Work Text:
Fern was… alone.
How odd.
In all his (admittedly not terribly long) life, they’d never been as alone as this. There was no mother to watch for him, no father to watch over him. There were no people working the railroads to pester as he often attempted to the few times they convinced their father to let him help examine the tracks.
No, he was alone for the first time in a long while. It was eerie, waiting at empty tracks, seated upon a cold, hard bench formed of stone. He was sure someone must be working the office, but from where he was, there was nothing but the tick tick ticking of an overhead clock and the helpless hope for a freight to come through.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And then a resounding bong as those unceasing hands finally hit the 3:00 AM mark, before passing on, on, on.
Suddenly, they weren’t alone anymore.
They came out of the shadows, gaunt with memory and sleepless nights. He was surrounded by them, so, so many of them, and for a moment he thought he might drown in a sea of people. It would be fitting, they thought.
And then the train arrived.
Fern was afloat amongst limbs, at peace despite the torrent of crashing bodies as person after person leapt onto the freight.
“What are you waiting for?” they thought he heard a boy shout. “Jump!”
Lost, Fern grasped onto the instruction with all he had, leaping with the rest.
They lay still in the train cart, allowing himself a moment’s respite. Heavy breaths, inhale, exhale, don’t think.
Then they picked himself up off the floor to examine all the trainhoppers who’d been at his side. There were many—so, so many people alike in their loss. Fern wondered a moment about just how many of them were like him.
Then a voice broke through his thoughts. “Not bad for a gaycat!” it said.
They glanced up. There was a boy speaking to him—a little taller, a little more seasoned than he. Same age, they thought.
The boy stuck out his hand. “I’m Arcade,” he said. “You?”
He eyes the offending limb warily for a moment, before grasping it—firm enough to seem like they knew what they were doing, gentle enough to seem polite, just as their father taught him. “Fern,” they said shortly.
Arcade tilted his head. “What brings you here?” he asked. “Not to offend you or nothing like that, but you don’t seem all the type.”
“It’s not like I chose this,” he snapped.
“Ah, yeah. That explains it.”
There was a moment’s pause. The two listened to the rattling tracks, the rustling people, the sounds of life. “Explains what?” Fern questioned when it had gone on long enough.
“You don’t have any of the joy you should,” Arcade said. “People like me, they come out ‘n enjoy the rush of the trains. People like you, you can tell there’s something that isn’t quite there.”
“No,” they say. “I suppose not.”