Chapter Text
"Edwin, mate? It's- it's alright, I'm not gonna hurt you, mate,"
Charles's voice echoes through the factory, concerned and tense. Edwin wishes he could let Charles find him, let him soothe away the panic with consolatory words and gentle touches.
The problem is, Edwin knows what Charles sounds like when he's lying.
Unnecessary breaths crowd into his throat and he tamps down the urge to run from his bolt hole. It will serve him well enough for the moment, and moving would only draw Charles to him faster.
Something is dreadfully wrong. For Edwin Payne to be hiding from Charles Rowland with the urge to run cramping in his legs, something must be terribly, terribly wrong. Perhaps Charles is under some spell, a curse, pollen, a parasite - something that's set him on Edwin's tail.
For a moment, he wonders that he doesn't remember what lead them here, to an abandoned factory with iron bars over the windows and the thick grime of long-disuse coating the walls. The moment is broken by a clang of metal and he tenses, ready to run.
"Bollocks," he hears Charles swear under his breath, amplified by the echo. Terror clenches in his chest and cold fear shivers down his spine at the sound and - and it has to be him, then, that something is wrong with. Such an instinctive fear seizing him at the sound of Charles's voice would be impossible otherwise.
Relief flows through him at that - he can still trust Charles. It's offset by the sickening realisation that he cannot trust himself. His breath hitches and he clenches his fists together. If he cannot trust himself-
"There you are, mate," Charles says, softly, and his dead heart jumps into his throat. He swallows it back down and manages to shift a half-step back.
"Hey, you're alright, Edwin," Charles says, hands raised and eyes glimmering with the tell-tale shine of unshed tears, "I'm not going to hurt you, yeah?"
Charles is still lying.
Charles is lying to him and Edwin is not to be trusted; Charles must have a good reason. Charles has a good reason and Edwin is afraid for no reason at all; something must be affecting him. Something is affecting him and Charles intends on hurting him; the cure for whatever has happened to him must hurt.
Edwin is so tired of being hurt.
He takes another step back and watches as the act hits Charles like a blow to the stomach. He stutters in his actions, blinking back tears, and Edwin feels sick with it, sick with fear and his best friend's tears.
Charles rallies valiantly and tries again.
"Right, I know you're scared, mate, but it'll be okay, yeah?"
Charles isn't lying this time. It will be okay - after.
That doesn't stop panic from gripping him in an iron hold when Charles takes a step forward, hands up like he's corralling a frightened horse. Edwin must flinch, or else his fear shows some other way, as Charles offers another platitude,
"S'alright, Edwin. Just me, 'kay?"
Just Charles.
He oughtn't be so frightened. It's just Charles. Charles, who has been at his side the last 34 years and counting and has not once in that time taken any deliberate action against him. (Apart from that incident with the jukebox, but he's willing to let that one slide. It was Charles's birthday, after all.) He shouldn't be afraid, and yet here he is, practically trembling with fear.
Fuck.
Against every instinct that pleads for him to run, he screws his eyes shut and locks himself in place. Dread curls in his stomach as he waits for Charles's next move. He hears shuffling - Charles, inching closer.
His eyes fly open and he flinches violently as Charles wraps his hand around Edwin's wrist, holding him tight.
"That's it, I've got you, yeah?"
Charles certainly does have him. His grip around Edwin's wrist is gentle but inescapably firm. When Edwin tries to pull his arm away, Charles tightens, refusing to release him.
(Edwin could win this tug-of-war, if he chose. Charles would let go before Edwin managed to wrench his own arm out.)
"Right, let's head back to the office, yeah?" Charles says.
Edwin can think of only one thing that scares him more than the thought of returning home right now, but he has chosen to trust Charles in this matter, and so he doesn't tear his own arm off and make a break for freedom.
He lets Charles take him home.