Edgar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hate_gettin_older) wrote2015-10-09 01:06 pm
hate_gettin_older) wrote2015-10-09 01:06 pm
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[Read this one first. All warnings apply.]
He isn't going to watch if they do anything seriously private, of course. Or even listen. He wouldn't do that. Just ... follow along a little ways, see where they wind up, maybe overhear a bit of their talk. Like any Tail kid, he knows how to sneak and eavesdrop. He's got to look after Curtis, doesn't he? (And what else does Curtis expect, ditching him that quick just because Dejah crooks her finger at him?)
He almost walks right into them, stopping to kiss just outside the door, christ almighty. Hopefully that'll get it out of their systems for a bit, at least.
The whole world's gone hazy outside, like the ground's breathing steam up at them all, thick enough that a finger trailed through it seems to leave a track. It's like the place decided to give him a bit of help, drawing curtains down to help him stay hidden while he follows, muffling sound as well as sight. Sure it's a bit chillier than he's gotten used to, but not that cold; not enough to be worth going back for a heavier jacket. He grins fleetingly in the gray mist: thanks, friend.
He walks softly as he knows how, keeping back far enough that the two are barely visible ahead of him, one doubled shadow in the shadows. Hardly there at all.
The stable looms into sudden sight ahead of him, recedes behind him; he's moving slower now, not so sure of the ground. When the chairs swim out of the fog, Curtis and Dejah are already seated, their heads bent together, her hand on his arm.
He stops there, and slowly circles off to one side, so he's no longer standing on the path the way they came and there's another chair between his position and theirs; slowly sinks to a crouch, then to belly-down in the grass, to inch closer.
"... when we boarded," Curtis is saying as Edgar edges close enough to hear. "We didn't have a lot, but people brought shit with them …"
When we boarded. He’s talking about the earliest days on the train, and Edgar tenses up in some combination of shock and excitement: Curtis never talks about that time, never.
Curtis keeps talking. Edgar stays silent, and listens.
And slowly feels the cold start to seep into his skin, into his bones.
He can’t breathe. He can’t --
Edgar buries his face in the wet grass, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clamped against any sound he might make, fingers digging down and clenched on fistfuls of earth. Dampness trickles down the side of his face, and the edge of a blade brushes his neck, and gray fog closes in at the edges of his vision. And he can’t breathe. Like there’s a heavy arm around his throat, squeezing.
When Curtis slides from the chair to the ground, and Dejah folds her arms around him, Edgar pries his numb hands free of the grass and starts to edge backward; he’s got just enough presence of mind left to realize that this is his best chance to slip away unnoticed. He stays flattened to the ground as much as he can until he can’t see them through the mist anymore.
(He doesn’t know what he’s afraid will happen if they see him, but he can’t, he can’t -- )
When he pushes up to his feet beside the stable, the sky’s starting to go pale, the faintest touch of yellow seeping into the gray. A light breeze brushes against him, and abruptly he’s shivering violently in his damp clothes, every muscle tensed and trembling with more than cold, his stomach trying to twist itself into a knot, his legs unsteady as though trying to brace against movement underfoot that isn’t there.
He doesn't know if he can make it back to the bar, but he can hide. If there's one thing kids from the Tail know how to do, it's stay out of sight.
Oh christ. Of course it is.
He stumbles around the corner of the building and lurches through the door, aware that he’s making more noise than he should but unable to slow down, and makes for the paddock where Nitwit is asleep on her bed of straw, massive ribcage rising and falling gently with her breath. When he opens the paddock gate the thoatling stirs and raises her head, blinking tiny eyes in the dimness, and gives a half-asleep crooning grumble as he lets himself in.
He’s still shaking, he realizes as he wriggles into the narrow space between Nitwit and the wall, curls down small in the straw. She grumbles again, sounding concerned, and nudges his shoulder with her blunt nose.
"Shh, it’s okay," he whispers, patting her neck with an unsteady hand, and swallows hard when a voice in his head snarls liar.
"Nothing’s fuckin okay," he amends, still in a cracking whisper, "but shh anyway."
He isn't going to watch if they do anything seriously private, of course. Or even listen. He wouldn't do that. Just ... follow along a little ways, see where they wind up, maybe overhear a bit of their talk. Like any Tail kid, he knows how to sneak and eavesdrop. He's got to look after Curtis, doesn't he? (And what else does Curtis expect, ditching him that quick just because Dejah crooks her finger at him?)
He almost walks right into them, stopping to kiss just outside the door, christ almighty. Hopefully that'll get it out of their systems for a bit, at least.
The whole world's gone hazy outside, like the ground's breathing steam up at them all, thick enough that a finger trailed through it seems to leave a track. It's like the place decided to give him a bit of help, drawing curtains down to help him stay hidden while he follows, muffling sound as well as sight. Sure it's a bit chillier than he's gotten used to, but not that cold; not enough to be worth going back for a heavier jacket. He grins fleetingly in the gray mist: thanks, friend.
He walks softly as he knows how, keeping back far enough that the two are barely visible ahead of him, one doubled shadow in the shadows. Hardly there at all.
The stable looms into sudden sight ahead of him, recedes behind him; he's moving slower now, not so sure of the ground. When the chairs swim out of the fog, Curtis and Dejah are already seated, their heads bent together, her hand on his arm.
He stops there, and slowly circles off to one side, so he's no longer standing on the path the way they came and there's another chair between his position and theirs; slowly sinks to a crouch, then to belly-down in the grass, to inch closer.
"... when we boarded," Curtis is saying as Edgar edges close enough to hear. "We didn't have a lot, but people brought shit with them …"
When we boarded. He’s talking about the earliest days on the train, and Edgar tenses up in some combination of shock and excitement: Curtis never talks about that time, never.
Curtis keeps talking. Edgar stays silent, and listens.
And slowly feels the cold start to seep into his skin, into his bones.
Hey Edgar? How far back can you remember?
I dunno … like what?
Your mother. You remember her?
He can’t breathe. He can’t --
Edgar buries his face in the wet grass, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clamped against any sound he might make, fingers digging down and clenched on fistfuls of earth. Dampness trickles down the side of his face, and the edge of a blade brushes his neck, and gray fog closes in at the edges of his vision. And he can’t breathe. Like there’s a heavy arm around his throat, squeezing.
When Curtis slides from the chair to the ground, and Dejah folds her arms around him, Edgar pries his numb hands free of the grass and starts to edge backward; he’s got just enough presence of mind left to realize that this is his best chance to slip away unnoticed. He stays flattened to the ground as much as he can until he can’t see them through the mist anymore.
(He doesn’t know what he’s afraid will happen if they see him, but he can’t, he can’t -- )
When he pushes up to his feet beside the stable, the sky’s starting to go pale, the faintest touch of yellow seeping into the gray. A light breeze brushes against him, and abruptly he’s shivering violently in his damp clothes, every muscle tensed and trembling with more than cold, his stomach trying to twist itself into a knot, his legs unsteady as though trying to brace against movement underfoot that isn’t there.
He doesn't know if he can make it back to the bar, but he can hide. If there's one thing kids from the Tail know how to do, it's stay out of sight.
Oh christ. Of course it is.
He stumbles around the corner of the building and lurches through the door, aware that he’s making more noise than he should but unable to slow down, and makes for the paddock where Nitwit is asleep on her bed of straw, massive ribcage rising and falling gently with her breath. When he opens the paddock gate the thoatling stirs and raises her head, blinking tiny eyes in the dimness, and gives a half-asleep crooning grumble as he lets himself in.
He’s still shaking, he realizes as he wriggles into the narrow space between Nitwit and the wall, curls down small in the straw. She grumbles again, sounding concerned, and nudges his shoulder with her blunt nose.
"Shh, it’s okay," he whispers, patting her neck with an unsteady hand, and swallows hard when a voice in his head snarls liar.
"Nothing’s fuckin okay," he amends, still in a cracking whisper, "but shh anyway."