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November 4th, 2020

The bus driver looks at them in the rearview mirror. "This is the last stop," he says, and John gets to his feet quickly, but not too quickly. As if he'd already known. He gives Martin a brief look, making sure he's coming along, then exits the bus with a polite, "thank you," for the driver.

It'd been easier than John expected to make it this far. He's spent the past couple of days squirreling away enough of the weird, fake-looking currency to pay for a few bus fares, and when Eliot had gone out to get them all lunch, he'd seized the opportunity and dragged Martin to the nearest stop. They'd climbed on the first bus to arrive.

And now they've taken it as far as it will take them.

There's a hiss and a creak as the doors swing shut, and then the bus drives off, leaving them standing at a stop comprised of a slightly rusted bus sign and a wooden bench.

A stone's-throw away, there's a larger sign that reads: WELCOME TO EAST HALLOW - Pop. 117.

John sucks in a breath and turns to Martin, pointing at the sign in a hot mix of anger and vindication. "Look," he cries. "They said we were all stuck in Darrow, but there's a whole village here! I knew it was rubbish." His eyes sting for a moment, helpless frustration bubbling in his chest — because if they lied about this, they probably lied about everything, and everyone's been so bloody nice that part of him had wanted to believe them.

But now the proof is right in front of them. They just took the bus to a neighboring village like it was the easiest thing in the world. So much for being stuck. So much for all of it.

He feels a little like he's just woken up in a strange bed all over again.

They won't get anywhere by crying, though, and John blinks stubbornly until his vision clears. Then he starts to march towards the village, only stopping when he realizes he can't hear Martin's footsteps crunching along behind him. He turns back around, flapping his arms once, impatient. "Well?"

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Martin doesn't want to be here. He didn't want to run away, he didn't want to get on the bus or take it so very far, and he doesn't want to go wandering further and further away now. They'll get proper lost, and anything could happen to them out here. He felt safer indoors, with people who were taking care of them, even if it wasn't home.

But he was too scared to argue. John had his mind made up, and he's smart and brave, and Martin wasn't about to let him go on his own. So he let himself get dragged along, and now, now John's found a sign for another village when everyone said they couldn't leave the city, and Martin can't, doesn't want to believe that everyone's been lying to them, but at the same time he feels like he might be sick. Like he just wants to sit down on the ground and cry. He doesn't want to go to this strange village, or back to Darrow. He wants to go home.

John shouts at him and he flinches. "I—" he starts, hiccuping a little. "W-where will we go? We can't just walk back home." They don't even know where home is. What if the people in this village are just the same as the ones in Darrow?

"What if they won't help us?" he asks in a small voice, the real questions he wants to ask — what if they're bad, what if they want to hurt us — too difficult and frightening to speak aloud.

John huffs out a sigh. He can't really blame Martin for being scared, but he also can't help but think this would be easier if he wasn't scared all the time. It's like all he wants to do is sit there and ask questions when the answers are a five-minute walk away.

"Look," he says again, trying not to snap as much this time, "we can start by going to this village. Maybe we can find a—a proper phone. And if they won't help us..." he flaps his arms in another shrug and bitterly concludes, "well, it's not as if we'll be worse off."

That might not be completely true, and he knows it. But it seems stupid to be scared of people being unfriendly when the nicest people they've met so far all turned out to be liars, anyway.

He tromps back over to Martin and takes him by the hand. "Come on," he says, tugging him towards the rooftops that he can see over the bare-branched trees. Martin might be a pain, but he's also the only person here who makes any sense, and John doesn't want to lose him.

Everything John says is sort of sensible, and he seems like he's at least trying not to shout, but none of it makes Martin feel any better. He just shrinks inward a little more, like he wants to hide in his own coat.

Then John comes over and seizes him by the hand, pulling him toward the village. Martin stumbles after him, unable and unwilling to protest, feeling all the more miserable and pathetic that John feels like he has to actually drag him along. Maybe it would've been better if John just left him behind; only then Eliot might be angry he let John run off.

He just wants to go home, where his mum will definitely be angry but at least everything will make sense.

As they draw nearer to the village, he starts to get a very bad feeling in his stomach. It's so quiet that all he can hear are their footsteps and trees creaking in the wind. And when they get proper close, he starts to see the reason for that: the village looks empty, nobody anywhere in sight despite what the sign said.

He stops short but doesn't let go of John's hand, offering some resistance instead. "I don't want to go in there," he whispers fearfully.

Edited Date: 2021-02-14 11:54 pm (UTC)

It's quieter than it ought to be. They're walking towards what looks like a town square — he can just make out a bandshell and some benches and things up ahead — and there's a line of brick-fronted shops on their left. But it's all quiet, and it's all still. He doesn't hear any cars or pets or people. Off to the right, there's a big, fenced-in field and a stables, but there are no horses grazing. It's just... empty.

Martin pulls up short, and John halts as well, glancing back at him. Part of him agrees; part of him wants nothing more than to leg it back to the bus station. But a bigger part of him refuses to just give up, and he knows that if they leave now, he'll regret not even trying to figure out what's going on, here.

What if it's just like... a film set, or something, and they're running from it for no reason?

What if it's empty because the people from Darrow did something, and they'd just be running back into a bloody lions' den?

John wavers, too impatient to walk Martin through every step of his own thought process, but not able to keep physically dragging him along, either. Why can't he just bloody cooperate?

"Fine," he finally bites out, letting go of Martin's hand. "Wait here, then. Alone. I'll be back in five minutes." And then he turns away and starts to march towards the row of shops.

He feels terrible straight away, and tucks in his chin as if that will hide the tight little frown on his face. Ten steps, he decides. He'll take ten steps, and if Martin hasn't caught up to him by then, he'll turn back and... and figure something else out.

Martin opens his mouth to protest when John lets go of his hand and snaps at him again, but no sound comes out. It stings too much for that — not just the rejection and the anger, but knowing he's being too much of a baby and a bother to be of any use. For a moment he just stands there, tears welling up in his eyes and blurring his vision as John stomps off. He doesn't know what to do. John doesn't want him, and Martin doesn't want to go into that place. But the further John gets, the more he thinks being left here alone is even worse. He can't find his way back. And there's a part of him, too, that doesn't want John going in that village by himself, either.

"Wait!" he wails finally, and hurries after him. He almost wants to grab his hand again, missing that feeling of having something to clutch onto, but he holds himself back, falling into miserable step behind John and keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

"M'sorry," he mumbles eventually.

Edited Date: 2021-02-16 12:08 am (UTC)

He's counted eight steps when Martin cries out, and the swell of relief that follows is strong enough to surprise him, even despite how immediately awful it had felt to walk away. John slows down at once, letting him catch up. Maybe Martin won't be helpful, exactly; maybe he's too scared to be of any real use. But it's smarter to stick together. That's just common sense.

And it's easier to be brave when there's someone to be brave for.

He half-expects Martin to grab his hand again, and shuffles forward a little less certainly when he doesn't. And when Martin apologizes, John stops, turning partway towards him, just enough to watch him sidelong.

He has to say something. When someone apologizes, you don't just say nothing. But 'it's okay' would sound stupid, because none of this is okay, and 'I forgive you' would be worse, because John's pretty sure he's the one who should be apologizing.

"I wasn't really going to leave you," is what finally bursts out of him, his brow furrowed and his chest tight. "I was going to—to turn around if you didn't..." He swallows thickly, cheeks prickling, then makes himself look at Martin properly. "I wouldn't have left you," he insists.

Martin stops when John stops, but still he keeps his head down, terrified he's about to shout again. But when he doesn't — when instead he insists he hadn't really meant it (and not the way boys at school say things like that), Martin looks up after all, plainly shocked. He doesn't know what to say. It made sense to apologize; he made John angry by being too scared to help, and saying sorry felt like the only thing he could do. He doesn't know what comes now.

"Oh," is all he manages finally, which feels stupid, and he looks down again, flushing in embarrassment. "O-okay."

He feels certain he's just made this worse somehow; but then it doesn't matter, because this time when he looks at the ground he sees more clearly something he hadn't really noticed before. A little spatter of reddish-brown staining the pavement; and when his eyes follow it, he finds a much, much larger stain close by.

And once he sees that, he starts to see it everywhere.

"Oh-!" he yelps, flinching closer to John and grabbing his hand after all, the tears he hadn't quite quelled now spilling down his cheeks as terror overtakes him. He wants to run, but he can't, too panicked and stricken. "Look—!"

Edited Date: 2021-02-19 04:01 am (UTC)

John isn't quite sure if Martin believes him, and his stomach twists when he realizes there's no especial reason why he should. They've been stuck together since they woke up here, but John hasn't exactly been friendly. Or patient. Or kind. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn't really done anything that would make Martin think he's more than an annoying tagalong.

Now that he thinks about it, he isn't sure he realized Martin was more than that until just now.

He's startled out of his thoughts by Martin letting out a cry and clutching his hand. John sucks in a breath, following Martin's gaze until he sees the dark splotch on the pavement. He hadn't really noticed it before now; out of the corner of his eye, it looked a little like it could be mud. But there's nowhere it could've come from. The grass on either side of the pavement is intact. And it's not the same dull brown as mud: there's too much red in it, and John grips Martin's hand just as tight when he realizes what he's seeing.

It's blood. And it's all over the place. Everywhere he looks, there's another stain, and if he wasn't too busy being scared, he'd wonder how he managed to miss it before now.

"I..." John tosses a frantic look at the shopfronts. At first, he'd worried they would all be just as eerily empty as the rest of the place seems to be. Now, he worries there are people in there, watching them, and he takes a step back, pulling Martin with him. "C-come on!" He turns, still clinging tight to Martin's hand, and runs.

He doesn't think of where they're running to, just wanting to get away from the buildings. There's a treeline up ahead, past the stables, and he runs towards it as fast as he can without letting go of Martin's hand. He's not leaving him. He's not.

Martin lets out another wail, wordless and terrified, as John breaks the spell and pulls him into a run. He can't quite move as fast, feeling like he's being halfway dragged, but John doesn't let him go, and even with his shorter legs he sprints like he's sure he's never sprinted. He has no idea where they're going and it doesn't matter; he just wants to get away, far away, and to hide, and then to wake up from this terrible dream.

John's pulling him toward the trees up ahead, past empty stables and the entrance to a maize maze, outside the town, and Martin clutches on tight, desperate not to be left behind or to be lost.

And then something happens, but it isn't any of the awful things he might've imagined. They reach the edge of the treeline and — something happens, several somethings: there's a sudden thick fog descending around them, come from nowhere and nothing like natural mist; Martin feels an abrupt and deeply rooted sense that he's going the wrong way with dizzying, impossible certainty; and something even harder to understand, like their own speed and desperation has been yanked away and thrown right back at them. With some terrible force they're thrust back, and Martin can't keep hold of John's hand, and he shrieks as he tumbles down to the ground, the loneliness of his little thud instantly telling him he's on his own.

He scrambles up, panting and confused, but he's not in the woods, nor by the stables. All around him are tall stalks of corn built, bordering a passage that turns at both ends. They hadn't been running toward the maze, and he can't even see the entrance from here. He's just in it. He doesn't understand what's happened, only that he's here, and he can't see the way out. And John's not with him.

"John?" he yelps, gasping and half-sobbing as he whirls about. He has no idea where to go. He's no good at mazes and — and—

And John said—

"John!" he hollers at the top of his voice, trembling as he starts to break down properly, and he sinks back down, curling up and holding tightly onto himself like he's going to shake apart. He feels like he's going to be sick. He wants to wake up.

Edited Date: 2021-02-20 04:55 pm (UTC)

They've just reached the treeline when everything goes wrong. John isn't sure what happens, but it happens all at once: he can't see, and then he feels a horrible lurching sensation, like when you lean a chair back a little too far, but so much worse. And then Martin's hand is wrenched from his, and he hits the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

And when he lifts his head, there's no sign of Martin anywhere. He's lying, alone, in the middle of a field of trampled, frost-bitten pumpkins.

"Martin?" he hisses, scared to raise his voice too much in case it's heard by someone else. They were just holding hands; he can't believe Martin's that far away. But when he hears Martin call for him, his voice is impossibly distant, and John forgets himself entirely as he scrambles to his feet. "MARTIN!" he bellows back, bolting in the direction his voice seemed to come from.

There's a maize maze on the other side of a little stream, and John runs for what looks like the narrowest part of the stream and leaps, splashing and stumbling as he falls short of clearing it entirely. He doesn't stop, though, clawing himself up the opposite bank on all fours until he's back on level ground.

He hesitates for the barest instant before the maze entrance, wondering how he's going to find his way through it, before he realizes that's stupid and plunges directly into the rows of corn. "Martin!" he calls again, hands raised as he pushes his way through the leaves. "Where are you?"

Edited Date: 2021-02-20 08:55 pm (UTC)

He hears John answer him from a distance, shouting his name, trying to find him, and it should make him feel better — John's looking for him, John's coming — but fear has latched onto him now, the terrified certainty that somehow, whatever separated them will continue to do so no matter what. He cries out, "John!" again, but he doesn't know how to answer where he is. He should stay put; he knows that much. But he can't get up, can't stop holding his head, can't stop crying; and most of all he can't stop himself from whispering feverishly, like some sort of magic chant: "Please don't leave me, please don't leave me, please don't leave me—"

Dad left him. Mum acts like it's his fault, sometimes, and maybe it is. John promised he wouldn't, but he doesn't really know John; and even if he doesn't want to, it might not matter when some unseen thing flung them apart like this. All he can really do is make himself very small and repeat those words over and over again, like some kind of desperate prayer.

Martin cries out again, but he's closer now, easier to pinpoint. John makes a beeline for him, stumbling across trampled pathways before forcing his way back through the corn, until he finally, finally bursts out into another open path and all but trips over Martin, who's huddled down low and curled in on himself.

"Martin!" John gasps out, falling to his knees and throwing his arms around the other boy's shoulders. Part of him is surprised to find Martin alone, as if someone must have been responsible for dragging them apart, even though they haven't seen anyone. But the parts that don't make sense don't matter as much as they did when they got off that bus; he doesn't want answers as much as he wants Martin to be okay. He pulls Martin close and holds on tight. "I'm here. I found you."

John bursts out of the corn and Martin lifts his head from his hands just in time to see him drop down beside him and pull him into a tight, surprising hug. He tenses for only a split second before melting desperately into it, his arms going clumsily around John's middle and holding him just as close back. He shivers and starts to sob properly, half-muffled against John's shoulder.

"I- I don't know how I—" he tries to say, hiccuping between shallow breaths, and then he gives up trying. John probably doesn't know any better than he does what's happened, and babbling about it won't help either of them. He just clings on tight and allows himself this small bit of relief, that John's here, that he found him.

"It's okay," John whispers, holding on a bit tighter. Martin's crying, and once he realizes that, it's impossible not to start crying, himself. He tries to keep quiet, though he's not sure if he needs to; between the eerie silence and the bloodstains, he's beginning to doubt there's anyone still alive here. But he still doesn't want to draw attention to them, or to his own tears, so he just sniffles quietly as Martin cries against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles eventually, once his own tears have started to slow. "This is all my fault." Martin hadn't wanted to run off, and he knows they never would have come here if it had been up to him — or even both of them. If they agreed to things instead of John just making up his mind and dragging Martin along after him, they never would've left. He uncurls one arm so he can swipe at his own cheeks, impatiently smearing some of the tears away.

As Martin starts to settle, tears and sobs turning to weariness and soft, occasional shudders, it's impossible not to notice that John's started crying as well. He seems like he's trying to hide it, so Martin doesn't want to remark on it or draw attention to it in any way, but it makes him feel a bit better all the same, that he's not the only one. He ends up holding onto the hug even after he's mostly calmed down, wanting to give John time to settle as well.

When he apologizes, though, Martin can't help but pull away somewhat, blinking at him, his eyelashes still damp. "No it's not," he says, attempting to sound firm despite the shakiness in his voice. "W-we had to try."

He's not sure of that, exactly; he'd felt comfortable enough staying where they were told and waiting. But he thinks that's probably very cowardly of him. He's always been a coward, but John's not. John had to try, is really what he means, and he wasn't about to let John go off on his own.

"A-and you did come find me," he says, too sheepish and too near the shock and trauma of their separation to smile like he means to.

John frowns, still scrubbing tears from his face as he considers Martin's reassurances. The problem is that it feels stupid now, when all they have to show for their little escape attempt is a scary, abandoned village covered in blood and—and whatever you'd call what happened to them at the treeline. They hadn't known this is all they'd find, but it still makes all of this feel pointless at best.

"I just..." he puffs out a frustrated sigh between his fingers. His face feels too hot, and his feet are freezing, his shoes and socks and the cuffs of his pants still wet from jumping the stream. "I was so tired of not knowing anything. And this hasn't even helped." It's just another mystery, what awful thing happened here, and he doesn't think the answer will get them any closer to home.

He sniffs one last time, then looks over at Martin's last comment. "I said I wouldn't leave you," he replies, wishing he could say it like it ought to be obvious.

"We should probably leave here, though," he adds after a moment, getting to his feet, then offering Martin a hand up.

"I know," Martin says softly, wishing he could offer more, wishing this had helped, more for John's sake than his own. When John repeats what he'd said earlier, Martin only blushes and looks down.

"Y-yeah," he says, taking John's hand and pulling himself up. "I... I didn't know which way was out." That, and he hadn't really thought of just running through the corn, though it seems obvious now.

He wants to ask what's next, if John intends to keep looking for answers, or if they're going to head back to The Archive, but he doesn't; he keeps hold of John's hand and just allows him to lead again.

"What d'you think... happened?" he asks eventually, fearfully, like talking about it makes it real. "In the trees?"

Martin keeps ahold of his hand once he's on his feet, and John's a little surprised by how much of a relief it is. Maybe it shouldn't be surprising; after the way they were flung apart just a few minutes ago, you could argue that it's the sensible thing to do. It feels nicer than it feels sensible, though, and John maintains his own steady grip even as he looks around, trying to reorient himself.

"I don't really know, either," he admits. "But I came from that way." He starts to lead Martin in the right general direction, following the winding paths when he can, and pushing his way directly through the corn when the paths don't cooperate. Before too long, they emerge from the maze — a good forty feet from the entrance.

No one's waiting to snatch them up. The village is just as desolate as it's been this whole time. Still, John keeps a careful eye out as he starts to walk back out of town, towards the bus station.

John holds Martin's hand a little tighter when he brings up what happened in the trees. "Well... they all said no one could leave the city," he says after giving it some thought. "Maybe that's what they meant." None of them had said anything about what happens if you try, though John had assumed all of them had, at least — that they wouldn't say something like that just because they'd heard it, and never bothered to test it out.

“Sorry,” Eliot says, and he knows he sounds peevish and angry but he doesn’t have the energy to care. “It’s kind of a family emergency.”

“Ah,” the driver replies, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “You didn’t seem like the type to settle down, but hey.” He shrugs, and perhaps recognizing that Eliot’s made no effort to hide his distress, runs a red light.

Eliot doesn’t regret calling a Hytch, it’s just an unfortunate coincidence that the driver’s a local he’d slept with once maybe eight months ago. He doesn’t regret ghosting him either—his name is Aiden but he pronounces it ‘EYE-den,’ so it was clear to Eliot that things weren’t going anywhere. Now all he needs from him is to fucking drive faster.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked and Eliot had felt so cold and wrong right away, he barely heard the bag from the deli as it hit the floor in the hallway. They were gone. He knew it right away but he checked anyway, had to keep moving, to be absolutely certain. It wasn’t as if there’d been a break-in, he had wards to prevent that, to alert him if someone entered the apartment when he wasn’t home but—no. It wasn’t that. They’d simply left.

The hypothetical is painfully easy—two children from bleak home environments in an uncertain situation, what do they do? The same as Eliot would do, had done a lifetime ago. They run away. He imagines they’d want to get as far from the city as possible. Checking the bus schedule dropped the bombshell of a route to East Hallow, and Eliot’s alarm had ratcheted up to a full panic. Allegedly there was no more danger in the fucking haunted cult murder village, but he’d have been happy going the rest of his time in Darrow avoiding the place. And now, it seems that’s no longer an option. He’s not going unprepared.

He barely registers Aiden’s attempts at small talk for the rest of the drive, and cannot answer beyond monosyllabic grunts once they leave the city limits and the trees encroach. The little town is, Eliot decides when they stop at the quaint sign with its faded paint, the most horrible place he’s been in a very long time.

The fact that it’s deserted is barely a comfort, with blood still staining the ground and the sidewalks. He paces the street that leads up to a town square, gripping the hilt of the sword at his hip. There’s no telling where they might be, or if the town isn’t actually as abandoned as people say. It doesn’t matter. Murder cultists or no, Eliot’s the most dangerous thing around for miles; he won’t allow his friends to come to harm.

“John!” He calls out, voice magically amplified and sounding, mercifully, less afraid than he feels. “Martin!”

It makes sense, Martin supposes, in a magical kidnapping city kind of way, that it would keep them from leaving like... like that. He can't help looking at all the bloodstains and shivering a bit as they move through, wondering if this place is some kind of warning, or if all those were people who tried too hard to leave. Or something else horrible he can't even begin to imagine.

He's rescued from wandering too far down that path by the sudden, startlingly clear call of Eliot's voice, shouting their names, and Martin jumps, then nearly sags with the weight of his relief. He came to find them — to take them back. He sounds worried, but not angry, and even if he was angry, Martin doesn't think he'd care.

"Eliot!" he cries back, searching for any sight of him. "We're over here!"

John startles when he hears Eliot calling their names, sucking in a sharp breath and stopping in his tracks. He probably shouldn't be surprised, though. It was usually the police who brought him home when he wandered off in Bournemouth, since it was easier for his grandmother to call them than it was for her to track him down, herself. But Eliot's younger, and he has magic. Of course he figured out where they were. Of course he came to get them.

But any relief John might've felt is undercut by a nauseating churn of guilt and nerves. The only thing they've really learned from all this is that running off was stupid, and dangerous, and that Eliot was just trying to look after them and not be some sort of-of jailer. They probably scared him, and he was only trying to help. And it was all for nothing, anyway.

And now Eliot will be upset, and John will be punished, and he'll deserve it. He shivers in his wet shoes, then loosens his grip on Martin's hand. He'll want to run ahead, John assumes, and while he feels too ashamed to be in any such hurry, he doesn't want to hold Martin back.

The chill and the fog hanging over the dismal little town seem to want to smother any sound, but Eliot catches it regardless. They’re alive, at least, and he feels instantly less sick as his adrenaline is turned to action and he takes off running in the direction of Martin’s voice.

It’s not such a long way but it feels like miles, and he skids to a halt as he rounds one corner and sees them: two little figures alone on a path, empty save for the pervasive stains of dried blood. There’s still a block’s distance between them but the relief floods Eliot and makes him dizzy and he hunches over with his hands on his knees, feeling suddenly winded from the sprint.

“Thank god,” he breathes, then raises his head. “Are-are you hurt?” Eliot calls, a great shudder going through him.

"Eliot!" Martin cries again as he comes into view, too happy to see him to do anything but smile. He feels John's hand loosen around his, but he thinks nothing of it; his own grip tightens and he hauls John along as he breaks into a run toward Eliot, finally colliding with him and only letting go of John's hands to hug him about the legs. It's only then that he realizes Eliot has a real sword hanging at his hip, which startles him so much he pulls back partway, staring up at the man in awe. He came to save them, with a sword.

"W-we're okay," he says breathlessly. "We're so sorry we left, we just—we wanted to see—"

He ends up just hugging him again. Eliot doesn't seem mad at all. He's just glad to see them, and Martin's glad too.

Instead of running ahead, Martin tightens his grip on John's hand and hauls him onward, leaving him with no real choice but to stumble after him. His shoes make little squelching noises every time they hit the pavement, and he winces at the uncomfortable sensation, thinking about how cold and wet and squishy his shoes and socks are because that's better than thinking about how upset Eliot must be, or what he could possibly say to him.

Martin doesn't seem to have any such worries, but it's not like any of this was his idea. John doesn't begrudge him the way he lets go his hand and launches himself at Eliot, instead, even as John skids to a sharp halt the moment Martin's no longer dragging him forward. He can't hug Eliot. Not after everything that's happened today.

"It was my fault," he says, his face hot with shame and his gaze fixed somewhere around Eliot's left foot. Martin's apologizing for both of them, but that's not fair, not when John's the one who made Martin leave in the first place. "It was my idea, and it was s-stupid, and..." he gulps, curling his arms around himself. "I'm sorry."

Eliot barely has time to catch his breath before they come pelting at him; Martin dragging John along and barreling into his legs but he at least lets go of John’s hand to hug him, so there’s little danger of them all falling over.

Martin starts babbling apologies, and both of them look upset, but as far as Eliot can tell they’re unhurt. He drops into a crouch when Martin hugs him again, idly petting his hair and wondering why John, who makes for an extremely stoic child, looks like he’s about to crack in half.

He frowns when John begins to speak—the explanation coupled with his posture, as if protecting himself from some hurt, fills Eliot with regret. He realizes now, far too late: he’d known that neither of them had had ideal childhoods but it’s clear now, and horrifying, just how bad they’ve each had it to react this way—to expect Eliot to be angry.

“No,” Eliot sighs, and his voice cracks at the end of the word as he starts to tear up. He wipes at his eyes hastily before pulling John into the hug. “Oh no, you have nothing to apologize for, it was…” He sniffles a little, and pulls back to look at them both, resting his hands on their shoulders. “It was my fault,” Eliot explains, as gently as possible, “for not doing more to make sure you felt safe.”

He knows that he has to do better, that he’s been viewing the situation all wrong, trying to treat them as the friends he knows. And that’s not it at all. They’re children, and they’re depending on him, and they might not be children for very long but Eliot needs to take this chance to show them they deserve better than what they’ve been dealt in their lives.

“I’m not angry,” he says, softly. “I probably would have done the same thing in your situation, it’s just that East Hallow is...dangerous.” He looks around, taking in the silence, the hush of past violence. “Or it was. People did bad things here, but they’re all gone now, I think.” Abandoned or no, it’s not a place to linger.

Eliot straightens up, intending to head back to the car, when he notices something. “You poor duckling, John, how’d you get wet?”

The hand in his hair comes as a slight surprise, but it's a nice one, and Martin breathes a small sigh of relief as Eliot welcomes him in and offers comfort instead of the scolding he probably deserves. But then John starts talking, his voice sounding all broken and ashamed, and Martin pulls back a bit to look at him, startled and worried. John doesn't need to take all the blame — that's why he apologized already, because they're in this together, and Eliot doesn't even seem angry, so why...?

Well, Martin supposes if it had been his idea and he'd dragged John along, he'd feel the same way. But he doesn't like seeing John so upset, and for a moment he just feels stuck, wanting to reach out to him and give him a hug, not sure if he'd like that.

Eliot ends up doing it for him, pulling John in and then looking at the both of him, his expression startlingly serious. He looks like he might start crying, which is mortifying and a little scary — Martin doesn't think he's ever seen a grown man cry before — and tells them it's his fault for not making them feel safe. Martin has no idea what to do with that. No adult has ever been that concerned about how he felt, and he isn't sure this is just because Eliot knows them from when they're older. He wishes all the more they hadn't left, and he feels tears welling back up and he pushes his hand stubbornly across his face to try and stop them.

He's a little relieved when Eliot stands up, both because having him look at them like that was a little overwhelming, and because it means they're leaving. But then Eliot stops, noticing John's shoes, and Martin looks as well. He has no idea when that happened either, so it must have been when they got separated, when John came running to find him. John's poor feet must be freezing.

He doesn't say anything, just reaches out on some instinct he doesn't think to question, reaching out to take John's hand again.

John makes a small, startled noise when Eliot pulls him into the hug, and insists he has nothing to apologize for, and that it wasn't his fault. Eliot sounds like he means it, but it still doesn't feel right. His grandmother had made it clear that he had something to apologize for every time he wandered off in Bournemouth, and this was worse than just getting bored and taking himself to a shop he's visited a dozen times before. He went somewhere awful and scary, and he dragged Martin along with him. He shouldn't be getting hugged. But he's surprised by it, and it's nice, so he doesn't twist away. He just stands there, his face going hot, his arms slackening to his sides but not daring to return the gesture, until Eliot lets go and leans back.

He barely hears what Eliot says about the place; he's too busy staring at the ground and feeling a bit sick. But then Eliot looks down at him and calls him a 'poor duckling,' and it's so stupid, there's no reason for that to make him start crying, but suddenly he is, his whole body shaking with it as he mindlessly grips Martin's hand and hides his face in his own sleeve.

Maybe Eliot should have known it wouldn’t be easy, and maybe he should have expected this kind of outcome. Still, he can’t help feeling a little disheartened that his attempt to get through to John results in the boy bursting into tears. He sighs, and wishes he could say more, but he doubts he would believe any well-meaning reassurances if he were in John’s position. If anyone had bothered to give any when he was young, anyway.

And he smiles, briefly, at the way John and Martin seek comfort in each other; it’s gratifying to know that the things that make them a good couple are still present in a different way, now. Martin has it right, he thinks. More words aren’t going to be helpful, after a certain point, and there’s tangible things Eliot can do to make the situation a little more bearable for them. So he cracks his knuckles and prepares a banishment charm, muttering the words in an old Avestan dialect so that when he flicks his hands out over Martin and John’s heads the mud and water and bits of corn husk are driven off of them, leaving them clean and dry and relatively warm.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says quietly, and pulls out a handkerchief to offer to John. “I know if doesn’t feel like it right now, but...I’ll help you however I can.”

It's awful to see John cry, but it makes Martin feel calmer, in a weird sort of way. He's feeling better now that Eliot's here, but John clearly still feels horrible, and that's something to focus on. He wants to help, if he can. He doesn't want John to blame himself or to feel so sad; he knows how lonely it is to feel that way, especially in front of other people. The least he can do is make sure John knows he's not alone.

So he holds tight to John's hand, not letting go even when Eliot surprises him by doing some of his magic to clean them up a bit. He blinks up at Eliot before offering a grateful little smile, then gives John a gentle nudge with his shoulder.

"It's okay," he says softly, and then ends up letting go of his hand after all, moving his arm around John's shoulders instead, pulling him into a little half-hug and resting their heads together. He peeks up at Eliot. "Can we go back now?"

He's distantly aware of Eliot muttering in a different language, the sort of thing he does when he's doing magic, and his curiosity about what magic he's doing cuts through the shame and embarrassment a little. It also means he doesn't jump so much when something happens to him, like a little gust of warm wind that dries everything but his tears. It feels immediately better, and John's sobbing slows to more of an occasional hiccup. He takes the handkerchief Eliot offers with a soft, sheepish, "Thank you," and mops at his face.

He gets another nice surprise when Martin curls an arm around him, pulling him close, and John puffs out a worn, settling sigh as his tears finally slow enough for him to string more than a few words together.

"We got separated," he belatedly explains. "I had to jump across the..." he gestures back over his shoulder towards the stream with a vague flap of his arm, the half-crumpled handkerchief fluttering with the motion, then makes himself look up at Eliot. "Thanks for drying me off." His feelings are too much of a jumble for him to say that having dry socks has fixed everything, but he feels a lot better than he thinks he would have if they were still wet. Besides, he should really be thanking Eliot for a lot more than drying him off, it's just that if he starts thinking about how much Eliot's really done for them, he's pretty sure he'll start crying again.

He's definitely had enough of that for now, and he hesitantly curls an arm around Martin in turn, nodding absently in response to Martin's question. He's ready to go back, too.

Edited Date: 2021-03-22 03:47 am (UTC)

“Ah.” It seems they’ve had quite a momentous trek in the rural wilderness, and Eliot hopes the boys will eventually be able to look at it as just something of an adventure, nothing too traumatic. At the very least John’s tears have abated to sniffles, and Eliot thinks that that process of re-framing might be attainable. As long as they accept his reassurances that it’s really all right as genuine, of course. He just has to do better by them.

“I’m glad you wer able to find each other again,” Eliot says, and offers the boys a smile. “Let’s head back and get you some food--I think this calls for something nicer than sandwiches, hm?” Comfort food, that’s what’s needed. He keeps the pantry stocked enough to make something decent.

It’s not a long walk back to the car but John and Martin are small and undoubtedly tired. Eliot slows his pace as he leads them back, keeping quiet despite his instinct to fill the space with patter. He suspects they wouldn’t react well to small talk, after all this.

Martin manages a faint smile in response to Eliot's. He's glad they found each other, too — or that John found him, rather. But he's a little shy of saying so. He's feeling much better with Eliot here and promising something nice to eat, but he still feels overwhelmed from the day so far, and he'd rather just keep quiet until they're back at Eliot's flat.

He takes John's hand again as they follow Eliot to a waiting car, and he's privately pleased when Eliot climbs into the backseat, allowing them all to pile in together. John ends up in the middle seat, being the smallest and skinniest among them, and Martin settles in close, a little wary of crowding him, but still anxious for contact. He was glad John hugged him back; it made Martin feel like he could actually help. And now he just wants to stay as close as he can, and he can only hope John either doesn't notice or doesn't mind.

It's a little surprising when Eliot gets into the back seat with them, but John's not about to complain about it. He clambers into the middle seat without a second thought. He's the smallest of the three of them, and while he sometimes snaps over the presumption that he has to take the middle (doesn't seem fair that he should have to sit there every bloody time it's an issue, just because he's a little small for his age), the thought of taking it up with Eliot and Martin is unimaginable. He's caused enough trouble for one day.

Normally he doesn't much like what a crowded spot it tends to be, never really wide enough for a whole person unless all three or the back seat's occupants are about his size, too. But as they get underway, he finds himself kind of liking the feeling of being pressed between Martin and Eliot. It feels less like they're crowding him and more like they're holding him together. So he doesn't complain about Martin sitting closer than he really needs to. And when the car rounds a corner, causing him to list into Eliot, he doesn't make an immediate effort to right himself. It's sort of nice, leaning against Eliot like this. And he's tired.

Eliot feels a little bad, squeezing into the backseat with them, but the alternative is unpleasant for several reasons. First, he worries it’d give the impression that the boys are in trouble, or relegated to the back like cargo, and erode the trust they seem to now have in him. Also he couldn’t possibly hold a conversation with Aiden, whether fielding questions or just making small talk as if everything is normal, when he’s far too rattled for that. But more than anything, Eliot simply wants to be close to John and Martin, to provide whatever comfort they might need.

It’s an awkward arrangement, and he especially would never impose on John like this if he was his normal adult self, but the situation as a whole is already so absurd and mortifying that Eliot hopes this little indignity doesn’t register as much as it otherwise might. And when John leans into him from the inertia of a turn in the road and stays there, Eliot feels…gratified in a way he cannot place at first. He looks over to check on Martin, snuggled up on John’s other side, and exchanges a glance with him and smiles, and realizes. They feel like a family.

When the car finally pulls up outside Candlewood Eliot sighs, and clambers out to hold the door for the boys with one hand while opening the Hytch app with the other. “You were an absolute lifesaver,” he says to Aiden with a nod. “I wish you all the best.” He’s getting a five-star rating and Eliot will figure out how to reliably teleport before he risks using a rideshare service again.

The elevator at least is mercifully brief, and once inside the apartment Eliot is quick to gather up the abandoned bags from the deli before John and Martin notice. Their combined mastery of blame-taking would probably set one or both of them crying again, and Eliot can’t let that happen.

John doesn't push him away, and doesn't sit back up once he's leaned into Eliot, either, allowing them to become a sort of pile in the backseat. Martin closes his eyes, finally starting to feel properly settled and safe, even in this stranger's car. Eliot's with them, and he'll take good care of them.

That feeling only grows stronger and steadier once they're back in Eliot's flat. He takes off his coat and muddied shows with relief, and pads into the living room in his socks. He hesitates for a moment of indecision — not sure if he's hungrier than he is tired or the other way around. But it only takes him glancing over at John to decide which is better.

"C'mon," he says, taking John's hand once more and tugging him over to the couch. "Let's have a sit-down." Nothing like a good sit-down, he thinks. Eliot may have magically dried John off, but he still ought to get under a blanket.

It's a short ride back to Eliot's building, which might be the only reason John doesn't doze off before the trip is over. Now that he's stopped being scared and upset, it's like he doesn't have enough energy left for anything else, and it's hard to keep his eyes open. By the time they make it up to Eliot's flat, he's struggling to hold back his yawns.

He's just managed to sluggishly remove his own coat and shoes when Martin takes his hand again and starts to guide him over to the couch. "You sound like my nan," John says as he trails along after him, though it's not a complaint or an insult. It's sort of funny, really, or it would be if he had the energy for it. As it is, he just tucks himself into the corner of the couch and slumps back against the cushions, covering a big yawn behind his hand.

They look criminally charming, tucked up on the couch together. Eliot suspects that they’ll soon fall asleep, if they haven’t already, and takes care to be quiet as possible as he starts to work in the kitchen.

He doesn’t really have a comfort food from when he was that age. At least, nothing that wouldn’t first need to be uncoupled from memories of church, or strained talks at the kitchen table about what a problem he is. Instead Eliot thinks about what he would have liked, after a terrible day, if someone had loved him without conditions. And of course the solution is pancakes.

Eliot doesn’t like to use a lot of magic while cooking, because the quality of the food suffers if you’re just conjuring ingredients out of thin air. But a little nudge doesn’t hurt; a bit of localized fussing with entropy to help the strawberries render into syrup and keep the finished cakes warm and fresh. And, naturally, he makes them into shapes: eventually there is a serving plate filled neatly ordered stacks of hearts and stars and cat faces. Eliot refuses to feel absurd about this because it’s important work, worth doing well.

Parenthood used to be a far distant thought, filed away as something to consider once he’d done enough to be remembered as a good King. But Eliot knows it was never likely, and perhaps the idea was just the last remnant of cultural expectation from his life before Fillory. Perhaps if he’d stumbled across a foundling child in the service of some quest, he would have considered it more seriously. And Josh and Poppy would have had their baby by now, if Darrow didn’t trap its inhabitants in time; Eliot would do a good job at being the Cool Uncle to that child eventually. But here and now, caring for his friends during this plight is the closest he can get.

“All right,” he says gently to rouse the boys, once everything’s laid out on the coffee table. “Have as much as you’d like.”

Normally, a boy saying something like that to Martin might make him feel sheepish and awkward, like he has to prove he's something else, or doesn't care quite as much as he does. But not when John says it. Martin just smiles to himself, a bit shy, but pleased with himself, that John's going along with him, and that it came out like he meant. It ought to be what somebody's nan would say at a time like this.

He settles onto the couch beside John and pulls the blanket over both of them. It's certainly big enough. But he still sits close, tentative at first, then relaxed when John doesn't seem uncomfortable. John yawning sets him off as well, and he leans closer still. He's so tired; maybe John won't mind if he just rests here a bit.

When Eliot rouses them, he blinks in sleepy confusion for a moment before sitting up, blushing slightly. He hadn't meant to nap, certainly not with his head on John's shoulder, but at least John had been asleep as well. And now there's pancakes!

"Oh, wow!" he says, unable to help his own excitement. He never gets to have pancakes. They're in shapes. He's starving, and he almost starts eating immediately before remembering his manners. He beams up at Eliot and says, "Thank you very much," before helping himself.

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