england / december 20th, 1948

word count: 1,366

xXx

Christmas break had never been something to look forward to, for Eustace Scrubb.

Alberta said the holiday amounted to nothing more than a capitalistic scheme designed to prey on the sentimentality of religious folk, and Eustace had proudly parroted the line to anyone who dared such a kindness as to give him a gift or wish him happy Christmas.

No lights hung from the awning of the Scrubb house, no tree stood twinkling in the window, no gingerbread scent wafted from the kitchen, and no stockings awaited Christmas morning, a day as ordinary and dull as any other, save that Eustace had always been permitted to pick out his own gifts from the department store so that none of the other schoolchildren could outdo him with their holiday treasures.

Now even that poor tradition had been abandoned, ever since the Pevensies first invited him for a week over Christmas, and his mother only tucked a twenty pound note into his pocket as if to prove to her sister that dual-income households need not send their children off to family empty handed.

Eustace had never once let them see the money, and he had no plans of doing so this year, either, though twenty four hours still loomed between him and the safety of his cousins' house; twenty four hours before he could escape the bare walls and well-dusted window sills that had hollowed him long before he understood why.

He pressed his head back against the railing at the top of the front porch steps, gazing up into the same dull December sky that had never afforded any comfort beyond commiseration.

Pale smoke drifted up against it as the acrid cigarette taste tainted his tongue, lungs burning against the chill in the air, both arms tucked tightly against his thin tunic, but even the knife-sharp breeze was gentle compared to the condescension in his mother's tone.

"What am I supposed to think?" Alberta Scrubb had snapped only a few minutes earlier. "Running off after those uncivilized cousins of yours every year?"

"I don't know why you care," he'd replied flatly. "I thought Christmas was old fashioned anyway."

"It's about how it looks," she'd said, "the neighbors have noticed you're never here over school holidays, and what am I supposed to tell them?"

"Oh, bother how it looks, bother what they think! That's all you care about, isn't it? What they all think. Are you still lying about my university prospects, too?"

"Why, I never— Eustace Clarence Scrubb, I have never lied—"

"You told the Browns I was looking at a degree in political science, I heard it from Peggy myself."

"Well you may at least be looking—"

"I WANT to go into cartography and you KNOW that!"

"You still have another year at school, there's plenty of time to—"

Eustace turned and walked out of the kitchen before she could finish, before he said or did something he would regret, and he just barely caught himself in time to avoid slamming the front door behind him as he stepped out onto the porch and reached reflexively for his lighter.

She didn't follow him.

She never followed him.

Not even when he stormed out without a coat in the middle of December. Though, all things considered, that was probably for the best.

He took another deep draw on his cigarette and breathed out against the grey cloudy blanket hanging over the city, ignoring the nip of icy wind as he closed his eyes.

The moment he did so, however, the crunch of gravel and the rumble of a motor rolled up the drive, and he sat bolt upright, thinking for a second that his father had come home early, bracing for another row about the smoking habit he'd never even meant to pick up in the first place.

He never smoked at the Pevensies' house, at any rate.

But he glanced over his shoulder to spot a black cab pulling up in front of the house, domed and almost turtle-looking as all Hackneys were, though he'd never seen one here before.

The motor switched off.

He stood, brows knitting, and then the passenger door opened and Edmund Pevensie stepped out, unmistakable black hair fluttering over his eyes in the breeze, pale hand reaching up to push it out of the way as he shut the door behind and looked up at Eustace.

"Well, that's convenient," he called, "I don't even have to knock."

Eustace blinked, stunned for a second before he snapped back to his senses and descended the front steps two at a time. "What are you doing here?" He almost laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of such an appearance out of the blue. "I thought Pole and I were taking the train tomorrow?"

"Guess I'll take it with you," said Edmund. "I only got in today. There were a couple things I wanted to do in the city and I figured I'd stop here and see if you wanted to come. I hope I'm not wrong in assuming you've got nothing better to do." He smirked, and Eustace scoffed.

"Certainly not. I'm bored to death."

"Good." His eyes flicked down to the cigarette, and Eustace dropped it at once, putting it out with the heel of his shoe.

"Sorry, habit from school."

Edmund shrugged. "I don't mind. Bit dragonish, isn't it?"

Eustace shot him a dry look, pursing his lips in grateful frustration.

Edmund grinned, then looked him over. "Are you leaving without a coat?"

"Oh." Eustace bounced on his toes as he spun quickly and ran back up the steps, flinging open the front door and bolting to pull his coat off the rack as he called "I'm going out!" and wheeled the second he's flung the woolen garment over his shoulders, jogging back down the front steps and out to the cab as Edmund ducked in ahead of him.

He climbed into the back passenger seat beside his cousin and shut the door, and Edmund gave directions to the driver.

"What on earth do you need in Cambridge?" asked Eustace as they pulled out, his white house shrinking away amidst reddish stone buildings surrounding it as they turned onto the road and the city opened up beyond the row.

"Few different things. You wrote me about a map shop, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, oh, you have to see it, Ed, there's a whole section in the back with really old ones, especially of the Atlantic, lots of those, and I was talking to the Professor, you know, this past summer, when he was telling us about those stories his crazy uncle used to talk about, with his fairy godmother? And I think I recognized some names—you'll have to check it for me—you know, it's all so different when you know Atlantis actually existed."

"You found maps of Atlantis?"

"Well not quite, but nobody's looking at them and thinking of that as a possibility, right? Any records about it are called fairytales, so they're not even being cross-referenced with anything else."

Edmund smirked, dark eyes flicking to the cab driver who very sensibly said nothing, and Eustace bit his lip, suddenly sheepish.

"We'll have to stop there, then, of course," said Edmund before he could interject any kind of apology for his enthusiasm. "We should get some to show the Professor this summer, when Aunt Polly is there too, she's nearly as crazy as he is about all that. Maybe more."

Eustace grinned. For a second he wanted to say thank you, for all of this, for thinking to get him out of the house, but he bit it back, sighing instead and glancing out the window where the city flashed by under an endless canopy of grey. "I will. I bet we could really find something, if we tried."

"Now you definitely sound like Aunt Polly."

Eustace hid a tiny smile. And he thought if the world always felt like this, he wouldn't so much mind looking up at the same December sky.

Sitting next to someone who understood, the blanket of clouds overhead felt a great deal more adventurous than lonesome.

And perhaps even the loneliest sorts of winter days weren't so bad after all.