tu_vas_triompher | (no subject)

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Feuilly had, of course, sworn to fight at Harry's side in the matter of the dishes. Or, if Harry prefers, to lend moral support from nearby. He...hadn't really sworn to get up before dawn to do this, if only because Harry had neglected to explain his cunning scheme.

So it's his usual breakfast time when Feuilly comes down to the common room, his laptop under his arm, and pokes his head into the kitchen. And blinks to see Harry already there. "--When did you start?"

Uh, and good morning and stuff, that too.

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"But three quarters of an hour and they must pause to rest?" Harry asks with disdain. "And there-- some have surrendered and sent others in their place. And this a sport for men!"

Feuilly shakes his head; he has no answer. Except-- "Women play too. There's women's teams, it says. I don't know if it's much the same, or--" Or what.

But he's watching with more attention now: seeing the players and the names on their shirts, he's intrigued. These two London teams look very international themselves. Lloris--is that a Catalan name? And--Son? More hunt-and-peck typing brings up a list of names, and nationalities with it. And-- "Eh. Eh, Harry. The Hotspur captain is French!"

HA. (But also...look at this, look at all these men from all over the world, joining together as a team!)

Harry snorts and jabs at Feuilly with his elbow. "But none Polish?"

Though the details of the rules are still lost on him, he's finding that it's not hard to get swept up in the rhythm of the game anyway-- he finds himself impulsively starting up when the ball seems near to hitting one of the nets at last, only to be batted away.

"Well--" He holds his breath unconsciously, then lets it when the ball bounces away from the net. "--no, none Polish."

Oh, damn, his coffee is getting cold. And his bagel. He gets back to them, but with his eyes increasingly on the screen.

"I had best return to the washing," Harry says absently, making no move whatsoever to do so.

Hey, the ball goes in! But-- it went in wrong? Or something? Everyone seems angry?

"What-- wherefore--"

"It went in!" He elbows Harry indignantly. "It went in--we saw it! Are they blind, keeping the score?"

"They all saw it," Harry says, gesturing in the general direction of the crowd. "If he cannot see, why does he not inquire of them?"

He shakes his head. "I understand it not. I like not this man."

Feuilly mutters something unintelligible and brings his laptop closer. "You watch-- I'm going to see if I can find out--"

The football went into the net but the team did not score, why? he types carefully, and his frown deepens. None of these articles that come up seems to have any bearing on the situation.

He's going to have to learn all the rules, isn't he.

Harry watches obediently, elbows braced on the bar, his chin in his hands, frowning.

"Ah, one of ours has surrendered--" Off he goes, and a new one comes on. The number must be strictly limited, otherwise why would all those fellows on the sides just be standing around?

"O-- o--" In it goes! And it's plain from the reaction on the little screen that this time is different. Everyone is shouting and hugging! And sorry, Feuilly, Harry hasn't quite realized that he's expressing his delight by smacking you repeatedly in the arm!

That's all right! Feuilly looked up just in time to see the ball go in, though he missed the moments leading up to it; he thumps his fist on Harry's thigh nearly as enthusiastically. "Did you see who it was? Who--oh!" Oh, it's happening again! Or--no--no, they're, they must be showing the moment again, slower.

"Son," he says to himself, typing again. "--From Korea--well done, Son!"

Someone who is not Henry Percy could come up with several puns about that, but he contents himself with giving Feuilly a last cheerful shove.

"It is very unlike the other, the-- the film," he points out. The bright colors, for one thing.

"Mm. I wonder when they made this?" He supposes he could find out; When did Tottenham play football and Son scored? should do it--

"It's happening now! Well--that is--" Whatever now is in Milliways. But somewhere there are people, living people, playing this game, and he and Harry are watching it.

"Now?" Harry looks back with renewed interest. "But how is it they can move so quickly-- there!" He points to the screen as the camera abruptly shifts angles. "How may they run so, from one side to t'other?"

"They must have several different cameras all at once." It seems like a lot of work, for a ball game, but it's true that you can see more this way. "I wonder if the, the men keeping score use the cameras--"

Oh, that reminds him. He scrolls slowly down the page he's looking at, a page with minute-by-minute updates on the game's progress. "...Offside," Feuilly says. "Before--when they should have had a point--there was something called an offside. I'll--let me look it up--"

But the sunlight on the television screen catches his eye, and he finds himself watching it with unexpected hunger. All these people, alive in their world. "It's a pretty day in England," he says quietly.

"Ay, 'tis a miracle," Harry says with a scoff. But then he catches Feuilly's expression and feels he should offer something better than that, but does not know what.

"It is not my England, nor thine," he says after a moment.

"No--no, I suppose it isn't." But it's the world that held Harry in it once--or a world that held a Harry Percy. Feuilly leans up against his shoulder after a moment. "Looks like a pretty good England, though."

Edited 2015-09-22 17:58 (UTC)

"It is a fair day," Harry agrees, slipping his arm around Feuilly's shoulders. "But didst see!" He throws up his other arm in dismay. "O, they topple like dominoes! 'twas scarce a touch at all!"

"I know! And look at him rolling around like that--" He leans against Harry, shaking his head. "Well. It is a game. Not a war."

"No indeed, and this would be poor preparation for it." That's what sports are for, right? "But they play such a thing in France, didst say?"

"Mm. Not much like it, now that I watch. Just--if you give some children a ball, they'll kick it, but I don't think we ever had rules. Just--kick the ball. At a fence or a tree. Or each other," he adds cheerfully. "When anyone had the time, anyway. I assume you did the same?"

Feuilly has to laugh a little as he asks it, and rests his cheek on Harry's shoulder a moment. "Or did you give it up as soon as you could pick up a sword?"

"In the main, but--" He grins, almost sheepish. "Come Shrovetide, well, from time to time, had we the liberty..."

He jostles affectionately against Harry. "Mmhm. And lots of blood was shed?"

"O, ay," he says brightly. "One year I had my shoulder out. 'Tis all a milder affair in France?"

"We didn't really have matches..." He tries to think about the ways someone's shoulder could go out in a game based on kicking a ball, and finds that he can come up with far too many. "--Oh--" He'd stiffened, sat up, but no, not a goal, they're safe. "You can't say the, the one in the net is shy of anything. Jumping like that."

If there are two halves of 45 minutes each, the game should be nearly over, a matter of one or two minutes.

Feuilly should not doubt that Harry would happily narrate the entire incident, with voices, if asked.

"No indeed," Harry agrees seriously. "He must needs be passing tall, to do it well. A position of great trust, surely."

He looks at the counter in the corner of the screen, then guiltily down at their dirty dishes. "--well, we must needs see the outcome."