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[Milliways]
Once, Curtis looked around room 1001 and realized, a bit wistfully, how so many of its contents belonged to Edgar. While Curtis kept his own stuff hidden, Edgar's sprawled out to take up every meager surface -- the table, the windowsill, shit, even the wall when he brought home that huge fucking sword.
When Curtis came back from Dejah's place the next morning, room 1001 looked much bigger for some reason...and when he noticed why, dread sank like a cold, undigested lump into his stomach.
All of Edgar's stuff was gone.
And since then, Curtis hasn't seen him anywhere.
He locks away any other possibility. It's a coincidence, he keeps telling himself. I would've seen him. I would've known. Just coincidence, he says, even as he keeps looking for Edgar, spending more time in the bar, going out to the meadow. He checks the stables multiple times a day, and while he finds signs that Edgar's been there -- Nitwit's food and water always stay full, and the boot tracks in the dirt match Edgar's shoe size -- he never finds Edgar.
That doesn't stop him from looking.
He can't know.
When Curtis came back from Dejah's place the next morning, room 1001 looked much bigger for some reason...and when he noticed why, dread sank like a cold, undigested lump into his stomach.
All of Edgar's stuff was gone.
And since then, Curtis hasn't seen him anywhere.
He locks away any other possibility. It's a coincidence, he keeps telling himself. I would've seen him. I would've known. Just coincidence, he says, even as he keeps looking for Edgar, spending more time in the bar, going out to the meadow. He checks the stables multiple times a day, and while he finds signs that Edgar's been there -- Nitwit's food and water always stay full, and the boot tracks in the dirt match Edgar's shoe size -- he never finds Edgar.
That doesn't stop him from looking.
He can't know.
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Maybe he's gone off to Barsoom with Dejah for that visit; maybe he'll stay there a while.
Edgar's relaxed his hypervigilance for the moment, enough that he's paying more attention to scratching Nitwit's horn nubs than to listening for the stable door.
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Days of this shit means he doesn't expect to find anything but a sleepy thoatling. Again. Resignation carves out his whole stance as he comes into view.
But when he sees Edgar, Curtis falters to a stop, his eyebrows flying up in surprise.
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And freezes to the spot.
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"Hey."
His voice comes out unexpectedly hoarse.
The look on Edgar's face --
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He doesn't make a sound.
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The possibilities he's tried to ignore tumble free. Curtis' ears ring. He feels his face goes cold, all the blood draining away as he stares at Edgar.
No.
Because that's all he needs, after eighteen years. One look.
Oh, god.
Edgar knows.
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But he didn't, he wasn't sure, not until just now.
Edgar's hand has gone still on Nitwit's head, and she gives a plaintive wonk and nudges at his fingers.
His chest is burning as he struggles with all the things he could say, and even he doesn't know whether he's struggling to speak or to keep silent.
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"How much did you hear."
A crushing weight's settled on his chest. He can barely breathe.
This isn't happening.
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Like a rope snapping he moves, half-turning away; one hand comes up in a sharp motion as though to jerk a curtain shut between them, the old Tail gesture that says don't talk to me.
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"Edgar -- "
His voice cracks.
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In the stall, Nitwit lifts her head and makes an ominous rumble, tiny eyes fixed on Curtis.
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This is why I didn't want to tell him, whispers a distant thought. It wouldn't have gone any better.
"I'm sorry."
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(If he were just angry, he could yell, he could wax blisteringly sarcastic, christ almighty, man, take a fuckin hint, is there something about this situation that makes you think I feel like talking to you?. He could yell, if that were all there was to it.)
Nitwit's rumble rises to something unnervingly close to a snarl, and she stamps the ground with one forefoot.
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Every living thing on the planet drinks the Voice of Barsoom, he remembers Dejah saying. Including thoats. It's not just Nitwit being overprotective -- she can feel what Edgar's feeling.
And maybe what Curtis is feeling, too.
He raises his eyes back to Edgar.
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He doesn't know he's going to say anything until his mouth opens.
"You asked," and his voice shakes, scraped raw and unbearably young, "you asked me if I remembered her."
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"I didn't know if..."
The words stick in his throat. His eyes burn.
Because it's one thing to say it to Dejah -- I'm glad he doesn't remember -- but he can't say it to Edgar's face.
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The instant it's out of his mouth, he knows it's the wrong thing to say, and he presses his lips together hard as he shuts his eyes.
(Wretched. Filthy. Seventeen years old, starving, grieving the loss of everyone he knew -- I was going to graduate next year swells up in a sudden bubble of memory, like eruptions from the deep-sea floor.
He was only three years younger than Edgar is now.
Was, before Curtis killed him, too.)
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Edgar squeezes his own eyes shut against a terrible burning that seems to spread upward from his throat, and Nitwit rumbles again, one forefoot scraping dangerously at the stable floor.
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There's nothing to explain, anyway. He was starving. He killed Edgar's mother. Despite what Dejah said, there's no absolution from that. You can't come back or make it go away.
The last time Curtis felt so helpless, he was turning his back on Edgar in a crowded, bloodied train car. He rubs at his mouth as if trying to wipe away the taste of something foul.
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Because he knows what he'll see if he looks at Curtis's face; he's seen it before, hasn't he? And he can see it again, Curtis shutting his eyes and turning away, and any moment now the pain will hit him in the back, low and angled upward toward the heart, and the darkness will close in around him --
He wants to run, and there's nowhere to run to.
His lips shape the words again, barely moving, soundless: go away.
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Because he can feel it, that sickening, trapped sensation skittering over him, the deep thrum of Edgar's pain, desperation and rage boiling over and -- Edgar's like Dejah, he feels every goddamn thing without restraint, and Curtis thought maybe the Voice of Barsoom wasn't always working right because it didn't feel like anything changed but no, it's working fine, it's working perfectly --
You did this to him, he thinks, distant.
And there's no coming back.
Curtis manages to get the back of his hand to his eyes before anything spills over, and without another word, he turns away from the stall.
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Edgar stands rigidly still, one hand braced against the paddock gate, fingernails digging into the wood, and doesn't move until the sound of footfalls is gone.