When We Were Two Little Boys (Milton)

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When We Were Two Little Boys (Milton)

Post  Cecil Sharpe on Thu Jan 26, 2012 5:31 pm



Da da da da.. la la... room on my horse for twoooo... hm hm hm hm... la la la when we were two little boys. I can't remember the rest. That's okay. I can't remember anything. That's okay too. Whatever...

Finally released from his bonds of supervision at all times and finally back from his long vacation to the land of seclusion, Cecil drifted in through the dormitory doorway rather like a brick drifts on a soft summer's breeze. Which is to say not at all. Between the lorazepam and the vicodin squelching around inside of his head, his gait was shuffling and clumsy, threatening at any moment to treat his face to a meeting with the floor. And yet somehow he stayed upright. It almost didn't look plausible, but there it was. The walking dead. Only he wasn't dead, and if he wasn't so heavily drugged he might have simply wished he was. It was hard to think fatally when the world seemed made of soft, fluffy clouds of cotton wool though. It was like trying to hold a grudge in a candy shop, while all the brightly coloured sweets in their jars were staring you in the face and you had money in your pocket. To put it more accurately, the chemical cocktail fairly well convinced him that he just didn't care. About anything. Everything's fine, or even if it isn't, who cares? Ha ha! He was a shell of a creature, and the inside was useless goo, like Turkish Delight. In retrospect, it was probably an improvement from the angsty ball of barely suppressed emotional breakdown that he'd been before. There was almost a hint of light about his face, if you ignored the glassy and distant appearance of his eyes. Staring right through everything and everyone.

The barest smile came to his lips when he spied Milton in the dormitory already. It would have been larger, but he couldn't quite seem to muster up the energy for it. Still, it looked genuine in a drugged sort of way, and he drifted toward the other dark haired boy, his cast wrist and hand hanging limply at his side. He would have wished he could feel it, had he simply been able to give two shits about anything that wasn't immediately life threatening. If a grizzly bear sauntered into the dormitory behind him right now, he probably would have laughed at it and fallen over. When he first tried to say something to the other boy, it came out as a few indecipherable, mumbled syllables before he realised he was making gibberish. Pausing to find real words, he tried again, a little slurred around the edges. "Hi. Do you want my bunk? I might fall off it." It was a fair assessment. He looked rather like he'd just been in a drinking contest with an Irishman. Smiling a little stupidly, he drifted toward their collective beds, and tall enough to see over the rail, he spotted the cookies that had been left for him there. With his good hand, he reached for them, retrieving the note too. ...They're not poisonous. ~ Harry What the fuck? Oh well. That's fine I suppose. Nothing wrong with the boy he'd been convinced was going to murder him baking him cookies. Nothing wrong at all. Right? What could possibly go wrong?

"Psychopath baked me cookies," he murmured, and then laughed under his breath, holding up the note so that Milton could see it too. "Says they're not poisonous. He must've spat in them." And yet he still took a bite out of the first one... A clearer-minded Cecil probably would have donned a hazmat suit to dispose of them, assuming they were laced with anthrax or radioactive ebola AIDs. Instead, against the cotton mouth that was plaguing him, the cookie felt dry and tasteless against the roof of his mouth and his tongue. he struggled to swallow. "Needs milk." Perfectly logical assessment for radioactive ebola AIDs cookies. he nodded at his own infallible logic. The room around them seemed a lot more full of stuff since last he'd spent any real time in it. They must have gotten new roommates. They were probably all homicidal maniacs too. Highgrove seemed to be a haven for Ted Bundys and Ed Geins. Ed Gein wasn't a murderer. He was a necrophile with a penchant for interior decor. "New roommates? Have they tried to murder anyone yet?" Absently he took another bite of the first cookie, forgetting about how dry and difficult it had been to swallow the first time. The sweetness and the nip of cinnamon were pleasant enough though.

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Re: When We Were Two Little Boys (Milton)

Post  Milton Wenceslaus on Thu Jan 26, 2012 11:39 pm

Milton sat on his bunk, knees tucked up against his chest, staring at the bottom of the bed above him as if it would yield answers. He had spent much of his free time this way since Cecil had been gone - where, he didn't know, but it had been slowly eating away at him since the first night he hadn't come to bed. The other boy's things weren't disturbed, not that he could tell, but the sheets hadn't been ruffled for the better part of the last week, and he missed the telltale creaks and groans that signalled another body restlessly shifting above him. Despite his belongings still being in order, Milton was worried that Cecil wouldn't return, and he hated to think about it. They hadn't known each other all that long, but he was the closest thing Milton had to a friend in Highgrove, and he desperately wanted him back. His relations with his other roommates were practically nonexistant - they all came and went as dictated by their schedules, and none of them paid him much attention even when they were all together. Cecil was the only one who seemed to give a shit. What if something really bad had happened to him? A member of staff would have come to collect his things, surely, clearing out the space for a replacement. But that hadn't happened, and Milton didn't know if that was better or worse than not knowing anything. If something horrible had befallen him, someone had to know, but Milton hadn't heard anything, not even a whisper. That gave him some hope that maybe the situation wasn't as dire as he imagined.

He was still sitting there an indeterminate amount of time later when the bubble of quiet around him was broken by the crude shuffle of heavy feet dragging against the threshold of his dorm. Probably just Rueben coming back for something, or one of the others....can't remember their names. Too new. Milton had gained himself two new roommates recently, but their presence didn't make up for Cecil's absence, not at all. One of the boys seemed terribly aggressive and mean, and the other wasn't interesting enough to merit so much as a blip on Milton's radar. It was nothing personal, but neither meant much to him as of yet. He had only first impressions to go by and they didn't say much besides the initial vibes he'd picked up on. Just ignore me, whoever you are. I'm not here. I don't want to talk. If he repeated the mantra enough times in his head, maybe whoever it was would go away and leave him alone, but he didn't hold out much hope for that. The steps were slow and leaden, but they were purposeful and coming closer all the time. The mangled mockery of another male voice eventually cut through the mire of his own internal dialogue, and when it did, he was too confused and concerned to let it go unacknowledged. It didn't sound right, and his nurturing instincts were kicking in hard because of it. His head snapped up toward the sound of the voice, which was starting to make sense now, shaping syllables that vaguely resembled words he knew.

"Cecil?" Milton unfolded quickly, eagerly scooting to the edge of the bed and peering around its sturdy wooden beams to get a look at his favorite roommate. He knew he'd recognized that voice, but he hadn't wanted to get his hopes up, thinking it must be some sort of hopeful delusion he'd be better off not entertaining. His spirits lifted considerably when he saw that it hadn't been his imagination after all and Cecil was really standing there, just as fetching as he remembered. Immediately, his eyes panned to the cast over his wrist and hand, a dismayed frown lining his smooth complexion to see that he was hurt. "What happened? Where have you been? I was so worried! And of course we can switch bunks, anything you want. I'm just so glad you're back. Oh please, come sit. You look like you're going to fall over any moment now." It was obvious the boy was drugged, probably for the injury the mysterious plaster cast was concealing. Milton didn't mean to fret over him, but he'd been so terribly worried; if only Cecil could understand... Still, it seemed doubtful he was capable of understanding much of anything in his current condition, so Milton shut his mouth with a considerable amount of difficulty and let him wander as he pleased.

He watched Cecil closely, carefully, ready to jump up and catch him if he should start to teeter sideways, because he looked like he was more than halfway there already. It was a miracle he'd made it to their dorm on his own, his eyes were so glassy and his smile so stoned. Milton thought it was kind of cute, though, and realized that he wouldn't mind coming to Cecil's rescue; if he did, maybe Cecil would see how helpful he was and decide that he wanted him around more often. "Cookies?" That jogged his memory and, eager to see what Cecil meant, Milton stood, careful not to hit his head on the top bunk, giving a blank once-over to the innocuous-looking snickerdoodles set out for the other boy. For some reason, the image of a mousetrap - complete with a tempting wedge of cheese - came to mind, and although he had watched Harry bake those very cookies, knowing that there wasn't anything bad in them, he was still struck by the irrational urge to tell Cecil not to touch them. It was all too strange. Cecil knew Harry? Well enough to call him a psychopath, apparently, and what was that all about anyway? Perplexed, Milton watched him take a bite out of the first cookie and wet his lips slowly, thoughtfully, sucking in a deep gulp of air as he considered the note Cecil flashed at him. "We made cookies in group. I was there with Harry, and a girl and this boy named Ninian. He's new. I helped him make chocolate chip cookies, and I have some of those if you want any. I don't know much about our roommates - can't even remember their names - but no murders yet." Realizing that he was babbling, Milton slid his eyes to Cecil again, wondering if he'd gotten any of that.
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