In which my bois have a very important conversation
“So, bowtruckles, huh?” The man had given up on his previously attempted conversation (of course, this was mainly Credence’s fault). This would be his last feble try. In all honesty, Credence was surprised the man had tried for this long.
It wasn’t as though he was purposely being difficult, he just had a certain way of alienating people. Perhaps it was something he should work on, though he couldn’t imagine himself becoming sociable anytime soon.
“They sound nice,” The man had made an effort, Credence had to at least meet him halfway, to put in a figurative sense.
“Oh, they are!” Credence couldn’t miss the way the man became more jovial when he replied. He dug in the breast pocket of his white button-down, only to pull out nothing. He patted over each pocket of his pant and shirt as though he had misplaced something.
The man looked panicked for a moment before grabbing the electric blue coat Credence was so fixated on. He checked the breast pocket of the coat. Credence could hear his sigh of relief from where he was sitting, however he couldn’t see the cause of this relief.
The British man turned around holding the grumpy-looking--if that were even possible, Credence didn’t know--stick. The stick, he noticed, was exceptionally green, but he still didn’t understand why this stick was reason for such relief. Credence understood even less how this stick caused such panic or how it was relevant to their current conversation.
Before Credence had time to open his mouth--or leave, the man began talking again.
“This is Pickett,” It was only once the man set the stick down onto his hand that it began to move. The stick--the bowtruckle turned around so it wasn’t facing Credence, but instead the man, and stuck its tongue out.
Credence had gotten on this boat with the hope of escaping the magic and horrors that haunted NewYork, yet it only seemed to follow him. He had hoped that the papers he was reading were simply the first draft of a fantasy writer. He had hoped for too much. God rewarded those who were pure in their followings, not sinners.
He could’ve easily gotten up and left. Continue hoping. Hoped he wouldn’t run into this man again. Or any of the other just like him. Or Mr. Graves. Yet, he doubted his hopes would be answered. He also doubted that he wouldn’t experience another episode, as he liked to call them, and lash out and hurt someone else.
“Back in the subway, you-you said that you could help me. You said--you said you had met another one like--like me.”
“In Egypt,” The conversation turn slemdom. “I wasn’t able to save her. She was only 10.”
10. He had said 10. The girl--the other one like him--she only lived to 10 years old. For some odd reason, this struck a chord with Credence. He couldn’t be sure why.
It shouldn’t affect him. It didn’t affect him.
Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “10?” and if his voice cracked slightly, the man didn’t mention it.
The man replied, his eyes fixated on the wall in front of him. Credence knew what he was doing. It was a tactic he used to keep from crying. It made it easier to disconnect yourself from the situation by having a single, nonmoving thing to focus on.
“It’s uncommon for an obscurial to live past nine-years-old. Living to 10 was something just short of a miracle.” The man paused. He turned his attention from the wall to Credence.
Credence hated eye contact. It made him uncomfortable in ways he couldn’t describe. And he had only briefly seen the man in the subway, but he had a sneaking suspicion the man hated eye contact almost as much as him.
Yet uncomfortable feelings were discarded as they locked eyes. The man’s eyes weren’t hardset or angry like Credence was used to. They were intense...and vulnerable. Vulnerable in a way that Credence had only ever seen in himself.
They were unusually blue, a hue that wasn’t found in New York to often. Though, Credence would dare they weren’t the same blue reflected on his coat; his eyes weren’t electric in the same sense. The blue color of his coat was electric in the sense that it was a bright--rather daring, in all honesty--color. The blue color of his eyes was electric in the sense that something was clearing resting below the surface. Whether it be some raging idea or simply a raw, uncut emotion as it was in this case.
His eyes were glossy. Credence had been right. He had been staring at the wall to keep from crying.
This small detail, though innocent in itself, was enough to allow the split-second it took for the uncomfortability to return.
Credence broke the contact. The man moved slightly towards him. His moves were cautious, yet again; he was scared. Perhaps not of Credence, though. Rather, for Credence.
“But you,” The man’s voice wavered. Credence feared the man might actually cry.
“You’re special,” Mr. Graves had said that to him once as well. Mr. Graves lied.
“It’s miraculous. The way you’ve been able to survive,” All he was helping to do was confirm something Credence already knew; he should be dead.
The man continued talking, but all Credence could think about was how similar this speech of sorts was to everything Graves had ever told him.
He could feel himself losing control. The action was easy. It was hard to fight. Credence was tired. He didn’t want to fight. So he allowed himself to lose control slowly.
The man noticed. His talking became more rapid. Or maybe that’s just how he talked and he didn’t notice, much less care. It didn’t matter.
“Credence,” So he had noticed.
“Credence,” The man repeated and a sick part of Credence wondered if he’d ever shut up.
“Credence. You can control this. I know someone who can help you.” It was as though he were directly quoting Mr. Graves.
“What if he can’t help me?” Credence asked merely for the enjoyment of himself. He wanted to watch as the man struggled for flowery words that would only stall this.
“Then we’ll find someone who can,” His reply was fast. Not fast enough to seem rehearsed, yet just fast enough to seem sincere.
It was foolish. It was idiotic, even. Credence believed him. Credence met his eyes once more, falling into the deep blue similarly to how he had only days ago.
Credence thought it might be easier to dive than fall. So he let himself dive.
He fought it. He fought it. He was tired. But he fought it.
If Credence was tired before, he was exusted now. He was always tired, but this was uncomparable. He tried to power through. To act as though nothing were wrong.
When he looked up, the man was staring at him. Not in anger. Not in disgust. Not in fear. Something akin to awe gleamed in his eyes.
“You’re so strong,” The man whispered. Mr. Graves had whispered the same sweet nothings in his ear night after night, yet it wasn’t the same coming from the man. Maybe it was is tone, but the words seemed to hold a different meaning.
Call him a fool--he already thought himself one--but there was such about the man that made Credence undeniably trust him.