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Edwin stopped abruptly at an intersection, and Charles could see the dull confusion in his eyes as they flitted from one corridor to another. One arm was wrapped around his middle, but it wasn’t enough to disguise the ever-growing bloodstain on his shirt, nor did it do anything to make him steadier on his feet. Charles rested a hand on his shoulder in quiet support and squeezed gently, but Edwin didn’t react.
“Maybe we should rest a minute, mate,” Charles whispered. If Edwin was getting to a point where he couldn’t recognize where they were, there was no point in continuing. They’d given the great bloody spider-thing the slip, but surely not for long, and getting lost would only set them back.
Edwin looked at him and blinked, his eyes unfocused. He shook his head. “I can make it a little further.”
“Not if you don’t know where you’re going.” Edwin was tough and Edwin was the expert and Edwin probably knew exactly how far he could walk with a ragged hole in his gut, but Edwin was also woozy with blood loss and wasn’t thinking straight. That meant it was up to Charles to make the decisions, as little as he wanted to be in charge of coldly assessing whether Edwin’s pain was worth it or not. If Charles had a personal Hell, it was probably something like this: watching Edwin hurt and knowing he couldn’t do anything about it, failing to protect him at every turn and then wash, rinse, repeat.
“If I sit down now,” Edwin said, each hushed word a visible effort, “I will not get back up.”
“I know.”
Edwin sighed, a little tired fluttery thing, and waved vaguely at the corridor straight in front of them. “Any door will do.”
Charles took the lead now, Edwin’s hand clasped tightly in his own. It wouldn’t help if the spider found them, but it made him feel better to have a solid grip on him, to know for sure that he wasn’t going to leave Edwin behind, to know that he’d notice if Edwin fell. It didn’t take long to find a door, and Charles peeked inside to check for any immediately visible threats before he allowed Edwin to follow him in.
It was a small room, green and dingy like the rest of the Dollhouse, with rows of mostly-empty shelves. Hell’s facsimile of a storeroom, maybe. With the shelves empty there was a direct line of sight from the door to the back, so Charles led Edwin to the side and hoped it would be enough. (He knew it wouldn’t be if the spider found them there.) Edwin collapsed to the floor with a wince, still clutching his middle, and Charles followed him down.
“It won’t be long,” Edwin whispered. He was starting to wheeze, and even that was quieter than it really should have been.
“Shh.” Charles wrapped an arm around Edwin’s shoulders and Edwin leaned into him, resting his head on Charles’s shoulder. “Just rest. I’d read you some Bramah if I could.”
Edwin huffed out a quiet, strained laugh. “We shouldn’t talk if we don’t need to. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
Charles had no way of tracking time in Hell. He had no way of knowing how long they sat there, waiting, as Edwin’s breathing hitched and slowed, as his muscles relaxed and he sank further and further into Charles’s side. It made Charles want to scream. Had Edwin felt this same terrible helplessness in the attic while Charles died, knowing exactly what was about to happen but powerless to stop it? Had he stayed with Charles because he knew what it felt like to be alone and hurt and afraid when no one was coming to save you? It must have been torturous, and they hadn’t even known each other yet. Charles wanted to tear the spider to shreds with his bare hands, wanted to bring Hell tumbling down around him, wanted to keep Edwin safe. But in the end all he could do was hold him while they waited.
And then, the final failure: Edwin’s breathing had grown so faint that Charles didn’t notice when it stopped. All he knew was that Edwin was still pressed heavily against his side, and then there was Edwin again, crouching down in front of him and whispering, “We need to go.”
Charles swallowed and carefully removed his arm from Edwin’s shoulders. He slumped forward and Charles caught him with one hand on his chest, causing his head to loll bonelessly. This was the first time Edwin had died without being torn away from Charles first and it was deeply unsettling to hold his best friend’s corpse, which had been breathing weakly just moments ago, when the same best friend was awake and alert right in front of him.
“Charles,” Edwin hissed. “Leave it, it’s only a body.”
“It’s you,” Charles said. He wasn’t about to drop Edwin on the floor like a sack of potatoes. He eased Edwin down to the floor, careful not to knock his head, and arranged him on his back with his hands covering the great gaping wound. He didn’t know what Edwin looked like when he slept, but probably not like that. He was too still, too stiff.
Edwin stood up, and Charles followed, though he couldn’t help glancing back. Edwin looked awfully lonely there on the floor, all small and cold, but there was nothing more Charles could do for him. They had to keep moving.
“Let’s go, then,” he murmured, and Edwin led him back out into the maze.