Safety is a new concept for him. Everywhere he looks, shadows follow, and it is always dusk or midnight; there is never a noon or a dawn, for him. But, he supposes, fingers closing around the coarse fabric of his pants, for one who has sinned as he has, that is not so surprising.
Murky shapes and memories never, ever dulled by time dodge his footsteps, and he remembers until he can hardly bear to look at Isaac and Miria, for in their eyes shines that hope and innocence he sometimes thinks he remembers the feel of, from before, when he was human, when ten was a number and not an appearance, when he looked forward to more than—more than—
A moment's reprieve.
Sometimes, when Ennis looks at him, he thinks she can understand. Except there was never any humanity in her to begin with. She has lost nothing—has only been gaining her whole, short life—and he envies her that, in the part of his—what? Heart?—that had wanted to see the whole world burn, so it would know pain as he knows pain. Knew pain. Knows pain. Uncertainty is certainly a new feeling for him.
Even when he was young, he was always sure. Always knew where he was going and why, but Isaac and Miria and Firo and Ennis have all ripped the rug from beneath his feet, and he has landed limbs askew, and he's not sure what is which any longer.
"What are you doing out so late?" Maiza's voice is calm and soothing as ever.
"I—" he bites back the farce of innocence, because this is Maiza, Maiza doesn't think of him as a child, and will not buy his charade. "I sometimes feel like none of this is real."
When Maiza reaches out, to place his hand on Czeslaw's head, he forgets to flinch. Belatedly, he realizes that it didn't occur to him that Maiza might—want to eat—and Czes shudders with his own trust, because trust is a frightening thing misplaced, and his is so misplaced, has been misplaced since—
And he wrenches himself from the touch, looking up at Maiza, and he rather thinks Maiza looks tired beneath his glasses. "Any moment I'm going to wake up—back, back in the—and he'll be—"
Tears come easy, have always been easy.
Maiza kneels, eye level now, and his strong hand clasps his shoulder, but it doesn't hurt, and it doesn't shock him, because—safety, there's safety, here, with Maiza, and with his (family? Is that what him, and Firo, and Ennis are? Can he claim that solace for himself? Is he deserving of that?) family, and he wonders what he had done to make anyone think he was worthy of such—such kindness.
You're such a good boy.
They had cried for him, Isaac and Miria had, and Ennis had taken his hand without thinking twice, and Firo had smiled—just smiled, utter trust, how long had it been since anyone who knew what he was had actually smiled at him?—and Maiza—
"I'm sorry," Maiza murmurs, "Could I have spared you from that, I would have."
The next sob is Maiza's name, and Czeslaw throws himself as hard as he can at the other man, and clings, like the child he has not been in so long. Maiza's arms come around him, tighten, and Czeslaw sobs, his tiny form shaking with the weight of his grief. "You're safe now. You have people who would do anything for you."
And it's meant in comfort, but—he cries harder, because safety is a new concept for him, but, he does feel safe, here, curled tight around Maiza, and Czeslaw clings and never wants to let go.
He'll just have to trust Maiza to understand.