loficharm | rude awakening

John has been told he's a heavy sleeper, and he knows he's a hard waker. His alarm clock is set on the far side of his little bedside table for that reason: he has to crawl halfway out of bed just to turn it off, and that wakes him enough that he's less likely to just roll over and doze off again.

But it's not the alarm that wakes him today. His bed is moving, the mattress dipping under someone else's weight, and John sucks in a breath and flinches, blearily indignant. The alarm hasn't even gone off, yet, and his grandmother's never roused him like this, and before he can even piece together what's happening, something collides with his hand and shrieks at him.

John eyes spring open, and his mouth soon follows. There's a boy in his bed! He scrambles back instinctively, far enough that he expects to topple off the mattress. But he doesn't, because the bed's enormous, even bigger than his grandmother's. It's not his bed and this isn't his room, and as he struggles to pull himself into a sit, he realizes this isn't even his shirt.

"What?" he squawks, fisting a hand in the fabric and tugging at it incredulously before looking back up at the other boy. "Who are you?" he demands, his voice scratchy and unsteady.

Martin yelps again when the boy wakes and startles right back at him, shrinking at once from the sharp question. He lifts his hands in an instinctive effort to hide himself and gets immediately distracted, realizing these aren't his pajamas, they're — they're someone else's. Some adult's.

He doesn't understand, and he feels like he might cry, but this strange boy's asking him questions like he's supposed to understand. He'll probably only get more annoyed if Martin starts to cry. He wishes he wasn't such a baby.

"I—" he stammers, clutching the unfamiliar comforter, trying to pretend it's own blanket. "I'm M—Martin. Who are you?" He tries to sound brave or demanding right back, but he can't do it; the question comes out in a stupid little squeak. "Wh-where am I? Where's my mum?"

The other boy — Martin — doesn't seem any less confused (or scared) than John is, and he turns away to survey the rest of the room, his lips pressed tight together so they won't wobble. Crying won't do any good. It never does. He needs to think.

His first thought is that maybe this is all a dream, but he recognizes that one as stupid. Wishful thinking. He's noticing things here that he never notices in dreams, like the someone-else's-house smell, and the uncomfortable looseness of the clothes he's wearing.

That might be the worst detail of all. If he didn't dress himself in this, who did?

John sniffs once, then grips the hem of the shirt and the waistband of the pants in one fist so he can sit up the rest of the way without getting tripped up on the extra fabric. "I don't know," he says, making an effort to lower his voice. "I think... I think we've been kidnapped." By some kind of pervert, he almost adds, but doesn't. Because what if whoever took them is still here?

"I'm John," he adds, almost as an afterthought, glancing back over at Martin. He's pretty sure he's never seen the other boy before, not at school or around the neighborhood. "Are you from Bournemouth, too?"

Kidnapped?! Martin barely manages to stop himself from crying out, only drawing a quick, shaky breath instead, but now he really can't stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. The other boy isn't looking at him anymore, at least, and maybe — maybe he'll know what to do.

Only then he does look back, and Martin quickly wipes at his eyes, determined to at least try not to look like a baby.

"Bournemouth?" he blurts. "N-no, I'm from London. Are we—"

John won't know anymore than he will if they're in Bournemouth or London or somewhere else entirely. Martin's breath hitches as he looks toward the window, though the idea of looking outside feels too scary to bear. If they've been kidnapped, then... they could be anywhere, and the kidnapper must be around somewhere.

Did the kidnapper put them in these clothes? Martin's breath shudders again and he just barely stops a little sob from sneaking out.

"I—I don't remember anyone," he says, trying to whisper, though his voice still cracks from the strain of trying not to burst into tears. "I don't remember..." He swallows thickly, scarcely daring to put his next question into words: "D-do you think we've been drugged or something?"

He's from London? He doesn't sound like it. But even London is still hours away by train, and John's stomach clenches like a fist. Are they both in London now, then? Or somewhere else entirely?

John swallows thickly when Martin asks if they've been drugged. It's getting harder to hold himself together. He's had plenty of practice, but usually against bullies: people who want to see you scared, which is why it's so important not to show them when you are. But Martin's not trying to scare him, and he sounds like he might start crying at any moment, and John really wishes he wouldn't.

"Maybe...?" he replies uncertainly. He doesn't feel like he's been drugged, but he doesn't know what being drugged is supposed to feel like. Sometimes medicine makes him tired, but he's wide awake now. Maybe whatever drugs they were given just wore off, and you feel normal once they have. "I don't remember anyone, either. It—it was just... normal."

John chews on his lower lip, his eyes fixed on the bedroom door. It's ajar, a little, and he wonders if it was left open so whoever took them could hear them when they woke up. Except he hasn't heard anyone moving around out there, yet, and it's not like they've been that quiet. Maybe the kidnapper's asleep in another room, though that seems stupid, too. Why go to all this trouble just to ignore them? Shouldn't they be... keeping watch, or something?

Moments after he thinks as much, the door starts to slowly push inward with an awful little creaking sound. John sucks in a breath, scrabbling back against the headboard.

Normal, Martin thinks, momentarily distracted from his own distress as he scrunches up in his face in an effort to piece his memory together. He feels okay, he thinks, but he doesn't quite remember what had happened just last night, which is a little funny. He supposes he remembers going to bed, but—

John gasps and Martin instantly follows his fixed stare to the door, his eyes widening in horror as it creaks open slowly, like in some movie his mum would be cross at him for watching. All he can think is it'll be either their kidnapper or a ghost, and Martin spasms back and grabs instinctively at John, unable to stop himself from that or from letting out a shrill, aborted scream.

John isn't expecting Martin to grab at him, and he's too on edge to do anything but twist away with a panicked grunt, as if it's an attack. If he thought about it, he'd realize Martin obviously didn't mean it that way, and he might even feel a bit bad for shaking him off. But his focus flies back to the door, which goes still, as if in response to the noise. Oh, god. The kidnapper is out there, and now he knows they're awake, and—

... And then a cat walks in. It rubs itself against the door frame, calm as anything, then looks up at them both with wide, green eyes and trills softly.

John glances between the cat and the doorway for a second or two, half-expecting someone else to follow. But no one does, and after a few seconds of staring up at them, the cat leaps lightly up onto the bedspread.

"I-it... it's a cat," John says stupidly. His heart is still racing, but he reaches out his free hand without a thought, his hand curled into a loose fist. "Just a cat." It even seems like a nice cat, which clashes awkwardly with what he'd expect from a mysterious, kidnapping pervert.

The cat's tail twitches, and then it picks its way across the bedspread to bump its forehead against John's hand. A heavy lump forms in John's throat, and he sniffles again, more annoyingly obvious this time, as he runs his hand over the cat's soft fur. It's so stupid — it's not like the cat is here to rescue them like some dumb movie — but he's still relieved it's just a cat. A nice one, even.

John shakes him off, more like he's been startled than anything, but Martin still shies away instantly as if he'd been shoved, sucking in deep, panicked breaths, until...

Until a cat emerges.

"Oh," Martin says, a bit breathless, in response to John's statement. Just a cat, he says. And it's come up on the bed to them. Martin doesn't have much experience with cats — he's not allowed any pets, and the only neighborhood animals he's had occasion to meet are dogs — but he likes them. He's relieved when John reaches out first, like maybe he knows what he's doing. The cat walks right up to him, and he starts to pet it, and then he sniffles a bit. Martin looks at him, only for a second before looking away. It makes him feel a bit better not to be the only one near tears, but he's also sure John wouldn't want him to notice. Most boys don't.

The cat starts to purr, catching his attention easily. Martin holds his breath for a moment, then reaches out tentatively. The cat immediately presses into his hand as well, moving closer to they can both pet it more easily, purring all the more.

"He's so soft," says Martin, quietly delighted, his terror momentarily forgotten. "Er... she?" He's not really sure how to tell.

It's hard to stay scared when there's a purring cat in front of you. Or maybe it's just that no one else follows the cat, like the three of them really might be the only ones here. It's not something John's willing to believe so easily, but he is feeling a little better, and he takes a few deep breaths as he continues running his fingers down the cat's spine.

Martin's uncertainty surprises him a little — not that he can't tell, but that he's talking like it matters — and John blinks, thrown. It's sort of nice, though, to be handed a question that doesn't scare him. "Er." He tips his head, peering at the cat's backside with a little frown. "It might be a female, or a neutered male. It's hard to tell them apart when they're like that." Maybe a veterinarian could tell the difference at a glance, but John can't; most of the cats he's seen belong to the neighbors, and his grandmother doesn't like them in the garden, so he rarely sees them for long.

"The orange ones are usually male, though," he adds, remembering that detail from one of the random books his grandmother had bought him. "And calicos are usually female. Something to do with the genes." This cat is grey and white, so that's no help. John shrugs, small and a bit sheepish.

"Oh," says Martin, perking up a little. He hadn't expected John to answer him — if he really thinks about it, he supposes he was just trying to be polite to the cat. But that's silly, and he'd much rather pretend along with John's assumption. Besides, now he's learnt something new. "That's cool," he hazards, not sure he's using that word right. But he thinks it's cool.

After a moment he says tentatively, "Wonder whose it is." He doesn't want to return to all the scary questions about where they are and how they got here, but he can't go on petting a cat forever. Much as he'd like to. He looks nervously toward the door as though expecting someone to follow, though he doesn't hear anything out there now. "Sh-should we go... have a look?" he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, a bit like he's suggesting they raid a cupboard for biscuits.

Edited 2020-10-10 21:04 (UTC)

John glances over at Martin when he says that it's 'cool,' but he doesn't think it's meant to be sarcastic. People don't always like to hear about what he's read, other children especially. More often than not, he's met with rolled eyes, or called a know-it-all. Maybe Martin's not like that.

John wishes he was a know-it-all, like a proper one. Then he might know how to get them both out of here.

He follows Martin's gaze back to the door, then nods, trying not to look scared. It's the only idea that makes sense. Otherwise, they'll just be stuck sat here until whoever took them shows up, and he hates that idea even more than he hates the idea of running into them in the hallway. At least maybe — maybe — if they manage to surprise the person, they might be able to make a run for it.

"We'll just... be very quiet," he says, giving the cat one last pat before slowly, reluctantly sliding over towards the edge of the bed. "M-maybe, if they aren't expecting it, we could just... kick them hard, in the groin, and then run." That seems like a decent plan. Unless it's a woman, but he doesn't think anyone would enjoy getting kicked hard in the groin.

It's hard not to regret his own suggestion when John agrees to it. It feels much too frightening when he actually thinks about it. But he can't back out now, not when John is getting off the bed and coming up with a plan. It's not a bad plan, Martin thinks. He's pretty sure he could kick someone pretty hard if he really needed to.

So he takes his hand from the cat and slides off the bed just as reluctantly, awkwardly clutching the much-too-big waistband of these silly pants up around him, both for security and to keep them from falling down and tripping him up. He just wishes he could find his own clothes. How can he kick someone and run dressed like this?

He inches toward the open door, staying as close to John as he dares without actually touching him. Part of him really wants to just grab onto him again, but he didn't seem to like that.

The room beyond still sounds quiet, but that's almost worse than hearing someone move around — what if they're keeping quiet on purpose, just lying in wait for them? Martin frowns tightly to stop his lip from trembling, though he doesn't dare speak, even to whisper; he just gives John a tiny nod to pretend he's ready.

The shirt John is wearing goes almost to his knees, and the pants almost drop right off until he grabs at the waistband and hoists them back up. He doesn't like it, not having both hands free, but even stupid, oversized clothes are better than nothing, so he bunches the fabric in his fist and edges towards the door.

Martin and he are both moving so slowly that it's the cat who ends up leaving, first. It jumps off the bed and trots out the door, and John freezes, holding his breath and listening hard. There's a distant meow, but no one responds to it; not by saying anything or moving about in a way John can hear. He glances back at Martin, who nods at him, and even though part of him wants to just get back into the bed and pull the sheets up over his head, John nods back.

And then he slowly, carefully peeks out the door.

There's a short, empty hallway leading to a larger space. On the left, there's a door to a loo, dark and also seemingly empty (unless someone is squished behind the open door, but they'd have to be pretty small to fit). John chews his lip, half-expecting someone to appear at the other end of the hall, but the only one who does is the cat, who stares back at them and chirps once before disappearing again.

Are they really the only ones here? It doesn't make sense. But it's so quiet.

John glances back at Martin again, then takes a deep breath and creeps out into the hall. The floorboards creak faintly beneath his feet, and he winces, going still. But nothing happens, and after a few tense beats, he takes another step, and another, until he's able to peek out into a living room and a kitchen: also, somehow, empty.

It doesn't make sense. Is their kidnapper hiding in a closet or something? Why would they do that? He's scared, but all at once he's angry, too: like it's not fair that whoever did this is trying so hard to be sneaky and weird on top of kidnapping them in the first place. The little hairs on the back of his neck prickle, like someone's watching, and John sucks in a breath before he can think better of it.

"We know you're here!" he blurts, his voice cracked and squeaky, almost a shout.

Martin holds his breath when John steps out, scarcely even able to hear the floorboards creaking over how loudly his heart is beating. He's almost frozen, but he forces himself to slip out after the other boy, refusing to let him do this alone. John keeps creeping forward, and Martin follows him on tip-toes, one hand gathering up his over-sized clothes and the other braced against the wall like he might topple over at any moment.

The flat seems empty, which isn't very comforting, but at least it gives them a little time to think. Martin's about to let out another held breath and suggest they try to find a phone when John suddenly challenges the silence, startling Martin so badly that he actually lets out a little shriek.

He immediately covers his mouth, flushing in embarrassment, and waits — but still there's nothing.

"M-maybe they went out," he offers, still looking around nervously like he doesn't trust his own guess. It looks like a perfectly normal flat, is the thing. Lots of books on the shelves, things for the cat. Everything tidy, but not too tidy.

"Has to be a phone somewhere," he says, though he doesn't see one — not on the walls or any of the end tables. "We could call our parents, or... or the police."

The only response to his outburst is a yelp from Martin, which startles John badly enough that he almost loses his hold on the stupid, oversized clothes he's wearing. But nothing else happens — unless you count the cat staring at him. For a moment, he almost considers storming over to the closet doors and yanking them open one by one, but the thought makes his stomach twist, and he pushes it aside. He doesn't think whoever took them is hiding in one of the closets on purpose, not really.

But he still feels like someone's watching them.

John huffs out a breath, then nods. "There should be a phone somewhere," he agrees, starting to poke around with a little less hesitation. He didn't see one in the hall, but there's usually one near the kitchen. John shuffles towards it, his eyes searching the walls until they land on a familiar, square jack.

There's a spot where a phone should be. But there's no phone attached to it.

John swallows, then nods up at it. "Look. It's like they just... took it away."

As John moves toward the kitchen, the cat wanders back over to Martin and rubs against his legs, purring loudly. Martin stops and bends down to pet it some more, taking the momentary comfort while he can. It doesn't last long, though, as he looks up and realizes what John must mean.

"What?" he squeaks in dismay, and hurries over to look. Sure enough, there's the phone jack, and no phone — no wire, even.

Whatever hope he'd put into the idea of calling for help shatters, and he clutches his clothes closer around himself, struggling once again not to cry. "What—what do we do?" he babbles.

Martin sounds like he's about to cry again, and John watches him uneasily. He knows he doesn't want Martin to cry, but he isn't sure what he might say that would help. There's no phone — well, there might be one hidden somewhere, but there's loads of places it might be. Finding it would take ages. And even if they could call the police, he realizes with a little jolt, they don't know where they are. They wouldn't be able to tell the police where to come to.

"We have to think," he says, as much for his own sake as Martin's. "We just—we have to be smart." He turns away from the useless phone jack to scan the rest of the flat, his gaze soon alighting on the door. For a moment, his heart skips a beat — there are so many latches, they'll never be able to get out of here — but then he blinks, shaking his head a little.

It's like a riddle. The latches are on the inside. That means they're to keep things out, not in. Maybe there are more latches on the outside, but if there aren't... what's to stop them leaving?

Then he takes a closer look at the latches, and his blood runs cold. Because the ones on the inside, some of them high enough to be out of his reach, are still latched.

You can't do up latches from the outside. So whoever last shut that door has to still be here.

John turns back to Martin, motioning for him to be quiet, and then to follow him. Then he tiptoes over towards the door as quickly as he dares, stopping by one of the chairs at the little dining table. He curls his free hand around one of the wooden arms, then looks at Martin.

"Help me lift it," he says, his voice so soft it's barely even a whisper. "Quietly."

"O-okay," says Martin, though he's not really sure how to be smart about this. He's all right at maths and he likes reading enough that he gets good marks for it, but this... he's pretty sure they don't teach this kind of thing in school. Maybe they should.

Part of him wants to steal back to the bedroom where they woke up, not to hide, but to look for clothes in their size. Their clothes must be somewhere around here. And maybe there's something else, too? He isn't sure what, but it feels good to have a proactive thought, at least.

But before he can do any such thing, John's motioning him over, moving from the front door to a chair at the table, and it doesn't take Martin long to piece together his plan. He feels a fresh spike of fear as he notices all those latches — what are all those for? He's pretty sure that's not normal. But at least it's all on the inside. They might be able to slip out, if they can reach them all.

So he helps John lift the chair, quiet as he can. Neither of them are very strong, and it's much harder to manage with only one free hand each. But he doesn't want to be a burden, or to be found out or left behind, so Martin just grits his teeth and does his best to keep quiet as they awkwardly carry it toward the door.

It's only when the chair's finally sat down that Martin finally realizes what all those horrible latches — and that they're done up inside really means, and he jolts, covering his mouth again to stop from crying out. He'd just done all that without realizing their kidnapper must still be here.

He turns around, surveying the flat frantically for any sign of them. They must be watching, ready to jump out and grab them. Or is there some secret exit they don't know about? None of this makes any sense. He just wants to go home.

"Hurry," he whispers, barely audible, as John clambers up and works on the locks.

As soon as the chair's in place, John awkwardly clambers up onto the seat. He can reach the latches easily now. His hand is shaking, though, and it feels like it's taking years for him to undo them. Every time a bolt catches instead of sliding, his stomach twists, and his shoulders creep up under the dreadful conviction that if he doesn't do this fast, now, then he'll hear Martin scream and then a pair of hands will grab him and then... he doesn't know what then. He doesn't want to think about it.

He fumbles the last of them open, then hops down off the chair, his eyes raking over the still-empty living room in astonishment. It doesn't make sense, and he doesn't trust it — the longer it takes their captor to show themselves, the more horribly convinced John is that they're just biding their time, waiting until the last possible moment to pounce.

He no longer cares how stupid they look in these oversized clothes; he doesn't even care that they don't have shoes. All he cares about is wrenching the door open and running as fast as he can. "Come on," he says in a shrill whisper, dragging the chair aside to make room for the door to open. It judders and thumps against the floor, but the noise doesn't matter. He knows with a sick certainty that they're not fooling anyone, that someone has had their eyes on them this whole time.

Martin watches with building frantic nervousness, the kind of energy he always tries to tamp down around his mum, struggling not to hurry John any more or make any sound at all. Even though each time he sees John struggle with the latches, a little part of him just wants to shriek.

But the door opens, and John hops down and hauls the chair aside with a scrape and a thud that renders his whisper pointless, and while a small part of Martin wants to balk, to object — they don't know where they are, they don't have their own clothes, they don't even have shoes — none of that matters when he is so certain someone is going to erupt from somewhere behind them and drag them back inside. He scrambles out, the oversized waistband of his pants gathered up in one arm to allow him to run, and the door falls shut behind them. No one follows, but he doesn't feel safe, he won't feel safe, until they make it somewhere far away.

They run down the hall, past the other flats, toward the front door. He hadn't even realized they were on the ground floor or they might've tried escaping through a window instead. But it doesn't matter. Martin struggles not to trip over himself as he runs, struggles against the urge to reach out and grab John's hand, struggles to silence his own panicked whimpering — until finally they reach the front doors, push them open and burst outside.

Outside is a rush of too much information. City streets and noise and smells, so this has to be London, though not a part he knows — but before he has any time to try and get his bearings, he lets out a startled squawk as his bare feet touch the ground.

"It's bloody freezing!" he yelps, flushing a bit as the swear just tumbles out. That's not right, is it? He can't remember. He realizes with a terrifying jolt that he has no idea what month they're even meant to be in. He stops short, stuck and too frightened to go on, trembling and shivering in the sudden cold.

It seems impossible that no one catches them, that they make it out into the chilly daylight without anyone even trying to stop them. But they do, and John hisses in surprise as his bare feet land on the cold pavement. He hadn't even thought about what the weather might be like. But the door has already shut behind them, and he wouldn't go back to that awful flat for anything, anyway.

He looks around in vain for any familiar landmarks, then turns back to Martin, who looks like a frightened rabbit, wide-eyed and frozen. "Come on," he says, wavering for a moment before reaching out with his free hand and grabbing Martin's arm. He's not just going to leave him behind, and if that means dragging him down the pavement, that's what he'll do. "We just have to find a shop. Ask someone to call the police for us."

It's not a perfect plan, but it's not a bad one. He's pretty sure that whoever took them doesn't work at any of the nearby shops, so it should be safe enough to go to one and ask for help. A shop will be sure to have a phone, if nothing else.

He hikes up the stupidly long pants he's wearing with one hand, then tugs on Martin's arm with the other. "Come on," he says again, starting down the street.

"O-okay," Martin stammers, stumbling along as John tugs him by the arm. He doesn't like the idea of going into a shop dressed like this, with no shoes on or anything, but he knows it's better than being out here in the cold. He's just glad John is managing to keep his head on straight — not like him, too overwhelmed to have any good ideas.

John ends up pulling him into what looks like little cafe, and Martin is caught between relief at the warmth and immediate paralysis between the overwhelming smell of coffee and the looks everyone is giving them.

He wishes he wasn't dressed like this. He wishes he had any idea where he was, what happened, or how to get home. But even the idea of going home isn't that comforting — mum will be so angry at him for disappearing on her. The easiest thing to wish for is that none of this had happened at all.

But it has happened, and now he doesn't know what to do. He can't even ask, because the answer probably seems obvious. Talk to an employee, ask them to phone the police. It just feels like too much. Martin fidgets and looks down at the floor, too nervous to look directly at anyone and far too wretched to take any sort of initiative.

Marcus has stopped for a cup of tea from the cafe down the road from the Home before one of his volunteer shifts there, and he's only just turned around, cradling his slowly warming reusable mug in his hands when the boys all but tumble inside. They're unfamiliar, frightened looking, and for a moment it seems as if no one else in the cafe knows what to do. Their hesitation baffles Marcus when he knows such things are more common than they'd like, children arriving in all kinds of states without the slightest idea where they are, and he would like to believe people would be willing to help.

And yet he's the only one who steps forward.

Carefully, without getting too close in case he frightens then further, Marcus drops down into a crouch, long legs framing his mug held between his hands. He offers the boys a gentle smile.

"Alright there, lads?" he asks. "Are you looking for someone in particular?"

There's something immediately reassuring about the café. It smells like coffee and pastries, and it's normal: a whole world away from the creeping terror of the flat he'd woken up in. Someone here will help them, surely.

But all anyone else does at first is stare at them, and John doesn't know what to make of the looks on their faces. It doesn't look like worry, or concern, but more like the kind of looks you get when you do something shockingly stupid. It's enough to make him nervous, and then to make him angry. It's not their fault that their clothes don't fit, or that they don't have shoes, or that there's no adult with them. Do they think they've come bursting in like this on purpose? What sort of idiot would think that?

But then someone approaches them, an older man with a kind face, and he asks if they're all right. John has to swallow past the knot of lingering fear and fresh indignation in his throat before he can answer.

"N-no, we're lost. We need someone to phone the police." The whole story of their awful morning wants to spill out of him, but he holds it back. He doesn't want to start crying now, when they've made it this far. He swallows again, his hand still mindlessly clutched around Martin's wrist.

Martin blinks at the man, not sure yet whether to feel scared or grateful. He looks kind, and it's nice that he crouches down, but the ongoing awareness of all eyes on them makes it hard to relax. He still feels trapped.

John manages to answer the man, and Martin manages a little flinching nod of agreement. And then, before he can stop himself, even though he knows he ought to be good and quiet and not a bother and just follow John's lead, it all pours out of him: "W-we've been kidnapped, someone dressed us in these big clothes and left us in a bed in this weird flat and, and we don't know where they are or what they—or, or how we got there, and we couldn't find our real clothes, and—and—"

Oh, no. He stutters to a halt when he runs out of steam, realizing he's finally started to cry. He doesn't sob out loud, but quietly, his breath hitching and his shoulders quaking as tears streak down his cheeks. He pulls his arm free from John's grasp and reaches up with both hands to cover his face, miserably ashamed.

It breaks Marcus's heart, the way the boy starts to cry, and he reaches up to a nearby table without even looking at it, pulling a few napkins free from the holder there. Around them, the cafe is slowly returning to normal, the glances in their direction slowing down as other people begin to assume Marcus has the situation well in hand, and it's a bit of a relief, honestly. If they aren't going to help, staring at the boys is only going to make them more upset, he thinks, and more uncomfortable.

"Here, duck," he says, holding the napkins toward the boy. "I know you're frightened, but you're safe now, I promise. The both of you. I won't let anything happen to you."

He had almost been prepared to sit down right there with them, explain what it means to be brought to Darrow, but it's the too-large clothes that distract him from that. It wasn't so long ago he'd been in a similar situation, waking up in an unfamiliar bed, the dresser drawers filled with clothes meant for a much taller man, and when Marcus glances between the two boys, an uncomfortable suspicion begins to grow in his stomach.

"My name is Marcus Keane," he says. "Can you tell me your names?"

John presses his lips together in a tight frown as Martin pulls his hand away and covers his face. Seeing Martin cry makes it that much harder to keep from crying himself, but it isn't just the other boy's tears that make him uneasy. It's the way the man promises they're safe, when John doesn't feel safe at all, and the way he says he won't let anything happen, like he means to look after them.

John doesn't need looking after. He needs someone to find a phone and call the police like he bloody asked. They're the ones whose job it is to help when someone has been kidnapped.

But he can't think of any particular harm this man — Marcus Keane — could do with just his name. Maybe he means to tell it to the police when he calls them. Maybe all those promises are just... him trying to be nice, or something. "I'm Jonathan Sims," he replies. Then, after an anxious beat, he blurts, "Are you going to call the police?"

Martin peeks through his fingers, reduced to soft sniffling and vague surprise as the man offers him a napkin, calls him 'duck.' Maybe he shouldn't feel surprised. Adults are meant to comfort children when they cry, aren't they? Even strangers — maybe especially strangers, since they don't know how often Martin cries and haven't had time to be annoyed by it yet. He takes the napkin with trembling fingers, managing the slightest murmur of thanks as he wipes his face.

The promise of safety is such a relief he thinks he might burst into tears all over again. He quells the impulse to just rush forward and hug the man, Mr. Keane, knowing it probably isn't smart. Still a stranger, even a nice one. Sometimes it's the nice ones who are worse.

John seems to agree, the way he asks again about the police, which is a little bolstering. Martin tries to pull himself together. He has to be brave and not just go along with the man because he's nice. They ought to phone the police, they'll sort this.

Still, it would be rude not to offer his name, so says falteringly, "I, I'm M-Martin. Martin Blackwood." He looks at John, then back at Mr. Keane, hoping he'll answer the way John wants so they can just accept the help like he hopes.

Even though he'd already been anticipating this, the names still settle in Marcus like a physical weight, and he exhales slowly, trying to work out what he ought to do. Calling the police would do nothing at all, although the boys of course wouldn't understand that. To their view, they've been taken from their homes and locked away somewhere unfamiliar, probably by someone dangerous.

He hasn't the slightest idea how to explain to them what's really happened.

"I'm afraid the police won't do much to help," he admits. "Can I explain a little? We don't have to go anywhere and I won't ask you to leave the cafe, but hopefully if I tell you a bit about what's going on, you'll understand a little better."

Should he tell them they're usually adult men? That although he doesn't really know Martin terribly well, he and John have grown to be friends? He tries to remember what people had told him when he'd woken up here, thirteen and angry and so deeply afraid, but finds he can't recall. Perhaps he's forgotten most of it on purpose.

John's anxious little scowl deepens. At first, it's just because of the look Mr. Keane gives them, as if he knows something they don't. And then it's because of what he says: that the police wouldn't be of any use. That has to be a lie. Not just any lie, but one of the extra dangerous ones, like 'I was only joking' or 'no one will believe you' — one of the lies that means you need to run, run straight home without looking back.

Except there's nowhere to run to. He doesn't know where home is. And Mr. Keane doesn't ask them to do anything stupid, like follow him somewhere else. He offers to explain, here in the café, where at least someone might do something if they started screaming.

He still doesn't like it. He's cold and miserable, and most of all he's confused, and tired of being confused. He thought making it this far would make everything easier, that someone would look after them in the obvious, sensible way he expected. There's a growing ache in his throat as he realizes it's not working out that way, and that there's nothing he can do to change that.

"That doesn't make sense," he objects, talking over the little voice in his head that reminds him: it doesn't have to. "Why wouldn't the police help us?"

Martin sucks in a nervous breath at that — he wasn't expecting Mr. Keane to say the police wouldn't help, and even he recognizes that as a scary sort of thing to say. He takes a tiny, shuffling step back, nudging a little nearer to John. Why does this need explaining, as if they don't understand what kidnapping is? They're not babies.

Unless... unless Mr. Keane is in on it? But how could that be?

"I don't want to stay here," he says. "I want my own clothes, and, and I want to go home. I'm not even supposed to be talking to strangers," he adds, almost sternly. Mr. Keane really ought to be on his best behavior when they're already taking so many unfair risks.

"I know," Marcus says. "I know, it doesn't make any sense. You're right when you say you've been kidnapped, but not by any person. We're in a city called Darrow and somehow, no one really understands how, it can take us from where we used to be."

This is the only place to begin. He still doesn't know whether or not he should tell them everything or if that will only make things worse, but at least he has to explain Darrow to them.

"I was in Chicago," he continues. "I was walking, just walking, and then I turned a corner and I found myself in front of a church I didn't recognize. Just like that, I was in Darrow. I know sometimes people wake up and find themselves here when they went to sleep the night before in their own beds, too."

John glances over at Martin, a little surprised. He's either been crying or almost-crying this whole time, so the sudden burst of good sense isn't what he was expecting. But it's true, and he looks to Mr. Keane for his answer — an answer that makes his stomach clench like a fist.

It still doesn't make sense, and he still shies away from the idea that it just won't, no matter who they ask. Mr. Keane's story of turning a corner in America and ending up here sounds made up, like something out of a book.

Except, the little voice in his head tells him, a book can take you away from where you used to be.

John blinks, then gives his head a short, angry shake. It's not the same. He didn't do anything. He didn't fall down a rabbit hole or climb in a wardrobe, and he didn't open the wrong book, either. He's not stupid enough to just believe whatever some man in a café tells him.

So he turns, hiking up the waistband of his pants with one hand as he marches the little distance to one of the occupied tables. "Excuse me," he says, drawing the gaze of the woman sitting there. "What city is this?"

The woman blinks down at him, her face crumpling in some mixture of concern and confusion over what she sees. "Darrow," she replies, as if it should be obvious. She pulls in a breath like she's about to say something else, but John turns away, back towards Martin and Mr. Keane.

"I've never heard of Darrow," he says once he's back beside Martin, "and I've read a lot of books."

The story Mr. Keane tells them is... it sounds like a story someone would make up only to tease him for his gullibility the moment he believed it. But that's other kids who do that sort of thing; he doesn't think an adult would act like that. Especially not this one; he really does seem like he wants to help, even if the things he says don't make any sense, even if he claims no one can understand. That isn't fair — he can't ask questions if he's already been told the answers are just 'nobody knows.' Are they just supposed to go along with it?

John doesn't seem inclined to go along with anything. Martin almost protests when he steps away, but he knows that's dumb of him — he's not being abandoned, John's just being clever. Not that it does much good. Martin hears what the woman tells him and feels a little bit like he's going to be sick. He's never heard of Darrow either; part of him had thought he was still somewhere in London.

And if what Mr. Keane is telling them is true...? What then? How will he get home then?

"I'm pretty sure that kind of thing doesn't happen in real life," Martin says in an effort to back John up, though he has trouble saying it with any conviction. What does he know, really? And there is a part of him that has always wanted to believe in magic, just... not quite like this. But he wants to at least try to stick with John on this. They're all they have, for now.

"I think a lot of us felt that way, too," Marcus says in a gentle voice. "Right up until we ended up here."

Even him, a man who'd made a life as one of the most talented exorcists on record, a man who had seen real demonic energy with regularity. Though he'd spent a few days in the hospital upon his arrival, Marcus had been rather convinced he was dying, or that he had already died. Or, worse still, that the demon had taken him and he was still in that awful room, tied to a chair, while Maria Walters laughed at him.

"I'm very sorry, boys," he says. "I wish I had better answers for you. I think we ought to get you some proper clothes, though, yeah? I can take you to the police station after that, if you'd still like to speak with someone there."

He doesn't like this. Mr. Keane seems kind, and proper clothes would be a relief, but it feels stupid to follow him someplace else on just the promise that he'll take them to the police afterwards. The same police who he says won't be any help, anyway. It all feels like a question a teacher would ask the class, with an obvious right answer. Except now, standing barefoot in a café with a boy he barely knows and a man he knows even less, the wrong answer is starting to look unavoidable.

"Where?" he finally asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is there a shop nearby?" If they stay in public, at least, it might be safe-ish.

Martin looks nervously between John and Mr. Keane for a moment. He's no longer certain how to feel about the offer of police, given how sure Mr. Keane seems that they won't help. He still has no idea how to feel about any of this; he's scared and cold and hungry and he feels like he could just keep on crying if he weren't so desperate not to make things worse. But the offer of proper clothes — he almost doesn't care where they go or what happens after that. As though having clothes that fit will make everything else easier. He feels a desperate hope that John will go along with it; if he refuses, they'll have to keep being like this and Martin doesn't think he can handle that.

He doesn't refuse outright, though. It's a smart question. They can't go getting into a car with Mr. Keane or something. If there's someplace nearby, though...

Martin doesn't say anything, in the end, just looking up hopefully, waiting for Mr. Keane's answer.

"The Children's Home is just at the end of this block," Marcus says. "You can see it from here if you just lean out the door, the building with the reddish brown brick front and vines on the iron by the lower windows. I volunteer there and we've got spare clothes. There will be lots of other people there, too. Workers for the Home, other volunteers, loads of kids."

They're being smart, which is good. He'll be smart, too, and keep his distance while they walk. He doesn't want to frighten them any more than they clearly already are and while that might be an impossible task, at the very least he can try.

"You can walk behind me," he suggests. "I'll lead the way and you can decide if you'd like to come in or not."

John's first impulse is to balk at the idea. They don't belong in a Children's Home, and it's easy to imagine Mr. Keane just leaving them there, like dumping a box of kittens outside an animal shelter. But then he realizes he's being stupid. Children's Homes don't kidnap people, and whoever works there is more likely to help them than the next person they might pick at random. If Mr. Keane isn't going to phone the police, then taking them to a nearby Children's Home might be the next best thing.

And he really would like some better fitting clothes. If they can at least get dressed properly, it'll be that much easier to leg it if they really need to.

"All right," he agrees, liking the sound of Mr. Keane's plan. He still isn't entirely sure he trusts him, but he's not stupid; he can tell that Mr. Keane is trying not to frighten them. He adds, awkwardly, "Thank you."

His feet still haven't had a chance to warm up much, and he adjusts his grip on the waistband of his pants with a sigh. He really isn't looking forward to going back out in the cold, but at least it sounds like they don't have far to walk. He looks over at Martin, raising his eyebrows as if to say: maybe this won't be completely awful.

"Thank you," Martin echoes almost as soon as John's said it, too quiet and shy to let the full depth of his relief show. He's not so sure about the idea of a 'Children's Home' — it's not as if they're orphans — but he likes how kind and careful Mr. Keane is being, and more than anything he's glad that John's agreed to it. He meets John's glance and manages the faintest of smiles, feeling good about that. Like they're a team, exchanging looks to communicate, like adults do sometimes.

He's also relieved to get out of this coffee shop, where they stick out so much, though the outdoors isn't much better. It's still terribly cold and he hisses softly as he walks. He wants to just hurry along as fast as possible, but he has to be careful, to watch where he steps. He thinks, a bit petulantly, it would have been easier if they could just get into a car, or if Mr. Keane just brought them clothes — but he knows neither would be very sensible, and John would likely object. So he keeps close to John, matching his pace while keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. A small part of him wants to reach out and cling onto the other boy again, but he doesn't quite dare to try it. Maybe it's just as well both his hands are occupied holding up these stupid pants.

The Home is close, just as he's said, and though he glances back once or twice to make sure the boys are still near, Marcus doesn't otherwise try to usher them along. When they arrive at the front steps, the sign is clearly displayed, which he homes helps ease some of their suspicions. Darrow's Home for Children is right there on the plaque out front and Marcus climbs the steps, then holds open the big front door.

Directly inside, easily seen, is the front desk. There's a receptionist who glances up when the door opens and she smiles brightly to see Marcus. Just beyond her, down the hall, are other children and other workers. One boy is groaning about having to do homework while he's not feeling well. A worker carries a toddler on her hip and she pauses to wave at Marcus as well.

"It's safe here," he promises John and Martin, letting them look at the interior for as long as they need before they're comfortable to come inside. "We'll get things worked out."

Mr. Keane does just as he promised, walking a little ways ahead while John and Martin follow along after him. John hustles along as quickly as his oversized clothes allow, frowning at the looks some passers-by are giving them. Now that the initial terror has worn off, he's beginning to just feel stupid, which is almost worse — like people might think he's dressed himself this way on purpose.

But there's nothing to be done about it. At least it's a short walk to the Children's Home. For all his earlier suspicion, John doesn't waste much time looking the place over once they arrive. It's not as if Mr. Keane could have faked a whole building, and it's plain enough that the other people inside know him. Seems he was telling the truth.

Does that mean he was telling the truth about the police, too?

John grits his teeth and picks his way up the steps, trying not to trip over the hem of the stupid pants. "Thank you," he says again as he passes Mr. Keane. Then he steps inside, hovering uncertainly a little ways from the reception desk.

Martin follows John inside eagerly, too desperate to be out of the cold for any trepidation to show. He stops when John stops, however, no clear ideas about where to go from here, no confidence in his own decision-making abilities. The receptionist smiles at them both, and she clearly knows Mr. Keane, as do the others who notice him; but most everyone seems rather preoccupied with their own business.

Seeing other children running around is considerably less comforting than it might have been. After a moment spent nervously worrying at his lower lip, Martin turns to look up at Mr. Keane.

"Y-you're not going to leave us here, are you?" he asks. He almost says something more about having a mum to go home to, but he bites it back. He doesn't want to be told again that terrible story about being brought to some faraway place, as if hearing it again will make it more true. True or not, he's sure he doesn't want to be left here. There has to be somewhere better for them to go, somewhere they can figure something out. Maybe.

"No," Marcus answers. "I'm here with you."

He isn't sure how comforting that's going to be for the two of them, especially right now, but he'll stay with them for as long as it takes for him to work out what to do. They have friends here, John and Martin do, and Marcus thinks he ought to call them. Kat will have their numbers, if nothing else, and she'll be able to help him work this out.

"First, let's get you warm and get you some proper clothes, yeah?" he asks. "Do you want to come with me to pick out what you'd like to wear? We have a few spare boxes of clothes in the storage room just off the kitchen. It's right down the hall there. You can see Adam down there, prepping lunch? The door for the storage is just behind him."

Martin's question makes John's gut lurch, and he looks between the two of them for a moment, brow furrowed. Logically, he knows it might not matter if Mr. Keane stays or goes; the woman at reception might help them just as easily. But Mr. Keane has been kind, and honest (as far as John can tell), and the thought of him just walking out now is more unsettling than it ought to be.

So he lets out a little breath when Mr. Keane says he isn't going anywhere, and points them toward the storage room. "Okay," he agrees. He's worn secondhand clothes before, but his grandmother had always bought them at a shop. The idea of just rummaging through a box is a little uncomfortable, like he's taking charity that ought to be going to someone who needs it.

Except that he does need it. He can't keep wearing what he has.

John frowns, and it's both lingering curiosity and want for a distraction that compels him to speak as he follows Mr. Keane to the storage room. "Why does Darrow take people?" he asks. In books, there's usually a reason, like an enemy that needs to be beaten. "Are we supposed to do something here?"

Martin accepts Mr. Keane's answer with a little nod, not completely comforted, but at least assured they're not being sneakily left up for adoption or something. He follows Mr. Keane and John along to the storage room, trying not to drag his feet.

John's question frightens him a little, only for making the whole idea of this place more real. Martin feels behind, like he can't get his head round it. Feeling sheepish for a few reasons, he starts to look through the clothing options, remaining quiet to allow them their conversation. At least there's plenty to choose from — it doesn't take long to find a handful of things that should fit, and won't even look too terribly out of place on him.

Marcus pulls a few drawers open on one of the dressers they have, the one marked boys under 10, then the closet as well, looking at their feet before taking out a few pairs of warm, sturdy boots for them to try on. Most of what they have here has been donated, some second hand, some new. Marcus just hopes they can find something that fits.

"That's a very good question," he answers. "And one I don't know the answer to. I've been here for years myself and I... I know that's frightening, to think of having been somewhere for such a long time when it isn't your home, but I want to be honest with you both."

At least to a certain extent. He's still not sure how to tell them they're really adult men.

John rummages through the drawers beside Martin, double-checking the tags until he's found a few things that should fit him. He isn't sure how much he should be taking, and he isn't sure he wants to ask. Part of him still thinks Darrow could be a normal city somewhere on Earth. It might be a long way from Bournemouth, but that doesn't mean he couldn't get home by this time tomorrow, if someone helped them properly. He won't need more than one outfit for that.

But then Mr. Keane says years, and John looks up at him in shock. He can't be stuck here for years. His grandmother will think something awful has happened to him.

And then he wonders, with a sick swooping feeling in his stomach, if Mr. Keane means to leave them here, after all. What else could he do, if he thinks they're stuck in Darrow like he is? It's not as if he's going to bloody adopt them.

John wants to argue, and he wants to change into clothes that fit, but all he can do is stand there, clutching the bundle of clothes to his chest with one arm while his eyes fill with tears. None of this makes sense, and he hates it.

Martin stops cold, staring up at Mr. Keane when he says years, coming over all hot and cold at once like he's going to be sick. He can't, he can't just disappear. Mum needs him. He can't turn out like dad.

But there's nothing he can think to say, and what's worse, it seems like John is stuck too. Martin glances over and sees him clutching the clothes he's collected, speechless. And he sees, with a terrible jolt, that he looks like he's about to cry.

At first that feels horrible. John's been so clever and brave this whole time, and now it's not enough, and he's scared, too. But then Martin thinks, why shouldn't he be scared? Why should he have to be the one who pulls Martin along with him, who asks all the right questions? And Martin knows, just like he has to be strong for mum, he has to be strong now, too. It's his turn.

"W-well," he starts, wishing he could stop his voice from trembling, "if you're not going to leave us here, then... where are we supposed to go?"

He wants to argue that they can't possibly stay here for years, but maybe he and John can figure that out together when they've both had time to put their heads together. For now, they'll have to be practical. Little steps.

"That flat where we woke up," he says, a bit dubious even as the idea strikes him, "that wasn't supposed to be our new home or something, was it?"

He doesn't wait for Mr. Keane to answer before pushing ahead, as though he needs to get everything out at once before he loses his nerve: "Also," he says a bit sternly, nudging a bit closer to John, not quite brave enough to touch him directly, "where can we get changed?"

"The toilets are just down the hall toward the front of the building," Marcus answers and turns in that direction, still trying to work out what he's going to tell them. Especially now that they've asked about their flat. How is he supposed to tell two children who believe they really are only children that they're actually grown men? When Matthias had told him the reality of his situation when he'd been thirteen, Marcus hadn't believed a word of it.

In fact, he'd thought Matthias might be some sort of pervert, trying to get a teen boy to go home with him. He can't very well suggest he bring John and Martin back to the house with him, even if there are others there who would lend it a feeling of safety. Can he ask Daisy and Kat to look after them? Is that better or worse? He's truly at a loss.

"You might need to stay here for awhile," he settles on saying. "But I'll stay here with you. I won't leave you alone."

That much he can absolutely promise. The staff here are used to him volunteering for long hours and he's crashed in a spare bed more than once in the past.

John remains silent, not trusting his voice and not wanting to burst into messy tears when that wouldn't help anything. He does manage a quick, grateful look towards Martin when he asks the questions John can't, though, about what's going to happen to them. Martin even asks a question that surprises him; John hadn't thought to wonder if the flat where they woke up was meant for them. He isn't sure he believes that, if only because he'd felt so certain that someone else was there, watching them. But it's still a good question.

If this was a story, there would be somewhere that they were supposed to go, or someone who was supposed to help them. And not just by bringing them to the nearest bloody orphanage.

He needs a moment to think, and he needs to feel less stupid, so he decides to get changed before he tries to say anything. He shoulders his way into the bathroom, which looks like one you might find at a school, with a row of stalls along one wall and sinks along the other, and trudges into the first open stall he sees. The pants he was wearing drop to the floor the moment he stops physically holding them up, and he pulls off the tent of a shirt with a quiet huff, then uses it to mop at his face for a moment.

He is not going to make a fuss. He has to be smart.

John lets the shirt drop, then starts to pull on the clothes he picked out. Martin is in the stall just next to his, and he glances down at the other boy's feet before quietly saying, "It doesn't make sense." He sniffs once, then adds, with a hint of indignation, "He didn't even answer your question. About the flat."

Martin frowns tightly when Mr. Keane doesn't answer his question about the flat, but he doesn't argue; just walks quietly with John to the toilets. John hasn't started crying, but he still seems unhappy, and Martin is, too. When he'd asked if they were going to be left here, this is what he meant. Whether or not Mr. Keane stays with them feels beside the point. Kind as he is, he can't babysit them forever.

He gets dressed quietly, relieved that the clothes he gathered do fit him reasonably well, and are a bit warmer besides; he's finally starting to feel less physically horrible, at least. And then John speaks, giving voice to the same thing that's bothering Martin, and he looks up at the stall wall between them.

"I know," he says, lowering his voice even though they're alone in here. "I don't understand." Still, though, he's not sure what it means, and he's hesitant to think Mr. Keane is intentionally leading them astray, both because he's taken care of them so far, and because he's currently all they have. "M-maybe he just doesn't know."

"He said he's been here for years," John points out as he pulls the new shirt over his head. "He should know something by now." He feels a little bad even as he says it, because Mr. Keane has been kind to them. But he doesn't think he's all wrong, either. If Mr. Keane is telling the truth about Darrow — that it just pulls people in, and that no one knows why, and that it's been happening for years and years — then John and Martin probably aren't the first children it's happened to. And the people who live here have probably come up with some way to deal with the people who just show up. Or maybe everyone who lives here got pulled in from somewhere else, but that just means they'd be extra prepared to deal with new arrivals, wouldn't they?

"Feels like there's something he's not telling us," John says after a moment. "Like he's worried it'll scare us even more, or something." Like they're not scared enough already. Just talking to Martin makes him feel a bit better, though. At least he knows Martin is coming from the same place he is.

"Yeah," Martin agrees readily, a little bolstered by their mutual determination to get to the bottom of this. He pulls on the jumper he'd picked up and tugs it down until he finally feels put together. He still needs shoes, and probably a coat, but socks are good enough for now. "And... and I don't want to stay here."

He knows they might not be able to do anything about that. But it feels good to say it aloud, so John knows it, so they can stand together if it comes down to it. He's not sure what they can do, or where they'd go instead, but... at least they can be a team.

He steps out from the stall and waits for John to join him so he can look him in the eye. "Suppose he'll tell us if we keep asking?" he says, and turns to wash his hands out of habit. He doesn't want to be obnoxious, but he does want answers.

"Me, neither," John says firmly. It's not that he wants to go back to that flat, but staying here feels wrong, too. They don't belong here. And if it was normal for children new to Darrow to end up here, Mr. Keane would've said so from the beginning, he thinks. Maybe. "If we were supposed to stay here," he ventures aloud, so Martin will hear, "you'd think Mr. Keane would've just told us, instead of—of pretending it's something he's making up as he goes."

Unless he thinks honesty would scare them. But that's not fair, either. If they've really been kidnapped by a whole city, they deserve to know what's going on.

John does up the zipper of the hoodie he'd chosen, then steps out of the stall. Martin's already waiting, and John moves to wash his hands as well as he mulls over Martin's question. "Maybe," he says, "if we ask the right way." They've both been scared, and they both still are, but he knows that you can get further, sometimes, by hiding it and not showing it. If all Mr. Keane wants to do is calm them down, of course he's going to say whatever nonsense he thinks might help.

John dries his hands, then turns to face Martin. "Look. We just have to act like we're not scared. Otherwise, he'll just try to make us feel better. Even if that means lying. Okay?" He's never really done something like this before — schemed with someone else his own age — and after an uncertain beat, he sets his jaw and holds out his hand, like they're two grown-ups making a deal.

"Okay," Martin answers after only a slight hesitation, doing his best impression of a firm nod as he takes John's hand for an equally firm shake. He's not sure how convincing he can be, especially with how obvious his fear has been up to this point. But it feels good to have a plan, and he feels better knowing he and John will be working together on it. It doesn't feel quite so much like he's being relied upon as trusted — treated like an equal, something he isn't used to. No one really talks to him like this, not even other kids his age. Maybe it's good John doesn't really know him. Maybe he can pretend, and it'll be good enough.

So concluded, they make their way back out to where Mr. Keane is still waiting. Martin clears his throat a bit timidly, more out of politeness than fear, and then he says humbly, "Thank you for the clothes, Mr. Keane," thinking perhaps they'll get better results if they show gratitude first.

John nods back, feeling a little encouraged in spite of everything. Martin and he are on the same page, if nothing else, and that's good. No matter what else happens, he's got someone on his side.

They leave the bathroom and find Mr. Keane waiting for them out in the hall. John pulls in a breath to speak, then blinks as Martin beats him to it. The thanks is probably a good idea, though, and John falters, brow furrowed. "Yes," he stiffly agrees, "thank you."

Then, refocusing on what he was meaning to say, he tips his chin up to frown at the man. "But there's something you're not telling us," he says with all the certainty he can muster, "and we don't think that's fair."

Marcus can't but smile just a little at the way John speaks to him, even though he still isn't sure if telling them the entire truth is the best option available. He's never been the best liar in the world, mostly because he's never cared to be anything but honest, even when it was brutal.

Darrow has changed him a little, but apparently not enough.

"No," he says, exhaling. "I suppose you're right, it isn't fair. If you're both absolutely sure you want to hear everything, I think we should find a quiet place where we can sit and talk. This is what you want?"

Martin glances at John, a little surprised that their plan worked — and a little nervous, too. Having confirmation that there is something they aren't being told isn't very comforting, in the end. But it's like John said: he has to act like he isn't scared. And it will be better, he thinks, to know than to be stuck wondering.

"Yes," he says with another tiny nod, trying his hardest to sound sure of himself. "It is." Although he's quite certain that without John beside him, he'd lose his nerve entirely.

... It actually worked. John exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Martin, barely able to believe it was that simple. But the surprise is followed by a little simmer of excitement: there is more to it, and Mr. Keane is going to tell them. Even if it's scary, that feels better than just stumbling along, doing whatever they're told because they don't know any better.

"Yes." His nod is more eager than Martin's. "Is there a place here where we can do that?" He figures there should be, and he's curious enough now that as long as Mr. Keane doesn't try to lead them to his car or something, he'd follow him anywhere.

"On the second floor," Marcus answers with a nod. "There are no boys or girls here of your age right now, so the dormitories are free. The littler ones stay down here on the main floor and the teenagers are on the top floor, so it's quiet on the second floor."

He heads for the stairs, then looks back at the boys. "Come on."

They're not going to like this. Hell, Marcus isn't even sure if they'll believe him, but at least he'll have told them the entire truth. They're not foolish, most children aren't, and even if they're technically not children in the same sense, they had seen there was something more. Something he was unwilling to give up.

Maybe this will make it all easier. Or maybe they'll think he's gone mad.

Martin feels a twinned sense of relief and trepidation when Mr. Keane leads them to a quiet space. He thinks he'll prefer that to all the bustle of the ground floor — of the whole day so far, really — but it also lends this whole thing a great deal of seriousness he isn't sure he likes. John seems eager, at least, and Martin follows his lead, but he fidgets and trails behind a few steps, feeling again like he wishes he could just go home where everything makes sense. Fearing that whatever Mr. Keane has to tell them, it won't be good. He certainly seems to be treating it like something very grown-up.

The second floor is a bit haunting in how quiet it is. How lonely it would be to live here, the only two children their age. He hopes it doesn't come to that. That whatever Mr. Keane has to tell them it'll offer some direction in that — or, failing that, that he and John will be able to come up with some alternative plan.

John glances at Martin again, then follows Mr. Keane up the stairs. It's both a relief and a little unnerving to get away from the bustle of the first floor, and he eyes the second with some suspicion. This is where they'd be staying, if they stayed here. A floor all to themselves would probably be better than being chucked in with a bunch of other children he's never met in his life, but he still bristles at the thought of being treated like an orphan.

Marcus leads them to what looks like a small reading area with a small couch and a chair, and John clambers onto the couch. Once Martin's settled next to him and Marcus has sat down, John prompts, "So...?"

Marcus settles down into the chair and leans his elbows on his knees and he tries to work out how best to say this. They're not going to believe him, he's already sure of that, but he'd told them he would explain the entire truth and now he has to.

Besides, he thinks he'll feel a little better having said it all.

"So," he says, then exhales. "Everything I've told you thus far is true, but there's one more thing. You both have already been in Darrow for some time already, you just don't remember it." He pauses, watching them, then continues. "Usually, you're both grown men. John, you and I are friends. You and Martin live together. You're adults."

Martin feels a brief, new surge of fear when Mr. Keane says you just don't remember it. It's like a pit opening up to swallow him whole. That's why he can't seem to remember what day it was before he slept, or the last conversation he had with his mum. He's got amnesia.

And then Mr. Keane says the next bit and Martin goes very still, blinking up at him, his thoughts tripping over themselves as he tries to make sense of it, or figure out if there's any reason he would make something up like that, or... or he doesn't know what.

You're adults.

It's impossible, right? This whole day has been impossible, but this feels... even weirder, somehow. Mr. Keane's been so kind to them and he seems honest, and he acted like this was some big secret, and it doesn't feel like lying, but...

"W-what?" he blurts eventually, unable to come up with anything better.

John scoffs, at first, pulling in a breath to say something like 'rubbish.' He was expecting something scary, but he wasn't expecting nonsense about having already lived here for a while, or normally being an adult. It's impossible.

But then he pauses, realizing with a prickle of unease that he can't really remember yesterday; not with any clarity. Maybe being drugged would make that hard, but it's not just that he can't remember what pajamas he wore before going to bed last night. He isn't even entirely sure what day of the week it's meant to be, or what month, even.

And he isn't sure he knows what impossible is, anymore. Not since that book.

"Prove it," he ends up saying, instead.

Prove it, John says and Marcus exhales, trying to work out how he might do that. It's not as if he and John have taken a load of selfies together and they're just sitting on his phone waiting to be shown. He could call Kat, he supposes, and she would corroborate his story, but there's no reason for them to believe Kat either.

He knows damn well he can't tell them about their futures. They're children, even if they're really not. Not with what he knows about John, with what he's done, the stories he's given.

In the end, he does the only thing he can think of. He takes out his phone, unlocks it and passes it over. "Go to my contacts," he says. "You'll see yourself in there, John. There's a picture in your contact. Martin, I'm sorry, I don't have your contact, you're not in there."

Martin looks at John, equal parts relieved and nervous over his skeptical, confrontational response. He feels a bit like he's floundering in the water, like if he were on his own he'd have no choice but to accept whatever answers Mr. Keane gave him, too overwhelmed and confused to argue. But John still has the presence of mind to ask practical questions, to demand proof.

Of course, that allows for Mr. Keane to offer proof, and Martin's not so sure he wants that. And he does have something to offer, though it's not really what Martin expects.

He doesn't understand what any of this means. Contacts, he says as he hands John the strange slim object pulled from his pocket. Martin leans over to stare at the thing, as Mr. Keane claims John will be able to find a picture of himself in this... what is it?

The whole face of the thing is a screen, he realizes, only he's sure Mr. Keane had just been touching it, like he'd turned it on somehow. He looks uncertainly at Mr. Keane, then at John, wondering if this is something he's seen before. He does seem very smart, but this... this feels like something out of Star Trek. It's enough that he doesn't even have time to get well and proper bogged down wondering why, if he and John supposedly... live together... Mr. Keane is friends with John but not with him.

"W-what is it?" he asks, continuing to stare at it, mystified.

John isn't really sure what he's expecting. If he thought about it, he'd realize how hard it is to prove something like that, especially without much warning. Maybe Mr. Keane could tell him something about himself that only he would know. But if he really was friends with him as an adult, would they have talked about when they were kids? Is that normal? The only thing he can think of that he wouldn't tell anyone but a friend is the book, but that doesn't mean they would've talked about it for sure.

He definitely isn't expecting Mr. Keane to pull a small, slim device out of his pocket and offer it to him. John takes it without thinking, his eyes widening at the not heavy, but still substantial weight of it resting against his palm. Almost the whole front of it glows, except for a frame around the edge, and he quickly realizes that he's looking at a screen that isn't so different from the one on his television. But the picture is bright and crisp — when he stands too close to his telly, he can see the little colored squares that make up the larger picture, and this isn't like that at all. It's also different because it's covered in fingerprints; he wasn't supposed to touch the television screen, but it's clear that this one gets prodded at all the time. Much like Mr. Keane just did, he supposes.

John knows that he and his grandmother don't have the newest things. But he doesn't think anybody in Bournemouth has something like this. It looks like the sort of thing you'd see in science fiction, not real life.

He gives the screen an uncertain poke, and nearly drops the device when the screen changes, a new image filling the frame. It's a weather report, he realizes. "Bloody hell," he whispers, forgetting himself completely.

"Shit," Marcus says, then laughs. He hadn't even considered that they wouldn't know what his phone was and he shakes his head at himself, then stands and goes around to stand beside John so he can help him navigate.

"I'm sorry, boys, I didn't even think... well, you've likely got phones of your own back at the flat where you woke up," he says, then swipes his finger up from the bottom of the screen, clearing the weather app. Although, now that he's thinking about it, that might help his case at least a little. He taps it again and the weather app returns, right near the top the little yellow words say Today in Darrow...

"We really are here," he tells them, pointing to the heading and letting them read it before he closes the app again, then pokes the app for his contacts. "Use your finger to scroll down," he says to John.

Martin gasps softly when John pokes the little screen and everything changes, a picture so bright and clear it almost hurts his eyes. He nearly gasps again when John curses, blinking at him with wide, scandalized eyes, and then when Mr. Keane curses even worse, he covers his mouth to stifle himself, going a bit pink.

He knows it's probably silly to worry about bad words at a time like this, especially when it clearly doesn't matter to Mr. Keane. Fortunately, he carries on trying to explain the strange device which is distraction enough from the rest of it.

"That's a phone?!" he exclaims in a hushed yelp, staring at the thing in shocked disbelief. That only makes it more unbelievable, he thinks. It's not even connected to anything.

Maybe that doesn't matter. He stops himself from asking more questions when Mr. Keane directs John to his 'contacts,' and Martin realizes it must be like a directory, all... in the phone itself? This is incredible, but he only feels growing trepidation as he watches John 'scroll' for his own name.

"We looked—" John starts to object, but then he cuts himself off. They certainly hadn't looked for anything like what he's holding now. He wouldn't even have thought to look for something like this. Still, with the faintest hint of a sulk — because they weren't stupid enough to not look for a phone at all — he continues, "We only found the jack. There wasn't a proper phone."

It feels like a stupid thing to say when he's holding a device that might as well be magic for how different it is to anything he's seen before. If this is what Mr. Keane thinks of as a phone, John's 'proper' one would probably seem like an outdated hunk of rubbish to him. But it's not their fault they've wound up in a world where phones are all... fancy.

He isn't quite sure what Mr. Keane means when he says to use his finger to scroll, but he doesn't want to admit to any more confusion. He looks at the screen with a small, focused frown for a moment. Touching things once seems to make them go, and he doesn't want that for any of the unfamiliar names shining up at him, so he tries more of a stroking motion, like the one Mr. Keane had used to make the weather go away, but slower. The list sort of bounces — he'd swiped the wrong way — and he switches direction, eyes widening a little as the list slowly scrolls by beneath his hand.

And there, eventually, is his own name: John Sims.

John doesn't prod it on purpose; it's more that his finger twitches in surprise. But it's enough; there's a blink as the screen highlights his name, and then a new page appears, this one, apparently, just for him. He's distantly aware that his name is there, with an unfamiliar phone number listed beneath it. But above both of those things is a small, square frame containing a photo, and John's gaze lands there and sticks.

Is that supposed to be him?

The photo is so small that even with the image as crisp as it is, he can't make out as many details as he'd like. But what he can see makes his stomach lurch. The man in the photo is much older — old enough to be friends with Mr. Keane, he supposes — with a thin face and greying hair. He has features that remind him, unnervingly, of the photos of his parents his Grandmother has: a nose like his father's, eyes like his mother's. Similar enough that the reflexive 'that can't be me' dies in his throat.

But the worst of it are the weird marks. They're all over the man's face and neck, and he squints at them for a few long, bewildered seconds before recoiling, his frown deepening. "What... are those?" he finally asks, tearing his gaze away to look up at Mr. Keane.

"Scars," Marcus answers gently. When it comes to other people in Darrow, he tries not to pry. If they have stories to tell -- though there's really no if, everyone does -- Marcus lets them tell whatever parts they would like in their own time. He may not know all the details of John's scars, but he knows enough to understand it wasn't a pleasant experience and it wasn't of the natural world, whatever caused it.

"I think you've both seen a lot of... well, very scary things in your life," he says softly. "Even before you woke up as young boys. But I also believe you saw much of it together. You helped one another, just like you're doing now."

He knows this is all frightening, probably more than they can truly understand, but he wants to remind them they aren't alone. No matter how scary it may be right now, even if they don't trust him, they have each other

There's too much to keep up with, at first. Martin's still not ready to accept this object as a phone, and he certainly can't get his head around the idea that he is supposed to have one of his own. He watches John 'scroll' through the list of names, biting back a million questions and exclamations, trying not to lean too far into the other boy's space. And then, there it is: John's name, and with the merest touch, the screen changes again, revealing more. A little picture.

John stares at it for quite some time, and Martin does too, though he's not altogether certain what to make of it. He can't tell one way or the other what John might look like when he gets old, and the picture is too small to really know. All Martin can tell is that the colouring seems right. But the man in the picture looks old and, well, sort of terrible, and Martin doesn't think it would be very nice to see a picture of yourself grown up and looking like that. For a long time John just keeps staring at it, and Martin waits, warily, for his response.

Finally he asks about the weird markings all over the man-in-the-picture's face, and Mr. Keane tells him quite plainly that they're scars. Scars? Martin struggles not to make a face. From what? But none of what Mr. Keane says answers that, and none of it is particularly comforting; it's terrifying, really, just creates more questions, and Martin feels all the more like he's standing over a deep, dark pit with no bottom. What sorts of scary things? he wants and doesn't want to ask. How did we help one another?

Are we friends?

Maybe that's a stupid question, compared to all the others he could ask. Mr. Keane said they live together. If that's true — if all of what he's said is true — then... then maybe that flat was their flat, that bed their bed. Their clothes. Their cat. Their door and their locks on it, too many locks.

Martin tries, briefly, like reaching toward a hot stove, to imagine it: that he and John are actually adults, John that man in the picture, and Martin... something. That they live together, and they sleep in the same bed (a detail that bothers him, but his thoughts keep darting fearfully away from it, like it's a secret he shouldn't know). And... and they help each other with scary things. And if John is all covered in those weird little scars, and they've been through the same things, then... then is he...?

Inwardly, Martin recoils sharply from all that, though he remains still and quiet on the outside. Retreating back out of himself, he instead becomes aware of John beside him, still silent, still staring at the photo. Martin watches him a moment, then decides firmly to put all that stuff from his mind. He's being selfish, and John's obviously upset, looking at this little picture and being told that's going to be him, and suddenly Martin wants very badly to insist that it can't be, the whole idea is preposterous, and there's no real reason to think any of it is true. But he's a bit scared to say it, both because he doesn't want to offend Mr. Keane and because he's afraid of being proven wrong.

But John did ask for proof. And maybe there's more that Mr. Keane can give them, something better than a strange, scary photo. Something easier to think about and question. Or, maybe Mr. Keane's story will come apart, and they'll find it all a lie. Martin isn't sure which would be more awful. But if it's true, and they do help each other, then... well, even if it isn't, John needs his help now.

Martin sits up straighter and looks at Mr. Keane, trying to look braver and more sure of himself than he feels.

"If all that's true," he says, his tone starting out a bit haughty and then softening almost immediately to something embarrassed and more tentative, "then... then there must be other people that know us. What do we do here? Do we... do we have jobs?"

Scars, Mr. Keane says, and John's stomach twists. It's not surprise, exactly, because he doesn't know what else they could be. But he can't imagine what would make scars like that, and he isn't sure he wants to. He doesn't want to know his life is going to leave him looking so terrible.

Mr. Keane adds the bit about Martin as if it's supposed to help, but it doesn't. John barely knows Martin, but that's only part of why he shrinks from the idea. The other reason is because Martin seems nice — nicer than John, for certain — and John has already seen scary things without him. He remembers the prickle he'd felt on the back of his neck back in that flat (their flat?), how sure he was that someone else was there, watching them, but he can't remember if Martin felt it, too, or if he was just frightened and following John's lead.

And if Martin hadn't felt it... maybe the feeling was only for him. Maybe something has noticed him, but not Martin — not yet. Maybe it would be smarter for Martin to not be friends with him, to not get noticed, to not have to help with whatever ends up leaving all those scars.

John twitches in surprise when Martin speaks, louder and more insistent than he has so far. Distantly, he thinks it's a good question, a smart one. There must be others who know them, if Mr. Keane isn't lying; they must be earning money somehow. He can't fully grasp onto his earlier curiosity, though, not when all the answers are so awful.

The little screen dims, then blackens, showing John only his own print-smudged reflection. He feels a brief surge of worry that he's somehow broken the device, but he doesn't see how he could've done, and when no scolding follows, he just passes it wordlessly back to Mr. Keane.

Marcus takes his phone and pushes it back into his pocket, then nods in response to Martin's question. "You have other friends, certainly," he says, although he doesn't know all of them, some only by name. He hadn't really known Martin at all really, not until this morning. Even now, he doesn't think he knows him. He's just a boy, not at all the man Kat and the others know.

"A young woman from my home, actually, Katherine Rance, is very good friends with you," he says. "And she works with you at a place called The Archive. There are some other people who work there as well, a woman named Daisy, I believe, though she and I have never met."

He's seen another man in the area as well, but has never introduced himself and doesn't know his name. They're all certain to know Martin and John, however.

"If you like, I can call Kat," he offers. "She can come here."

Martin takes that in with a small frown, not really knowing what to make of it, most of his attention still on John. John hasn't said anything, which makes Martin worry, but he knows better than to pry or push. He barely knows John, no matter what Mr. Keane's told them, and much as he might like to offer some sort of comfort, he has no idea how to go about it. More than likely he'll just be annoying on top of everything else John's going through.

But this means it's still his job to answer Mr. Keane, and he's not sure how. They need to meet other people who might be able to explain things or help them figure out what to do, but he isn't sure he has a preference on how it happens. Part of him is curious to see this place where they supposedly work, though he's not sure what he'll find, or if they'll even be allowed like this. He has no idea what sort of business it's meant to be, even; he only knows 'The Archive' has got to be the boringest name for anything ever.

"I... I suppose," he says hesitantly, and then, unable to help himself even as he feels guilty for it, he gives John the gentlest nudge he can manage. "What do you think?"

John doesn't recognize the names Mr. Keane provides, but he doesn't expect to. He doesn't recognize 'The Archive,' either, though something about the name draws him out of his own anxious thoughts. He knows what an archive is, a little — like a library, but not open to everyone, and for more than just books — but calling it The Archive makes it sound like the only one in the city. It sounds... important.

Martin gives him a light nudge, and John sits up straighter, as much startled by the contact as jostled back into the moment. The little rush of adrenaline helps, though, and he looks up at Mr. Keane with a small frown. "Call her, please," he agrees. "I want to talk to her."

It's only a small part of him that still wonders if Mr. Keane is making it all up, but even if he was, it'd be hard to rope in someone else without talking to them about it beforehand. If Katherine Rance is really friends with them, maybe she'll be able to prove it more easily.

"I can put us on speaker phone," Marcus says with a nod, withdrawing the phone from his pocket again and swiping up so it opens for him after recognizing his face. He goes to his favourite contacts and presses the screen to call Kat, then hides that number pad so he can set the phone to speaker.

He has no idea what the hell he's going to say to her short of your boss and his boyfriend are children, but he doesn't think that's going to go over well with John or Martin. He's specifically left out the bit about them being boyfriends so far, not wanting to add to their stress, although they're not stupid children, he thinks they'll understand it eventually. Especially if they think on their flat for very long, which Marcus assumes has only the one bed for the two of them.

In his hand, the phone starts to ring, the sound filling the little room they're in.

rude awakening

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