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The train running from London to Paris that day was a lively affair. Families of 6 trying to make room for their suitcases, groups of friends stumbling over each other, professors and doctors and authors alike mingling with the pleasant atmosphere. One group seemed to have just come from a rather lively party, if their looks were anything to go by. There might’ve even been a newlywed couple, with the way a whole entourage stood on the platform cheering obnoxiously. They popped a bottle of champagne out the window all while wrapped in each other's sickly-sweet embrace.
Miles felt so terribly out of place in the back of the train. Try as he might he was unable to replicate even the smallest sliver of this evening’s joy. The scene just replayed in his head over and over and over, dancing in circles to the tune of the records he had managed to dig out. A party in a psych ward, how odd was that? He might even say it was the best party he’d ever been to.
Oh, Agatha had been so happy watching them twirl around. She had seemed so dreadfully gloomy in that awful hospital bed. He does wish he was able to share a word with those nuns—poor Agatha won’t be able to thrive in such a drab environment. But then, what would they know of their life? Maybe they’d turn her into a nun like them. Agatha as a nun, imagine that?
Then there was running into Archie and Van during his quick stop at Margot’s to inform her of his whereabouts. Lack of whereabouts. A goodbye. Anway, Archie and Van along with a few other people Miles didn’t care to define had been socializing in her frightfully large sitting room. Of course, Margot wasn’t in the room with them—she really can be a horrendous host—but it gave him a perfect chance to invite Van and Archie to Agatha’s little party. As soon as they were done at Margot’s, that is. He would hate to steal away someone else’s guest, but he has a sneaking suspicion they’d most certainly have more fun in a dreary mental inn than talking with these boring fellows. Honestly—one of them was wearing a green bowler hat! Nearly ran Miles himself out of the room. He doesn’t know what Adam was thinking, putting green bowler hats as fashion icons in the paper.
Archie and Van were dancing happily, though, in Miles’ scene. They had taken up the spot closest to the window as their little corner, keeping close enough so that Agatha could speak if she so wished. Miles can’t believe his luck that he managed to run into them. He himself might have been the one to get it started, but Archie was not half of London’s favorite host for nothing. Van knew how to spin a story—the exact reason he replaced Adam as Mr. Chatterbox—and he knew how to spin someone else just as well. He did bring such a bright smile to Agatha’s face.
And last of all was Adam. Sweet darling Adam who had been there beside Miles since Oxford. He was really a terrible dancer when they first met—Miles had to teach him how to properly do it. Adam writing away at his desk, Adam tagging along to outrageous parties dressed in whatever Miles was able to fit on him, Adam who was always there as an anchor even seas apart. Oh, how dreadful, Miles can feel Adam’s warmth already leaving. He can’t say that’s ever happened before.
Its just that—well—Miles never thought things would change. Not this drastically, at least. In all honesty he always knew he’d be dead at a young age, for who could ever imagine growing old? No, that’s far too boring, far too slow. He’d see Adam and Nina’s wedding, though. He’d see Agatha and her newest scandal in the paper, be there for mother’s last party, be there for the masquerade party Archie had promised he’d host. All of that is gone, now.
The party of friends burst into boisterous laughter a farther down the train. It carried through the air bright and crisp, bouncing along the walls and leaping over heads. Miles’ smile was gone, changed into some sort of grimace. The train had begun moving now, leaving behind the platform filled with busy bodies and cheering guests. In not very long gone would be the London he spent so much of his time roaming. It was a bitter experience, having to leave it behind for who knows how long. This wasn’t another school trip, nor was it a fanciful get away with a charming male companion. He may just—he can’t-- oh, who knows. Who cares. High time he left, explored new frontiers, got out there and tasted some different drinks, danced to different songs.
The scenery passed by in a blur. Miles was stuck thinking over his half-baked plan. He’ll have to get a job, now. Find a place to stay. Margot might be able to send money, but he’s not quite sure how that will play out. Luckily he’s got cash on him, what should be enough to get him a room for at least the night. Not sure what he’s going to do for clothes. Or hygiene. Inns have showers, right? That’s a universal thing?
The little warmth he previously felt had completely melted away by now, leaving him with a cold empty feeling hollowing out his chest. A terrible burn began to build up behind his eyes again, and before he knew it tears began to fall. The only thing that preserved some sort of dignity was his glasses—thank goodness for that. At least no one would be able to see his eyes. Maybe they’d believe he was just shivering from the cold.
He sagged against the window, a hand coming up to clamp over his mouth. He stifled the noises he wanted to release; mournful cries of a life now unattainable. He’s never felt so dreadfully alone. The train was full with noise and warmth even then, but it only served to isolate him even further. Each passing second Miles was getting farther and farther away from the life he knew; one he may never be able to return to. All of this because of some stupid letters he wrote to a ridiculous bloke whom he thought may have—might have—oh, there he goes again. A shudder passes through him and a sob escapes past his fingers. A second later his entire frame is racked with silent sobs. Another moment later he’s curled over his knees, gone from the cold of the window, floating somewhere off in space instead.
The noise of the train is gone, the smell disappeared, nothing but a cold void in its wake. The music from the party floats through his head, filling in what would have been silence. Miles Maitland is on a train full of people headed towards France with no luggage and very little money, and yet he no longer feels very much like Miles Maitland at all.
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THE END.