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Living with Isaiah was... different.
For one thing, Idra had never had so much time to himself in his whole life. Even before he'd been bought up by Miss Welch, he'd had to work to get enough food for the day. Since then, his only days off were when he was too messed up to work.
Now, though--he didn't have to do anything.
He tried to leave his room pretty quickly after waking up in the morning. He didn't want to seem like he was hiding. Isaiah would greet him for breakfast, and then they'd eat together in silence, and then Isaiah would smile stiffly at him, and awkwardly excuse himself into his bedroom, to 'study'.
Isaiah studied a lot. Almost non-stop, really. Idra ate lunch alone, most days, and then Isaiah would emerge from his room, spaced out and silent, for a very quiet dinner.
Idra would have thought he'd grow bored. His saving grace was the sheer amount of books that Isaiah owned or had access to. Idra didn't dare turn on music or television and disturb Isaiah's studying, but the books were quiet.
There were so many of them, too. Some were kinda boring, sure, but there were a lot about people who made friends with dragons, or had to avenge their family's deaths, or stuff like that. So far, Idra really liked the dragon ones best, but there were a lot. Reading, he found, was kinda like eating. Sometimes, if he'd been reading a lot in one day, he had to just sort of...sit there, and digest it all. It felt weird, to just sit and think, but also--good.
The other thing Idra found to do was eat.
The first few days, he'd stuck to just eating at normal mealtimes. It had been good food, and a lot of it, and he hadn't dared ask for more.
As it turned out, though, reading stoked up one hell of an appetite, and from what little Isaiah had said since he'd bought Idra permanently, the man didn't care about how much Idra ate, so long as he was eating.
And Idra was hungry, all the time, so he ate.
He ordered fruit, vegetables, crackers, meat trays, sandwiches. He ate and read and had dinner with Isaiah and wondered how to fill the silence. If Isaiah had been a normal client, he might have been easier to talk to. Idra could have parsed out what he wanted, and even if he couldn't, though it was never good to make a client unhappy, it wasn't the end of the world, either.
For the first time in his life, Idra had something to lose. And also for the first time in his life, he didn't know what was standing between him and the door. He knew he should probably figure out what Isaiah wanted from him, and quickly, since all he was doing now was taking up space and costing money; but honestly? It was so much easier to just start a new book. Isaiah seemed to be happy enough with silence, anyway. So, Idra would be quiet, and unobstrusive, and take up as little time and thought as possible. With any luck, Isaiah would never have reason to think about his existence long enough to question why he was still around.
--
Isaiah tore his eyes away from the screen, and checked the time.
It was four in the afternoon. He rubbed his eyes, and settled his head in his hands.
There were no two ways about it. He was hiding. He was hiding in his bedroom so he wouldn't have to have awkward conversations with a child.
He'd known he had trouble, around other people. It's why he'd gotten a therapist in the first place. He just hadn't suspected it had gotten this bad.
He stared at the clock, spiralling into a deep dark pit of self-deprecation, until it turned over to 4:01.
With a purely physical effort, Isaiah got to his feet, stretching his limbs, and left the room. The main hall was quiet, which was expected--Idra had to be the quietest child ever--but it was also dark. As Isaiah walked into the living room, the only lights were from the vibrant cityscape outside, and the still-fading glow of a sun that had recently set.
Idra was splayed out flat on the couch, sound asleep.
Seeing him like that, relaxed and vulnerable, brought to light just how much the kid had been on edge before. Defensive. He was good at hiding it, Isaiah thought, equal parts sad and impressed.
It wasn't quite time to eat yet, so Isaiah didn't have any reason to wake the kid. He wasn't about to sit around and watch him sleep, either, because that was creepy.
So, back to his studies it was. Isaiah turned to make his way to his room, when he was halted by a sound from the living room.
He turned back, half-expecting to see Idra awake, but the boy was still asleep. He didn't look calm anymore, though. His face was twisted up into a grimace.
Then, as Isaiah was watching, he whimpered.
It was such a helpless noise, that Isaiah was already halfway across the room before he had time to think. He reached out, laying a hand on the kid's shoulder.
It seemed like a good idea up until Idra all but jumped over the back of the couch, kicking Isaiah in the stomach as he scrambled. Something made a spectacular crash, and Isaiah stumbled backwards, swearing as he hit the coffee table and nearly fell over.
"Lights!" he called, and the home system cycled the lighting on. He met with Idra's wide, shocked eyes, staring at him over the couch, first.
"Um." Isaiah said. "Hi."
He looked at the floor, where lay the remains of the living room media tablet.
"I'm sorry."
It was so quietly said, he almost didn't hear it. He looked up to find Idra staring at the mess on the floor as if it was a dead body. The boy took a very small step back, his gaze snapping up to Isaiah again.
"I'm so sorry," he said.
The thing was, it wasn't an apology. It was plenty contrite--not that the kid needed to be sorry, he'd just been scared. But it wasn't an apology. It was something else. Isaiah frowned.
"It's fine," he said, and then frowned deeper, because Idra flinched.
"Hey," he said, "are you hurt? Did you step in the glass?"
Idra got progressively more rigid as Isaiah approached, ducking his head as if he'd like to hide it between his shoulders.
"Are you cut?" Isaiah asked, surprised to find himself getting worried. He put his hands on Idra's shoulders, steering him towards the kitchen. He didn't seem to be limping, at least. Isaiah got him sitting in one of the chairs and knelt down to look at his feet.
"I'm sorry," the kid said again, just as Isaiah was getting to be pretty sure that he hadn't gotten any glass in his feet.
"It's--"
"I can pay you back,"
What?
Isaiah looked up. Idra looked--hell, he looked wrecked. But hopeful, too. Awfully, horrifically, hopeful.
"I can--I can work. I can pay you back. Please don't--"
His voice cracked, then. He sniffed, long and hard and angry, like he was trying not to cry.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make me leave!" Idra said. "Please, I can--I know I'm not worth all of this, and now I'm breaking your things, but if you allow me to work, I can pull my weight, I can pay you back--"
What.
"Hey!" Isaiah said, settling down on his heels.
"Hey, Idra. Look at me. Look at me,"
Idra did. Isaiah's hand was on his elbow, and he could feel the boy trembling.
"I'm not going to make you leave," Isaiah said.
"This place is your home now, as much as it is mine. And you don't need to pull your weight, okay? I've got it. I'll get another tablet. If anything else breaks, we can get a new one. It doesn't matter, okay? It's fine."
Idra just blinks at him. The cleaning robot deploys from its cubby in the wall with a gentle whir, and Isaiah rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Of course Idra doesn't believe him. He's hardly spent any time with the kid, and he'd bought him straight off the street. There's been no proof that Isaiah will treat him any different than the people who owned him before.
"I'm not gonna get mad over things," Isaiah promised. "And even if I did, I wouldn't kick you out over it, okay?"
He looks over to where the cleaning robot is still working on the glass shards scattered over the floor.
"We'll get a new one in tomorrow," he said. "Were you watching something?"
"Um," Idra said, and sniffed again. "you're really not mad?"
"No," Isaiah said. "I'm really not mad."
"And you're not getting bored? Or, like--annoyed? Because I know I'm always, like, around, and--"
"No," Isaiah says, before he realizes he means it. "Its--"
And it's odd, how the words well up inside with barely any prompting. It's weird to know them to be true.
"It's nice to have someone around," he says. "I'm not good at showing it, but--it's nice to not eat alone every evening, or stare at all the furniture I don't use, and I -- I don't feel so empty all the time."
I don't think about ending things, he thought, surprised. Haven't since the kid got here.
"You're helping," he said. "A lot. You don't have to worry."
"Oh," Idra said. "Um. Sorry for crying, then."
"You don't have to apologize for crying,"
Isaiah said. He wanted to hug the kid, but had a feeling that wouldn't be welcome, so he patted his shoulder one last time, instead.
"What do you want for dinner?" He asked briskly, and Idra snorted a laugh.
"You made me pick last night," the boy snorted. "Pretty sure that means it's your turn."
Isaiah grinned, and started the process of ordering food for two.
--
The next day, Isaiah handed Idra a slim box and said,
"I got two. Thought you'd like your own."
Like it was just that simple. The last time Idra broke something--
He didn't like thinking about the last time he broke something.
Inside the box, a brand-new tablet sat encased in black plastic. Idra picked it up like it was--well.
Like it was made of glass.