A Stranger is a Friend You Haven't Met
by aishuu
They almost met when Allen was six, but neither of them would ever know.
The-boy-who-would-one-day-be-Lavi sat in the corner of a small inn in England, eating fish and chips. He hadn't paid for the meal – his current "parents" had taken care of that - so he couldn't complain that the food on the cold side, and starting to congeal unpleasantly. He didn't want to upset the middle-aged couple that believed he was a distant relative quite yet.
"So tomorrow we're going to go shopping for new curtains for your room, Edward!" the woman, his "Aunt Eliza," exclaimed to complete a long spiel of things for their to-do list.
He smiled shyly – because "Edward" was shy, it was his main character trait – and nodded his head. "That would be very nice," he answered in a soft voice, one barely above a whisper.
She reached out to pat his hand with encouragement, while his "uncle" laughed pleasantly. "You'll have to make sure she doesn't decide on something with lace. It itches," "Uncle Ralph" advised, before something catches his eye. "Eh? What's this?"
The boy turned his head, trying to see what is going on. To his surprise, a man in a strange outfit was standing on a table, juggling balls and humming softly. At his feet sat a boy even younger than "Edward," clapping a rhythm with tiny hands. The beat was infectious and soon most of the patrons were clapping along, as the man – clown – produced knives from nowhere and sent them up into a dizzying array of patterns. The balls somehow disappeared in the process.
Had "Edward" still been in America – which he left over a year ago, thank you very much – he might have been tempted to call it Vaudeville. Especially when the young boy stopped clapping and scrambled up the older man's back like it was a ladder. The clown doesn't miss a beat as the boy settled on his shoulders, adding an extra set of hands to the juggling. The duo moved in perfect harmony, and for a couple of moments "Edward" was simply a child, marveling at the dexterous performance.
It ended too soon, with the man bowing abruptly – sending the child into a tumbling, cat-like landing at the foot of the table. The man tossed out a couple of pamphlets to the crowd, advertising a "full performance" later that night at a nearby village park.
The audience paid with applause, and he noticed the smaller boy bouncing with pleasure. "Edward" cynically thought the boy was quite plain, his brown hair unremarkable and his face a bit too smudged with dirt to be called cute. A bit of make-up or a costume wouldn't hurt, although he wondered for a second why the boy had painted his hand red and not worn any greasepaint on his face. Maybe the show later would feature more spectacular clothing, and the boy was prepared for that.
"Would you like to go watch?" his aunt asked as the performers hustle out of the room, likely on to the next inn.
"Edward" considered it for all of two seconds before letting his practical side assert itself. He didn't want to waste this couple's money on such a frivolous thing – especially since he planned on stealing the man's wallet tonight. "I'm tired," he said, leaning his body trustingly against his "Uncle Ralph." The man ruffled his hair affectionately.
That night as he stole away from the inn, he briefly considered going to the traveling show on his own, but decided against it. He needed to be in the next town by morning, lined up with his new identity. He quickly forgot about the clown and the child, because they had no relevance in his life.
It wasn't until later, after Bookman began his training, that Lavi understood that every memory may someday have significance.