silenttrainbaby | backstory/history (the Train): for Gilliam

Higher. Faster. Quieter. Other hand, Grey. Do it, again, faster. Get up. Stay up. Never give up, not even if it means your life. When the time comes ....

Grey wipes the sweat from his eyes and looks up at the ceiling of the part of the car they've cordoned off for training. He's tired, boneweary, and hungry, but at least his bones have stopped aching - growing pains, he was told they were. He just needs, he tells himself, to do one more. He's the fastest, the most agile, the quietest, but even if he weren't mute, it would be hard to be louder than Edgar, who's always somewhere, always with something to say.

He readies himself then sprints, leaping to the top of a box with one foot, using it to leverage himself to the rafters of the car, then he swings, landing on the metal pilings with barely a whoomph of displaced air. The ball is tossed across the floor and he flings himself down, scooping it up with his right hand, throwing it with his left; it hits the window of the door just as it should before he lands in a crouch. Next time, they'll practice with the knife.

He looks to Gilliam from where he's perched. Did he do all right?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

shadowofashadow

He enjoys the way Grey moves and twists, all corded muscle, joints like ball bearings. The boy moves in ways that Gilliam hasn't been able to for years and years, long before the time on the train had worn him down.

"Nearly perfect."

From:

silenttrainbaby

Nearly, Grey knows, isn't good enough. He takes a deep breath and rises, going to fetch the ball, bringing it back. What then? He cocks his head. How can he make it perfect?

From:

shadowofashadow

"Try to roll when you hit the ground. Jumping down like that could hurt you," he explains gently. "Then you might not be able to continue on."

From:

silenttrainbaby

Roll. Hours had been spent doing somersaults when he was smaller; Grey rarely gets dizzy any more. He nods, then moves back to the end of the train car, pulling his knife from the sheath on his back.

He takes a deep breath, settling himself again, and then darts forward. Up on the box, into the rafters, he leaps, gutting the ball with his knife, then tucks his head, somersaulting to a crouch at Gilliam's feet, the ball held out, pierced by his knife.

An offering.

From:

shadowofashadow

Gilliam smiles and takes the ball, resting his good hand over Grey's, nodding his approval. Such a good boy, swift and strong.

"Perfect."

From:

silenttrainbaby

Whatever is closest to a smile changes Grey's face from a mask to one of a boy. He sheaths his knife and stays there by Gilliam's feet.

Soon, the others will be here: Edgar and maybe even Curtis, others. A little bit of time just to them is rare.

From:

shadowofashadow

Gilliam doesn't think he's ever known such loyalty, before the train or on it. Not like the kind that Grey shows. Reaching down, he ruffles Grey's hair. He did very well today.

From:

silenttrainbaby

Grey leans up to the touch, closing his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath, then he kneels forward, checking Gilliam's leg for wounds, for puss.

From:

shadowofashadow

"I'm all right, Grey." For today, the wound is clear. On days like this, Gilliam almost thinks it might heal fully one day. It isn't true, of course. A body can only heal so much, nourished on protein blocks.

From:

silenttrainbaby

Then, what? If the wounds are all right, what can Grey do? Surely, he can do something for Gilliam. Can't he?

From:

shadowofashadow

Having Grey's attention and concern make him feel that little bit younger, more whole and alive. Just by being near, he gives so much.

"You're so strong, Grey."

From:

silenttrainbaby

It causes the boy to look down at himself, at the words already inked onto his body by Painter. When he was younger, he woed of ever getting strong; he'd been so small. It was only in the last two years that he'd sprouted up, his bones aching so much that he'd rolled on his pallet, gasping, moaning, Gilliam's hand cool on his forehead.

He taps a clear place on his shoulder. Maybe a new word there?

From:

shadowofashadow

"What word?" Gilliam asks, touching the bare spot as lightly as he can before looking for a nub of charcoal for Grey to write with and show him.

From:

silenttrainbaby

He's got the basics already, Grey does: Who, What, Where, When, Train, his name. He doesn't know.

But when he has the charcoal in his fingers, he scrawls one word: Gilliam.

From:

shadowofashadow

"My name?" It's not a useful word, but a sign of devotion. Perhaps a better man would say no, would tell Grey there is no good in loving an old and broken man.

But he is only a good man to other people.

From:

silenttrainbaby

Grey nods. He reaches forward, taking Gilliam's good hand, pressing it over his heart. There, yes? There.

From:

shadowofashadow

"Is that really what you want?" He hooks a finger under Grey's chin, raising his face up to look at him.

From:

silenttrainbaby

Gilliam is the only family Grey has known, the only source of safety and warmth, any kind of tenderness. He nods; this is what he wants.

From:

shadowofashadow

"You are better to me than I've ever deserved."

That much will always be true.

From:

silenttrainbaby

No. Grey reaches up, touching fingertips to Gilliam's mouth. That's not true. Were it not for Gilliam, Grey might already be dead.

From:

shadowofashadow

Gilliam sighs, letting him without thinking to make him stop. That tenderness is dearly needed in this place.

"You are a good lad."

From:

silenttrainbaby

He is a good boy. It's one of the things for which Grey is proud. He's not trouble like Edgar; he's obedient and quiet.

He'll get Painter, then, get that new word on his skin. It will, he knows, hurt for a few days; he'll need to keep it covered and as clean as he can. But the thought makes his heart swell. He settles again at Gilliam's feet.