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Cold.
He’s been on this train for fifteen years and it’s never been so cold.
The spies from the front tell him that there’s been a malfunction, that the boiler needs repairs, that those from the front are suffering as much as they are.
Somehow, he doesn’t think that’s the case.
The front never suffers.
He hears rumors of wonder - of glitter and gold - of absolute luxury and glorious excess - from the front all the time, but somehow, it feels even more damning right now.
Do they know they’re still back here? Do they even care? It’s barbaric and cruel in a perverse way, but he supposes he can’t throw stones.
(Like there’d ever be enough space to throw stones in here.)
They huddle around their flaming barrels, trying to preserve heat, but the warmth only does so much when cold splinters through the cracks around the doors, through any possible orifice, and brushes its icy hands against any exposed bit of flesh.
Curtis is probably one of the healthiest in the tail and he’s still suffering. His head aches and his throat is raw from coughing. The base of his chin is littered with swollen lumps and he can hardly see through the tears in his eyes. If he dies, he dies. They’ll throw his body to the ravages of the snow outside, and it won’t matter anymore.
It almost feels like some form of atonement.
Edgar pops his head up to his bunk one day, while he’s shuddering with chills. The bone-chilling cold from the outside isn’t helping, but this cold, it comes from inside.
Time has very little meaning when his brain is as hazy as it is.
“Hi!” His boundless enthusiasm is a relief in the wastes. Curtis doesn’t know how he does it. “Still feeling terrible?”
He can barely manage a weak thumbs up, which he waves in the younger man’s direction, and then drops back to the blankets, teeth chattering.
“That sucks.” Edgar takes a closer look at him. “Wait. You cold?”
“Wh- wouldn’ be?” His throat is drier than he realised and he ends up coughing repeatedly at the end of his sentence.
“Alright then.” Edgar seems to make a split second decision. “Shift over.” He starts climbing up to reach the top bunk.
“Wha’?”
“You’re cold, I’ll warm you up. Can’t have you dying when you’re one of the only ones who’ll save us.” Edgar clambers onto the top bunk, which is resoundingly not made for two.
He doesn’t deserve this. After all he’s done to Edgar, he doesn’t deserve this at all. “No.”
“Stop being such an asshole, Curtis, shift over.”
And Curtis does. “You’ ge’ sick.”
“No I won’t.” Edgar grins wildly, and flops down nearly on top of him. “I never get sick.” He shuffles under the blankets and throws an arm over Curtis, who by this point is basically embedded in the train wall on his other side. He’s warm - at least, warmer than Curtis currently is, and that counts for something at least.
“You wil’.”
“Stop worrying. You worry way too much sometimes. Life is shit, but it could be more shit.”
“How?”
“Could be out there.” Edgar waves in the direction of the Outside airily. His fingers make strangely mesmerising patterns in the air that Curtis cannot help but watch.
Wow, he needs to get better soon if he’s becoming this poetic.
“Point.” He grumbles into Edgar’s neck. The man’s like a hot water bottle, it’s astounding in these conditions. What has he done to deserve this man? He’d put him through so much - nearly killed him when he was fifteen and Edgar was ten - and he still trusted him.
Curtis supposes he had the fragility of memory to thank for that.
“Stop thinking so much.” Edgar whines. “Go to sleep. I can hear you thinking.”
He really, really hopes he can’t.