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Charles tensed as the footsteps grew closer. He pulled his blanket up around his shoulders and closed his eyes tight, praying that they would stop their thudding up the stairs and turn around. But he never did have much luck.
He startled as the door swung open with a bang as it crashed into the wall beside it, revealing a stranger staggering into the room.
Charles drew his legs closer to him as he eyed the boy. He was dressed in nothing but a plain undershirt and shorts, though not in a style Charles had ever seen before. The clothes were dirtied and stained, with dried blood crusted on the fabric. He scowled, a pitiful attempt and making his shivering form appear less pathetic. "What do you want?"
The boy's grey eyes ceased their flitting around the room to meet Charles'. There was blood painting the side of his face, and Charles couldn't tell whether it was his or not.
"What year is it?" the boy gasped.
Charles scrunched his nose. "The fuck do you mean, what year is it? Are you alright, mate?"
"Yes, I just..." he trailed off and glanced over shoulder as if he was expecting something to be there, then shifted and continued to survey the room anxiously. "Please, what year is it?"
"It's 1989."
Charles watched as realisation and what looked like horror dawned over the boy's face. He looked behind him once more and started nodding shakily. "Right. 1989, of course," the boy muttered, his darting eyes landing on Charles. "Are you quite alright? You're shivering."
Charles shifted. He really did not feel alright, but it was fine. He just needed to wait it out for a while, enough time for his so-called friends to go forget about him and go to bed. Then he could get a hot shower, a good night's sleep, and be right as rain tomorrow. "Am I alright? No offense, mate, you look like you're about to drop dead," Charles asked incredulously. The boy frowned but didn't reply.
Charles took the opportunity of the resulting silence to study the boy. His whole body was tense, he looked ready to flee at any moment. His fists tightened and untightened at his side. He looked to be around Charles' age, but he didn't recognise him. He had to attend the school, but there wasn't many boys going to St Hilarion's these days, and he didn't recognise him. "What's your name, then? Do you go here?" Charles inquired.
"My name is..." the boy paused, panic flashing in his eyes for a brief moment. "it's Edwin! My name is Edwin. I used to go here... a long time ago."
Charles decided not to question that for the moment. "...Right. Well, I'm Charles," he told Edwin. The other boy looked like he was in a state about as bad as his own, so Charles deduced he wasn't a threat, and patted the floor beside him. Edwin peered around one last time before hesitantly sitting next to him. He looked about as out of place as a square peg in a round hole, sitting bone straight, touching as little of his surroundings as possible. He still looked on edge and ready to get up and run at any sign of danger.
"So how did you get all that blood on you, then?" Charles asked him after a moment.
Edwin raised a hand to touch the blood on his face, as though he had forgotten it was there. "I was... attacked." It was only now, with Edwin so close, that Charles noticed his hands were trembling. He wanted to inquire more, but Edwin was obviously not comfortable with topic, so he reluctantly dropped it.
They sat in silence for a short time. Despite having only known eachother for a few minutes at best, the quiet was comfortable. Charles glanced at Edwin to find him studying him.
"You're cold," he observed. Before Charles could reply, Edwin had gotten up and was rummaging through shelves and cupboards. Eventually he acquired a soft, thick blanket and efficiently tucked it around Charles' shoulders. Charles tried not to be enamoured at the other's boys hands at his arms, his face so close, their breaths almost intermingled, when Edwin pulled away and returned to his uneasy perch next to him. Charles didn't feel much warmer physically, but he felt his cheeks heat up at the feeling of Edwin caring for him more than anyone had in a long time.
"What do you mean, you went here a long time ago?" Charles finally asked him.
"I attended this school in 1916," Edwin told him matter-of-factly.
Charles just stared at him blankly. "You're joking."
"No, I'm not. I attended this school from 1913 until 1916, at which point I died," Edwin said.
"....You're dead," repeated Charles, to which Edwin nodded confirmation. "So, what, you've just been kicking about here for seventy years? What would you do that for? Is it a, like, you're stuck in the place you died situation?"
Edwin looked at the floor, avoiding Charles' gaze. "I do not know. I have, ah... never tried to leave."
Charles almost felt his eyes bugging out of his head. He couldn't imagine staying in this school for seventy years, much less if it was the place he died. Why hadn't Edwin ever wanted to leave?
Suddenly, a crash sounded from a room nearby, echoing in the quiet. Charles jumped and looked over to see Edwin scrambling upright and into the corner. His eyes had taken on the dazed, wild look they'd had when he first appeared, dancing around the room like he could see something in the shadows. His breathing had sped up alarmingly.
"Edwin," Charles called out. He tried to stand, but any pressure he put on his limbs just made them shake until they gave out. That was probably not good. "Edwin, calm down! It's okay!" At this, the other boy's wide eyes seemed to focus. He looked at Charles for a few seconds, not saying anything, just continuing to take in wheezing breaths.
After a stalemate that seemed to stretch on for eternity, Edwin uncertainly made his way back to the floor beside Charles. He looked around for a moment before reaching into a nearby shelf.
"Max Carrados!" He declared triumphantly, if a little shakily. "I loved these books in my life. Would you like me to read some to you, Charles?"
Charles, trembling, tired, wanted nothing more to close his eyes and let Edwin's voice wash over him. Besides, it seemed like Edwin was in need of the distraction just as much as he was. "Yeah, go on then," he said, with as much of a smile as he could muster. As Edwin flipped open the cover and began to read, he closed his eyes and let himself lean to the side until he was resting against Edwin. The other boy's breath hitched momentarily before he continued unsteadily.
After one of the worst days of his life, sitting on the floor with his head on the shoulder of a dead boy he had only just met, too weak even to stand, Charles thought this might be the safest he had felt in a long, long time.