Work Text:
The grass felt dry beneath Charles’s feet where he ran through the field. The cold air was crisp against his face and bit at his eyes, and the dampness that was forming in them in response was making his vision blurry, though he really couldn’t tell if they were just watering or if tears were rolling down his face.
But even with his blurry vision, he still knew what stood around him as far and the eye could see.
The scarecrows.
They lined the field in unorganized groups. Some had wigs, some hats, some nothing atop their sticks of heads that seemed to gaze at him though sightless.
Charles had no clue how he had gotten there.
And he had no clue where Max had gone.
Upon stumbling through the tree line beside Max, breathless and exhausted from the run, the scarecrows had simply… been there. And when Charles had moved to turn to Max with a confused question on the tip of his tongue, he was gone.
Gone.
Charles felt another tear roll down his face, and he heard himself let out a strained noise at the realization that yes, he was crying. He quickly brought his sleeve up to his face to wipe his eyes as he ran, but when he opened them once more, he found himself running straight into a set of three scarecrows all lined up far closer to one another than they had been before he had closed his eyes.
He was sure of it.
Wasn’t he?
He tumbled into the dry grass with a hiss of pain, knocking over the scarecrows as he did so. He remained on the ground for a long moment, panting and trying to get a grip on himself.
And then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Warm, stable, familiar.
He gasped, head whipping up, but—
There was no one, nothing.
Nothing there but the scarecrows gathered around him, upright once more.