Chapter Text
Strange things often happen in this part of town, you’ve noticed that much through the years. Once the sun sets, streetlights flicker and the sky is always darker here than anywhere else in the city. Your mother would tuck you in bed at nine, remind you to lock the doors, the windows, draw the curtains. Don’t peek outside, she’d say, don’t mind the coyotes when they yowl at night.
They don’t hunt in packs but you’d always hear more than one.
The boy with snow white hair and scraped skin slumped in front of your family’s bakery one morning is no less strange than the other events that happen around this neighborhood. What is strange is the silence that follows him. You don’t hear the coyotes at night after his arrival, and the crows don't caw.
As if the air around him is stagnant.
There’s something about him that rubs you the wrong way and makes your hair stand on ends. He wears a peculiar amulet that glows an unnerving shade of ruby— blood crimson when the light hits it the right way in the evening. Hours pass since you first see him upon sunrise, and now that it’s finally setting, you crouch beside the boy with a day old bread in hand.
“Are you hungry?”
He lifts his gaze up to you, then down at the bread. You offer it towards him, and he takes a moment before accepting it into his own hands. They’re dirty, you notice, covered in soot and dirt.
“Are you thirsty?”
Chapped lips and sunken, tired eyes are enough to answer your question. But you wait, and he rewards you with a nod, white locks falling over his face. The boy holds his head low.
“Okay, wait here.”
When you return with a glass of water, you expect him to be gone. To disappear without a trace. Much to your surprise, the boy still sits there, back against the bakery’s large window pane, knees bent upwards against his chest. The bread is halfway eaten.
“Here,” you extend your hand to give him the drink. He cants his head your way, and takes it just the same. There’s no word of gratitude, not immediately anyway. Not until he finishes the glass in several big gulps, exhaling audibly, that he croaks out a thank you you barely hear. It sounds like he has gravel in his throat.
“What’s your name?”
He looks like he’s contemplating hard on the answer, deflating when he says, “I don’t know.”
Odd. You tilt your head, brows furrowed. “What do you mean you don’t know your name? Everyone has a name.”
“My mom told me to find a new name,” and he finally looks at you, a pair of eyes the color of a clear afternoon sky striking you to lose track on your words. Your lips stay parted, and you blink.
“Why do you need a new name?”
“I need to hide and run away from something,” he looks away again, and you’re almost disappointed to see the ceruleans turn to the bricked pavement instead being on you. “I need to start a new life.”
“Oh.” It’s the best consolation you can muster, heavy silence hanging in the air. But you have another question— you have so many of them that you end up sitting where you were just crouching. “What are you running from?”
“Demons.”
“Well, I’m not a demon.”
“...” He studies you for a while behind the bangs that are too long for his face. “You don’t look like one,” he agrees. “Don’t act like one either.”
“Yup. So we need to find you a new name.” You ponder, chin resting on the knuckles of your fingers as you look past the street ahead. It’s empty now. The hues of the sky have turned from golden and orange to shades of pink and purple. A sign for the neighborhood to go back into their houses, lock the doors behind them, and start cooking for dinner as they draw their curtains close. “How about Tony?” you suggest after a minute against the backdrop of a rapidly darkening sky. Your mother will call for you soon.
“Tony?” he asks. “Why Tony?”
“He’s a character from my favorite book,” you say. “He wears red coats and you look like you’d look good in red too.” Yeah, you can imagine how it’ll contrast against the clear, white hair and striking blue eyes. You nod. He’ll look good in red, you decide. Just like the Tony from your favorite book.
“...Okay. Tony then. What about my last name?”
“What about Redgrave?”
“The city?”
“Yeah. This is where I found you.”
“You didn’t find me,” Tony counters. “I just happened to be here.”
“I found you,” you insist. “You’re right in front of my family’s bakery. Anyway, how old are you?”
Tony doesn’t argue with you, or try to rebut your statement. He presses his lips together instead, knowing you have a point. He is lost, and he has nowhere to go. What happens to things that are lost?
If they’re not gone forever, then they’re eventually found.
“I’m ten,” he finally answers.
“Oh, that means we’re the same age.”
“Okay. So where do I go now?” Genuine loss colors the glint in his eyes, expectant as he peeks at you, thin-lipped.
You frown, shifting in your seat so you turn to face him. There’s a serious look on your face, trying your best to find a solution that works. “You can’t stay here, Tony. My mother won’t like it, she’s paranoid.”
“Paranoid?” He makes a face. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, something like always scared of bad things happening.” You give him a shrug. “To be fair, bad things always happen here.”
In his heart, he agrees. Tony remembers his own mother, and the closet he was hiding in just a day ago. Bad things always happen here. Maybe he should be paranoid, too.
“Anyway, I think I know a place you can go to. Just down the street, two blocks away,” you turn to your right, pointing at the road ahead. “Townhouse number 717. Mrs. Goldstein lives there. You said you’re running from demons, right?”
“Yeah,” Tony confirms. “I am.”
“She makes guns and she’s strong.” Your head turns towards your new friend, giving him an approving bob of your head. “She protected me once before against a demon, so she can protect you too.”
“Really?” There’s a skeptical look shot towards you. “She can protect me?”
“I’m sure she can. The demon that attacked me was big,” you add, gesturing as you recall the memory. “It had horns and giant claws.” But the darkness is starting to settle, and you hear your mother calling out for you from inside the house. “You should hurry before night falls. You should also tuck your necklace,” your point at it, “under your shirt.”
“Why?” Tony’s already standing up, his half-eaten bread still clutched in one hand.
“The thieves will want it,” you tell him. “It’s gold and shiny. My mother says they kill to get shiny things because they’re worth a lot.”
It is worth a lot, Tony thinks. So he takes up your advice and tucks it underneath the worn down shirt he’s wearing, his free hand cupping it over the fabric. “Okay.” He starts walking off, then stops mid step to turn back. “What’s your name?"
You bend over to pick up the empty glass, and tell him your name. Tony nods, repeats it. Finds that it rolls nicely off his tongue, and you think he seems pleased with himself.
“You can come visit me,” you say, just as he opens his mouth to ask a question. Looks like you answered whatever is left unspoken, because he doesn't ask it anymore. “We’re friends now.”
Confusion paints his expression. “Friends? Since when did we become friends?”
“Just now,” you repeat. “Weren’t you listening? I even gave you a name.”
And he can’t win against you, he figures sooner than later. It’s difficult to go against the resolute tone of your voice, especially when your eyes reflect his own in them. Tony sees himself. He sees you. With a contemplative stare and a big shrug, he licks his dry lips in an attempt to soothe it (ends up stinging instead). “Alright. We’re friends now. I’ll see you around, then.”
“Yup,” you flash him a light smile, and he realizes that’s the first time your lips curl upwards throughout the conversation. It doesn’t look so bad— makes the boy wonder if he should smile too. Would that make him look better? Your hand is already on the handle of your door, one foot in. “I’ll see you around, Tony.”
Just like that, you disappear behind the sound of a bell ringing and door clicking shut before he can return the sentiment to you.