gabriel marinan

"Oh Philly, I’ve heard a lot about it but have never had the pleasure of visiting myself.  Let’s see Liberty Bell, Rocky steps, and OH! How are the cheese stakes?"

"I have not really no.  I’ve been kind of," Godfrey bobbed his head around trying to indicate that he had been super hyped and was running around the city with Veronica and then Delilah and meeting people, if that could even be conveyed through a head movement. 

"It's really not all that special. I kinda hate it, if you want my opinion." He nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Uh, they're alright. Cheesy." 

Gabriel realized that Hugh has got to be one of the most interesting people that he's met so far, and it's such a breath of fresh air that he found his smile never once faltered as he watched his head movements and listened to everything he said. 

But it wasn’t the stout, dour-faced Señora Estrella that appeared in the doorway, but a lanky-looking guy with longish, black hair and dark eyes. Heather frowned at him in confusion for a moment. Maybe he’d been banished to the back room, too.

"Personally. I’d rather help out those that need it. But community service isn’t for everyone, I guess."  Realizing he must’ve overhead her previous statement, Heather huffed out a quiet, mirthless noise of agreement as she turned away from him and back to her mountain of potatoes. “You can say that again,” she affirmed, somewhat under her breath but still loud enough for him to hear her. But even the vinegar in her tone was rather half-hearted and forlorn-sounding at this point. 

To her genuine surprise, he didn’t leave- he stepped into the room and walked over to the table where she sat, picking up the peeler and one of the potatoes she had assaulted with a few, pointless scrapes. "It’s really easy to use, you just gotta get the hang of it." With raised eyebrows, Heather watched his hands as he deftly used to the peeler to seperate the potato from it’s skin, as smoothly as if he was cutting butter. “Huh,” she mused, tilting her head to the side. “That easy.” When he handed the peeler back to her, she gave it her own try- the spiral of peel she produced was definitely more uneven and ragged-looking than his, but it was still progress. 

"Uh," he began, reaching behind to scratch at his exposed neck where his hair had been tied securely, "I mean, you could look at it that way." Shrugging, he tilted his head, noticing the improvement in her peeling. "But I'm just trying to help you out. We're in this program together and it seemed like the right thing to do. Besides, it was pretty hard watching you, I'm not gonna lie." Looking over, the corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile. 

"Heather." He repeated to himself, nodding. His initial presumption was correct. "I'm Gabriel. I'd shake your hand, but I think you should keep peeling." Looking to the door, he saw the matron with their back to the entrance, barking orders at someone he couldn't see at the line. And then she turned around and he smiled, lifting his hand in a wave. The tension in her face washed away for a brief moment as she nodded and then went back to what she was doing. 

"No, no; not at all. I was.. just being lazy, really."

He hoped not to make a habit of it, this trip - he had plans of branching out, fitting in, winding up lost in beautiful cities and staying up until the sun came up over exotic horizons. Well - maybe another night. He had a couple months to work up to that. He still felt like a little New England hermit, sheltered and unsure, safe beneath his brother’s shadow. The shadow was gone, now, and he wasn’t sure how to act in the light.

"It's nice to meet you, Charlie." Meeting his eyes with his own, Gabriel gave him a warm smile. "My name's Gabriel." Leaning back on his seat, he stretched out his arms and stifled a yawn. Again, tired but can't sleep. The eternal struggle, it seems. 

It was 11:44 am on her first day in Barcelona, and Heather Dennings was regretting a lot of things.

She was regretting the crop-top and lattice sweater combo she had settled on for their first day at the soup kitchen. The place was sweltering with the heat of boiling pots and moving, running, Spanish-shouting bodies; even with the open mesh holes of her Rebecca Taylor pullover, Heather felt sweat beading on her collarbone and neck, occasional droplets trickling down her chest. But not wearing the sweater wasn’t an option. She’d tried working in only her embroidered crop top for an hour or so, but found that the gazes of some skeevy homeless bums and even a few of the Spanish short-order cooks had seemed to constantly follow her and her bare midriff around. The sweater stayed on after that.

She was regretting wearing perfume, because the mixture of garlic with sandalwood and jasmine was making her stomach churn. She was regretting not putting her hair up in a poinytail, because by now, it was beginning to stick uncomfortably to the sweat-slicked skin of her neck. The one thing she was not regretting was wearing her TOMS slippers instead of the Valentino sandals- what the grimy floor would’ve done to that Italian leather, she shuddered to imagine.

She was also regretting ever thinking that this trip would be easy, or enjoyable, or anything like she had imagined it would be. This first day in the soup kitchen- and the first day of work Heather had ever had to do in her entire life- was already proving that. So far, she’d managed to fuck up the rice she was supposed to have boiled and drained (and instead turned into a mushy, overcooked goop), the garlic she was supposed to have chopped (which had ended up in pathetic chunks of various shapes and size- and no one had told her she was supposed to peel it first), and even the ice she was supposed to have crushed (which she had given up on entirely and left in one giant piece, because her feeble stabs with the knife had been useless). It was awful. She was overheating, she was nauseous from the overwhelming smell of onions and garlic and sweat and god only knew what else, she had been groped by one homeless guy already, and it was only noon. There were four more hourse left in this seventh circle of Heather Denning’s own personal hell.

The matron of the soup kitchen who had been assigning the AUSUS group tasks all day had become pretty fed up with Heather’s absolute uselessness by now. She had stuck the girl in the back with a bin of potatos that needed peeling, and some weird tool that was supposedly a peeler. For the first few minutes, Heather had just stared at the lumpy, brown potatoes with a gaze so spiteful and searing, one might’ve thought they had somehow personally offended her. They had- by existing and now becoming her responsibility. With a heavy sigh, she finally picked the first one off the pile and turned it around in her hands, trying to figure how she was even supposed to do this.

And so, because of that, he woke at the crack of dawn, ready for their first community service project at the soup kitchen. He sat on his bed for awhile, reading a book he's read multiple time as his roommates slept. The only light cast by the small book light he thanked himself he remembered to bring. And then he moved down to the commons, watching the sunrise from the large window. It bled out into the room, over the couches and chairs and across his plain white t-shirt. He closed his eyes.

The first hour at the soup kitchen, Gabriel would admit, was not the most pleasant. Everyone was running around, trying to figure out what to do. And being in a different country where hardly anyone spoke your native tongue made it especially difficult. But once Gabriel began getting the hang of it, he was cooking and cleaning and dishing out food easily, even exchanging small words that he memorized to some of the locals. Their smiles made the stress and trouble all worthwhile. But there was one person, one girl that continued to make him wince. It was obvious she never worked before, because everything she did was a complete failure and honestly, Gabriel found it quite embarrassing to watch. However, he felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Especially considering the matron of the soup kitchen grew so tired of her mess-ups that she sent her to the back to peel potatoes.

After serving the last person in line, he wiped his hands on his apron and made his way to the back where the girl- Heather, he believed her name was- was sent. He wasn't surprised to find her in the state she was. A sigh slipped through his teeth and then he heard her mention poolside yoga at rehab and his curiosity piqued. Though, he ignored his unnecessary curiosity of her past and continued on.

Despite spending hours cramped on the plane, it felt nice to be off his feet again. The sitting room of the hostel was surprisingly nice - sunny and breezy thanks to the open windows lining the walls, packed with soft worn furniture. It’d been a long day at that soup kitchen, after only a handful of hours’ sleep since the plane ride. Charlie felt close to burnt out. While several of his fellow travelers trailed out of the hostel and into the city in groups for dinner or whatever else they had in mind, he stayed put, merely nodding pleasantly or smiling when they walked past.

He nearly considered turning in, already, even with the sky yet to set. That would definitely pin him as an odd-man-out, forgoing festivities in favor of sleeping, but the thought of going out tonight had him yawning.

He planned to go straight back to his room and crash, but of course, once he laid down, he was wide awake and staring up at the ceiling. It was so strange, how he could be tired one minute and energized the next. He finally stood and made his way to the common rooms, sure that no one would be there. Everyone was out, enjoying Barcelona night life.

"Hay is for horses."