Author's Note: This stems from a challenge I gave myself: put a Narnia character in the modern world while still keeping every other aspect as in character and realistic as possible. And then I realized how few Eustace fics there were...and it ended up all gritty and relentless. I didn't plan on this being depressing! wails
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine. All that belongs to C.S. Lewis.
He's in that state where he's so tired his reflexes sort of shut off and his muscles run on autopilot and all they know how to do is act the part he's played a million and one times before so if Peter or Edmund make a joke he's not expecting he's so screwed because there's no way he'd be able to keep up. But he knows they're just as tired as he is and probably thinking the exact same thing about him and Jill. No improvisation. No flair. Just act the damn child and get out of the spotlight.
He's got a bit of pale awe at how Lucy never seems to run out of energy on display. Either that or she's just really good at faking it, which takes a lot of energy anyways, so…
He's not sick of this, exactly, just a little. Numb. New venues, same adults, new set of faces to be introduced to by his parents and he gets to smile and sneer at the same time and not worry them by actually acting like a caring person for once. All blurry and non-existent. And it's not like he would really rather be anywhere else, cause where would that be? Some shit-hole school dormitory alone and pushing bits of paper around to nowhere or making sandwiches fourteen hours a day like some of the less fortunate kids his age and pretending to smile when over-make-uped and under-dressed girls bounce up to the counter and really, this act is all comfortable autopilot and muscle memory now.
He supposes that there's some kind of irony in living what feels like a dream while wishing he were back in the dream that was a picture frame, but he's a little too vaguely spacey to appreciate it.
Next visitor. Same stupid questions from Susan about how are you? and how are your children? and how do you like this new appetizer that Eustace's dear mother was so kind enough to make? and he wonders if anyone will ever tell her that they just want to go home and they're having a really shitty day and even though they really love her party, really they do, she's just not quite good enough to make it better. He doesn't think anyone ever will, though, because that's just not done in polite society and certainly not something that's done to Susan.
He catches a flash of a dull smile from Edmund standing in the opposite corner and he sort of grimaces back with all the spare feeling he can muster and hopes it's enough. His cousin gives a slow sympathetic blink and he knows that it was. And that's something else he'd be in awe of if he had any extra zing lying around but he's too busy watching his mind wander off and replay the memory of Peter making fun of him the first time he said zing.
And he knows that when he finally escapes after the relentless flood of the real world, he and Jill will end up in the same orbit of the back porch and that makes it better. And really he's so grateful that he has actual friends and companions now and it's all because he got turned into a fucking dragon but it brought everyone he really cares about together and able to love him as if he were a good person.
He's just a little. Tired.