Location Location Location [Ferris]

Hearing someone approaching down the corridor Devon looked up from the paper, a grin crossing his lips as Ferris rounded the corner. He had very much enjoyed their first meeting, would have done even if the fish and chips had not been present, and had been looking forward to running into the chef again at some point. It was just a shame he hadn't yet thought of a suitable way to repay the kindness Ferris had shown to him. As Ferris sat down Devon slid the paper to the side, clearing a space for Ferris to put his rather unique bag down. “Hey! It's good to see you again. How you been keeping?”

Devon waved a hand vaguely at Ferris' apology, dismissing it. “Don't worry about it, I ate in front of you last time.” He smiled softly, putting the cap back on the marker he'd been using to highlight and then cross out adverts. “You look groggy. New recipes been keeping you up all night?” He gave a small shake of his head at the crunchies. “No thanks, I wont steal your lunch two meetings on the trot. I already ate.”

Indicating to the crossed out ads in the paper, Devon gave a shrug of his shoulders. “Honestly, not too sure. Something bigger than the crappy apartment I'm in now, but not one of those mini-mansions. Somewhere with people near but not on top of someone's else's place, y'know?”

Devon gave a small shrug of his shoulders as Ferris mentioned the Rixon kid. That encounter had been one of the 'highlights' of his first week teaching at the school, and it was an encounter he had no intention of ever repeating. As if the pain from trying to catch the kid wasn't enough, the near-heart attack of thinking he might have actually just dropped dead made for a horrific ordeal. Devon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly a little unsettled about it. “Yeah, that was kinda the theme of that whole week... All downhill from there...”

He gave a soft shake of his head, trying to dislodge that train of thought, and focussed back on his friend. Could he call him a friend yet, already? Devon certainly hoped so. “Ahh, the midday snooze. One of the greatest things ever imagined.” And his own going to be so much easier now he had a secret hammock in his classroom.

Devon took a long sip of the tea, placing the mug back down on the table and laughing softly as Ferris explained his concept of stealing. “If I wanted to actually steal something I could, easily. I can be very sneaky when the mood takes me. But really, I'm fine thanks.”

Listening to Ferris' explanation of a townhouse, Devon nodded and made a quick note on the margin of the paper. They sounded a little like terraced houses, but hopefully not as shite as the blocks of council-owned ones lining the cities back home. A basement would always come in handy as a space for his drum kit (when he finally got around to getting one), plus the extra rooms would give him far more freedom of space than he'd ever had before. “I don't really have much use for a garden anyway... How is it for lighting? Are there many windows?” The terraced houses back home always tended to be dark and dingy, particularly the ones in the middle of the row. Windows were always a bit of a big deal to Devon; painting by 60w bulb just didn't have the same effect.

When Ferris apologised for the kind of week Devon had been cursed with the Brit gave a soft nod of his head. “Yeah, thanks. It wasn't exactly a promising start.” But I'm bouncing back, damnit! Internally Devon was happy Ferris hadn't pushed to ask what was wrong; where could he even have begun to explain it? Trying to piece it together for Sean had been tough enough, and Sean had the benefit of being able to automatically fill in the gaps of Devon's verbal diarrhoea. Maybe one day he would try to piece it together for Ferris, but it would not be this day. It was still too close, too raw.

But he was nothing if not stubborn; this place wasn't going to break him that easily.

Devon returned the smile and gave a knowing nod of his head as Ferris spoke of his afternoon naps. He knew the chef likely worked ridiculous hours in the kitchens, he didn't blame the guy for needing to grab a couple of Z's when the got a chance. He laughed softly. “Listen to us, we sound like 70 year old grandma's.”

As Ferris asked about the Brit's aversion to sunlight Devon's smile brightened, his laughter cheering. “As a general rule yeah. I've spent too much time in summer in fields at festivals, I've got some resistance to the evil day-moon.” He gave a shrug of his shoulders. “Besides, it's all the better to see the mess I'm creating.”

When the ziploc bag of treats was shoved towards him Devon's eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. Of course, if the food was so purposefully pointed at him it would be rude to refuse, right? And if Ferris' cooking was anything to go by his baking would be epic and Devon fished one of the squares out with a bright “Ooooh! Thank you!” Biting off a corner, he made a quiet muffled sound of pleasure and said a quiet “Oh Gods that's good!” behind his hand. Sometimes, just sometimes, he felt five years old all over again. Swallowing the bite, he turned back to the subject at hand. “If you don't mind emailing the info for the house to me I'll definitely sort out a viewing. It sounds just what I'm looking for.”

Besides, with a chef next door, how could he possibly refuse to at least look the place over?

Devon grinned as Ferris spoke of his denial of the mess and shrugged his shoulders. “I don't deny it, I know I'm a messy git.” That was true in part; Devon's home, wherever it was, could never be described as clean or organised. Sure he never left dirty plates sitting around or anything like that, but in his flat back home there hadn't been a single surface that wasn't covered in paint smears, charcoal marks or dried glue. Added to the piles of books, CD's, drum equipment and general oddments scattered everywhere, it was hardly right out of Good Housekeeping magazine. However, it was an organised chaos. You couldn't sit down without having to empty a chair of random crap first, but the second you needed a two inch seven-pronged cog Devon would know exactly where down the back of the sofa one had fallen.

When Ferris mentioned getting to chose his neighbours Devon smiled brightly, gripping the cap of the pen between his teeth and pulling it off. At least Ferris thought well enough of him to risk having him as a neighbour; no one would suggest a house next to theirs if they couldn't stand the person enquiring. For as much as he was independent and danced very much to the beat of his own music, there was still a part of him that enjoyed knowing that other people liked him. Arrogant? Quite possibly, but to him it was a sign he was doing something right at least.

Turning to a clean page of the paper, Devon jotted his personal email address on the margin. He checked that one far more regularly than his work one. “Dat'd e--” Retrieving the pen cap from between his teeth, he tried again. “That'd be great; I'm not doing much over the next few days, should be able to set up a viewing quickly. Thanks for the pointer!” Devon tore off the slip of paper and handed it over to Ferris. He gave a cheeky grin. “Don't go posting that up in the bar toilets, y'hear? I'm not interested in meaningless flings with guys with more tattoos than braincells.”