Lesley sent a rather more forceful sheet of water back at Pavlos's assertion he'd cheated. "Nobles'r too chickenshit to go against someone cares 'bout winning rather'n showing off," he retorted, and grabbed the older boy to shove him under the water. Pavlos would soon come to realize that with Lesley, every social interaction was liable to end (or start) with a tussle, and sometimes a serious one. He didn't mean anything mean by it; he'd just never learned any other way of playing.
Swimming (and the occasional dunking) was physical enough to produce a nearly complete change in the boy; he laughed easily, he didn't get distracted by every possible thing, and he hardly said anything mean. When Pavlos decided it was time to head off, Les retrieved his tunic and carried it back to shore, giving the late afternoon sun a minute or so to dry his skin before pulling the fabric back over his head. He was still a bit damp, and his hair was still wet, but for once he looked better than the Marikas heir, seeming freshly bathed rather than dripping and bedraggled. Given the lingering summer heat, he would probably be dry by the time they got home, but there would still be that lingering stiffness that salt water left in fabric, and Lesley didn't envy him the feel of that on his skin - though Pavlos could probably change as soon as they got back and didn't care. Lesley scowled briefly, then relaxed again. As long as Pavlos didn't decide to rub his face it it, it didn't make a difference to him whether the other boy owned a hundred tunics.
Les didn't bother stealing food on the way back; why bother, with the expectation of a proper meal as soon as they got there? Les was used to punishments being physical - the idea of being sent to bed without supper for any reason other than that there wasn't any food wasn't one he'd ever yet encountered.
"You're not terrible," he informed Pavlos, turning to walk backwards ahead of him. "Even if you are rich."
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