To Escape Somewhere
/
When Ulrich swings open the door to the Hermitage – or shoulders it open to be more accurate, since the rusting hinges mean it always sticks - he isn't expecting anyone else to be there.
Even he shouldn't be there, not really. He should be at home with his parents, not due back at Kadic for the new term for another week, but several bus and train journeys have brought him here, angry and laden with a hastily packed suitcase, and there's no turning back now. It's a roof over his head and it's mercifully quiet, an oasis devoid of his father's lectures and his mother's platitudes. It's a place to escape, for a while.
Sunday afternoon sunlight slants in through the cracked window panes and torn blinds and it's only when Ulrich steps through square patches of light and sends dust motes swirling into the air that he notices he's not alone. The tell-tale signs creep in upon his senses slowly – the musty smell of the abandoned house is tempered with fresh coffee and the tang of bleach and faintly, beneath the chirping of birds, there is a quiet, unnatural whirring.
Immediately, he's on alert. Ulrich's hands form fists poised and ready to strike as he picks a careful path across the room, muttering a curse under his breath as shards of ceramic become yet tinier fragments beneath the soles of his shoes. Back pressed flat to the wall, he shuffles along the hallway as quietly as he can before pausing to listen.
It could be anyone, he tells himself. The thought isn't as reassuring as he'd hoped.
There's a sound from the kitchen, a quiet thud and scuffling caught up in the faintest of panicked, hitching breath, and Ulrich's hands shake a little as he clasps the handle, turning it slowly...
It's Jérémie, Jérémie standing in the middle of the kitchen floor wielding a broken chair leg, and only when Ulrich sees the wide, panicked blue eyes do the last dregs of suspicion drain away until he's grinning, grinning relief and the joy of seeing a familiar face; the kind of joy, he thinks absently, that should have accompanied his returning home.
Jérémie is still tangled up in his fear; he lashes out with the chair leg but Ulrich side-steps the attack with ease, just about preventing Jérémie from toppling over with the force of the swing. His hands find skinny shoulders and cling firmly but gently, drawing back so they are face to face.
"Hey, Jérémie."
"Oh, Ulrich. It's you," Jérémie gasps. "I wasn't expecting... I mean, I thought XANA might have known I was here and decided to launch an attack."
It's then that Ulrich notices the open laptop on the kitchen table, a polystyrene cardboard-sleeved cup beside it.
Ulrich smiles at him. "Not XANA. Just me."
"Sorry, about-"
"Don't sweat it."
"What are you doing here?" asks Jérémie.
"I could ask you the same question."
It's not malicious, only an observation, but Jérémie looks away as he pushes his glasses distractedly up the bridge of his nose, and Ulrich takes his hands from his shoulders. "My parents are... away." He trails off, small round shoulders hunched up in a sad shrug, but a moment later he seems to remember that Ulrich is there and his face breaks open in a forced smile. "I don't like those kinds of beach holidays and I didn't want to be halfway across the country in case, you know. Especially with Aelita and Yumi away." He folds his arms over his chest, seemingly at a loss as to what to do with them.
"They left me money for groceries and spending," Jérémie adds, "But I didn't really see the point in sitting around at home when I could work on some more stuff for the supercomputer. I told our neighbours I was staying with a friend, and anyway, they'll be back in a few days. They won't even know I was gone."
Ulrich nods, remembers his meeting with Jérémie's father and how strange it was, like seeing his own story through someone else's eyes as he watched Mr Belpois talk to his son about grades. Maybe beneath that, Mr Belpois' views his son with a detached sort of pride, though Ulrich can't be sure that hindsight and wistfulness are altering his memories. He feels a sort of ache inside as he wonders about it, Jérémie's story – and Jérémie hesitating, frozen in place in the middle of the kitchen tiles as he wonders if his words will survive Ulrich's scrutiny – and whether it's any kind of parent that would leave their thirteen year old kid home alone.
But this all happens in the space of a minute, thoughts processed without words, and it all weighs down like sediment in the back of Ulrich's mind as he's brought into the present moment, Jérémie proffering the inevitable question quietly.
"So how come you're here?"
Ulrich tries to look nonchalant.
"Oh, you know. Parents."
Ulrich turns to run a hand across the kitchen counter, a thick layer of dust coating his fingertip. Thick vines are creeping in through the window, feeding on the moisture that lingers on the mouldy draining board. The walls are defiled with profanities and Ulrich thinks how sad it is, that someone used to be happy here.
He doesn't want toput into words the memory of that morning when he left home, of his father's usual lecture on Ulrich's grades and everything that followed. The tipping of his barely-eaten dinner into the sink, the slamming of doors on his father's yelling as he dragged his wheeled suitcase down the drive and up the road. The text message sent back home which simply read, 'Staying with a friend. U' and the long journey back to France, sleeping on trains and metal platform benches, as all the while he wondered where he'd stay, whether it would be too cold and dangerous in the factory at night, and if anyone would come after him.
He had walked for a while through unfamiliar streets, which faded after a turn or two into more familiar ones, until he glimpsed Kadic's rooftop through a thicket of trees and found his favourite ice-cream place in the next street over. And then he had remembered the Hermitage.
Jérémie's eyes follow Ulrich though he stays where he is, taking up that small square of tile in the Hermitage kitchen. "You're not staying at Odd's?"
Ulrich shakes his head. He can't explain that he wanted to be alone without insulting Jérémie, even though he trusts Jérémie to give him his space. Besides, Jérémie was here first, has been for a few days if the state of his rumpled and dirty clothes are anything to go by.
Jérémie nods, says nothing else but reaches up to press his hand on Ulrich's shoulder in that familiar, reassuring way, and steps back into the living room area, taking his laptop with him. He's improvised a workspace with the coffee table dragged out to the centre of the room, set before the only dining-room chair still in good condition.
"You hungry? I bought snacks." Jérémie gestures to two plastic carrier bags tucked away at the side of the dilapidated couch. Ulrich immediately sinks to his knees and rifles through, taking a long, grateful swig of orange juice straight from the carton.
"Thanks," he replies as he begins tearing into a bag of potato chips.
"No problem."
Jérémie perches on the chair and begins to type again whilst Ulrich flops onto the couch, content to sit and watch as his friend's face becomes a mask of concentration. Within ten minutes of Ulrich's arrival, a sense of normality has been established.
It's always been the way with Ulrich and Jérémie.
When Jérémie's laptop battery finally gives out a few hours later, he closes the lid with a soft sigh. Ulrich has eaten, slept, woken up again, and now watches Jérémie as he stands, slowly, and makes his way to the bookshelf lining the opposite wall where he runs his hands through thick, leather-bound volumes made unreadable by ruin and neglect. It's a shame, they're both thinking. Some shelves are so badly rotted that they've given way, forcing books into unnatural folds with the spines bent open, their pages curled over and crumpled.
"It's hard to believe Aelita lived here, isn't it?" says Ulrich.
"Yeah," Jérémie replies solemnly. "All those years ago."
He picks up one of the less damaged books from the shelf, pauses before picking up another. Then he crosses the room again and sits down beside Ulrich, offering him one of the books – Ulrich is reluctant, but then he opens it and finds, not science jargon but fairytales, fantasy lands which he dives into gratefully - and the orange sunset lights the pages as they immerse themselves in their respective worlds of printed word. Ulrich actually quite likes reading – manga and comics mostly - and it's one of those facts that everyone but Jérémie usually forgets about.
That night Jérémie sets up his sleeping bag on one couch, the one with stuffing spilling from gaping wounds in its sides. Ulrich takes the other, using his jacket to cover the exposed springs before he slides into his own sleeping bag and surrounds himself with spare blanket layers, a torch at his side (Jérémie has thought of almost everything) and they wriggle into more comfortable positions on opposite sides of the room before settling into quiet, both staring at the same dampened ceiling.
Ulrich feels like he's at some weird sleepover. His voice comes out scratchy and quiet, afraid of being too loud, as he calls across the space between their makeshift beds.
"Jérémie, are you awake?"
"Yeah."
"Uh. Are you okay? Comfortable and all?"
"I'm fine. Roughing it seems much more fun in the movies though, doesn't it?"
Ulrich laughed a little. "Yeah. The springs from this couch are digging into my back."
"Want to trade?"
"Nah, it's all right."
A pause.
Outside, leaves rustle. Ulrich thinks of all the harmless creatures in the woods, the potential for violent savagery in them should XANA decide to launch an attack. Birds, boars, wolves. A shudder runs through him at about the same that time Jérémie coughs.
"Hey," says Jérémie, forcing the words through the heavy dark. "I'll go and charge my laptop at the library again tomorrow. That's what I've been doing since I got here."
"Okay."
"What will you do?"
"I don't know. I might go for a walk."
"Ah."
Now that it's occurred to him, Ulrich struggles to shake the image of the animals in the woods. "Should one of us keep watch, do you think?"
"We're light sleepers. We'll be okay."
"I guess. Jérémie?"
"Yeah?"
"It's nice not having to go to sleep with earplugs in."
Jérémie gives a little snort of laughter. When his breathing slows, Ulrich thinks he's fallen asleep; his own eyes are just drifting closed to the peaceful sounds of the night when hears a mumbled, "Goodnight Ulrich."
He just about manages a barely coherent reply before he tumbles into dreams at last.
/
Living alone in an old house isn't without its difficulties.
The novelty's beginning to wear off for Ulrich by the next morning when he wakes from a cold night bundled up in sleeping bags only to learn he'll have to wash in the freezing water from the outside tap which is, miraculously enough, still running. Jéremie, already used to it, doesn't seem to mind.
"It's only a bit colder than what we have at school," he points out. Ulrich laughs; it's funny because it's pretty much true.
He complains loudly as he steps out of the drafty house, tugging his shirt reluctantly over his head, but is surprised to find his mood suddenly lifted. The air is crisp, with fluffy white clouds in a sea of blue sky and last night's tingling fear little more than a blot of shadow on the new day. The cold water splashed over his chest sends a rush of energy through him, and though Ulrich is shivering he lingers just long enough by the side of the house to admire the pastel-coloured morning.
There's no central heating and no warm food for breakfast, and they dab themselves dry with bunched-up t-shirts. The broken chairs mean they can't sit at the kitchen table, but it's not the best room in the house anyway, what with the questionable stains on the scratched linoleum that their best restoration efforts couldn't banish, and the air thick with the scent of rotting wood. Instead they sit side by side on the living room sofa to eat a morning meal comprised of leftover snacks.
The room grows warmer as the day goes on, and sunlight slides in awkward beams across the carpet. Jérémie goes to the library, returns with snacks, sits at his laptop and programmes. Ulrich reads, feeling as though he's read more books – proper books, not comics – than he's read in his life, and learns more about Nordic myths than he'll ever need to know. He doesn't mind reading when it doesn't come with the pressures of taking everything in and the underlying threat of an examination at the end of it, but it's still nice to eventually put the books aside and lose himself in the familiar motions of his martial arts a movement that will become routine in the days that follow, Ulrich pushes himself up from the sofa and steps out through the broken front door onto the overgrown grass, where he stretches his legs and windmills his arms, taking his body methodically through each step in a carefully choreographed routine. He takes off his shirt and drapes it over a nearby bush, lets the sun warm his back and revels in the gentle strain of his lungs as his pace increases and his breathing grows laboured.
Punch, kick, block. Spin, jab, kick.
Sometimes, in the soft sweep of grass and rush of air, there will be spells of quiet; a subtle, barely-there absence of something, as Jérémie pauses in his work, gaze drawn by the flow of movement. His mind drifts, eyes fixed on Ulrich whose face remains solemn and focused, framed in the smashed bay window.
Jérémie has a theory about it. How their bodies are hardier than they should be, inhumanly tough from being broken down and rebuilt so many times, but signs that say nothing about how stable their genetic code might remain in the long run. He thinks about the scanners and the radioactive substance that powers the supercomputer, and wonders whether they'll live longer or shorter because of it. Side-effects of Lyoko that Jérémie can only speculate on... the terrifying idea that Ulrich – all his friends, but whilst he's right here in front of him, Jérémie's thoughts are with Ulrich – that Ulrich might really be vulnerable. These are the things he thinks about, little worries that crowd themselves into the spaces in his brain that aren't already preoccupied with everything else.
Somewhere in this huddled knot of thoughts, he also has the grace to blush.
When you've seen someone screaming in agony, seen blood pour from their wounds and frightened tears spill from their eyelids, something like a naked torso should be inconsequential. But adolescence has its constants.
Jérémie mutters something inaudible to himself, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose The sound of typing resumes.
Ulrich finishes practising. Jérémie takes another break. They eat more snack food and, as the day fades into a cool evening, they wrap themselves once more in blankets. The wind is chilly in the evening and it whistles loudly through the shattered windows in ways Ulrich didn't notice the night before. They draw out the darkness for as long as they can bear it, not wanting to use the flashlights too much in case the batteries run out.
A slow, subdued end to a slow, subdued day.
And still, it's better than being at home.
/
"Don't you ever sleep?" Ulrich yawns. He's woken up in the middle of the night to the soft blue glow of a laptop screen and the persistent clicking of keys. Jérémie's face is pale, the space beneath his eyes purple and shadowed. He's startled out of his work and spins to see Ulrich on the sofa, and only then does he take off his glasses and run his hand over his face. With a flash of startling insight, Ulrich knows that that gesture will follow Jérémie throughout his entire life and is the very first glimpse of the adult he will eventually become.
Jérémie smiles wryly. "It's hard to switch off, sometimes."
Ulrich heaves himself up on one elbow, his arms scratching against the plastic outlining of his sleeping bag. "Einstein, you've got to rest."
He sighs, reluctant. "I know. Just another hour or two, okay?"
Ulrich knows Jérémie will stay up long after he's drifted back asleep, but he lets it slide. "Sure, just another hour or so. What are you working on, anyway?"
Jérémie lights up then, a burning enthusiasm that ignites his entire being from within as he launches into a technical explanation of his latest project; something about a ship that will let them traverse the Digital Sea. Ulrich doesn't see how such a thing could be possible, but lets himself get caught up in the idea of it. He'll like the change of pace, and he's always wondered about that huge space beneath Lyoko. Besides, what kid his age would ever get the chance to pilot a submarine?
Watching Jérémie's unabashed smile as he talks about blueprints and schematics, Ulrich feels a rush of sudden warmth for this miniature Einstein, this boy with terrible posture who forgets to sleep and feed himself, not that Ulrich is much better.
"It's all highly theoretical at this point," Jérémie is saying. "I've been trying to keep it quiet. You never know when our good friend XANA might be listening in." His voice lilts sarcastically on the endearment but it's still enough of a reminder that Ulrich sits up a little straighter, unconsciously flexing the muscles in his arms. They're a target here in the Hermitage as much as anywhere else, probably more so, but they're together – Ulrich trusts as much in Jérémie's brains as the other boy does in Ulrich's brawn – so maybe, just maybe they'll be okay until school starts again.
He watches Jérémie type away. His thoughts are full of spectres and submarines floating in binary-code seas.
/
On the third day, Ulrich makes his way through the front door with three carrier bags full of food and two cardboard boxes balanced awkward and flat in one palm. The thought of the food raises his spirits and in daylight it's easy to forget for a while the discomfort of sleeping on the sofa, the yearning for home comforts (not the home itself, that he's trying not to think about). He can't help grinning to himself as he thinks about what Odd would say if he were here, on the doorstep with bags full of groceries.
Honey, I'm home!
Jérémie catches theexpression on Ulrich's face as the door opens, countering it with one of bewilderment. He hasn't moved from his laptop all morning; now, his face contorts with pain as his stiff muscles resist the movement of stretching.
"What's so funny?"
Ulrich shakes his head. "Ah, it's nothing. Hey, I got pizza."
He puts everything on the table in the space made by Jérémie's laptop, shoved aside as Jérémie digs excitedly through the bags. He pulls his face at the fruit – 'we needed something a little healthy' Ulrich says apologetically as he bites into an apple – turns over bread, packs of cold ham and chicken. There's chocolate, bottled water, and two huge pizzas from the takeaway on the street near Kadic. Ulrich doesn't mind about the money. As far as he's concerned, it's well spent.
Ulrich makes sure Jérémie stops programming to eat, with the usual level of resistance. They talk about everything and nothing as they split four-cheese and pepperoni, feeling full and a little rebellious. There's something gratifying in things as small as having no washing up to do.
Presently, Jérémie's head droops onto Ulrich's shoulder and the last bite of pizza crust slips from his fingers. Ulrich shifts, places his hand on Jérémie's shoulder as the blond boy sleepily removes his glasses and accepts the blanket his friend offers him.
"You were up too late last night," Ulrich chides, then immediately frowns – he sounds way too much like an overbearing parent. The thought stays with him as he lowers Jérémie gently, props his head up on the armrest, but he knows that this is just them, Jérémie and Ulrich, and this is what they do. Odd's gestures are so often too much, a friendly slap on the back that knocks the wind out of you, an unexpected dig in the ribs. With Jérémie, Ulrich feels a quiet acknowledgement, a reaching across an invisible boundary that says "I'm here, okay" and that resonates with Ulrich in a quietly reassuring way he can't put into words. When he steps outside to practise penkac silat on the Hermitage's grassy lawn, his head turns frequently in the direction of the window where, just visible in the front room, Jérémie remains curled on the sofa.
Time passes in events, anticipated landmarks of sleep, meals, trips to the store and the library. The finishing of one book and the starting of the another, pencak silat practice. Even a chess game or two, slotted in amongst feeble attempts at playing the broken piano.
All things considered it's not so bad.
And then on the sixth day it rains.
It rains buckets, heavy, unseasonably icy droplets that pelt the window panes and leave puddles of damp that seep up through the carpet. The wind doesn't whistle any more, it roars, so loud and threatening that twice Jérémie moves to check the super-scan just in case XANA is planning any weather-related attacks.
Nothing, except for a perfectly ordinary, terrible night.
Their hands and feet are blocks of ice when they concede defeat and move onto the same sofa to huddle for warmth, forcing their complaints through chattering teeth. Jérémie keeps his laptop pressed close to his chest and winds his feet beneath Ulrich's, and the fabric of their clothes crumple against one another. The batteries in the flashlights grow fainter. Jérémie's shaking his head and muttering something that's lost in the wind. His arms leave his laptop to snake around Ulrich's waist in a vice-like grip. Ulrich winces but silently understands, and his own arms find a place to slot neatly around Jérémie's shoulders.
They fall asleep afraid and silent, reminded painfully of how young they really are.
/
When dawn breaks and the storm clears, they are exhausted.
Aching and shivering they stumbled out into weak sunlight, trudge in crumpled shirts and slightly damp shoes and socks to the café across the street, where they cup their hands gratefully around steaming mugs of coffee as they slump on the sun-warmed tabletop and pointedly ignore the strange looks passers-by are giving them.
They drink in silence. As soon as the last dregs been tipped from their cups they order second rounds. Then, with the very last of their money they order a plate of cookies between them and a toasted sandwich each. Ulrich can feel a headache pressing in around his temples and he's sure he's not imagining the slightly stuffed-up condition of his nose.
Finally, Jérémie reiterates his thoughts from hours ago, what they're both thinking.
"This was a stupid idea, wasn't it?"
Ulrich laughs dryly. "Yeah."
"I think I'm going to head back home later. My parents' flight is scheduled to arrive tomorrow and I want to be there when they get back. Also-"
"Hm?"
"I've run out of clean clothes."
Ulrich nods agreement. "You did a better job of packing than me, at least. I guess I should head back, too."
"Will your parents be mad?"
He tries to act casual; he's been forcing the inevitable going-home to the back of his mind and he can't imagine the house being any different than when he left – the shouting will begin again as soon as he walks through the door.
"I don't care."
Jérémie hides his lack of response behind a mouthful of coffee. There's nothing really right or comforting to say in the face of such an obvious lie. Suddenly Ulrich's very interested in a guy walking his dog and Jérémie is very taken with his own shoelaces.
"It's okay. I'll be fine, Jérémie."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
Ulrich needs to say it, and he does, after a second's hesitation.
"...Thanks, though."
Jérémie runs his hand through the back of his hair in that way he does when he's nervous. His mouth twists in a shy smile and the faintest blush creeps over his face. Ulrich thinks about the person Jérémie will be, but in that moment he can't quite see past the face of the awkward adolescent boy.
"I should say," Jérémie begins, a slightly formal edge to his tone and his hands pressed together in front of him, "thank you, as well. You know, for being around, and helping out." He relaxes a little. "And making sure we didn't both die from eating nothing but sugar."
Ulrich could make a jibe about Jérémie's terrible eating habits, but that's more Odd's thing.
Instead he just says:
"Forget about it, Einstein."
After all, it's Ulrich and Jérémie, and this is what they do.