loficharm | rude awakening

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.

rude awakening

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