but the cold's already in your bones

[hate_gettin_older]

There isn't much snow falling yet, just enough to give an extra stinging bite to the wind.

But the cloud cover is thick and getting thicker; it's not even noon yet, but the light is already failing, as though toward night.

This close to the building, the snow is pretty well trampled. A handful of trails lead off in different directions, one toward the stables.

Comments

[2goodarms]

It takes a minute for the gears of his brain to creak into position, and parse what Edgar's saying as get back up. Stiffly, he tries to shove his legs back under himself. His arms feel like they've frozen in place, even his metal one by now; this is all he's got.

It's not enough.

(It's never enough.)

Curtis shoves his shoulder against the rock, struggling to stand.

[hate_gettin_older]

With enough space between them, now, Edgar can move to Curtis's right side. He sets his teeth -- and unwraps half of the canvas, sweeping it up and around Curtis's shoulder.

"Grab the other end," he grates, "grab hold --"

[2goodarms]

It's not going to help, he wants to say, and I can't --

He tries to bend his metal fingers. Slowly, an inch at a time, they give way.

Curtis fastens them onto the canvas, curling them under the cloth to try and get a little more shelter.

[hate_gettin_older]

He drags himself closer, until his shoulder is right up against the front of Curtis's, then reaches across to grab the free end of the canvas and tugs the two ends together across their chests.

"Okay," hoarse, half-shouting over the wind, "we're getting up."

[2goodarms]

The canvas doesn't provide a lot of protection from the wind, but, combined with Edgar's body heat, it's just enough to pull Curtis back to the present. Edgar's words aren't a request, or an order, just a fact: we're getting up.

He can acknowledge facts.

Curtis still isn't too successful at pulling himself up, but this time, Edgar's there to take some of the weight.

[hate_gettin_older]

His feet in their makeshift wrappings are heavy, unresponsive, numb. He digs them into the frozen ground, hauls with all his remaining strength.

Fuckin carry you if I have to, you bastard, come on, move.

(He doesn't know whether he says it aloud or not.)

[2goodarms]

Curtis sways, stumbles forward into a step.

Then another. And a third, gradually picking up the ungainly rhythm of before.

"'S maybe ten car lengths from here," he croaks.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Sure," he grunts, "easy."

He's trying to match steps, trying to keep them from unbalancing each other.


Around them, the snow keeps falling.