train_baby | (no subject)

Yona doesn't know what time it is when she gets home, no longer drunk-drunk, but still firmly in the realm of tipsy. The first thing she does, once she's shed her mismatched shoes — it really is a shame about her boot — and some of the other accoutrements she somehow accumulated last night is text Grantaire to let him know she's back. Well, no, the first thing she does is pet Fred, the dog who's been with her now through all the people she's had from home disappearing, and then, settling on the couch, still bedecked in mostly dead glowstick jewelry and the hat of which she has already become inordinately fond, she texts Grantaire so he'll know she's back and alright. It isn't, honestly, something she would usually do. She loves her phone and loves sending texts, but she never got in the habit of checking in with people this way, more inclined to just go and do her own thing and trust that anyone will reach out to her if they need her. In the wake of something like this, though, it just makes sense. Tensions and emotions are high, and in the face of something that hurts in a way she isn't entirely equipped to explain, it's nice, she thinks, to know they still have each other.

As she expected it would last night, part of the reason she went out in the first place, the apartment seems so empty. It's her imagination, probably, her own awareness of the person who should be there who isn't anymore. On the surface, after all, nothing has changed, and it isn't as if she hasn't spent time alone here before. She just feels Edgar's absence in her bones, much like the snow that's begun falling outside, fittingly unnerving weather for a time like this.

For a while, she sits sprawled on the couch, flipping through TV channels, watching five minutes of one show before she gets bored and switches to another. When it gets late enough, though, she gets her phone out again, and starts systematically going through the restaurants in her contacts, ordering delivery from all of them. They'll need to eat, and she doesn't feel like making a decision, and anyway, it'll probably be good to have leftovers on hand.

Once done, she texts Grantaire again: got food. couldn't decide what to get so there's some of everything, followed by a bright pink heart.

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R had woken with Neil gone, which was stranger more because he was in someone else's house than because of the situation. He'd left a note letting him know he'd gone to Derek's, which was more than fair. Mercifully, the house was empty when he got up. He thinks Neil must have said something to Marcus and Dan, or they simply were canny enough to keep out of it, for they'd let him sleep well into the afternoon, the sort of dreamless, desperate sleep of someone clinging to unconsciousness.

Now, though, he heads back to the apartment. He'd stirred, briefly, to the little ding of the phone when Yona got back early this morning, and apparently managed to text back his relief and love, but he doesn't really recall it as the phone goes off again. good, he messages back, i've no idea what i want.

He still feels pulled apart from his body, but he hasn't eaten since -- he can't remember when. Before Edgar disappeared, for he hadn't eaten anything after and then he'd gone to Neil's, and now -- well, here he is. He feels wrung out and nauseated, but if he thinks about eating his stomach does manage a faint growl. Anyway, the act of sitting and eating dinner with Yona sounds good. It sounds like some kind of solidity in a void of it.

He comes in without any attempt at quiet, stamping the snowflakes off his boots and coat. "It's fucked that it's snowing," is the first thing he says, passing by hello or how are you or any of it, but as he lifts his head to really look at her morosely flipping channels, his whole chest hurts anew.

R flops down beside her on the couch; he isn't sure if it's for her benefit or his that he reaches out to first invite and then wrap her in a hug. "It's not supposed to go like this," he says, which is meaningless, but feels true anyway.

Yona hums in response to both remarks, but saying anything doesn't, for the moment, seem half as important as setting the remote down so she can properly hug Grantaire in turn, curling a little closer to settle properly into his arms. She's always been tactile, and at a time like this — well, she would have trouble admitting that she needs comfort, accustomed as she is to staying afloat through just about anything, but she thinks she does. Thinks they both do, really, and with good reason. It isn't that she doesn't know these things don't happen, or even that she's particularly surprised by them anymore. Still, Edgar was here so long that she supposes some part of her never really thought it would happen, more blindsided now than she's been by similar occurrences in the past.

It's somehow both easier and harder, not to be the only one hurting like this. On one hand, at least it isn't just her — at least there's someone who gets it, in a different sort of way but who's still in it with her — but on the other, she wouldn't wish this on anyone. When it's already been such a hard year, too, that somehow just makes it seem even worse.

She should try to say that, maybe, or some of it, but instead she just nods, her head by his shoulder. "It is fucked," she agrees. "All of it."

She doesn't just hug him but settles into his arms, and it's nice in a way that tightens in his chest a bit. He's always been a person who communicates through touch, whether that was drunkenly pulling one of the Amis into a one-armed embrace, or touching arm or chest for emphasis in a conversation or reaching for Edgar or Neil sometimes when words (finally) eluded him. Or fighting, even.

Yona and Edgar were always the same, responding readily and without too much concern for personal space. With Edgar gone, with this space so horribly empty, it's disarmingly good to have her solid and here to hold onto. She could have chosen to weather this differently, to not want the comfort of someone who didn't know Edgar before, to not offer her own to him. But they've become family, over the years, even if he can't know exactly what she's feeling, and it means more than he can say that she does.

Grantaire can't quite say any of that, though, so he settles his arms around her; tucks his head down against hers. And takes in, belatedly, that she's wearing a plush hat where he'd already unconsciously lifted a hand to stroke her hair. Instead, he strokes its -- quite soft -- ears and finds himself laughing, a little huffed exhale.

"I like this," he says and tugs on one ear. "Where'd you get it?"