"Oh, is that how I guarantee entry?" Max jokes. In he comes, with cake in hand. He'll set it down on the nearest flat surface and turn to Edgar to give him a birthday hug.
"How are you feeling today birthday boy?" Max is careful to keep his smile from slipping. Today might be a hard day for him but he's not going to let Edgar know that. The man deserves a good birthday celebration.
"Yes," Max insists. "Special, to me. If nothing else, we are celebrating that I got to meet you this year. The situation might be less than ideal, but I still want to show you my appreciation today, for your friendship."
"Birthday candles?" Edgar is a little bemused. "Wait, that's a thing with birthday cakes in general? I thought that was just to go with the whole --" He swirls one hand in the air illustratively. "Painting you had, on your cake."
"Oh. Ha, ha. Yes. Those are their own separate tradition. But I can see where you got the idea." Max had used some artistic license with his because it really just seemed to make sense that the flames would be stars.
"Now, generally speaking, you're supposed to have the same number of birthday candles as how many years old you are. Which is why mine had twenty-eight. But, honestly, not everyone is so strict about that. The older you get, the less practical it becomes, too."
Max takes Edgar's hand and runs a thumb over his knuckles. "I'll be honest. I suspected that you wouldn't. I debated telling you that part just in case."
He lifts his other hand to Edgar's shoulder, "The number isn't really what's important. What's important is you get to sit there and listen to me awkwardly sing you the worst song ever written, and then you blow them out make a secret wish. It could be one candle, it could be thirty." He gives Edgar's shoulder a squeeze, "Trust me, you'll hate the song either way."
He cracks a smile, hoping Edgar will see it's a joke and laugh along.
He pretends to be busy with adjusting the candles so Edgar won't see how the news of his age affects Max. Only eighteen. He was only eighteen when he died. It's too young, too unfair, and a little shocking. Edgar acts so much older. Guess he had to grow up fast in a place like that.
"I think you get to keep counting. Unless you don't want to?"
He shrugs. "I dunno. Still wouldn't be my right age, nobody knows that."
A beat, and then in an explanatory tone: "I was too little to know how old I was when we got on the train, and my ... my mother died early on, and never really got the chance to tell anyone else how old her baby was. Wasn't old enough to walk yet, I don't think. Must've been older than like ... just born, though. Probably."
Okay... so, not eighteen. But, if he couldn't walk yet? Then he couldn't have been older than one, maybe one and a half. That would put him around nineteen then? Still too fucking young. Max is still mad about it.
"I'm sorry, Edgar. My mother didn't die, but I didn't exactly get the chance to know her either. It's not fair." This only makes him more determined to make every part of Edgar's life in this place as good as it can possibly be. There's so much to make up for.
Max can tell. He's had too many talks with Edgar now, like this. He can read the man well enough to tell this is a really big deal. So, Max puts an arm gently around Edgar and leads him to the bed.
Edgar stops, biting his lip, trying to get the words right.
"You know what the Tail was like, yeah? Least a little. There wasn't really anybody officially in charge, but ... well, there was Gilliam. He was the leader. Kind of man people look to, you know? But he was old. And missing an arm and a leg. Smart, and, and wise, but ... not a fighter."
He's sitting on the bed by this time, one knee drawn up, elbow resting on it.
"Curtis was our other leader. Gilliam was the one planning the uprising, but Curtis was the one leading it. And I was his second."
Max feels slightly guilty about bringing up a hard topic on what should be a happy occasion, but birthdays are a celebration of a life lived, in their way, and Edgar's life was hard. And that needs to be acknowledged too.
"Yeah, I have a decent idea," Max wraps his arms around Edgar's back. "He sounds, I don't know, a little like a commander leading a charge. And you were his right-hand man. That's really impressive. I can't believe I didn't know that about you."
Edgar nods at that description of Curtis, and then looks dubious at the word impressive as applied to himself.
"I just did what he said, mostly. Got things done. 'S not like anyone else couldn't have done it, just ... I was someone he could count on, is all. And I guess that's cause he mostly raised me."
"Yeah," Max starts in firmly. Oh, he can see that dubious look and he'd like to smooth it right off Edgar's sweet face. Edgar died for this cause. He deserves to be proud of his contributions.
"You got things done. He could rely on you. He could trust you. You had a bond that he could count on. Don't you see that's what you had that others didn't? I'm sure he asked you because he knew he could count on you. Right? That is special. And you should be proud of it."
Edgar smiles, small and only a little painful, trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes. "Yeah. I guess. I mean, also cause right at first he couldn't get rid of me and I only shut up when he gave me something to do, but ... yeah. I earned my place."
There's some pride in that by the time he finishes talking, despite the self-deprecation.
"And so did he, for real. People listened to him. Looked to him. I don't think he ever got how much."
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"Max, hey --" And that's when he sees the cake, and his eyes widen.
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"Can I come in?"
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His birthday cake. For him. Somehow he didn't expect to feel this ... this ridiculously moved by seeing it.
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"How are you feeling today birthday boy?" Max is careful to keep his smile from slipping. Today might be a hard day for him but he's not going to let Edgar know that. The man deserves a good birthday celebration.
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"It's so fuckin weird to hear that," he confesses, and his own smile is a little crooked and rueful. "I mean I think I like it? But weird."
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"It's new. You're still trying it on for size. But, I think you deserve to feel special for the day. So, try to enjoy it."
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"I'm glad I got to meet you too. That's for damn sure worth celebrating."
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"Good! Let's celebrate by lighting some birthday candles. Then you can blow them out and make a wish."
Max sticks a few of those candles in the cake, then he starts rummaging in his bag for his box of matches. "Huh, where are they? I know I had them."
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"Now, generally speaking, you're supposed to have the same number of birthday candles as how many years old you are. Which is why mine had twenty-eight. But, honestly, not everyone is so strict about that. The older you get, the less practical it becomes, too."
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"What if you don't know?"
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He lifts his other hand to Edgar's shoulder, "The number isn't really what's important. What's important is you get to sit there and listen to me awkwardly sing you the worst song ever written, and then you blow them out make a secret wish. It could be one candle, it could be thirty." He gives Edgar's shoulder a squeeze, "Trust me, you'll hate the song either way."
He cracks a smile, hoping Edgar will see it's a joke and laugh along.
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"Dunno if it should be eighteen candles for how long I was on the train," he says, "or one for how long I been here."
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He pretends to be busy with adjusting the candles so Edgar won't see how the news of his age affects Max. Only eighteen. He was only eighteen when he died. It's too young, too unfair, and a little shocking. Edgar acts so much older. Guess he had to grow up fast in a place like that.
"I think you get to keep counting. Unless you don't want to?"
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A beat, and then in an explanatory tone: "I was too little to know how old I was when we got on the train, and my ... my mother died early on, and never really got the chance to tell anyone else how old her baby was. Wasn't old enough to walk yet, I don't think. Must've been older than like ... just born, though. Probably."
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"I'm sorry, Edgar. My mother didn't die, but I didn't exactly get the chance to know her either. It's not fair." This only makes him more determined to make every part of Edgar's life in this place as good as it can possibly be. There's so much to make up for.
"Who was it that raised you? Not your father?"
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As light as he tries to make it sound, there's a heavy weight of emotion on that name.
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Max can tell. He's had too many talks with Edgar now, like this. He can read the man well enough to tell this is a really big deal. So, Max puts an arm gently around Edgar and leads him to the bed.
"Can you tell me about him?"
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Edgar stops, biting his lip, trying to get the words right.
"You know what the Tail was like, yeah? Least a little. There wasn't really anybody officially in charge, but ... well, there was Gilliam. He was the leader. Kind of man people look to, you know? But he was old. And missing an arm and a leg. Smart, and, and wise, but ... not a fighter."
He's sitting on the bed by this time, one knee drawn up, elbow resting on it.
"Curtis was our other leader. Gilliam was the one planning the uprising, but Curtis was the one leading it. And I was his second."
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"Yeah, I have a decent idea," Max wraps his arms around Edgar's back. "He sounds, I don't know, a little like a commander leading a charge. And you were his right-hand man. That's really impressive. I can't believe I didn't know that about you."
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"I just did what he said, mostly. Got things done. 'S not like anyone else couldn't have done it, just ... I was someone he could count on, is all. And I guess that's cause he mostly raised me."
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"You got things done. He could rely on you. He could trust you. You had a bond that he could count on. Don't you see that's what you had that others didn't? I'm sure he asked you because he knew he could count on you. Right? That is special. And you should be proud of it."
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Edgar smiles, small and only a little painful, trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes. "Yeah. I guess. I mean, also cause right at first he couldn't get rid of me and I only shut up when he gave me something to do, but ... yeah. I earned my place."
There's some pride in that by the time he finishes talking, despite the self-deprecation.
"And so did he, for real. People listened to him. Looked to him. I don't think he ever got how much."
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[increasingly detailed spoilers for Snowpiercer follow]
Re: [increasingly detailed spoilers for Snowpiercer follow]
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