Truth be told, Bentley doesn't pay that much attention to the new kid at first. He's aware that he's here, of course, because one doesn't last very long here without excellent observational skills (unless you're a brutish type able to throw your weight around to maintain your place on the hierarchy), but the raccoon looks like one of those children who will either disappear to the hungry jaws of the system or get adopted in a month out of pity, never to be seen again.
Neither of these things concern Bentley, and so the novelty of the new kid wears off about five minutes after he's introduced to everyone.
He goes back to his food and his book, and by the end of the day has practically forgotten about him in lieu of more important things. Things like avoiding bullies and appeasing the adults and teaching himself every subject of every book he can get his hands on. Books, he has long since learned, are a precious resource.
None of the kids are allowed off the property except for home visits with prospective adopting or fostering parents, and charity events where the staff makes them stand around outside stores for hours to garner sympathy and money. In all the time Bentley has been here, he's managed to visit the library maybe twice ever, and never to check books out.
So, he finds his materials in a more unorthodox way.
A benefit to being as quiet and smart and "manageable" as he is is that many of the adults trust him to help with things the other kids would never normally be allowed near. One of these things is sorting donations. Every week, he's pulled to help go through clothes and toys and various other things. It's not often a whole lot, but the staff is always shorthanded and he's proven himself very good at judging what's good enough quality to keep versus what would bring the health inspector down hard on the orphanage if it ever left the room.
Books are rare donations, often with half the pages missing or scribbled in, and he always goes looking for them first. The adults all believe he skims through them for quality control when none of them have the time or patience for it, and he does do that - but if only three books are handed to them out of an original pile of five, and no one bothers to ask if he threw those other two out, well.
Who is he to tell them that his shell is just a little heavier leaving the room than entering it?
This week, he's managed to scrounge up a middle school algebra textbook, a How-To-Sew using materials he'll probably never have, and a Beginner's Guide to French. The math book is practically a gold mine, and he spends the next few days pouring over it the most.
He catches glimpses of the new kid here and there sometimes, mostly when everyone's together for school and meals. They're both the same age, which he notes when he sees him in three different classes, but that mild spark of interest snuffs right out again when the raccoon doesn't participate at all; doesn't say a word no matter how often the teachers call on him to answer or read or do anything.
Bentley only shakes his head to himself, hypothesis confirmed that this kid isn't going to last long, and writes it off as Not His Business before going back to his routine without another thought for him.
There's this spot outside, behind the shed, that's hard to find and even harder to get to. It's an open space at one corner of the backyard, only accessible if one can shimmy between the high wooden fence and the back end of the shed for a good five or so feet. Most kids who are aware of it stopped bothering to try getting to it when someone got stuck and they had to call a cop to pull her free. Most kids did not want to risk satiating their curiosity for the tongue-lashing and chore punishment that girl received in the aftermath.
Of course, most kids are not as small as Bentley.
It's become his own private space; his secret, safe sanctuary to spend the long hours when school is done and everyone is left to their own devices. Staying inside means an adult will find something "more productive" for him to do, and leaving himself out in the open is just begging for a bully's attention. So he's cultivated this tiny haven for himself over the months so he can focus on his reading and learning and studying. It's probably the only thing that's kept him sane.
And that's why he's stunned to find the new kid already occupying it, three days after his arrival.
Bentley stops short when he reaches the other side of the narrow tunnel and sees the raccoon curled up in the open space. It goes against his routine and logic so thoroughly that his brain stalls, and he's left standing there like a nincompoop with his mouth agape. It's not until the other boy realizes he's no longer alone and locks eyes with him that the turtle remembers how vocal cords make sound.
"How - how did you get in here?" Is the first thing he asks instead of anything actually important.
The raccoon - and dang, Bentley is really starting to regret not bothering to learn his name - cocks his head before pointing to the crevice Bentley literally just squeezed through.
Right. Duh.
"Err, I mean...how did you get in?" He asks again, finding himself unable to articulate exactly what he means. He gestures vaguely at the space as if that might help.
Strangely enough, the raccoon seems to understand. He uncurls a bit, still sitting, then pulls one of his legs up and behind his head with incredible ease. Annoyed as he is, Bentley can't help but be impressed.
The display is fascinating enough to snap him out of his stupor. He hefts the stack of books under his arms to bring attention to them.
"Your flexibility is remarkable," he admits, "but it doesn't change the fact that you have invaded my private studying space. Please leave immediately."
He squares his shoulders like he's seen bullies do, hoping that his psychological assessment of the new kid is accurate enough that he'll vacate without a fight. Never mind the fact that it's one of his weaker subjects and he only just started delving into it two weeks ago.
The other boy gets a funny look on his face but stands without protest, and the turtle breathes a sigh of relief. He moves out of the way so the raccoon can get past him. But as he passes, he glances down at the books in Bentley's hands right before he's about to shimmy out. He stops short.
Bentley huffs, doubling back to annoyed and straight into the realm of irritated. "What?"
His unnamed, unwanted companion looks up at him, then back at the book in his hand, and suddenly there's a strange sort of fervor in his eyes. He pulls a little notebook and blue gel pen out of his pocket and scribbles furiously. The turtle resists the incredible urge to tap his foot in impatience.
When the notebook gets flipped around, he decides to humor him by reading it. Then he nearly drops his books in shock.
Parlez-vous français?
Bentley gapes. Reads the sentence again just to be sure he didn't misinterpret the words. Then continues to gape, because it hasn't changed. For the second time in minutes, his mind has short-circuited because of this raccoon.
He hopes that's not indicative of a pattern.
"I, uh - not fluently," he stammers. "J-Just enough to get by. You know French?"
And he's trying not to sound condescending, really he's not, but this is a small town with even smaller minds. Foreign language learning doesn't happen even for the children who haven't been cast aside by society. He would know better than most - he's only been here a little over a year and a half, and he doubts the public school has changed much in so small a time.
The other boy nods, perhaps a tad less excited that the turtle isn't fluent like he first thought. He starts writing again, slower now, and deliberates over his phrasing.
It's my first language.
At this, Bentley's eyebrows shoot straight up. Ignoring the fact that this new kid appears more inclined to the written word than the spoken one, there's nothing about him that would suggest he's anything other than a local caught in life's worst circumstances. Despite the initial evidence right there on the page, the turtle finds himself struggling to believe him. It's simply too out of the realm of possibility in the truths he's cultivated about the world around him.
"Prove it," he blurts before he can think better of it. Then he decides to double down, because he deserves an answer from the person who invaded his space in the first place. "If French really is your first language, show me right now."
The raccoon straightens his shoulders, challenge clearly accepted as he opens his mouth - and then deflates very suddenly without a single sound. Bentley watches how he draws back into himself; the quiet, unassuming, unobtrusive persona he's had the entire time he's been here. It's such a stark and jarring contrast that it strikes him as distinctively wrong.
He shouldn't be that way, he realizes with a level of certainty he's only ever had while doing mathematics. He's not supposed to be that way.
He bites his lip.
"Uh, if you won't - I mean, if you can't prove it verbally, you could still just, use that." He gestures towards the notebook now held limply in the other kid's hand.
The raccoon blinks, astonished, as if the thought didn't even cross his mind. With a second wind under his sails, he sits back down on the grass and starts writing. Bentley sits across from him if only because he's getting tired of standing in one place, and watches intently until he's finished. The notebook is presented back to him.
Bonjour, je m'appelle Sly Cooper. Quel est ton nom?
The turtle adjusts his glasses as he translates the sentences to himself. They're basic, which he supposes isn't the strongest indicator of fluency, but they're still more than he expected and it's not like he himself has exactly reached the level of reading French literature in three days, either. The name the other boy has given him picks at the back of his subconscious mind for a reason he can't place, and it's not just because he's ninety-eight percent certain it's not what the headmistress introduced him as. Frankly, though, that's not his business and he doesn't care anyway, so he doesn't comment on it.
Back to the French. Bentley notices that it's all grammatically accurate and spelled correctly - at least according to what he's seen in his textbook - so he nods in affirmation and looks up at the raccoo- at Sly.
"You at least know what you're talking about," he admits, hoping it doesn't sound too haughty. He doesn't mean to sound so arrogant, but sometimes people are just so frustrating in their intellectual abilities.
Sly gives him a look like he's an idiot for ever assuming otherwise, and suddenly the turtle doesn't feel so bad about his choice of phrasing. He also looks expectant; it takes Bentley a beat too long to realize he's waiting for an answer to his inquiry.
"Oh. I'm Bentley. I mean, uh, je m'appelle Bentley."
The French comes out haltingly. He hasn't had the chance to practice pronunciation out loud, and there definitely isn't anyone able or willing to correct him. The raccoon's nose wrinkles, like he's not sure whether to laugh or be offended, and if that's not the final proof that he knows a lot more about this subject than Bentley gave him credit for, he doesn't know what is.
They stare at each other a moment.
Normally, proper social etiquette requires a handshake following an introduction, but he doesn't want to let go of his books and the other boy seems happy to scrutinize him, eyes careful and clearly full of thoughts.
Bentley wonders what he sees in him.
The turtle glances at the crawlspace leading back to the rest of the yard where everyone else is. He thinks about his precious study time that he's still missing out on. They'll probably be called inside the house sooner than later.
Sly appears to come to a similar conclusion, because he wilts a bit before standing back up. With an awkward wave, he stuffs his notebook in his pocket and starts to shimmy through the tight space, clearly planning to leave the other boy to his own devices again. For the first time in a long time, Bentley doesn't like the idea of that.
"Wait."
The new kid stops, turning his head to look at the turtle as much as he's able to.
"Um - uh -" Bentley kicks himself for his spontaneity as his mind goes blank. "You - um, you can, I mean, um..."
Sly waits, remarkably patient for someone practically trapped between the shed and the fence. Bentley wracks his brain for an excuse to keep him around just a little longer. He glances down at his language book.
"French! Uh, what I meant to say was - would you be willing to teach me French? This book is very basic and I doubt it'll truly teach me the intricacies of the language. Definitely not to the same level as a native speaker. Frankly, I'm not sure the author is even literate."
He babbles in half a panic, painfully aware of the big words he's using and already bracing himself for a rejection - or worse, belittlement - as the raccoon's expression goes blank. Sly squeezes back into the open space, standing over the other boy who is already small without accounting for sitting. Bentley holds his breath.
And lets it out in utter relief as the new kid offers him a hand up with the tiniest of smiles on his face. He takes it with haste, letting Sly pull him to his feet. He's deceptively strong for having such a wiry frame.
"Fantastic. Uh…" Once again, all his words leave him. He curses his lack of social skills.
Once again, he's not teased for it. The raccoon simply watches him with that tentative smile still in place, and for what is the first but definitely won't be the last time, Bentley understands exactly what he's thinking. Because he has the exact same thought.
Neither of them have any idea what they're doing. He supposes that probably shouldn't be very reassuring.
He finds that strangely, he doesn't very much care.
A/N: My laptop stopped charging two days after I posted the last chapter, and I only just got it fixed. I wrote and posted this whole chapter on mobile cause I felt bad for the sudden radio silence, so apologies in advance for any mistakes or formatting issues. Also I don't speak a lick of French so let me know if I screwed something up there lmao.