#lwbr

You awake a couple of hours later to the sound of Edgar and Namgoong arguing, blinking sleepily as you slowly reach to rub your eyes. You see Curtis sitting a few feet away talking to Yona, clearly not interested in what Edgar and Namgoong are bickering about, but when he notices you are awake he immediately frowns in their direction. “Hey! Would you two shut up, already? Edgar, just let him focus on opening the damn gate.” He makes his way over to you, looking somewhat apologetic, his features already softening. “I’m sorry. I should have quieted them down earlier, but I guess it’s good you’re up now. Namgoong will probably manage to open the gate within the next ten minutes or so, he says this one’s a bit more tricky.” 

He can sense Edgar and Tanya staring holes into his back, and he knows why. He’s become a completely different person for you already, and while part of him wonders if he should stop acting so suspicious, why should he hold back how he feels? He can’t help but feel he’s waited his whole life for you without knowing it, and he’s not going to let his friends’ judgment change how he treats you. You’re special, and you’re his. 

“It’s alright,” you assure him softly, slowly sitting up and stretching your legs, your lips parting to let out a light yawn. He can’t help but stare at them, remembering how he had “marked” you earlier, wondering how patient he can be until your lips will consciously taste his seed rather than in your sleep. “You could have woken me up earlier, though, Curtis…”

“I wanted to let you sleep as long as possible. You’re not as… used to this as we are.” He figures this answer would at least make sense from Tanya and Edgar’s perspective, rather than making it too incredibly obvious that he’s spoiling you in every possible way he can. “Yeh, you’re a little fuckin’ princess, aren’t ya, sweet pea?” Edgar asks, though he sounds more amused than mocking-- for now, anyways. Curtis can tell he likes you enough to be somewhat playful with you in his naturally blunt fashion, but he can also tell that the young blond is wary at the same time. You blush slightly, shaking your head as you slowly stand up, wrapping Curtis’ jacket around your shoulders. “I don’t want to be, I want to help you guys.” You insist, and Curtis decides it’s time to end the conversation. “You will. Now stand back, Y/N, just in case there’s something on the other side of these gates…”

“There’s no one,” Yona confirmed, looking somewhat puzzled. “That is what I just to-”

“Are you almost done, Nam?” Curtis cut Yona off, looking to her father. The man gave a low grunt in response as he worked, and for some reason, you could interpret it as a ‘yes’. As the gates opened, you took a deep breath, ready to start your second day as a part of the revolution.

The first few carts were fine. You appeared to be going through the storage carts for the most part ever since Curtis had taken you, even a few kitchen carts where the chefs simply gave you weird looks before resuming their work. You notice that Curtis does not even stop to eat or drink any of the delicacies that are before him like the others do, yet he makes sure you are always fed any chance he gets. 

However, you know better than to expect this revolution to be easy, and sure enough, an obstacle is thrown at your team before you could even expect it.

“Stay back here!” Curtis demands gruffly as he practically pushes you back into the previous cart, and you widen your eyes as you watch him charge headfirst with the other tail section fighters, all sorts of weapons coming into play. You can barely identify who the enemy even is-- Yona has taken your arm and pulled you aside to hide behind a counter in the empty cart, both of you crouched low and breathing heavily. You almost let out a scream when you hear a gunshot, but Yona manages to cover your mouth before you can even make a sound, your body practically shaking from fear. She seems more composed than you, but you suppose she’s used to this.

You barely start to crane your neck to take a peek, but she shakes her head. “Don’t,” she whispers as she removes her hand, looking down at you. “You should not look. It will not be pretty.” You bite your lip but slowly nod, figuring she’s right. Still, your heart is pounding. You don’t even want to imagine that something could possibly happen to Curtis, or any of the others, for that matter.

The commotion goes on for at least a few more minutes, but you notice that it is gradually getting quieter-- most likely due to the fact that more bodies are dropping. Who’s winning? You can’t risk peeking in case it draws attention now that there are less people on the “field”. Who’s died? You’re not sure how you would feel if you were to lose your team leader already. However, you do not even have the time to think about it; your gaze is suddenly met with large black shoes standing before you, shoes that are far too clean and polished to be Curtis’. 

You and Yona look up to see a man in what would be a rather nice suit-- if it was not stained with blood. He is pointing his gun right at you, his face completely impassive. You are shivering now, partly because you’re rightfully terrified and partly because you cannot even fathom how… heartless this man is. What has he seen? What has he done? Not that you are dwelling on it too much, considering you might lose your life any second. For some reason, you are incapable of even making a sob. Yona is staring at the man with wide eyes, holding onto your arm tightly as if searching for one last action of comfort. 

And then in a split second, Curtis is there, grabbing the man from behind and shoving him roughly aside onto the floor. The assailant tries to aim his gun towards him, but Curtis kicks it out of his hand roughly before stepping on his hand entirely; you wince hearing the bones crunch. “Look away!” Curtis practically roars to you, and you do not even question it-- you immediately turn your head, now only able to hear the sounds of Curtis punching the man over and over and over again, the grunts of pain from the now victim becoming weaker and weaker...

He knows he could have simply just taken the gun and shot him.

It would have been more clean. More efficient. Less energy expended.

But when he saw that bastard standing in front of you, ready to kill you with no remorse whatsoever, he felt more rage than he ever had in his life. This man did not deserve a smooth death with a mere bullet. No, with every punch Curtis is throwing at him, he hopes each one hurts more than the last. Fuck this guy. 

The male’s face is practically unrecognizable at this point. It is a disgusting, gory sight. His hands are absolutely soaked in blood. And yet he keeps going-- the only reason he stops is when Edgar runs over, grabbing his arm and pulling him off. “Oy! He’s done for, Curtis, he’s feckin’ dead already! Chill out!” The boy’s strongly accented words bring him back to reality, the team leader blinking a few times before looking down at the body. Almost immediately after, he turns his head to look towards you. Thankfully, you are still looking away, though Yona is staring at him in horror. He sighs in relief. He does not want you to see these things. He does not even want you to see the mess of corpses in the next cart, but unfortunately, there is not exactly a way to dispose of them. But the battle is over now, and while there have been casualties on both sides, he still deems this as somewhat of a success.

“Namgoong,” he calls, breathing heavily. He is only now realizing how exhausted he is. “Open the gate. We’re moving forward.” He wipes his bloodied hands on his jacket, chest barely heaving underneath his thick clothes. “You. Come on.” He looks to you as he comes over, but before you can stand up, he has you scooped up into his arms. You blink in surprise, your cheeks barely turning pink. “I-I’m okay, Curtis, I can walk.” You insist, even feeling a little embarrassed upon sensing Edgar and Yona’s gazes upon you. “You will once Namgoong opens the gate and we’re in the next cart. But when we’re walking through, I need for you to close your eyes. Do you understand me?” The commanding way in which he emphasized his last sentence makes you immediately nod, biting on your lip. “Yes, Curtis. I understand.”

Edgar and Yona exchange glances, Edgar’s far more blatantly condemning. Curtis ignores this, instead silently appreciating how damn obedient you are, his mind taking him to slightly inappropriate places. 

The original plan was to keep moving, but the team comes across a sleeping cart sooner than expected. While sad, it is easier to accommodate everyone with the casualties that have happened earlier that day, and you try not to think about this too much. The others, while melancholy, do not seem too shaken up by this fact. You wonder how often they have to deal with death, how many people they’ve lost. You take a deep breath. It’s not fair.

“We’ll sleep here tonight,” Curtis decides, and there is a collective sigh of relief as everyone sinks down to sit. Thankfully, this cart is also heated, and you watch as the tail sectioners who are left begin to strip out of their heavy, dirtied jackets. You look down at your own lacy white slip, more or less completely stain-free, and you feel guilt. Why are you here? What is your purpose? You can’t help but feel self-conscious that the others must hate you. 

You’re suddenly distracted from your thoughts as you watch Curtis begin to peel out of his own heavy clothing. For some reason, it has not fully occurred to you that there is a normal body under those thick layers. It sounds ridiculous, but you cannot even imagine the man in a simple t-shirt let alone completely shirtless; and yet there he is, suddenly half naked before you. The others are looking at him too, but he ignores them. You allow your rounded eyes to flicker over his figure in curiosity. He is built-- not insanely muscular with perfect abs, but there is certainly definition in his torso and arms; you imagine that those in the tail section tend to gain muscle from the work they do. You can’t help but get a little red as your eyes drift down to his happy trail creeping up from the hem of his pants-- God, why are you curious as to what he looks like underneath them? You shake the thoughts out of your head almost immediately, suddenly feeling a bit hot.

He takes your hand, pulling you to the sleeping compartment in one of the corners of the cart. “You’re sleeping with me,” he states simply, and you blink but nod your head, actually somewhat grateful for this if anything. You are still feeling a little shaken up after today’s events.

He slides open the door of the compartment and helps you inside; you let out a slow exhale upon feeling soft mattress underneath you. He carefully gets in without saying a word to his friends, closing the door shut, the only connection left to the others being a small glass window on the door. You remembered your classmates always finding fabric or using their shirts to cover their windows when they did not want anyone looking in, and you feel a pang of sentimentality as you remember the acquaintances and even friends you had. What would they think of you now?

This feeling fades away as Curtis lays down with you in the limited space, his arms wrapping around your smaller frame. Your cheeks are more red than before, but you are not uncomfortable-- if anything, this feels good. You haven’t experienced much physical contact in your life. Sure, your mother gave you love and affection as a child, but when it came to touch between you and a member of the opposite sex? You could remember kissing a boy back in elementary school, but that was about it. You were not like your friends who explored their sexualities and snuck away to their sleeping compartments or even the shower carts with their male friends. You had just… never been interested.

And now, for some reason, everything has changed as you feel the heat on your cheeks as you consciously feel how close Curtis’ hands are to your butt, your head close to his bare chest. “What are you thinking about?” his deep voice suddenly breaks the silence, and you blush more. Does he somehow know what is running through your mind? You consider brushing the question off, perhaps answering with a lame “nothing” or making up something about simply feeling tired, but quite honestly, you’re not. No, you’re wide awake now, and you have an entire list of questions in your mind now that you’re finally alone with this man.

“What was life like on Earth?” you suddenly end up blurting out, tilting your head up to look at him with curious eyes. He blinks, adjusting his own positioning so that he can look down at you more properly. He is silent for a few moments, almost searching your facial features in a way as though wondering if he should answer or not, if it is worth it. He finally sighs softly, moving one hand up to run his fingers through your hair. You shiver. It feels good. 

“I don’t remember it.” He says, and you find yourself barely frowning. You’re not sure how you know, but he’s lying. “Yes you do,” you insist, surprising even yourself let alone him. This is the first time you’ve “talked back” to him, and you have to admit you’re suddenly feeling nervous. You’re about to apologize but he slowly chuckles, the deep rumble husky and musical at the same time. “You’re right, kitten. I do.” He murmurs, and you widen your eyes slightly upon the sudden pet name. Where did that come from? And why do you like it so much? “Earth was… vast. Bigger than anyone on this train can ever know, no matter how many places they traveled to.” You think of the stories your mom told you, but you’re now more interested in his. “What was your life like?” you question, and he barely furrows his eyebrows. “Normal.” He answers somewhat shortly, though he does not seem irritated or dismissive. It seems as though he has not talked about this subject in a long, long time. “It was normal. I had a mom. A dad. A sister. They’re dead now.” You wince slightly at the sudden unfortunate ending, but he does not seem affected in the least. You suppose it’s been years since they passed.

“What did you do for fun?”

“Played ball. Sports like baseball, football. Rode bikes with my friends. Went to school. Had some family vacations.” He looks down at you suddenly, barely raising an eyebrow. “Dated girls.” You don’t know why, but you’re blushing again. God, what was wrong with you? And why do you want to know more? “Did you… ever have a serious girlfriend? Someone you loved?” you ask slowly, hoping it’s not a touchy subject or too invasive of a question. He still seems unfazed, shaking his head. “No. Nothing serious. I was still pretty young when I boarded the train. Barely twenty, or early twenties, I don’t know. It’s all a blur now.” You’re about to ask another question but he suddenly gives your hips a light squeeze. “And how about you?” he asks, deciding it’s his turn to do the questioning. “You’re a train baby. Like Edgar. What have you been up to all this time?” He leans down, murmuring in a playfully mocking tone, “Any serious boyfriends?” You blink but slowly giggle, then realize it’s the first time you have in a while. His expression changes for a split second, suddenly becoming more serious, a look in his eyes you cannot decipher. His grip on you tightens and he pulls you closer, but in the blink of an eye, he is back to his regular countenance, though even just barely smiling. 

“No. I… I’ve never even kissed anyone, really.” You admit, teeth pulling at your lower lip somewhat in embarrassment. “I mean, I did when I was like, eight. But, you know, it wasn’t… real.” He blinks as he listens to you, and again, you can’t read what’s going on in his mind. Does he think you’re a child? Weird? Inexperienced? Is he judging you? “I’m surprised to hear that,” he says, and now you’re blinking. “I would have thought every damn front and middle sectioner there is would be lining up for you.” You blush deeper and he suddenly leans closer, his lips inches away from yours. “Can I kiss you?” You widen your eyes, your heart pounding. You’re not sure if you’re more nervous of the actual kiss itself, or of the fact that no part of you wants to tell him no.

“O-okay.” You manage to stutter, then silently curse yourself for sounding so lame. He does not seem to care, however, as his lips are suddenly pressed upon yours, his facial hair tickling the area around your mouth. You move your own somewhat slowly and hesitantly at first, not fully understanding how the hell to do this-- but he practically guides you. He kisses you with passion and intensity, and while you are overwhelmed at first, you are soon realizing that you love every second. You feel his tongue make its way into your mouth, pushing open your lips without waiting for permission, but you are more than happy to let him in. His tongue wraps around yours and you hear a low growl emitted from his lips, his body suddenly rolling on top of yours, one hand on the bed to support himself. 

He knows he’s getting carried away. He knew there was a possibility of that from the moment he asked if he could kiss you. But he can’t help it. Your taste, fuck, it’s already so addicting. His tongue is practically down your throat at this point, all blood rushing down south to his lower region-- when you move your hands to hold the side of his face, for some reason, he feels practically feral. This combination of lusty actions and sweet, innocent touches is too much for him. Even hearing you giggle moments ago had done something to him, had made him feel things he had not felt in a long, long time. 

But he knows he needs to control himself. Yes, he can be the one to guide you on this journey, but he has to take it slow. He needs to earn your trust. He needs you to want him, to crave him. Besides, he’s not so sure if he wants to take all of your innocence just yet. The fact that you are untouched and only for him to touch-- he wants to savor this for a bit longer. He finally pulls back, panting. You are staring up at him just as breathless, your wide eyes locked onto his piercing blue ones, and he almost groans at the mere sight in itself. He leans down and buries his head in your neck, covering it with frustrated kisses before forcing himself to pull back once again.

He returns to lying by your side, wrapping his arms around you. You aren’t sure if you’re disappointed or relieved. You certainly liked what just happened, but you also have no idea what you’re doing. Maybe it’s for the best that he’s stopped, but you have to wonder why he did-- did you do something wrong? However, he seems to sense your confusion. “It’s been a long day, Y/N. It’s best if you get some sleep.” His voice is even huskier than before, almost as if he’s straining himself, forcing himself to behave. “I hope that was a good first kiss, though…”

“It was,” you reply, suddenly cuddling closer to him, feeling a bit more secure and confident. “Thank you.” He blinks, almost amused by your manners, but more so… aroused.

“So. What the hell’s that all about?”

Curtis watches as Edgar gestures towards you, fast asleep. Your first twenty-four hours with the team has passed, and so far, no bloodshed. Not yet, anyways. You’re sure you’ll come across forces eventually, but Yona had explained to you that each day, each cart was always different. 

“What’s what about?” Curtis asks, though his blues are focused on you, watching your frame lightly moving up and down as you breathe and your hair fanned out behind your head on his folded up jacket as a makeshift pillow. He wishes you all could have found a sleeping quarters so you could have a proper bed, but he was pleased that you did not complain at all. 

Edgar looks at him in disbelief, clearly thinking his friend’s gone crazy. “Look, Curtis, I can understand sparing her life. Seems like a sweet girl, definitely beyond fit, but bringing her with us? She’s just-- I don’t know, extra weight we don’t need, especially if ya aren’t even going to let her fight. What’s the point?” Curtis sighs deeply, taking his beanie off his head to run his hands through his hair. “Leave it alone, Edgar.” He simply warns; to be honest, he would have no problem answering any of the boy’s questions, but he truly does not even know the answer to this one. Not the full one, anyways. He knows that for some reason, he needs to protect you, but why? Not a clue. He does not need Edgar to think him even crazier than he already does. 

The boy who has come to be a little brother to him looks at him somewhat irritated before standing up from his sitting position leaned against the wall of the cart. “Whatever, mate. But if that girl holds us back, it’s on you.” He speaks bluntly, though not appearing to be fully mad or upset-- Curtis knows well by now that he’s simply straightforward by nature. “Get some sleep, Edgar.” He says in response, putting his beanie back on though remaining seated. “It’s been a long day. We'll talk about this later.” The younger reluctantly gets up, giving Curtis one last look before walking away, heading over to a spot near Tanya to settle himself as comfortably as he can on the floor. 

Curtis waits until the blond drifts off before standing up, approaching your sleeping figure. Slowly crouching down by your side, he wraps his jacket more tightly around you, ignoring how much significantly colder he is without it. Some carts of the train are well heated, and some are not. Of course, the tail section was the latter, but by the section you are all in, most cars are quite warm-- this one seems to be the exception, seeing as it's just for the purpose of storage, shelves lining the walls. Unfortunately, there were no extra blankets or clothes among said storage.

He strokes your hair gently as he studies the peaceful expression upon your face, marveling again at your smooth, clear skin. He allows his fingertips to brush against your cheek gently, then almost feels bad for doing so. He is dirty, soiled, tainted-- especially in comparison to the ethereal figure that is you. However, when he pulls back, your eyes open as if immediately noticing the absence. He blinks, then frowns. "I didn't mean to wake you." He tells you quietly, and you look at him for a few moments; even though he is still wearing a rather thick sweater, he somehow looks different, maybe even more vulnerable without his coat on. "Come lie down," you whisper in response, slowly turning so that you are facing him. The floor is not very comfortable, especially not when compared to the bed you were used to, but you can accept that it's all you have right now. They had explained to you that it simply wasn't possible to be able to find sleeping compartments every single night, and that made sense to you. It was dangerous to advance too far in one go, especially when Wilford seemed to already know about the revolution.

"Next to you?" he asks lowly, and you see surprise in his features for the first time-- scratch that, an emotion in his features for the first time. You nod your head slowly, biting on your lip as you lift up the jacket. "This is big," you say softly, giving him an encouraging look. "We can find a way to share.... or at least give each other warmth..." 

He feels something in that moment, but he can't quite place what it is. He does not argue or protest, but instead slowly lies himself down beside you. You are laying on your side facing him, your hand moving to divide the "blanket" as equally as possible; however, before you are even done, he pulls you close to his body with a strong arm, your cheeks almost instantly becoming a shade of pink as you feel yourself pressed against his broad figure. “Night.” He mutters lowly near your ear, making you shiver slightly. You aren’t sure how this feels so good, why it makes every single night you had before this one suddenly seem much emptier and more depressing. “Goodnight, Curtis,” you whisper, unbeknownst to how the mere mention of his name upon your silky voice makes his entire being palpitate. 

He’d like to say this is the first time he’s ever slept soundly ever since boarding Snowpiercer, but quite honestly, he had learned a long time ago to become accustomed to the tail section at night. Despite the poor and terrible conditions, his body had adapted, and he had eventually become more submissive to sleep as the years went on, even in such uncomfortable “beds”. 

However, this is the first time in a long, long time that he’s woken up with this feeling, a feeling he cannot even describe. Has he even had it before? He’s not sure. 

It’s hard to tell the time, especially because this cart has no windows, but if he had to guess based on his biological clock, it seems to be early, early morning. Perhaps four? Five? The others are still asleep, exhausted from the previous day-- including you. Sleep shaded blue eyes inspect your figure as he’s spooning you, first checking to make sure you are not too cold. He still has you held tightly against his body, practically trying to both physically and mentally force all of his body warmth upon your own. You are more covered by the jacket than he is, but he still sees your bare shoulder underneath him, the strap of your nightie having slightly slid down. Fuck. He really wasn’t thinking when he made you wear that, he should have remembered that some parts of the train would still be cold. He supposes he had been too focused on arriving to the front section, even parading through the middle section, where heat would be a concept of convention rather than one of rarity. He pulls you even closer, letting out a gruff but soft exhale. You smell good, unlike, well, pretty much everyone he knows. He can’t imagine he smells any better than them, but you don’t seem to shy away from him, both when conscious and slipped away in dreamland. 

He lets himself appreciate your figure a little more. It’s as though you fit perfectly into his body. He admires your shiny, washed locks fanned out behind your head, some close to tickling his nose if he were to move his own head ever-so-slightly. He loves how smooth your skin looks and feels, how silky the nightie feels under his fingertips as he grazes over your stomach; it seemed like a simple matter, but this is a texture he hasn’t felt in years, and it is comforting. Much more pleasant than his rough, dirty coat or crappy tweed blankets back in the tail section. 

He can’t help but slowly let his fingers drift underneath the material, dancing them lightly along your bare abdomen. Shit. He’s already getting hard, and he has to wonder what the hell he’s doing. This isn’t the reason why he brought you along. No, you’re so much more than this. But as the bulge in his somewhat misfit pants tightens, only pressing against the soft curves of your ass that are far more revealed thanks to his hand riding your nightie up, he’s losing his sense of mind. He’s breathing heavier now, but trying his hardest to keep it as inaudible as possible, which is only even more exhausting. Barely craning his neck to look at your face, he sees you are still fast asleep despite his slight shifting and the incredibly intrusive addition pressing against your lower body. He can’t help but get into his imagination a little. How would you react if you felt it, if you saw it? He barely groans to himself thinking of those wide, innocent eyes, those parted lips making a perfect ‘o’ shape, those delicate hands pumping him and slowly sending him over the edge…

He realizes he’s rubbing himself against you now, and he stops with another low and frustrated groan. As much as he’d like to get some type of release, he definitely can’t inside his pants, considering they’re the only pair he has. For fuck’s sake, he hasn’t done this in God knows how long. Yes, it was difficult for a man to be deprived, but when it had been over the span of a couple decades, it eventually became normalcy. Arousal was the last possible thing he could feel while inhabiting the tail section. 

He carefully shifts to lie on his back, now appreciative of how dark this cart is. Still, he keeps a part of the hefty jacket draped over his bulge, now reaching his hand down into his pants to take it out. He hisses quietly to himself as he starts rubbing, his palm sweaty from his thoughts, from the situation, from the sight of your perfect frame next to him. He imagines you straddling him at this exact moment, picturing how perfect you would look gazing down at him, your legs on either side of his hips and your ass nestled comfortably upon his thighs. He thinks of you riding him, still wearing that damn skimpy nightie, straps sliding down your shoulders and teasing him with a partial view of your bouncing breasts, your cheeks pink from pleasure and your moans sounding through the entire front section. He pictures you gasping with delight while coming all over his cock, your chest heaving from being so breathless, so worn out from him and only him. 

A grunt, low groan, and another hiss. He comes, and he’s panting quietly, almost immediately looking around to make sure nobody witnessed this. Thankfully, everyone’s still asleep.

He’s about to use the jacket to wipe off the rest of the remains from his length, but pauses. Looking towards you, he can’t help but hum thoughtfully. He had known from the start he never wanted you tainted. You are something he could never previously have on the train, you are purity itself. 

However, what if he was the one who managed your innocence? If it were in his hands, he would make sure you would never get hurt. He could take it from you, but no one else could. That would be far too dangerous. If your innocence were in his hands, he could protect you and have you. 

He taps his thumb lightly upon the tip of his cock, letting a hint of white adorn his skin. Leaning over, he admires your sleeping face once more before slowly swiping his thumb across your lips, humming lowly as he watches you barely smack them in your sleep at the contact. “Does that taste good, sweetheart?” he mutters quietly, tilting his head. “It wasn’t a lot. I don’t want you to wake up, so the taste can’t be too strong.. For now. We’ll get there one day.” He promises, his voice barely above a husky whisper. 

Snowpiercer is around 5,000 feet long, according to Teacher.

Your mother told you she’s traveled to a country over 8,000 miles away.

Sometimes, you wonder if she’s lying to you when she tells you about her Earth days. And yet you’ve constantly found yourself asking more and more questions, desperate for more stories. Now that you’re older, you realize that you aren’t actually bothered if your mother is lying. Her stories could come from an old, fictional and fantastical movie she watched in her youth, and you would not care. You want bizarre, outstanding, whimsical, chimerical-- you want anything that is not how you perceive this train, this contraption that has housed you your entire life. Even though it is all you know, quite literally your entire world-- you feel trapped inside of it. 

You never paid much attention in school.

Teacher would go on and on about the magnificence that was Wilford, erupting into cheerful song and putting on informative videos on a small television screen. When you were a child, you adored it. How could you not? You were a little girl, no more than five or six, easily charmed by tune and animation. You were surrounded by others of the same mindset. You were all children, for God’s sake. So impressionable.

This was how they were lured in. Because on Snowpiercer, there was not much need for school after the age of ten. Twelve at the most, if a child was particularly slow. It was against the rules to speak of Earth in the classroom, and so no type of history was ever mentioned. As for other subjects? Every now and then, a child gifted in a certain subject would be set to continue education with a private tutor, generally an adult who had a related occupation on Earth. This was mainly to ensure there would be engineers, scientists, even musicians and entertainers. Occupations necessary for the train’s patrons when the first generation would eventually die out.

When a child has everything instilled into their brain at such a young age, and then no further education or knowledge to have the curiosity to question it, they will forever be satisfied with their current understanding. Especially when they are surrounded by others with the exact same brains.

You, on the other hand, had always been a different story. You could not quite remember exactly when it happened, but as you grew, you found yourself questioning everything. 

One thing in particular was the concept of classes on the train. 

“Anton said that he’s been in the tail section before. He doesn’t understand why Wilford keeps them, he says they’re practically savages.”

“Thank goodness we’re not in the tail section, can you imagine not getting to eat actual food everyday? The tail sectioners probably deserve it though, they’re dirty freaks, all of ‘em.”

“I heard all tail sectioners were lazy dogs and they all drink their own shit.”

You have never met a tail sectioner in your life. You do not have the opportunity to; you might have been a middle sectioner rather than a front one, but you still live a privileged and rather carefree life. You do not have to worry about starvation, lack of clothing, or no access to showering. You face judgment from nobody, and you are accepted into every social circle out there-- because the middle and front sectioners are all allied together due to a common dislike for one group of people. 

You never thought you would ever meet a tail sectioner. You definitely did not think you would ever meet him.

He has been the talk of the train, and while middle and front sectioners alike feel fear and disgust towards him for starting such a horrible revolution, you feel….

….intrigued. 

You do not have a lot of time to look at him. One of your fellow middle sectioners steps up right in between you and the revolution leader, ready to kill. Everything is happening so fast, it suddenly feels like your body is acting without your brain.

Your knife goes right into his neck, but it’s not Curtis’. 

The middle sectioner you had once called a friend is now dead at your feet from your own doing, his blood splattered across smooth skin and white lace. 

Perhaps there was a time in Curtis’ life where he was carefree, cheerful, naive. Surely he must have been as a little boy, at least, considering he had nearly two decades on Earth before everything became utter chaos. Before Snowpiercer.

Now, Curtis is a rugged and grizzly man, completely hardened from his years on board. The only thing on his mind for years now has been the revolution. The plan to battle his way to the front. He has no time to think of anything or anyone else, save for his team. 

Or so he thought, anyways, until he lays eyes on you for the first time, slightly shocked upon witnessing the betrayal of one upper class passenger towards another. 

At first, he only sees your face. Beautiful eyes looking back at his, round with innocence. Healthy roseate lips, a feature simple yet so rare in the tail section due to the grime and dryness in the air. Clean, smooth, flawless skin; he cannot even see a single raised swell or tiny mark. He had forgotten that people looked like this. During the past few days of fighting his way to the front of the train, he did not bother to look at the people he was brutally murdering. It had nothing to do with guilt. He simply does not think they are even worth an inch of space in his mind, and therefore their faces do not even have to be glanced at.

As he stares at you, he is suddenly thankful that he did not apply his usual technique to this situation. 

His eyes drift down, only to linger upon the thin alabaster lace adorning your figure. He is not sure why his eyebrows furrow upon seeing such ivory stained with vermilion, as if he himself is not covered in it. Then again, there is a difference; his layers of ratty, misfitting clothes were already sullied to begin with-- while morbid, adding blood to the material did not do much damage compared to what had already been done. You, however…

He decides almost immediately that there should never be even a drop of crimson upon your skin or your clothing ever again. Nor should you ever use such a weapon again, or even hold one. 

There is silence for a few moments. Edgar and the others have helped kill off the rest. You are the only middle sectioner standing, you are the one closest to the door of the next cart. You still have your knife in your hand, but it is relaxed by your side. You are a bit shaken up, but you do not look nervous of them. 

The only people Curtis has truly cared about for a while now are Gilliam, Edgar, and Tanya. No one else fazes him, no one else has ever had a deep enough impact. When he sees you, something changes. It almost feels like instinct. 

“Why did you do that?” he asks, body still naturally tense nonetheless. He does not understand what business an upper-middle sectioner has killing one of their own, but he is genuinely intrigued. 

“Are you Curtis?” you ask, and he feels slammed in the windpipe upon hearing your voice. Soft and sweet, just like that look in your eyes-- despite the fact you just killed a man. “Yes.” He answers, eyes locked onto yours. “You know me?”

“Of course… Everyone knows you. The man who’s starting a revolution. You’re trying to get to the front.”

“Then why did you help me just now?” he asks, though more curious than suspicious. He does not want to be suspicious of you. He can’t imagine you as deceitful or crooked. Not you. He already has an entire image of you in his head without even knowing your name, without even having known you for more than one minute.

You let yourself look at him for a few moments, feeling oddly relaxed. He is definitely not a sight you are used to, yet for some reason, you already feel strangely secure around him. “In school they taught us to hate the tail section,” you admit softly, looking towards the darkness of the cold night outside the windows. “That they don’t deserve the privileges and rights we get. That there has to be a balance, and so they don’t get showers or real food or nice clothes since we do.” You glance down at your light and dainty apparel before returning your eyes to his. “But I don’t think that seems right.” 

“You’re fuckin’ right, it’s not,” Edgar pipes up in a strong Irish accent, and your eyes dart to him in curiosity. “But are you only saying that so we spare your life? Because in that case, you can join your friends here lying on the-”

Curtis silences him with a mere movement of his hand, holding it outspread towards the younger’s direction in a gesture to shush him. You are not sure whether to be impressed or nervous that it works so instantly. You look up to those ice cold eyes again, wondering what he’ll say. You know that his friend has every right to feel wary. You can’t even imagine the twisted things the front sectioners have subjected them to; you quite literally do not know what they are, because such topics are not discussed. “I want to fight,” you suddenly say, and Curtis blinks. “I want to join the revolution, I want to help you guys.” You can feel everyone’s eyes on you, and while it feels a bit unsettling, you continue standing your ground as you look up at the team leader. 

Curtis has never met someone like you before, not even on Earth. He has never been so interested in someone, so damn fascinated. Perhaps it is because he is a man- a man who has been deprived of something quite a lot of men on this world need. Though, in truth, he really has not thought about sex in the past few years. In such grim living conditions, it is not particularly a priority of his. Perhaps he’s been a little too obsessive over his scheme of revolution, but it isn’t as though there are many viable options when it comes to women in the tail section. They are just as broken and battered as he-- if anything, sleeping with them may only result in even more melancholy. 

No, he decides, still studying you intently. That is not the reason he is so enticed. At least, not the whole reason, if his subconscious has something to do with it. You have a countenance he’s never quite seen before-- or at least, in a very long time. You are not broken or battered, nor are you strong and secure. You have guts, that is for sure, but in your figure standing before him, he sees something that is incredibly rare to come by on Snowpiercer. 

Immaculacy. Purity. Naivete. Gullibility. 

He sees lily white, and it is stained by blood red. In this moment, he realizes he has another job at hand entirely. 

“You’ll come with us,” he decides, and you slowly exhale as you look to the floor. “But you won’t fight.”

“What?” Your head snaps up, and he is expecting indignance, but all he sees is confusion and perplexity. 

He is even more captivated than before. 

“You won’t fight.” He repeats, then looks around, a sense of urgency in his features. “Where do you keep your clothes? Are they here?” You slowly nod your head, pointing to the drawer underneath your bed compartment. Your clothes are custom made for you, and rotated out every now and then with new items added to the mix made by the train’s tailors, based on your style. “Change.” He demands simply, and you’re even more puzzled than before. “I-it’s just a little bit of blood, it’s not a-”

“I said change.” 

You obey instantly, upset with yourself for even responding in the first place. You lean over to open the drawer, wondering what to wear. The tailors haven’t exactly made you an outfit suited for battle and bloodshed. He sees you pausing and speaks again. “Something like what you’re wearing will do just fine. Do you have another one?” You blink, not exactly having pictured yourself participating in the revolution dressed in a nightie, but you do not want to argue. You pick up a red one and he instantly shakes his head. “Not red.” You look up at him, trying your best to read him but put it back, biting your lip. “What color, then?”

“White.” 

You’re thankful you happen to have another one, unsure how he would react if you didn’t. One day you will ask him why this matters so much, but today is not that day. You need him to trust you. “Can you, uh, turn around, maybe?” you ask shyly, and he nods his head, turning away and giving a look to the others to do the same; they are looking at him just as baffled as you are, even slightly judgmental, but they comply. It still feels awkward anyways, but you quickly slip out of your stained apparel and change into the fresh one. “Okay, I’m ready.” He turns back around and shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Stepping closer, he pulls the sleeve of his thick jacket over his hand, reaching out carefully to wipe the drying blood off your upper chest. It is still fresh enough that no water is necessary, yet he swipes his tongue over his thumb and rubs your collarbones with it, his eyes focused. 

From now on, he wants this white lace completely preserved, and he will do whatever it takes to keep it that way. “What’s your name?” he asks you, and you make eye contact with him again, a slight blush on your cheeks. “Y/N,” you answer softly, and he lets the brand roll off his tongue.