fight_them_all: (baby)
Illya Kuryakin ([personal profile] fight_them_all) wrote 2017-09-23 07:09 am (UTC)

The weight of his coat across his shoulders seems to be growing with every breath, every second ticked off by the watch he held so tightly in his hand. It was old, his coat, a carryover from the winter before and even where he knows he is still among the smallest of the boys his age, there are signs already it is nearly outgrown.

He is not used to the feeling of the sleeves creeping up his wrists as if with a movement too much of him would be exposed and be lost to the cold. Even as the heat swamps him and he returns to the panicked certainty of suffocating there in a strange land he does not recognize.

Illya is not certain he can keep himself from crying. For all that he tightens his jaw and lifts his chin, he can feel the tears prickle of the back of his eyes and that- that is so much worse than being lost or scared.

Movement more than the sound of German in a stranger's voice draws his attention away from the impending crisis. Sees that he turns to look for its source, although finding a boy some years older than himself does nothing to keep his stomach from lurching. "I cannot- I do not speak German," he tells the stranger, eyes wide and wary.

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