fascinated her initially), it might not be an issue at all. As it is, though, this particular day, the jukebox and bookshelf seem to both be conspiring against her, the former singing you've got me wrapped around your little finger at her as the latter is at once filled with innumerable copies of Jane Eyre upon her approach. It's more than she cares to deal with, more than she has the patience for.

She heads out of the Compound after that, in the hopes that some fresh air will do her good. Anything, really, to get away from the notion that something here knows her, knows about the life she hasn't seen fit to describe in detail to anyone. It isn't supposed to matter here, and yet it follows her around anyway; the best she can do is try to put some distance between it and herself. Not caring enough to walk all the way out to the beach, she seats herself instead on the Compound steps, concrete warm under her palms and the backs of her legs, head tipped back slightly and eyes half-closed as she draws in a deep breath. It's far better than being inside, but it leaves her distracted, so much that she almost doesn't notice someone walking up. "Hello," she says absently, when she finally registers movement, probably a few moments later than should otherwise be the case. She lowers her chin slightly, then, just a touch more serious. "I'm not in your way, am I?"

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"Not at all," Cameron says, though she is. It doesn't especially matter when he has nowhere to go, nowhere to be, a fact that still rankles, some time after his arrival. It isn't like he can't take a break, enjoy where he is when he's there; he's been on any number of vacations with his family to places equally as lovely, if more populated and better supplied. When he was so close to accomplishing so much, with a great deal more waiting in his future if he could just stick around to grab it, however, and on the heels of so many disappointments, to be in a place where he can neither seek retribution nor do anything to move forward is indescribably frustrating. That doesn't mean he has to take it out on her.

He has no desire to anyway. She looks so at ease. It's not an outward appearance he's sure he's managed yet, though he has, up until recently, gone through life looking perfectly in place virtually everywhere he goes. That self-assurance does little here, at least for him, and he can't help admiring — envying, at least — her calm. "If anything," he says, "I think I might be in yours."

Jenny looks at him, then, really looks at him, and one corner of her mouth twitches a little higher, though she doesn't otherwise move. He's just told her that she doesn't need to, after all, and even if she can't see how he could actually be in her way when she's the one who's just sitting, she has no intention of leaving the seat she's taken unless she has to. At least around here, there isn't any crime in being lazy for a while. In fact, they might all be better off for it, having so much empty time to fill, so few obligations. Based on his response, she thinks he might have the same thoughts on the matter, and that's reassuring enough that she isn't so concerned with being serious when she answers.

"Mm, well, you are blocking a bit of the light," she says, mock-thoughtful, with a lift of one shoulder. "You're very tall, has anyone ever told you that before?" Part of it, she's sure, is her vantage point, seated below him and looking up, but as far as she can tell, that also doesn't alter her perspective too much. He looks tall, and she's not especially short.

"Mm, my apologies," Cam says, just a hint of teasing in his tone, slight enough it might be missed by anyone not paying attention (there are times it feels like Tyler got the brunt of the personality — the more obvious traits, at least, the showier aspects. For his part, though, Cameron's never really minded that. It has its downsides, but it has its benefits, too. He's rarely thought of himself as comfortable, but it is, he sometimes realizes, exactly what he is). His hands behind his back, he nods to the side, smile matching his voice, small, almost sly. "I've heard it mentioned on occasion, yes." In keeping with her joke, he takes a large step to the side, staying easily within her line of vision. "Better?"

"Much," Jenny answers, delighted enough by his playing along that it takes actual effort to keep her smile from growing too wide. It's a small thing, shouldn't even be consequential, but given what she's trying to keep her mind off, it's a welcome distraction. This place, she thinks, needs more of those. Angling slightly so she can better face him without actually moving from her position on the steps (that would defeat the purpose, after all), she tilts her head to the side, still trying to pass as some approximation of thoughtful. "That's incredibly obliging of you, thank you."

"You're very welcome," Cam says, and after another moment, turns to ease down onto the steps beside her. He's had no invitation, no, but he doubts she'd mind and that's when one isn't necessary. There's no use standing on ceremony when a girl smiles like that — even when she tries to hide it (just to be friendly, of course). Actually, hiding it seems to be all the more reason. "I'd say you're not from around these parts, but then, I don't think anyone actually is." Even in a place that isn't America, even with all the traveling he's done, it can be difficult to turn off that ethnocentrism; he is American, ergo everyone who is not seems foreign, despite the fact that this is no more America than it is anywhere else he actually knows. It's a flaw, he knows, but a small one, given how little time he's had to adjust.

Jenny doesn't mind it at all, is, in fact, grateful for the company when he sits (that, and no longer having to lean her head back to look at him, something she rectifies almost immediately after he takes a seat). It isn't too short a time that she's been here, a matter of weeks, but she doesn't know many people yet, and while she'd hardly say that she's desperate or anything of the sort, she can't deny that the prospect of conversation is nice. (She can't imagine that he'd have joined her if he didn't intend on staying to talk.) "No, not except anyone who's born here," she agrees, shoulders lifting in a slight shrug. "It does sound like I'm not from around where you're from, though." She can only assume that that's what he means, which makes sense enough to her; she still finds herself thinking that way, too, as if she's at home, except she isn't.

"It does." Cam shakes his head, a smile crossing his lips as he glances down, hands folded in front of him. "You know, it's the small talk thing you do at home — wherever home is. Exchange the details, comment upon whether or not you've been, pleasantries, all of that. Actually... contemplating whether or not someone is even from the same world, I have to confess, is, it's still... a little beyond me." Again it's only been a matter of weeks, but he'd thought of himself as someone better able to adapt before here. Maybe it's just he's never had to accustom himself to quite so much, but it all seems a great deal more overwhelming than anything else has before, and he's been thrown into a number of lion's dens, no matter how tame the lions often seemed.

"God, isn't it, though?" Jenny asks, just a bit more abruptly than she means to, leaning forward a little out of interest, hands on her knees. "I know people say you get used to it, but I can't imagine that ever being normal. It's just too odd." The same could be said for many things about this place, of course, but for now, with the turn of conversation, that's easiest to single in on, especially with the antics of the bookshelf and the jukebox getting farther from her mind. Only after a few moments, during which she realizes that she's said more than intended does the implication in his words sink in, and if she's right, she's grateful for it. It isn't actually true, of course, but it feels sometimes as if everyone has been here longer than she has. "Does that mean you've not been here long, either, then?"

His smile widens a little as Cam looks over at her. It's the either he catches, a small sense of camaraderie forged by the commonality of being new in a place where everyone seems so settled in their ways (and while his family isn't what might be called old money, he's spent enough time with that sort that this is saying something. How anyone can be so set in a place like this, he doesn't understand). "A few weeks," he agrees. "And I'd say 'odd' is an understatement." He offers his hand. "Cameron Winklevoss." Knowing another person might not make anything any less strange, but he figures it can't hurt.

"Jenny Mellor," she replies as she shakes his offered hand, likewise pleased at what she perceives to be an immediate sense of kinship, though her own smile is softer this time, more natural. It isn't just for the fact that they have this one thing in common that she decides she likes him (and even then, she'd know better than to base anything on one quickly formed opinion, her judge of character having proven to be not the greatest lately), but it certainly helps, leaves her a little less self-conscious in sitting beside him, having struck up a conversation with a stranger. "Been here about the same. And, yes, I think you're probably right."

He wants to tell her it's a beautiful name, simple but lyrical. In spite of the slightly stiff, old-fashioned manners that made him the brunt of jokes until he proved himself no laughing matter, Cameron isn't shy. If anything, he can be as confident to a fault as his brother, but somehow, it still strikes him as too forward. She might laugh anyway, and while he doubts it would be unkindly meant, he doesn't want that. "Not that you'd know it to talk to anyone who's been here long," he says. "Apparently living in huts on islands that don't have economies but do possess dinosaurs just becomes run of the mill eventually."

"It's true," Jenny agrees, light but emphatic, not thinking so much, now, as saying what's been on her mind all this time, what she's found seems to be an unpopular belief, if only because she's still so new here. "They all act as if it's so normal, not a big deal to begin with — or, worse, tell you that you'll get used to it, too. What if I don't want to get used to — to dinosaurs, or living in a hut, or having no money?" It isn't even like she came from all that much of the latter; not needing to worry about it, though, was something she did get used to, an expectation she hasn't quite been able to break, not having had the time to since everything fell apart with David. (With him, she'd never needed to worry. As it turns out, she probably should have.) Letting out an exhale of a laugh, almost incredulous, she shakes her head. "It makes absolutely no sense."

"Very little here seems to." Cameron smiles in spite of himself, mostly because she's laughed. It isn't funny, but it's absurd enough almost to feel it anyway. "If anyone had told me a place like this existed," he says, "and that people live like this and take it as, as the norm, I would have very quietly called in a psychiatric professional to deal with that delusion. It's one thing to form a... differently functioning society, to live in these buildings and on these terms, but to act like, like magic and dinosaurs and I don't know what all is just a day in the life?" He laughs, shaking his head. "It's plain nuts, is what it is."

"If you're going to live with it, at least acknowledge that it shouldn't even be possible," Jenny says by means of agreement, head tipping to the side. Admittedly, there had been something thrilling about it when she'd first arrived, the newness of it and the fact that she'd never have been able to see anything like it at home, but that quickly wore off; the insanity of it all is far more overwhelming, more important. She'd prefer the sort of excitement she could get in her own world, not something so fantastical as to seem like they've stepped through a wardrobe into some variation on Narnia. "I don't intend to ever get used to it. Even if it means I go mad every time something strange happens."

"Oh, oh, no," Cameron says quickly, "I really don't feel madness is the answer here. Next thing you know, you'll be so far 'round the bend, you'll be calling everything normal." It's not like he's all this disdainful of the islanders, really; he just doesn't know how to handle them, the constant reassurance that he, too, will learn to be at peace here. This isn't his world, his time, anything like the way he grew up, and yes, he can adapt, it's an important trait if one's to stay ahead of the curve as he likes to believe he does, but there is a difference between keeping up and being calm. He's long managed to maintain, if nothing else, the external appearance thereof, often matched by the internal content, but here, it's all on the outside. Going mad sounds entirely possible.

"Mm, we can't have that," Jenny replies, pulling a face, as if the thought hadn't occurred to her. They shouldn't have to go hand in hand, slipping into insanity and joining the countless people here who've grown so accustomed to this that they can't see how ridiculous all of this is, but it's probably better not to take the chance; she has no desire to end up like that. Anyway, if she did, she wouldn't be able to fully appreciate any aspect of it that might wind up being appealing, because it would no longer be something new and noteworthy. That isn't a point she ever wants to have to reach. Even if she's going to be stuck here, she can try to find what benefits there are. Right now, it's just hard to see anything fitting that description. That doesn't mean that won't change. As serious as she can manage to seem, she ducks her head slightly towards him, as if imparting a secret. "I shall just have to rely on you to make sure I stay sane, then, won't I?"

It's a joke, Cameron thinks, just her teasing or having fun, but the way she comes closer gives it a weight he has difficulty explaining. "I'll do everything in my power to keep it that way," he assures her, equally mock-solemn (although staying the responsible, sane one has long been his realm anyway. It seems appropriate, even in jest). "Although my keeping a close eye on you for signs of adapting may only contribute to your deterioration. I'm told I have that effect." There's some truth in that, actually, if only because Tyler frequently finds him every bit as annoying as Cam sometimes find Ty. It's the province of brothers, of twins, to want the other around as much as he'd prefer he stay away, he thinks.

"Are you?" Jenny asks, eyebrows raising, both skeptical and amused at once. She may have only known him for a few minutes, but she has trouble believing it, her own opinion of him already formed somewhere between the time he stepped out of her way and now. As far as she can see, there'd be nothing to dislike. After a moment's consideration, mostly feigned, she shakes her head, expression resolute, as if she's made up her mind without any room for questioning. "No, I don't think that could be true at all. It'll have to not be, anyway. I'm counting on you."

"Oh," Cameron says, as if this makes all the difference. Were it not a joke, it would. He likes her sense of humor, though — wry, easy, at once accessibly familiar and enough beyond his own that he finds himself wanting to be funnier, cleverer, to keep her interest. As much as he seems calm, restrained, much of the time, competitive is his default state. He just hides it better than some. "Well. In that case, you're right, it will have not to be. I could never let a lady down — and if it means proving my brother wrong into the bargain, it's the best of both worlds."

"Your brother," Jenny repeats, a hint of a question in her voice, chin lifting with curiosity. It makes sense of his statement from a moment ago, at least — while she has no experience with siblings of her own, it seems like something one might say — and serves to keep her interested at the same time, which is, as far as she can see, an excellent combination. "That makes it two good causes in one, then. Is he here, or is it just in principle?" (It's something she hasn't let herself think much about, the prospect of someone from home showing up here, even family, the notion both warming and terrifying in one go.)

Cameron's smile doesn't falter, but something in it fades a little as he shakes his head. It's no less than it was a moment ago, but still, something's gone out of it and there is, admittedly, a pit in his stomach that wasn't there before, though God, he'd never tell Tyler that. He's more than capable of being on his own, he just never has, not like this. That was always one of the best things about them — there was always someone there who, whether he wanted to or not, understood — and now it's like something's missing, subtle but important. "No," he says, "just a matter of principle. He's not here. Although that's hardly surprising, I've always been the punctual one." It's better to make light of it, to keep smiling; there's no call to burden her.

Jenny makes a quiet sound at that, thoughtful, sympathetic, but notably unsure quite what to say. She hardly wants to make matters worse by pointing out the obvious and stating that he must be missed, but the subject is such that she wouldn't want to take it too lightly and seem dismissive when she does truly care. At least he seems to be taking it well enough, leaving her to keep smiling in turn; there's no reason to make too much of it when he doesn't, when she can't imagine what it would feel like anyway. She misses her parents, her friends, even — God help her — Danny and Helen, but she has the sense enough to know that it isn't the same. "Here's hoping he doesn't turn up too late, then," she settles on, one corner of her mouth just barely higher than the other. "It's only fashionable up to a point, n'est-ce pas?"

"Absolument," Cameron replies, huffing out a laugh. Tyler doesn't give a rat's ass about fashion; Cameron barely has the time himself, although he takes care to ensure he's presentable, at least, even here. That's a matter of principle, too. "Après un point, c'est simplement mal élevé." There's a small degree to which he is, in fact, showing off a little, but it also just seems like the natural way to respond, slipping into the language she chose, almost as if it were a new-made inside joke. There's a saying people like to dust off when one goes abroad about how people who speak two languages are bilingual; more than that, multilingual; only one, American. He prefers being able to shut that down with some manner of authenticity, although he only has a smattering of phrases here and there in German and Italian, enough to be polite, and his French has grown rusty. All the same, that one, that's a matter of pride (and language requirement courses at his prep school, but he would have pursued it regardless. He's never wanted to allow people the pleasure of viewing himself and his brother as simply jocks). It occurs to him, though, that the phrase is common enough. He smiles. "I'm sorry, that was presumptuous of me. Do you enjoy French?"

It's hard for Jenny to do anything other than light up at that, the response unexpected, but perhaps better than what she could have imagined. She hadn't given much thought to slipping in the turn of phrase, an instinct she's rarely second-guessed (awkward though it can occasionally lead to conversation being; she still remembers the way Helen first responded, even commenting on it again later), but now that she thinks about it, she wouldn't have been anticipating him to pick up on it and play along. Even her friends at home weren't quite so familiar with the language as she is, and Danny spoke it, but there was never occasion to when Helen didn't. Now, having this common ground as well, she's all the more pleased that they came across each other. "Don't apologize," she says, giving a slight shake of her head. "J'adore le français — la langue, la musique, les livres, tous."

"Je regrette à dire j'avais pas le temps pour étudier la littérature française en beaucoup du détail," Cameron admits, "mais oui, c'est une culture charmante." He laughs, breaks the moment of his own seriousness, though he's not entirely sure what's funny about it. Maybe nothing, maybe it's just that she's quite evidently pleased. "You'll forgive me if I'm partial to my own, of course, but I, I do like it, yes. Tous, comme vous avez dire." It is, he thinks, an attitude one expects of Americans anyway, that they prefer their own culture above all others, and while he's not comfortable with a certain sense of entitlement attached to such preference — with entitlement in general, though that's a topic for another time — he thinks this, perhaps, they've earned in full. But then, he may well be sentimental for a time he wasn't around to see, and at the moment, the way she smiles and a bit of pleasant conversation seems more important.