As the hours passby, the sun begins to rise, but the light Peter usually finds blinding is filtered, slipping into the basement they're kept in through a single small window, barely lending light to the dim room. Peter sits curled into himself, trying to make out the blurry forms around him as the sun gets higher, unable to trust the people trapped with him. Sometimestheywould mix in among captives, pretending to be one too. Peter'sseen it before. He'sseen humans die because of it too. Someoneshifts behind Peter, and there's afamiliar soft-spoken voice, once again offering pointless encouragement to Peter, likely trying to keep him calm. Only Peter hasn't once been calm from the start.
"Hey, It's going to be okay. Just trust me."
Peter can't trust anyone. Not anymore. Even so, there'spart of him that still desperately wants to believe the stranger. Peter doesn't know what feeling is worse.
"They won't come down until afternoon,"The stranger adds, "They never do, so just rest until then. You'll need your energy."
There's no such thing as "resting" in a place like this, where letting your guard down could mean your life, and Mathew's words only scare Peter more. "Need his energy"? For what? Peter hasseen this situation enough times that he'sable to guess, and the thoughts of what could happen to him only make him tenser, more frightened. A hand reachesout and pullsPeter down into his lap, and in a second Peter'sfrozen like a rabbit, his every nerve on fire and his instincts screaming to be quiet and unnoticeable and compliant. It was the loud ones, the ones who fought back, who were hurt the most. Tortured, to break their spirits. So Peter's learned to be quiet, to blend into the background and to hide and run instead of fight. These things have been drilled into him over and over throughout the years, to the point his body responds, evenbefore his mind, stiffening his muscles before forcing them to release, like a limp doll. Even being too stiff can be seen as defiance, and defiant people diefirst. By the time his mind reacts to his body, Peter realizes tht nothing bad is happening. Not yet.. His head is rested on the stranger's lap, the only way one canlie down in the packed area, and the stranger hasn't tried to touch Peter otherwise. If Peter wasn't so scared...If he hadn't learned time and time again how the human race had changed, how people evolved into monsters, he might have let himselfthink that the stranger might be a "person" too, like Alfred and Jet. But Peter can't trust anyone. He can't afford to.
Peter lies obediently on the stranger's lap, limp and unresistant, just in case the stranger feels like enforcing the command with his fists, but Peter doesn't rest. He's hyper aware of his surroundings, the many shifting people, most of which seem to have chosen to ignore the stranger's pointlessly optimistic comments. The Stranger shifts and Peter snapshis eyes to the stranger'sface, alert and uneasy, trying to read the stranger's face in the dim light. Trying to judge if the person is a friend or an enemy. But as soon as Peter sees the person's face, he freezes, feeling his blood chill.
"Alfred?"
Peter knows it's impossible, there's no way this person is Alfred. Its true they look the same, but Alfred could never be this quiet, this subdued, but regardless there's a similarity between the two that goes beyond looks. The persistence, the gentleness, an infallible refusal to lose shining in their eyes, a colour that Peter could almost swear is purple in the dim light that he's squinting to see through. Not-Alfred's gentle smile slips away, his eyes going round and wide, but his voice remains soft and he responds urgently to Peter.
"You know Alfred? Is he okay?"
Peter warily returns the stranger's look. He's almost certain he knows who this is, but Peter has been too relaxed lately, and his recent fumble has him on high alert, so instead of answering the question Peter asks one of his own.
"Who are you?"
Not-Alfred looks more curious than offended, and answers without concern about why Peter wants to know. Peter isn't sure if he's relieved or frustrated by the answer.
"Ah, I'm Alfred's brother, Mathew. You can call me Mattie. That's what Al calls me."
Peter thinks that it's ironic that he'd found the "Mattie" that Alfred was so desperate to see, but only after he lost Alfred first. But Mathew is looking at him, expectantly, and Peter can feel the same sort of pressure he'd finally gotten used to feeling from Alfred coming from Mathew, the same kind of pressure he feelswhen Alfred wants him to laugh at his joke, or to tell him he thinks Alfred is cool. And just like with Alfred, Peter knows what answer Mathew is looking for too.
"He's okay. Or at least, he was fine last time Isaw him."
Peter doesn't tell Mathew about the gunshot or Jet's cry. He doesn't want to tell Mathew that Jet might be dying. Matthew's tense and eager face melts into a relieved grin at the words.
"Is that so? Well, it's pretty hard to hurt Al, After all."
Peter wants to agree with Mathew, but last night's memories are too clear in his mind. Alfred could have been shot. Jet had been. The two who seemed incredibly invincible to Peter were just humans too, and like humans, they could die too. Peter thinks that it's because Mathew thinks this way that he was captured in this place. Mathew notices Peter's sober face, and seems to remember the situation.
"Don't worry!"
Mathew asks something impossible of Peter, and follows it up with an impossible declaration.
"I'll protect you!"
Mathew smiles, like he's thought ofan inside joke, and says one more impossible thing.
"I Told you my brother would come save us,right? That's Al."
But Peter can only feel a deeper depression at those words. After all, Peter knows that Alfred doesn't know where Mathew is. He knows that Jet is injured, and that Alfred might be too. Peter knowsjust how unlikely Mathew's declaration is. Peter bites his lip, but doesnt say anything.
He knows that sometimes the only thing people have is hope, even if its false.