Upstairs, room 1001

[2goodarms]

It's late. Maybe. Late enough for Curtis to dim the lights in his and Edgar's room, anyway; he's been trying to follow the cues of the rest of the building, switching off the lights if he notices they're dimmer downstairs, or turning them on if bright light from the hallway starts to seep under their door.

It feels like controlling the movement of the sun. Controlling some small chunk of the world.

He doesn't know if he likes it.

But if he doesn't do it, it makes the time distortions feel even worse, so he'll just have to suck it the hell up.

The ambient noise on either side of them is all well and good, but hearing another person breathing an arm's length away calms Curtis way more than he expected. While he's not asleep yet, he's blinking drowsily at the ceiling, not much longer for the waking world.

Comments

[2goodarms]

Curtis gnaws his lip. Slowly, silently at first, he nods.

Being around Edgar again means some of the old habits are sneaking back: "What kind of help?" he asks. "Besides the arm."

[dejah_thoris]

"Well," she says, taking a moment to give his question adequate consideration. "You're here now. Your life is here. Your home."

She frowned in thought. "You may not be alive anymore, but -- that does not mean you must cease living. You -- both of you -- must find ways to live again. To be free of your past."

[2goodarms]

A faint, unwilling smile appears. "Yeah, I'm working on that part," he says, a bit wry. "I think it's gonna be harder for Edgar."

Edgar didn't have much of a life outside the train.

"But maybe it won't, I don't know."

[dejah_thoris]

Dejah steps out of the lift and leans her weight against his shoulder slightly.

"You don't have to do it alone. Either one of you. That's the help that I am offering."

[2goodarms]

Curtis exhales a long breath. Soft: "All right."

Maybe they can talk about it more when they're getting that pot of tea: how for Edgar, at least, accepting that kind of help will be next to impossible. How Curtis himself has to work so damn hard, like a fish swimming upstream, to stay open to the little gestures Dejah's extended. There has to be a way to make this easier.

Because, hell, it's not like having help adjusting to this crazy fucking bar is a bad thing.

They're nearly to Dejah's door. Curtis draws to a halt as they reach it, and carefully pulls his hand free of Dejah's.

[dejah_thoris]

"This is me," she whispers, clasping her hands around her middle again, her gaze dropping to the floor.

"Curtis, you know, you're not the only one." She doesn't look up.

[2goodarms]

The memory whipcracks back: the same blonde girl stretching up on tiptoes, grinning, her nose touching Curtis' as her hands press against his waist. Curtis squeezes his eyes shut, hand clenching involuntarily to match.

This time, it takes a little longer for the ringing in his ears to fade; enough that he only catches the tail end of Dejah's sentence. Sure as hell feels like it, he doesn't say.

"Dejah..."

[dejah_thoris]

"Shh," she murmurs, her hand lighting on his cheek for a moment. "It's all right."

[2goodarms]

Curtis shakes his head, just once, and draws in another breath.

"Have a good rest of the night, okay?" he whispers.

[dejah_thoris]

She nods, her hand resting on his arm, still and quiet.





And then she leans in, rising on her tiptoes to brush a soft kiss against his cheek. Her voice is gentle but firm. "Come find me when you want that tea."





A moment later, she's ducking into her room and closing the door behind her.

[2goodarms]

For some minutes after, Curtis stands at her door, stomach and head churning.

(Night, Curtis, whispers the blonde girl. The air's muggy and warm; the trees are green, and rustle in a soft breeze.)





Eventually, he makes his way down to the tenth floor. He elbows open the door to room 1001 without knocking.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar sits up in his hammock as Curtis enters, just a little too quickly. (It's the only way to disguise having just sat down in it.)

"Hey."

[2goodarms]

"Hey."

He -- well, doesn't thump onto the hammock, but drops into it hard enough to send up a few forceful wobbles. Curtis shucks off his hat with a sigh. "You good?"

[hate_gettin_older]

Something crackles in his hammock as he drops down: the sheet of paper Dejah gave him, under his blanket, right where he shoved it before hurrying after her.

"Yeah," Edgar says. "You?"

[2goodarms]

"Yeah."

He fishes out the letter, eyeing the elegant script spelling his name as he swings his legs into the hammock.

And then he eyes Edgar.

[hate_gettin_older]

... he's being too casual, maybe, considering Curtis's rapid exit with Dejah. Overcompensating.

"So," he says in the best not-suspicious-at-all tone he can manage, "what was that about then?"

[2goodarms]

Edgar's not-suspicious tone, it should be noted, comes across as highly suspicious if you've basically raised the guy.

"Nothing," he says. "She's a friend. Helped me out when I got here."

He's still watching Edgar, folded note in hand.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Mm." Edgar watches the ceiling, in turn.

"She seems ... classy."

[2goodarms]

"Yeah." Another soft sigh. "That gonna be a problem?"

[hate_gettin_older]

A shrug, still looking away. "I dunno."

His eyes flick over toward Curtis, and then away again.

[2goodarms]

Well. Better than the yeah, it's a huge fucking problem Edgar telegraphed earlier.

"Okay," he says.

And then he rolls up the letter, leans the few feet to Edgar's hammock, and smacks him across the back of the head with the paper.

"And ask before you touch my stuff, asshole."

[hate_gettin_older]

The ow! is more protest than actual pain. And it's all the protesting he's going to do, as there's no point in denying it; he rubs the spot and says "Yeah, yeah," somewhere between sulky and contrite.

A beat.

"So you gonna fuckin read it or what?"

[2goodarms]

"Sure you don't wanna sum it up for me instead?" he snipes -- more good-natured than not -- and finally unfolds the letter.

In short order, the humor fades, Curtis growing still as he reads.

I have done things no civilized person should have to do, she says. I see you, she says, and he doesn't know whether to shrink back from the scrutiny or embrace it; doesn't know if what she says is true, or clouded by comparisons to a man Curtis never met.

When he reaches the bottom, he starts over again, slower now. Curtis holds part of himself in reserve this time, studying the letter as Edgar might have studied it.

[hate_gettin_older]

He shifts uncomfortably, resettles himself.

"Couldn't read most of it," he mumbles, into the silence. "She goes on."

[2goodarms]

A tiny snort, despite himself. "Yeah."

(And she signed it with four titles. Jesus, no wonder Edgar was prickly.)

Distracted, Curtis goes on, "They've got a lot of books here. If you wanna learn to read better, we could probably do it."