With a watch strung loosely on his wrist

[fight_them_all]

Panic was a living thing.

It clawed through his belly, leaving him to hiccup and curl his fingers tight around the watch he held in his hand. Held against his chest, but so tightly that its edges bit into his small palm and left an impression behind that was sure to last for weeks.

He had found himself standing on a street corner, on the edge of a street, a world he did not recognize. No sign he had seen made sense. The letters were at once angular and too rounded, and the longer he stared at them the less they made sense. Those were letters that belonged to strange letters he had not understood. Belonged to a place that was not his home and did not exist in any lesson he had been taught save that of the amorphous threat that lived outside of his city's borders.

His uniform was sweltering. His coat and hat far too heavy for the temperate weather.

A nine year old Illya Kuryakin.

Lost and alone.

Comments

[fight_them_all]

In the face of such optimism, such a self-assured declaration, Illya falls and stays silent. He is unsure how to operate when the older boy curls his confidence in the vowels and consonants on his tongue, his peculiar accent in the language making the certainty of his words seem all the more alien. To imagine at all of touching the stars...to be able to imagine one's self not just capable of such a thing, but seemingly more certain than stone that it will happen (even tempered by the 'want to be' in place of the 'will be' that seems to resonate within one small, skinny body)...

He is saved from a reply with the opening of a door, and when he follows the other boy in with the same quiet obedience he is expected to show to all those older than himself (however it galls in so many of his hours but this one), he attempts to look everywhere at once. It is worn and plain compared to the apartment he had known until the last year, but after the austerity of the dormitories and the chill that crept like a living, breathing thing into his bones every night within those dim walls, it is a relief.

Or, at least, neutral enough. Only the grumbling of his stomach, as if it needed no more than the sound of the reminder to begin, brought him back from his attempt to memorize everything of his surroundings at once. He holds out the ID he still has in his hand with a jerky nod, cheeks flushing in embarrassment (surely Martin can hear his stomach, it sounds like a bear at the end of winter). "Yes. Thank you."

Despite himself, and with mouth dry, he cannot help but ask "Do you think- Do you think there is a place like this for me here?"

[codenamekolibri]

“I do not know. This is my future, but is it yours too?” He has moved on to the kitchen by the time he answers Illya, but his his voice still manages to convey concern even if his facial expression can’t be seen. When he returns, an orange in one hand and a glass of water in the other, he has switched to frowning as he thinks over the problem of the other boy. He exchanges the fruit for the identification card, feeling incredibly magnanimous and even a little powerful. It isn’t every day that you can give someone a gift like that.

“You can stay here if you want to. There is room and it is safe, I know that. And there is lots of food. Even if it is only just until you know what to do next. I promise I will not tell anyone.”