Another Imperial Guard ficlet! This one's a bit strange (and present tense!) but it was interesting to play around with. The prompt I used was "Write about being alone."
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As the train jolts over a particularly rough kink in the tracks, Catalin awakes feeling dizzy, sore, and more than a little sick. And that’s before he realizes that he’d been using Kite’s shoulder as a pillow.
He pushes away a bit too quickly, ignoring the rush of purple haze that swims into his vision, and tries to make himself comfortable while sitting up completely straight. This was the second time in the ride that he’d managed to end up in that sleeping position. (The first time, he was vaguely half-asleep, and woke the moment his cheek touched something solid. “This is why I wanted the window seat,” he mumbled, “I told you that.” Kite had only grinned and told him to go back to sleep.)
Catalin shifts and contorts, trying to get comfortable. It would be at least been less embarrassing to lean on Chris, who sits on the other side of him. But Chris is shorter than him by enough that his neck would be in agony if he attempted that.
Stupid Kite and his stupid huge accommodating shoulder.
Finally, he gives up on trying to get comfortable and slumps in his seat. He doesn’t get it. He’s unimaginably tired, but he can’t seem to drop off within seconds as he always does. And on top of that, he’s the only one still awake. It’s not the least bit fair.
He’s asleep enough, though, that his thoughts are almost audible, the buzz congealing into one hypnagogic mantra: What the hell are you doing? You can’t do this. And he’s not energetic enough to prove that wrong right now, but he will. Even if he feels, will feel for God knows how long, as if he’s owned. A servant, no matter how well-treated, never forgets the fumes of polish.
Not that everyone doesn’t try to make him forget. Not a day goes by when he isn’t told, in some way, that he isn’t alone “anymore.” Of course, not in so many words. He was rescued by insurgents, not a support group. (Chris did come close, once. “I kind of want to do it myself” was what Catalin said – he forgets what he was referring to.
“That’s fine,” Chris had replied calmly. “And I kind of want you not to die.” Which left Catalin to stand there and envy Chris’ ability to prioritize.)
He recognizes that he’s spoiled. Recognizes it enough that when Chris and Kite and everyone else assume that they’re the only people who care about him, he doesn’t correct them. He doesn’t have to mention that the enemy used to sing him lullabies.
Spoiled children are, after all, never alone.
Catalin finally gives up, letting his head drop back to Kite’s shoulder and closing his eyes. He can always claim in the morning that it wasn’t intentional.
