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starlingstory · 8 years ago

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Starling: Chapter Twenty-Nine

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Kenna pulled over on the shoulder somewhere more dust than sidewalk. She killed the ignition and half-leaned, half-crawled into the back seat to stare at Roy’s screen. Elliott and Alex had both abandoned their sulks to look too, which totaled three enormous people craning into his space, reading and rereading Laura’s message over his shoulder.

“What does that mean, rescue will be complete by dawn?” said Kenna, jabbing a claw at the phrase in question.

“Before sunrise,” Roy rephrased, unsure if that was what she was really asking, but unable to understand anything more complex about it himself. His voice sounded flat and distant even to him.

"Did something happen?” demanded Elliott.

Kenna withdrew to the front to fiddle with her own comp for a moment. "Nothing in the news,” she reported.

Roy sank slowly in his seat and let the conversation flow over his head.

“Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know. It means no loud loud violence has happened, so I say good.”

Alex was baring their teeth. “What do we do?"

Roy entertained a brief fantasy of intervening personally: arriving just ahead of a team of soldiers in tactical gear, at some kind of warehouse where his classmates sat bound and pale; jumping out to confront the kidnappers, yelling at them to attract their attention, drawing them away with his famous face and keeping them occupied while the authorities extracted everyone to safety.

But even if he really believed himself capable of something like that, it wouldn’t matter. There was no way to get there. This was going to happen at a complete remove from him.

“Nothing,” he said, examining the suede on the seat in front of him. “Right?”

No one answered.

Roy tried to compose a response. The only thing he was able to come up with, after a good two minutes of thought, was:

"??????”

He didn’t really expect a reply. Certainly none was forthcoming.

In the end, for lack of any real information, they decided to proceed with the hotel plan. Kenna hadn't been kidding about the place being inexpensive; it was just off the side of the road, a squat structure with peeling paint and a dozen other well-used cars parked out front.

All four of them went in together, to distract from Roy, who kept his chin buried in the same scarf he'd hidden behind back at the museum. It was possible the Gold at the front desk didn’t notice he was there at all, between his companions’ height and brightness and the clearly aggressive way Elliott was asking for a room.

They escorted him down the dim hallway like guards without even consulting each other, Elliott taking the lead while Alex and Kenna flanked him. The lock stuck twice before they made it inside.

The room came off as antique to Roy, and not in a good way, all plasticky faux-wood and matted shag carpeting. These were probably the cheapest lodgings he'd ever stayed in, including when he and Kira had slummed it upstate for a week the previous summer. It was cramped and smelled of cigarettes, but at least it had beds, and human-style ones at that: blankets, mattresses, all of it. His body ached just looking at them, but he wasn’t inclined to relax just now, nor had he been in the past several weeks, nor would he be maybe ever again. He stayed on his feet.

Elliott took off his cloak and threw it over the back of a simple, vaguely ergonomic-looking chair. He and Kenna exchanged some low words while Alex stalked the perimeter of the room for no reason Roy could discern, although he could relate to the impulse.

He didn't think Alex would appreciate the sentiment, though, so he kept his eyes trained on Kenna. Of all the people in the room, her demeanor was the calmest, and he hadn't personally yelled at her in the last 24 hours.

She dominated the conversation with Elliott, moving closer and closer until she was holding his wrists in a loose grip, swinging his arms gently to and fro. He relaxed his tense shoulders just enough to allow it, looking down into her eyes like they were tethering him to the earth, his crest laid back flat and miserable.

When she was done telling Elliott whatever it was she had to say, Kenna noticed Roy watching her. She squeezed Elliott's wrists and let them drop, reached up as though to touch his face, then seemed to change her mind and stepped away.

She turned to Roy. "Rest," she ordered in English.

She whistled sharply at Alex, who drifted to her side like a great unmoored sailboat.

"Don't fight," Kenna added, pointing twice, looking stern, and then they were both gone, leaving a comparatively drab patch of carpet behind them, and Roy and Elliott alone together, and the room feeling somehow smaller.

There was an analogue TV against the far wall, either ancient or alien, Roy wasn't expert enough to say. He managed to turn it on after a few moments’ fumbling, and he couldn't find a channel that wasn't staticky past comprehension. Even if the covert rescue operation were being broadcast live, there’d be no way to tell.

Grinding his teeth, he turned the white noise down—not off, in case something did come through. He set his comp out on the table between the two beds where he would notice any new messages.

Despite looking everywhere in the room but at Elliott, he couldn’t help observing that Elliott’s hands were trembling. His arms were crossed and he was scratching fretfully his forearms, yanking out small feathers here and there.

Roy walked past him and into the small bathroom.

The plumbing here was foreign but basically resembled what he was used to; after a moment’s experimentation, he was able to turn the shower on as high and hot as it would go.

He locked the door behind him and peeled off the clothes he’d been wearing for days. He grimaced; they were steeped with the sour, unpleasant tang of panic sweat, plus a heavy base of regular B.O. He threw it all in the sink with half a mini bottle of shampoo and scrubbed till the suds were gone and the dingy water drained away. He avoided looking in the mirror until it was partially clouded over, but he still cringed at what he saw. His hair was greasy, his face haggard, and Alex Red had given him a truly spectacular shiner. He didn’t look like himself. He looked desperate and violent, maybe the way Jet Calabi had at his age.

He looked away and stepped into the shower. The pressure was weak but the water was punishingly hot, the steam thick and scouring to breathe in. He let himself cook under the tap until his thoughts were dull and fuzzy—but his body didn't receive the message and was still on high alert. His heart was pounding still, his stomach churning.

Roy picked a sturdy-looking patch of tile on the floor, gripped the top of the shower to keep from slipping, and slammed his foot into it over and over: carefully, so he wouldn’t injure himself, but as hard as he could, sending sharp, satisfying shocks up his shins. He doubted the sound of the running water would mask his tantrum, but at least it would be muffled some.

He stayed in the shower till his legs were sore and his breathing was labored and his skin was a dark, bruised red. He felt wrung-out and exhausted, but he'd exorcised at least a little of that sick, nervous energy.

When he came out, Elliott was lying on the bed furthest from the window, curled up as well as his bulky shoulders would allow. He’d taken off the rest of his outdoor clothes, and Roy could see that his feathers were unkempt and ill-maintained.

He felt a strange sort of vertigo, looking down instead of up to meet Elliott's eyes, and for a split second he was transported. Six months ago, he never would have thought he'd ache for the simplicity of taking the elevator to Elliott’s chilly dorm room, getting in a stupid, gut-wrenching argument, and then coming back for more the next night.

Roy dragged his eyes away and turned around to lay his dripping clothes out on the carpet with a series of faint wet slaps. He identified the device in the wall that had to be the hair dryer, and made sure the towel around his waist was secure before he squatted and took aim, switching it on to generate a faint hum and a fainter heat. He tried to concentrate on drying the clothes, but lost focus immediately when he heard Elliott’s mattress shift and saw, out of the corner of his eye, as he walked away from him.

His stomach swooped at the thought that Elliott would leave, but he only moved to the chair where his cloak was draped and reached into its pockets, silently pulling out fistfuls of cash and small gadgets and setting them on the side table. When it was empty, he turned without a word and held the cloak out out to Roy.

Roy swallowed and stood to accept it. He retreated a couple steps before dragging it on over his head. He had no way of knowing if this was the same cloak he’d borrowed after being shot at, but against his bare skin it felt thick and well-worn. It was warm enough and long enough, he decided, that he could lose the damp towel without sacrificing his modesty.

He turned to add the towel to the lineup, took a look at the sodden little heaps on the floor and realized his plan was stupid—not to mention a surefire recipe for mildew. He stepped back into the bathroom to wring them out over the sink, then hung everything over the towel rack to air dry.

This time when he came back, Elliott was perched on the bed, sitting straight and regarding him carefully. Roy stared back without flinching. Flinching would have been a waste of movement, and he didn’t have the energy to spare.

“I’m not…” began Roy. He could have sat, but he just leaned back against the wall, which creaked a little under his weight. “I’m not trying to fight. I'm not sure it matters anymore. But can you at least tell me who Ty Gold is to you?"

Elliott nodded, slowly. "My grandfather," he said. His voice sounded like gravel, even its softest pitch coming out far too harsh.

“Oh,” said Roy.

“Shit,” he added, in a general kind of way.

Elliott nodded, but couldn’t quite maintain the eye contact. "I didn’t know," he said.

Roy bit the tip of his tongue.

"It's all out of our hands now, isn't it,” he said finally.

Elliott made a sound so low Roy could barely hear it. “What do you think was in our hands, exactly?”

Roy sighed. So much for grace in dishonor.

But Elliott was right. There was no point getting into it again, tired and helpless as they were. So all he said was, “Well… now what?”

Elliott shrugged without affect.

Roy clasped his hands behind his back, tracing the rough grout with his fingertips. “Let’s just say everything goes according to plan,” he said. “In the morning I'll go back to the hotel, right? The other one, I mean."

"I don't know," said Elliott. "I guess so."

“Astris will probably cut our visit short,” he prompted. "Head home early. Abandon the whole, you know, itinerary."

"Probably."

Roy frowned. "Okay… What about the worst case scenario, though. What if we have to keep hiding for another day, another week. Do we stay here?"

Elliot took a moment to consider this.

"I have the funds for about a month," he said finally, gesturing at the pile of cash. "Maybe we should move to different places—or maybe we should hole up here, keep you hidden. I guess it depends on what happens.”

“Oh,” said Roy, taken aback. He hadn’t thought nearly that far ahead. “Okay."

They fell silent again.

If he was being honest, Roy hadn’t said the real worst-case scenario. He’d never said it out loud; it felt like a bad omen. But it had been festering for days, and it now it burst from his mouth.

"What if they all die?" he said. "What if something goes wrong—"

Elliott shook his head urgently. "It doesn't matter," he began.

"It matters—" said Roy shrilly.

"No, I mean—we'll still get you back to your mother somehow," Elliott said. "She'll take you home. You'll be safe."

Roy stopped.

“It’s out of our hands, right?” insisted Elliott. "Let’s just concentrate on you.”

Roy tried to imagine leaving Empyrean alone as a sole survivor, facing his mother and the press and the rest of his life on Earth, growing old and remembering Kira as someone he lost young.

He cleared his throat and pushed his wet hair back in a way that rubbed his eyes against his sleeves.

“What if,” he croaked. He blinked up at the stucco ceiling and tried to fish for some other, even more extreme thing. "What if we can't get back. What if the hotel is bombed and travel is restricted and war is declared, and I'm stranded here forever?"

Elliott didn't speak for a long moment, long enough that Roy started to worry he'd invoked Elliott's own worst nightmare.

Then he said, "We'd go on the run."

Roy looked back down at him and frowned.

“We'd what now?"

Elliott spread his hands. "I think we could do it. We have the resources—money, connections."

"How could that possibly work in the long term," Roy objected.

"We could make our way to a different city," said Elliott, slowly, the way he did when he was working out a problem aloud. "Or maybe the countryside. Assume new names.” He tipped his head. "I always wanted to try being a Reggie."

Roy burst out laughing in spite of himself, in spite of everything. Elliott jumped nervously, but his crest lifted a few inches.

The TV guttered and clarified for a moment and they both turned toward it, like it was the third person in the conversation finally making its opinion known.

It was nothing but a weather report, which faded away as they watched to an ad for... Roy wasn't sure. Some kind of soap, maybe.

He moved to try flipping channels again, but Elliott straightened suddenly. "Don't," he said.

Roy froze.

"Please," Elliott said, reining in his voice a little. "Let's just... distract ourselves."

Roy moved cautiously to his own bed and sat with a slight squeak of springs. They faced each other across the small aisle, knees almost touching.

“What, uh. What would we eat?” he asked. "On the run."

Elliott considered this just as seriously. “I’ll learn how to cook," he decided. "You can study Empyrean botany. Learn how to farm.”

“I—me?” Roy actually pointed at himself. "A farmer?"

Elliott didn’t blink.

Roy squinted and gave it some thought. “I guess I could like that,” he said dubiously. “I’d learn more about the planet without having to talk to too many people. And I’d get really strong."

“Exactly,” said Elliott with an approving nod.

Roy cast about for some even worse scenario.

“Okay, what if,” he said, “we had to go for a second round. Like if the schoolbus just crashed through that window, right now, and those guys jumped out at us again, still fully armed.”

Elliott’s crest settled down a little before he shrugged. “Well, we have experience with that now," he said, almost breezily. "I think I could probably fight all of them off this time.”

“Oh, well,” said Roy. “Me too."

Elliott scoffed.

“I was taken by surprise before!” Roy protested. “I—I have a very powerful kick, you know.”

“Fine,” said Elliott, waving a hand. “So we beat them all up. And after that we go—"

“First we steal their stuff,” interrupted Roy.

“—Yes, naturally we take their stuff first,” he agreed. "Any money we find on them, we can add to our fugitive fund.”

Roy scooted forward. “I say we blow half of it on a really nice meal first.”

Elliott opened his mouth to object, then closed it thoughtfully. “You know, there is this place I’ve wanted to try, but I could never justify the travel. We could stop there on the way. Do you eat meat?”

“That really depends what kind of creature you try to feed me,” said Roy, surprising him into raising his crest again. “But—I trust you.”

The pause was brief but heavy.

“Anyway,” said Roy quickly. “Yeah. I’m in. Incognito. I could grow a beard."

“You could?”

“Well," he amended. "Maybe.”

They looked at each other until they couldn’t anymore, and then they looked at the TV instead.

A different ad was playing now, though possibly for the same product. This one was accompanied by a jingle in the same style of music they’d used to listen to together on Elliott’s speakers. At the time, Roy had assumed it was some kind of woodwind instrument, but he realized now it was a cappella.

“Hey,” said Elliott.

Roy turned back to him. “Yeah?”

“Turn it off,” he said.

Roy raised his eyebrows, but Elliott did have a point. If they were deciding not to chase news they may as well commit.

He got up without complaining and snapped off the power. The garbled music gave way to the muted sounds of traffic and rain outside.

“Sit down,” said Elliott, pointing not at the bed across from him, but at the floor in front of him.

Roy looked at the spot, then back at Elliott, who was holding still and staring steady.

"Why?" he said suspiciously.

Elliott inhaled. “With your permission, I’d like to teach you what I neglected to, back at school. About how we touch.”

Roy crossed his arms. “Why.”

Elliott let his breath out in a frustrated puff. “Because… I never reciprocated, before. I let you do all the work, which was almost as rude of me as not explaining what we were doing."

“But I thought you said it was, you know—inappropriate?"

“Not usually,” protested Elliott. “Not when everyone knows.”

Roy wavered.

“It's called raking,” Elliott said. “Families do it. Parents, siblings… close friends.”

But they both knew that wasn’t all, and Roy opened his mouth to say so. What came out was: “What about arrogant cowards?”

Elliott’s eyes widened.

Roy almost laughed. It made him sound like such a petty asshole, but. Well. “Your words.”

“Just sit down,” Elliott snapped, gracious as ever.

Roy rolled his eyes. He settled cross-legged onto the carpet, which had once been fluffy but now was sort of ropy. He faced away from Elliott and tried to relax his shoulders, but physically couldn't force himself to. He tangled his fingers in the carpet and fidgeted with it, waiting.

He expected to jump when he was touched, but the hand that settled on his crown was just firm enough to reassure him.

Elliott gave him an experimental scritch on the top of his head. His claws were hard, but blunt.

“Okay?” he checked.

“Sure,” said Roy.

He found the part in Roy’s hair and followed it outward as far as the tips of Roy’s ears, then retreated and started over. He did it again and again until Roy lost count. After a while he seemed to get distracted by the texture of Roy’s hair, twisting it and turning it over in his fingers.

“So?” said Roy finally.

“So what?” said Elliott. His hands didn’t stop moving, but they did return to a more deliberate scratching pattern.

“So tell me.”

There was a pause. “It’s calming,” Elliott explained. “It keeps you looking neat and it keeps you in contact with people. You know you’re doing well in life when you have someone to do this for you at least once a day.”

Roy didn't try to talk, just listened, tried to appreciate the sensation.

“More, if you’re little,” Elliott added. “You saw the state of the babies.”

Roy hadn’t necessarily thought of Elliott’s little nieces and nephews as unkempt—it certainly wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind—but he nodded anyway.

Eyes half-lidded, he allowed himself to be hypnotized by the play of light from the parking lot through falling water and flimsy curtains. His mind went blank and hazy the way it had under the showerhead, but this time his body began to follow suit.

Elliott's own legs were crossed, and there was room for Roy to lean back against the bed. He realized this when a soft palm cupped his forehead and pulled him gently backward to get at his hairline. At first he held himself tense and awkward, but the massage was doing its job, and the hot shower and exhaustion were catching up to him, and it was a surprisingly short while before he was fully limp, head tipped back onto the mattress.

"I am sorry, of course," said Elliott, very quietly.

Roy didn't sit up, but he heard his own teeth click together. "Don't,” he said. "I know, I don't want to—"

"Okay," said Elliott quickly, retreating, sounding relieved. “Forget it."

Roy’s shoulders had hunched involuntarily. He let them stay that way.

“So where does it start to get risqué?" he said.

Elliott paused for just a second too long. “Excuse me?” he said.

Roy kept his eyes forward. “You know, how sexy was it when I touched your ears?” he pressed. “Show me.”

“I…”

“Since it doesn’t mean the same thing to me.”

Maybe this was risky territory, but it was just about the only risk Roy was in a position to take at the moment.

“Okay,” said Elliott slowly. “Well, this would be more intimate, here.” And his hands drifted lower.

He took his time, running his claw very lightly over the shell of Roy’s ear. He stroked the soft pad of his finger over the tender spot just below it, then moved forward to rub a little harder, to scrape gently over the pulse point on Roy’s throat.

Roy shivered, and Elliott paused, but didn’t move away.

“Does it feel good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Roy murmured. His voice was hoarse. "Maybe not in the same way as... but yeah, it's nice."

Elliott hummed his approval and dragged his fingertips from Roy’s forehead all the way down the back of his neck, humming again when Roy arched into his touch involuntarily. Then he focused on tracing soft circles on his temples. After that, he seemed to lose his nerve, and his hands returned chastely to the top of his head.

With Elliott’s hands back in safe territory, Roy’s mind began to wander: out of the room, through the city, to wherever the Astris kids were. He wondered if they were cold. Were they hungry? Were they frightened, were they hurt—

“Hey, Elliott?" Roy asked suddenly. "You ever been kissed?”

When Elliott didn’t answer, he hastened to add, "Other than. That one time didn't count, that was just...." He gave up on finishing the thought when Elliott withdrew his hands.

"I guess I haven’t,” said Elliott.

Roy swallowed, and turned around to get a look at him. His hands were hovering uncertainly. He looked exhausted.

“Are you curious?” Roy heard himself say.

“...Why?�� said Elliott cautiously.

“I mean. It just seems fair."

Elliott squinted at him, then shrugged and scooted back to make room on the bedspread. “You can’t trick me if you’re bad at it,” he warned. "I know what it’s supposed to be like, I’ve seen your movies.”

Roy scoffed and clambered up. “Wow, no pressure! Just a movie kiss, please, Roy—” he began, but stopped when Elliott’s words caught up with him.

“Hold on. Are you saying you were tricking me just now? Are you like... bad at raking or something?”

Elliott hesitated, his feathers drawing in until he seemed almost small. “No, I—Kenna just said that once.”

This time Roy couldn't stop the sheer vindictive grin that burst across his face. "Did she really? Oh, Elliott."

“Shut up,” said Elliott. “You would never have known."

“No, that’s true,” said Roy, still grinning. “You’re the best rake I’ve ever had.”

Elliott was unimpressed.

Roy’s smile faded. “So, um.”

“Are you going to do it?” Elliott said, just as Roy lunged across the bed to plant one on him.

Since Elliott was in the middle of speaking, he got business end of a tooth, but he powered through, pressing hard and coming away with an audible smack.

They looked at each other.

“Oh,” said Elliott.

“Uh. What’d you think?” said Roy, rubbing at his lip where he'd pinched it.

Elliott’s crest gave one dubious twitch. “It was fine,” he said politely.

Roy frowned, pride stung. “Okay, wait, hold still. I want to try again.”

He scooted closer, sitting up on his heels. He tried to think of all the best-looking kisses he’d seen, and took a steadying breath. This time, he started with a press of his palm against Elliott’s downy cheek. Tipping his chin up would’ve been counterproductive, so instead he pulled him closer, guiding their mouths together. He tried to err on the side of softness this time. Since Elliott's lips weren’t plump so much as they were flat, smooth lines, Roy deposited a very small peck on the corner of his mouth.

Elliott’s breath smelled oddly tart, like he’d been chewing on flower petals.

When neither of them pulled back, Roy was compelled to do another one, even lighter, just for punctuation.

They moved just far enough apart to look at each other. Roy didn't know how to arrange his face, but maybe that didn't matter.

“Well?”

Elliott’s eyes were black wells under an iridescent film. They were still too close for Roy to see his crest, but he could feel the prickle of his finest feathers rising minutely under his hand.

“Better,” he said.

Roy swallowed.

“Can I…?” he said. He wasn’t sure what the question was, exactly, but he knew what he wanted the answer to be.

So did Elliott. He took Roy’s hands and brought them to his own throat, back behind his jaw, where the feathers were still fine and soft, and where Roy could feel heat and a quickening pulse beneath.

“Yes,” said Elliott, voice coming not hoarse but thready. Musical.

Roy moved his fingers, massaging little circles, tickling. Knowing, now, what he was doing. Tired as he was, he imagined he was manipulating the magnetic fields around Elliott’s head, creating sweeps and arcs of sensation.

They settled into a trance, breathing together.

“Okay,” said Roy softly. “Okay. I have no idea what to do next.”

“This,” said Elliott. Slowly, giving Roy a chance to withdraw, he leaned in to slide his cheek against Roy's. It was like rubbing his face on velvet.

Acting on instinct—and on what he had glimpsed of that private moment with Dar—he leaned hard into Elliott, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck. It felt good; warm and soft, of course, with an interesting variety of textures, but the best part was the way Elliott was melting underneath him.

When a steady, liquid thrumming sound started deep in Elliott’s chest, Roy laughed in startled triumph and pulled back. He hadn’t intended to go far, but Elliott kept him close with a grip on his upper arm, just in case. They clutched at each other, brows pressed together.

“So what’s that mean?” said Roy, touching Elliott’s throat to see if it was vibrating. It was.

“It means it feels really good,” said Elliott. The sound hardly seemed to interfere with his speech. If anything, his mumble seemed to come from embarrassment. Roy felt giddy.

“You always,” continued Elliott, with some effort. “Before, I mean. You always had a very thoughtful touch.”

“Pfft, thanks,” said Roy. He paused.

“So when we did this back at school,” he began with a weak smile, “was I just a warm body to you, or….”

“No,” said Elliott without hesitation. “It’s never been just that, with you.”

Roy huffed out a breath of half-laughter and dropped his eyes. “Yeah, well. That’s for sure.”

Things had been complicated between them before they ever met. It wasn’t fair, he thought.

“Do you even…” Roy started.

“What?" said Elliott.

But he'd already thought better of it, was already shaking his head. “Never mind."

It felt too good. He was too hungry for this, for simple, animal comfort, to keep up the enumeration of his useless fears. He closed his eyes.

“I don’t care,” he heard himself say. “Just distract me.”

They touched each other for what seemed like hours, ebbing and flowing between exploration and urgency. It was clumsy, imprecise, but for Roy at least, it was intoxicating. His sharpest most uncomfortable thoughts were slowly softened to mush, his galaxy narrowed to two nervous bodies on an ugly bedspread.

They asked each other questions, sometimes half-aloud, like when Roy said, “Wanna, uh…?" and then they worked together to push the cloak off his shoulders. Elliott traced the muscles on his back with interest, which raised goosebumps up and down Roy’s arms, which were apparently doubly fascinating.

Roy kept noticing himself grinning, thrilled and jittery. He touched every place on Elliott that he’d ever been curious to, which turned out to be far more than he’d have thought; he pressed his palms to his chest, which was broad and solid under the soft give of the feathers. Rolled his fingers over all the joints whose unearthly movements he’d observed, the knees and elbows and ankles. Compared their hands—Elliott’s were bigger, long and tapered, but Roy’s were almost as broad.

While he was occupied with this, Elliott had the brilliant idea of depositing kisses of his own on Roy’s neck, or at least pressing his cool mouth to his skin, which chased language almost completely from his mind.

Roy waited until he was near dizzy with adrenaline to ask a question with no words at all. He pushed at the one piece of clothing Elliott had on, the one around his waist. Elliott helped him immediately, like he’d been waiting.

“Oh,” said Roy. “You’re, uh… asymmetrical.”

“What? I promise I am not.”

“No? Oh. You have two—”

“Shut up, shut up, come here.”

Roy cackled in genuine terror and threw himself into Elliott’s arms.

The morning rushed toward them. They helped it along.

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