Two Stars is sitting at one of the picnic tables on the campus.

He's dressed in cordery tan pants with a unique line of patchwork up the sides of both legs and the cargo pockets, one pocket came off of an old pair of blue jeans and the other was made out of a dark brown skin of a teady bear or some other random stuffed animal. The sweater looks like something you'd buy in mexico, a pancho type thing that's brown and resembles a paper bag. It's not flatering at all, on anybody.

He's slouched forward over a leather bound notebook and a pen is scrawling away in verses on the paper. Poet at his best. His blond hair is tucked into a quick and messy bun and the hat on his head is a military green that doesn't actually match anything he's wearing. The print of two stars make a home on the underside of the bill.

He's been there two hours and probably couldn't tell you what time it is, let alone the day. In two hours, all anyone has seen him do is scribble away in that book. Writer's block is not a friendly thing.

Sam writes, sometimes. Never shows it to anyone.

She likes reading, because writing is beyond her (mostly because she's never tried).

She doesn't want to bother, doesn't want to intrude, artists at their work aren't to be bothered, and he seems an artist to her. But she's curious as to what he's writing.

So she reads, or tries to, over his shoulder.

Dark hair, straight, unbound. Sunglasses. Pale. Very stylish, for a given style.

Her coat is blue. Pale, sky blue. It clashes with the loner-elitist vibe of the hair and glasses just a tad.

She's nothing if not inconsistent.

At (here a word was scratched out) night I sleep (the last word had a scratch through it and was replaced by) creep.
the wounds go (scribble over the last word) run deep
from them (more scratches) nightmares creep (cross out) leak (cross out) seep
my sanity is

That's it. No more. That's all she could have read because that's all that was there on the paper. His pen was at the other side of the paper filing in the outline of a pair of perfectly drawn stars. His attention had wandered. Or maybe he was just trying to think.

Someone was watching him. This was determined not by any superparanormal power that he secretly possessed or anything of the like but rather by simple human intuition and the ability to be suspicious. His hand drifted to an empty part of the page and he wrote, in slightly larger letters and more deliberate strokes of the pen, with a sly smile creeping across his lips:

Someone is watching me. and as an after thought, Join me?

He didn't lift his head to look because if someone was not, in fact, watching him, he would feel rather stupid. No one likes to feel stupid.

She circles, slowly.

Wary, just a tad, but when is she ever not?

She's within his field of vision now.

"It's a nice poem."

I think. We think. Maybe.

She's never certain of anything, is Sam.

“It’s an unfinished poem,” he replied, glancing up to meet her with a smile that extended to bright blue eyes. “But thanks.” He looked at the bench across from him, across the table, gestured with the pen in his hand. She can sit, if she wants that is.

“I’m Two Stars.” Sometimes. Alright all the time. Unless his brother is around.

The gesture gets an unconcious shake of the head - she doesn't do that, you see. Socialize.

So she stands there awkwardly. Great.

"I'm Sam." Samantha, but she doesn't like being a Samantha. Too much a great-grandmother name.

Frown.

Ok, have it your way. He puts the pen back to the paper and continues to doodle. "Hi Sam," doesn't she realize that on some low level to some people who like to stretch things out, she is sort of socializing? Two Stars like to stretch the limit so he's inclined to call this socializing with him.

"Want to sit? I don't mind?" The guesture didn't do it, maybe verbal offers are more her style. He's like the next door neighbor that will try forever to be friends, no matter how many different ways you tell him to go away.

"Oh. I."

Pause.

She sits, abruptly, indecision hidden, and thus sustained. She's not one for honesty, or openness. She hides in plain sight, so to speak.

"Anyway, yeah...." Run out of things to talk about, Sam? Already? "You write much?"

No, not a mistress of the spoken word, her.

He smiled when she sat. "All the time," he replied, then as an after thought he added, "when I'm not...doodling." He frowned at the page covered in different little drawing and jummbled messiness. Orgignized Chaos. He lives by it.

"Do you write?" He always has something to talk about. He could fill up an hour talking for the both of them if she had time or patiance to sit and listen.

"That's... neat. That's neat." She smiles, tentatively.

"I - no. I don't write."

Have we covered extremely socially awkward yet?

I hope we have.

She checks hair and glasses - can't have them shifting on her - and adds, certain she should be saying something, "I mean, except for class. I write for class."

Great, Sam. Doing great.

Really.

"Sure is," neat that is. He looked up when she said that she didn't write outside of class. "That's alright. Lot of people don't. My brother hates it." He shrugged. "What classes do you take?" See, that's the good thing about socializing. One subject just leads to another. And he's all about smiling and encouragment.

Awkward? Two Stars doesn't do awkward. He'll let you know when things are starting to get there for him.

"Oh... fiction workshop and art history and english and archaeology. Nothing much."

Eclectic mix, mostly because she has no idea what she wants to do with herself. She just drifts, at least for now. There's very little passion in the child.

She's getting defensive, starting to pull back - she can't deal with this level of ease, it makes her twitchy. Looking for the hidden trap.

"That's a wide variety," he commented idely. That's like his brother. He hasn't a clue what he'll do with himself. Two Stars has zeroed in on his own goal. His eyes stayed down on the papers. "I'm taking Creative Writing, Journalism 1, English, and College Algebra." He's very focused.

Theres no trap. That would be the other twins style.

"Oh... that's nice."

Pause.

"Look, I'd better be going, seriously... I have to study."

I think he stepped over the invisible line into 'freaking her out with the friendly'. Sad, really, but so it goes.

Later, she'll be embarrassed and feel like an idiot, but right now, she just wants to get away.

He sat up and looked at her with an expression that clearly whimpered 'did I say something wrong?' with a frown creasing his brow and a mild pout in the left corner of his lip.

"Oh....Alright then...." Pause, reflecting. "Sorry if I said something."

He'll be trying to figure out what he did wrong all night now. He put his pen down and closed the leather bound notebook.

"I guess I'll just...see you around campus?" Question.

"I. Yeah."

Pause, uncomfortable, pained, but she can't risk it. She can't.

"See you around."

She flees.

Some people are just like that, y'know?

He watched her flee.

"Yeah.....see you around," he said when she was gone and not loud enough for anyone else to hear the disappointment. At least now he has something to write about. Her stand-offishness and her pretty eyes would make a good poem.

What'd I say?