Holiday

Room

The bed.
There was only one bed.
There was only one bed for two people.
And those two people were me and Lockwood.

I didn't know what to do. I froze. When I found the power to move, I turned my gaze towards the tall, slender figure at my side. He looked back at me, and for once, he wasn't moving at all. His face was paler than ever, but the end of his nose, along with the tips of his ears and his cheekbones, had gone ever so slightly pink. In his throat, his Adam's apple bobbed; he spoke first.

"Hey, Luce - you see what I see, right?"

"Yeah, I think so." My throat was like sandpaper. I looked away from him now, turning my attention to another door to the left of us,"That'll be the...uh–"

"The bathroom." Lockwood finished. I was shocked he could even figure out what I'd been saying, I swear I only breathed the words.

After a moment, I felt something brush my hand. Looking down, I found that his fingers were pressing close against mine. He looked me askance, I nodded. He took my hand in his and our fingers entwined between us. "We can figure this out. We always do." Again, I could feel his breath on my ear. "I promise."

When I looked back at him, he leaned back a little so he wasn't right in my face. Even so, he was close enough for me to know that he was wearing after shave and a nice one at that. I couldn't look directly into his eyes at first, but then his other hand moved towards me, and the first couple of fingers on his other hand came up under my chin. I looked at him properly now.

"Listen to me, Luce; whatever happens, we'll find a way through. We've said that before, as a group, but we can too. You and me, together." At this, a smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. It was at least mostly fake, but it was different from the usual one he uses to encourage people. Normally, it's full of teeth, blinding you into believing what he does. This was small, but it meant well. I could see he wasn't hiding anything with it - apart from his uncharacteristic bout of awkwardness, but he wasn't exactly hiding that.

With his fingers wrapped around mine, his other hand now dropped to rest on my arm, he motioned around the room. "We have a wardrobe and two bedside tables which double as chests of drawers. The wardrobe has drawers underneath it, so I vote we use the bedside table for objects (books, etc.) as well as underwear," the tips of his ears went pink again here, "and one of us can take the wardrobe - rather, the actual wardrobe- y bit - and the other can take the drawers, with one bedside table each."

I nodded. My voice hadn't yet returned, so I was very grateful for how close he was. "I don't mind taking the drawers. Your shirts are probably better off in there, too."

"Are you sure? Okay, then. Um..." his hands fell away from me. He rubbed one arm, adjusted a shirt cuff. He gestured to our bags, "Should we...?"

I nodded, glad of the excuse to do my own thing. When we moved to claim a side, we happened to choose different sides. Frankly, I don't think I have the energy or the brainpower to talk to anyone else that evening.

We would have to go back downstairs in a moment, so I decided I'd just unpack my hand luggage. I drew out the two books I'd brought, placing them in my top drawer. Beside them, I put my spare pens and pencils. I put one of each and my sketchbook on top of the table carefully.

Without entirely knowing why, I glanced over at Lockwood. I couldn't see into his drawer easily here, but I could see on top. On there were three books, neatly stacked, and a couple of cheap magazines he collected at the train station before we left. Oddly, he hadn't brought many with him. As I watched, he moved a small white rectangle away from where it had been pressed to his chest and gently placed it on the bedside table. His head was cooked to one side, as if he wasn't happy with where he had put it.

Without actively telling myself to do so, I stood and walked around to him. As I reached him, he looked up at me curiously. Wordlessly, I knelt next to him and peered at the photo. Immediately, I realised it was of him and his sister.

"I'm not used to going away. On a case I can deal with, like Aldbury Castle, but I'm not used to this. I need her with me." The quality of his voice shocked me. It was deeper than usual; the only way to describe it really is to say that it sounded raw. He didn't meet my eye, but I examined his face. His purposeful eyes, his kind lips. For a moment, something that may have been grief washed over his face. Instinctively, I reached out for his hand, and I let my cheek fall onto his shoulder.

"Please, Lucy. Please don't. I'll cry." The way spoke made me feel a pain erupt in the back of my throat, choking me as it got more intense. I wasn't even going to cry myself; it was an empathy thing. That's new.

"What's wrong with crying?" I cupped his hand in mine, both now rested in his lap. His other hand rested on top of mine, but he let me hold the first one.

"I don't cry. Ever. When we go back down in ten minutes, everyone'll fuss. They'll think something's wrong if they see tear stains down my cheeks."

"It's not about the room, is it? Or the bed?"

I feel him move and lift my head. He'd turned towards me. "Of course not. I'm fine with it. It's just... I... " I let him get it out in his own time. From past experience, I know that'll work better than forcing it out.

"Last time I went to the seaside was woth Jess, the same year as my parents' death. She wanted to treat me because I'd handled things well." If a blur were audible, it would sound like that. He pushed the words out as if trying to escape them, squeezing his eyes tight shut as if he were telling me something embarrassing.

When he opened his eyes again, and met my gaze, a smile erupted across his face. He tried to suppress it, but failed majorly. Again, he showed no teeth in his smile, apart from when he bit his lip (not very) subtly to stop it. His smile was closed-mouthed, but it was a whole lot more genuine than most of his grins. A single tear fell down his slightly pink cheek. One hand emerged from the pile - the one on top of mine - to wipe it way. "I'm sorry."

I gave his hand a squeeze. "Listen to me: you have nothing to be sorry about."
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Sorry if this chapter drags on a bit, it was exactly 1200 words. I had motivation, but not good sentence starters when I wrote this (that being literally moments before I published it).