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Ed sat on the porch of Jack’s house, soaking in the sunlight. The sky was turning orange above him, the air only just starting to cool and the heat from the day not yet carried away by the sun. Warm, peaceful moments like this had become rare, and therefore precious, so he sat and enjoyed it.
The neighborhood appeared empty. When they’d arrived, he’d seen a few sickos, peppered here and there between the houses, hiding on porches, lurking in windows. But today, the streets were clear. The windows, the porches, the alleys - all were devoid of life. He knew they couldn’t be too careful - the past few days had been ample proof of that - but right now, there was no one around, and for once he wanted to just relax. They had been through hell. Ed wanted a break.
It had been a few days since they had first gotten here, Ed all but dragging Jack through the streets, Jack’s attention and energy devoted to keeping his insides inside his body. But Jack was still alive. He had made it through that first night, even though they had woken up in sheets permanently stained dark, their clothes similarly ruined. And he had made it through that next night, though Ed had moved to the floor, feeling safer about leaving Jack be, but not safe enough to leave him totally alone. And Jack was still making it. Ed tried to breathe out the tight ball of anxiety in his chest. Jack was going to be okay, they were safe at his house, and when they returned to the museum there would be a stockpile of food waiting for them. They were going to be okay.
Ed heard the door creak open behind him. He stamped down the compulsion to spin around and check that it wasn’t a sicko. It was just Jack. No one else was here. Not Bam, not Jack’s sisters, no one. Ed pushed these thoughts away - Jack didn’t need any negativity right now, not when he was just back up on his feet.
Jack limped across the porch, his footsteps slow and heavy behind Ed, and lowered himself gingerly down on the stairs. They sat in silence. Jack leaned against the railing, winded from even the short walk, but still breathing. Still okay.
Neither of them spoke. It felt like a spell had been cast - there were no sickos around, the smoke hanging over London had cleared, Jack was on the mend, and Ed’s face had reduced its tearing pain to a terrible itch - and he didn’t want to do anything to break it. He didn’t want to do anything at all. Even speaking seemed a daunting task. The setting sun wrapped heat around them like a warm, heavy blanket, and the only thing he had the energy to do was sit and relax. His eyes drooped.
It could’ve been any other day. Any other day before the adults had gotten sick and started eating people. Any other day when he was just visiting Jack, lazing around outside after a day of play, waiting for Jack’s mother to call them in for supper. Except that it wasn’t any other day, and the world had gone to shit. But this moment was nice, and Ed was determined to enjoy it.
Jack took his hand, breaking through the haze of warm fatigue. Ed smiled softly over at him. “How are you feeling?” If Ed had to be honest, Jack didn’t look great. His face was drawn and gray, the red stain on his cheek standing out more than ever in contrast. His eyes were dark and bruised, betraying the amount of restful sleep he had gotten in the last few days. But considering what he had been through, he looked amazing.
Jack grinned back, his smile stretching his face, and opened his mouth to answer. No sound came out, save a strangled groan.
Ed’s blood ran cold. His fingers tensed around Jack’s. Was he okay, what was wrong? He had been doing so well, he was on the mend, he was okay. “Jack?”
Jack was still grinning. His mouth stretched and stretched, pulling his cheeks until they started to tear, long gashes forming at the ends of his lips.
Ed gasped, jerking at his hand, trying to free himself and get away. He didn’t understand what was happening, what the fuck was happening? But Jack’s grip didn’t loosen. Ed grabbed at Jack’s fingers with his free hand, trying to pull his hand out of Jack’s. Jack groaned again, a horrid gurgling noise from deep in his throat. His birthmark had torn across the middle and his grin just kept growing and growing - the weight off his lower jaw pulling and pulling. Ed’s breath caught in his throat and he almost choked. Jack’s jaw was falling off.
Ed gagged, choking on bile, and tried to stand up, to kick out, to jerk away, to something. But even as Jack rotted away in front of him - and he realized now that was what was happening, Jack’s wounds reopening; his stomach rending; his mouth half gone, hanging on by threads of flesh and tissue - his hold on Ed remained strong. Ed couldn’t get away.
“Jack!” Ed shouted, pleading, and realized in shock that he was crying. His heart jack-rabbited in his chest. No matter how desperately he pulled - pulling on Jack’s fingers, pushing against his chest, slapping his hand - he couldn’t get free. He didn’t understand. What was going on?
Jack leaned forward, ignoring Ed pulling away. He moved his ruined mouth next to Ed’s ear and began growling in earnest. Like he was trying to talk. Ed could hear him, his voice torn to shreds in his throat. He could feel Jack’s hot breath on his ear. He was still crying. He stilled, straining to hear something, an answer, anything. Jack’s lower jaw was gone now - it was in his lap oh God it had fallen it was - but he could swear he could just make out what Jack was saying, his ruined throat working overtime to get the word out, more a suggestion than actual communication, but
Then Jack lurched forward and dug his remaining teeth into Ed’s neck.
Ed jerked. His eyes spun, trying to place where he was. He wasn’t on the porch anymore, and Jack wasn’t with him. He was laying down somewhere in the dark, drenched in something - blood? His throat - Jack had bitten him, hadn’t he? Was he bleeding out? There was a deep thudding in his chest, reverberating throughout his body, choking him, making it impossible to think. It was so dark, where was he, was he dead, was
No. No, he was in the museum. It had been a dream. Ed gasped, deep, deep breaths, struggling to calm his heart. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t
His hand flew to his neck. Just as whole as it had been when he had fallen asleep. He wasn’t lying in his own blood, he was soaking in sweat, his heart pounding beneath his sternum. Beating. Alive.
He was in the mineral gallery of the museum, in one of the very, very few spare beds. Brooke had offered him a place to sleep here, though he had almost turned her down. He’d missed his friends from the Tower, and he knew Jordan Hordern would want to talk about his journey outside of London. But all the kids from the country, Jordan’s kids from the tower, and Saif’s kids from Ikea were all spread out on the lawn, celebrating their miraculous win that day, and the thought of trying to find rest among them had seemed an impossible dream.
He sat up, and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. The pressure felt good, grounded him, reminded him that he was here and Jack was not. It had only been a dream. Just another stupid nightmare. He was so fucking tired of those.
He growled, frustrated. He wouldn’t be getting anymore sleep tonight, he knew that. It was late into the night, but the gallery had only a few other kids laying down and trying to sleep. Most of the kids were downstairs, still in the middle of their own celebrations. Ed had left early, more than a little overwhelmed with it all, but now he couldn’t stand the thought of sitting alone in the twilight-dark of the gallery. He got up and started to the door.
It was a long walk to the front room where everyone else was, but it gave him a chance to clear his head. After so many nightmares for so long, he had given up hope on sleeping without interruption. Maybe he should be used to it by now. But waking up every morning thinking he had just been killed by his best friend was a hard thing to become accustomed to.
He reached the railing above the main room. A majority of the kids were outside, but in here he could spot Justin’s kids, Maxie and Blue’s group (or groups - he wasn’t quite sure and no one had bothered to explain it to him), and a smattering of other kids. They were all crowded into the front entrance, tangled up in loose groups, telling stories about the day, remembering friends, and making everything bigger and more wonderful than it really had been. From Ed’s vantage point above, he could see most of the room and make out several familiar faces.
Even more kids than were inside were outside, in front of the museum. These were mostly the kids that Ed had lead to battle in London, the ones from the countryside, but there were many other kids outside as well. Everyone who couldn’t fit inside was milling around the grounds of the museum, setting up temporary camps to spend the night in.
Inside, there were kids spread out all over the floor and stairs, listening to people like Ryan and Achilleus and Matt and many others, all taking turns getting up and retelling parts of the day. Each story was somehow more dramatic and impossible than the last, but each was still true. The room was a cacophonous mess and Ed struggled to focus on any single part of it.
Ed spotted Achilleus in one corner and could just make out all the names he was listing - friends lost in the recent fighting. Ed was surprised. Even from here, he could hear the emotion in Achilleus’ voice, an unexpected show of openness from the soldier boy. As he understood it, Achilleus, or Akkie if he had heard correctly, was to his group as Ed was to the Tower of London kids - a fighter, and one of the best. Ed’s experience with him had been limited, but he hadn’t seemed someone prone to praise and outpourings of love. But tonight was special. And tonight, Akkie had even inspired some tears from his audience.
Ed had never really known Paddy or Skinner, or many of the others Akkie named, but to hear him talk about them, he wished he had.
Ed scanned the crowd for Malik and found him in one of the corners, away from the mass of celebration spread everywhere else. He was with Ella, who had refused to be separated from either him or her brother. The miracle kid himself was ignoring the drama going on all over the room in favor of listening to Ella tell her own story. Malik seemed to be joining in from time to time. Ed could see him waving his hands around, his good eye widening now and then. Sam stayed mostly silent, just enjoying being back with his sister and letting the Kid do all his reacting for him. Ed grinned ruefully. He wasn’t quite sure he understood the connection between the Kid and Sam, but he was glad they had each other, that they had both survived the day. They were good kids.
Ed bit his lip. Should he join them? He didn’t want to intrude, but. Fuck it. It had been too long. He missed his friend. He made for the stairs.
He still couldn’t quite accept that Malik had survived, that he was alive. His friend had been torn away from him so suddenly, so completely, that he had never even considered that Malik wasn’t killed that afternoon with the bus. Having him back. . . . It wasn’t something he could even begin to process now; every time his mind tried to prod at the idea, at what Malik had gone through, at what it meant that he was back, he felt like crying again. The sensation had become foreign to Ed, and now he didn’t know what to do with the impulse. Watching his friend now as he got nearer - not ruined by what he went through, but something close to it, and still managing to smile with Ella, with Small Sam, with the Kid - it made that impulse hard to ignore.
When Ed reached the small group in the corner, only Malik noticed him. His smile twisted his face in a weird way, emphasizing the rotten, torn look of it (his birthmark torn across the middle, his grin growing and growing), but Ed didn’t let it phase him. Anyone else probably would have flinched away, but he could empathize.
“Ed! I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“Eh, I couldn’t fall asleep.” Ed grinned and shrugged, what can you do?
Malik took his hand, pulling him down into a hug. It was a typical bro hug, the kind they had shared for years. Except Malik didn’t pound his back and pull away, he grabbed his shoulder and held on. Ed’s heart swelled. “You okay?” Malik whispered in his ear.
He wasn’t. “Yeah.”
“That’s good,” Malik smiled. He held Ed at arm’s length and examined his face. His eyebrows creased, but he only repeated, “That’s good.” Malik clapped his shoulders, then let him go and patted the floor next to him. “Join us. Ella was just telling us about a girl named Go.”
Ed smiled and indulged them. “Sounds intriguing.”
He didn’t really care what they were talking about, he just wanted to be with someone he loved. Someone who, against all odds, had made it through the last year. The conversation washed over him in meaningless waves. Instead of paying attention, he watched Malik, wondering. Wondering how exactly Malik had managed to survive when everyone had thought he was dead. When he had been torn away from Ed’s side with no warning, no ceremony, no closure for a year. Wondering how they had found each other again, after so long, in the most unlikely of situations. Wondering if Malik’s face felt as bad as it looked.
Ed’s face still ached some days - some days, when he thought too much about it; when he remembered how Greg’s blade had cut his face open, just after doing the same to Jack; when he thought about Brooke flinching away from him, avoiding him until she was dealt a similar hand and had to face it - but usually the worst it felt was an agonizing itch. He wondered if it was the same for Malik, or if his wounds had done more damage.
A small, desperate part of him wondered how Malik had survived such terrible wounds. Had survived when Jack had not. Malik had told him, had explained it as best as he understood it, but it still didn’t make sense. It wasn’t fair. If St. George - Greg - had bitten Jack, had gotten a piece of himself in him, would Jack have lived?
Could Jack have made it this far anyway? If Ed could, surely Jack could - but then, he had changed, drastically so. And on that point, how would Jack have taken that change? Kyle was fine with him - more than okay with him - but Kyle had only ever known Ed the way he was now. Brooke, Malik, Justin, everyone who had known him before, they worried about him, incessantly.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it was better that Jack was
“Ed?”
Ed startled, flinching, but Malik was good enough not to mention it.
“Are you okay?”
Ed tried to smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You kinda’ dozed off for a bit, there. You sure you don’t need to be sleeping right now?”
“No, really,” Ed insisted (Jack taking his hand, Jack rotting away, Jack attacking him). “I’m good, Malik. I was just thinking.” He smiled, but he could tell he was less than convincing. Time to change the topic, then.
Malik, can I, uh.” Ed paused, licked his lips, considered. “Can I ask you something?”
Malik’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he furrowed his brow. His face had become hard to read, but Ed thought he looked apprehensive.
Malik stared at him for a while, holding his eyes. Ed didn’t know what he was looking for, or if he was looking for anything, but eventually Malik sighed. “Yeah, alright. You can ask me.”
Ed grinned apologetically. “It won’t bother you if I do?”
He knew it would, but Malik only smirked and shook his head. “I thought so. But no. Not from you. Maybe because you’re an old friend. Maybe ‘cause you’ve got. . . .” His voice trailed off. He gestured to Ed’s face.
It wasn’t a barb, but it stung anyway. Ed hated himself a little for that. Malik had had it much worse than him. Brooke had shrunk away when Ed’s face was first mutilated, had said he looked too much like a sicko, with his twisted mouth and his pinched eye. But he had nothing on Malik. It made him sick to see his friend this way because even though Ed had to put up with only a small level of the looks Malik got, the words whispered, the unintentional flinches he had to face, he didn’t know how Malik could bear it. He was grateful for Ella.
“Does it hurt?”
Malik blinked. He laughed a little, a noise mangled by his lack of practice with it. “That’s not what I expected you to ask.”
Malik hummed. He curled up, resting his chin on his knees. Finally, he turned back to Ed. “Does it hurt you? It looks like it does, sometimes. Like when you smile. Your mouth gets all weird, and it looks painful.”
Ed felt like he’d been caught doing something wrong, then realized how stupid that was. “Yeah, I guess it does sometimes. Mostly it just . . . burns? Y’know.”
Malik nodded. “Yeah, I do.” Fuck. Of course Malik knew. “Yeah, it hurts. Some days worse than others. I’ll be honest with you bud,” he sighed, “it feels about as fun as it looks.”
Ed didn’t really know what to say that could make either of them feel better, but Malik had already turned his attention back to Ella and the others, so he kept his silence and watched the room.
The kids scattered over the rest of the room were still going strong in their celebrations. Ed found Achilleus again, who, now done with his speech, had sat himself down next to Will. The two boys had been hanging out with each other all evening, since even before Ed had left to try to get some sleep. He didn’t know if something had happened while he was gone, if there was something going on with them, but seeing them made him happy. He couldn’t really read Achilleus’ face, but Will certainly looked delighted.
He felt himself smile. Will was a good kid, and him surviving the fight was a bright spot in this world. So too was him looking so giddy. Based off Will’s face alone, Ed was willing to give Achilleus the benefit of the doubt - maybe the boy wasn’t quite as hardened and cut-off as he appeared. For Will’s sake, he hoped so.
One kid he knew not to bother looking for was Einstein, who he hadn’t seen since before he and his group had set out for the countryside. He assumed the weird kid was in the lab, working on the cure they’d apparently found. He didn’t really know what that was about, or whether it was true. He had only heard bits and pieces, snatches of conversations between other people. Sam was the key, that was all Ed knew for sure, the only bit of information that stayed consistent. He was grateful, though. They could do with some good for once.
Another kid he hadn’t seen all night was Shadowman. Ed hoped he was okay. He hadn’t seen the boy in a long time, and in this world, that could mean any number of things, most of them very bad.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Malik watching him. He still didn’t know what he was looking for, but he hoped it was good and he hoped Malik found it. He’d caught Malik staring at him several times since they had found each other again, and he could practically feel the unasked questions burning Malik’s tongue. Malik and the other kids had been quiet a while, a comfortable lull. He wanted to break it. And he knew Malik wanted to talk, he just didn’t know what about.
Ed waited until Malik was distracted, watching Small Sam, his sister, and the Kid. He didn’t want him to realize he’d caught him staring. “Malik.”
“Hmm?” Malik turned slowly, following Ella’s story for a bit, but he focused when he saw Ed’s expression. “Yo, what is it?”
Ed looked down, like avoiding Malik’s gaze would soften the blow of any difficult questions Malik might ask. “You can ask. If you want to.”
For a long time, Malik was silent and Ed started to wonder (hope, even) that he would turn him down. Then he felt him move. He had a split second to wonder what Malik was doing before he had shifted to be right next to him and taken one of his hands.
They sat in silence, each considering carefully what they wanted to say. Finally, Malik spoke. “You’ve changed.”
Ed didn’t bother to ask him what he meant. He just nodded.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” Malik knocked his shoulder, trying to laugh. “Last I saw you, you were kinda’ a wimp. Jack’s lost little puppy dog.”
Ed cringed (he rotted away in front of him; his wounds reopening; his stomach rending; his mouth half gone, hanging on by threads of flesh and tissue), but Malik graciously ignored it. Ed deftly avoided any mentions of Jack if he could help it, and most times he could. Most people he knew had never met Jack, and those who had knew Ed well enough to recognize him as a forbidden topic. Hearing his name, even a year later, hurt more than he was willing to admit. Ed shrugged, focusing on Malik’s question. “I didn’t.”
“What? How do you mean?”
“I didn’t . . . learn anywhere. I dunno’. I just fight.”
“You just fight?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, last time I saw you, you -”
“I know. Trust me, I know.” He sighed, stared at their hands. “Look, Malik, I don’t know what it is. It just happens. I shut off or something, and just. Fight.”
Malik just looked at him. Ed couldn’t tell if he didn’t believe him, or was just processing the information. To be fair, he hadn’t explained it very well. Or at all.
“Sounds useful.” Malik offered.
The sound Ed made barely qualified as a laugh. “I guess. It really sucks sometimes, though.”
“I mean, at least you don’t have to think about shit, though. Just do it.”
Ed didn’t know what to say. Malik waited, letting him gather his thoughts.
Ed wouldn’t have entertained anyone else, but Malik looked genuine. And probably he had to talk about this to someone, even just a little. It was unhealthy to keep things bottled up - at least, he thought he might have heard that somewhere before. “I still. . . . I still remember it later, though.” Ed choked, remembering Tish’s friend, cut down without a thought, without effort. “I’m not me when I’m fighting. I’m - I’m just fighting. I see and feel everything going on around me, I just. Don’t care. I dunno’ how to put, really. I’m just fighting.”
Malik stared at him, but he didn’t say anything. Ed fidgeted, unsure under his gaze. Did he think he was making it up? Did he just think he was weird? He rushed to justify himself. “It started after Jack died. Right after. I just. . . .” Ed stopped. (Jack lying in the street, Jack holding his stomach together, Jack dying right beside him) He didn’t want to remember that day. “It just happened. I dunno’. But I’ve been able to hold my own in a fight since then.”
Malik scoffed. “Hold your own? I saw you today, man, you were a beast.” He didn’t say it like it was good thing. Unless Ed was reading too much into it? He hoped he was.
“Yeah.” Ed couldn’t meet his eyes.
Malik took his hand back, but instead of leaving Ed’s side, he patted his shoulder. “Hey, but it got you here, right? However it is you can fight like that, you survived.”
Ed smiled at him. “Yeah, I did.”
Malik clapped his shoulder again and grinned, more grimace than smile, and turned back to Ella and the others.
The conversation was over, but Ed felt it was still unfinished. He didn’t want to consider how it would continue in the future, but at least he’d been able to talk about it a little.
He stared out at the room, considering the people there. How many of them had made it here by skill? How many by sheer dumb luck? Which category did he fit in?
His eyes found Kyle, on the main staircase sitting with Brooke. They were laughing and cheering alongside a large group of kids who were enraptured with a boy weaving a tale of the day that was, based off his arm-waving, largely exaggerated.
Surely Kyle had survived this long of his own volition. The boy was an impressive fighter, without any help from blinding bloodlust rages, either. Brooke, on the other hand, he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t known her for a year. She had certainly changed since last they’d seen each other. She must owe her life to some skill, but the Brooke he had met on the bus had not been a fighter. And she had left in a giant truck full of a shitton of food. How much of her life was owed to her own abilities and how much to flukes?
Ed watched them a while, and realized the boy in the center of the group was Ryan - a boy who had certainly lived by his own competence and who was now bouncing around and regaling all the nearby kids with what sounded like the story of how Ed had taken down St. George. His stomach clenched at the name.
He still couldn’t believe it. The St. George he had heard so much about for so long and the man who had killed his closest friends - the same person.
Not much had really, conceptually, changed. He’d always believed that Greg was already dead, had accepted, in a way, that he would never get closure for the murders of his friends. The only real change was that now he knew for a fact that Greg was dead because it had been his sword that killed him.
He’d believed killing Greg would give him closure, would return him to the way he was before the world had gone to shit - maybe he could even go back to being normal. But it didn’t, really. And without that overarching thought in the back of his mind, he felt kind of empty. What was he supposed to do now?
“And then SWOOSH!” Ryan shouted, cutting through Ed’s thoughts, and slicing his remaining hand through the air like a sword coming down on a neck. “He cut his head clean off! And down went the big ugly bastard!” Ed could see that the kids gathered around him were eagerly engaged, cheering and booing in all the right places. Everyone was still high on adrenaline and eager to hear the good news again and again and again: they’d won.
Ryan was running back and forth in the small circle the crowd of kids made around him, reenacting his favorite battlefield moments as best he could. This story, the one of Ed and St. George, was his longest yet. It was clearly his favorite and the crowd was eating it up, soaking up his excitement. Ed tried to ignore them. He appreciated the praise, but he was tired - of fighting, of sickos, of kids treating him like he was something special. He wanted the day to be over. He wanted to go to sleep, but he knew that wasn’t an option. He considered going back to his bed anyway, but he couldn’t quite get his legs to listen, so he stayed where he was. He rested his head on his knees and watched.
Ed stared at Ryan’s new stump, waving through the air in imitation of a sword. It was freshly wrapped, but the white of the bandage was already spotted with some red. Ryan didn’t seem to notice, or mind, which struck Ed as a little concerning.
There had been a moment afterwards, briefly, when Ed had been terrified that he had cut off Ryan’s hand. Ryan had been very enthusiastically reenacting the story for him and had mentioned offhandedly that he had been trying to get to Ed when it had been sliced off. Ed had been frozen, panicked, fulling believing that he had, once more, hurt another kid while trapped in his own bloodlust.
But Ryan had been quick to clear up the mistake - it had been some bastard with a blade, not him - but Ed had still been shaken. So maybe it hadn’t been his fault, but it was completely plausible that it could have been him. That was the kind of person Ed had become. And he hated it.
Ed turned away from Ryan and the memory. He found his eyes roaming the museum, what he could see of it from this corner. The last time Ed had been in the giant building, he hadn’t had the time or the patience to really take it in. Now he had all the time in the world and he didn’t know what to do with it. Around him, the festivities raged on. He heard someone, Kyle maybe, laughing uproariously, drinking in Ryan’s theatrics. Through the crowd he could see Brooke, grinning and laughing too, getting pulled into the fun.
He felt Malik next to him, just as exuberant for Ella’s small story. He remembered what Malik had said earlier, about not having to think about shit. Just doing. Ed had been acting without thought for so long now. Sometimes he felt more machine than human. Not even a machine - a thoughtless tool, when he was supposed to be a boy.
Ed had spent the last year trying to do nothing but survive. Get to the next moment. He had never had time to process, really, anything. The world ending. Being stranded at school. Bam dying. Jack dying. Frédérique turning. Dognut dying. Everything. It had happened and Ed had reacted and then . . . nothing. No time to process, to heal.
Just death. Killing. Moving on.
Now what.
Now he had time. And, more than a little, that scared him. But it also thrilled him. For the first time, he could begin to really consider the future. For the first time, his future was assured. He wasn’t going to die.
Ed was happy. But he should have been happier. He was surrounded by his friends and allies. Most of them had survived what had seemed an impossible battle. They had the means to a cure, the immediate threat of the adults was gone, and Greg was dead.
But Ed felt mostly empty. More than anything else, he felt like going to sleep for a few decades, in a dreamless sort of way, if that was even possible. Maybe when he woke up he’d be ready to be a human being again.
He remembered suddenly a conversation he and Kyle had once had on a bridge. It felt like a memory from ages ago, but it had really only been very recently. Kyle had confessed to having been depressed, before the adults all started dying, and had brought up the idea that while he had gotten better in this new reality, Ed had gotten worse.
Ed had shrugged it to the side then. Depression wasn’t something he was worried about or interested in, not when he was busy focusing on surviving each minute. But now he had the time to wonder, to worry.
The world felt unfinished. Ed felt unfinished. He wasn’t sure he could fix either. But he sure as shit was going to try.
Ed felt Malik take his hand again. “Hey. You got that dozed look again. You sure you’re okay?”
Ed grinned. He laced their fingers together. “Yeah, Malik. I’m good.”