#peyton scribbles

Contrary to popular belief, River Springs was a very quiet child. At his current age he demonstrates no remnants of this fact, but it’s entirely true. The only people who seemingly recall this fact are his one and only friend, his guardian, and his mother– although she didn’t pick up on the growth, and his little friend refuses to acknowledge he’s grown at all.

His current guardian noticed most of all. Brooker Edwards, his uncle, is a man with a lot of sway on things. Affluent is a common word used to describe him and the way he is, both when discussing his social standing and his personality, free moving and steady. However, when he first received the call telling him he was going to be caring for a child for the next God knows how long, he wasn’t that way at all. A quaint restaurant under his reign and a million hopes for what it’d develop into. This… threw a wrench in his plans. He should’ve expected his sister to have been a messy parent, he saw it coming a mile away. She was a wife and mother far too young, and even as an adult she hadn’t matured.

“Cordelia you cannot be serious about this,” He scoffs into the receiver, just thanking the heavens it was a phone call and not a letter telling him instead of requesting him.

“Why wouldn’t I be? You need to take some responsibility, Brooks!”

“It’s your child, I hold no responsibilities over it. My responsibilities as an uncle say I babysit sometimes and send a letter through the mail on birthdays. That is it, Cordelia.”

“Think of this like babysitting then.”

“Forever?!”

“Jesus- no, not forever, just… a while.” Audibly she sighs, a sad little sound that one would expect out of a dog laying in the road. He can just imagine her running a hand through her hair and looking so pitiful. “Please. Brooks. Just for a bit. I’ll make it up to you- he’s a good kid, really, reminds me of when you were little.” He breathes out a laugh, trying to push down the remorse biting at his gut.

“You’re guilt tripping me.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she counters so innocently, yet so tiredly, “if you feel guilt, that’s on your own shoulders.” He lets out a long sigh, looking up at the wall in front of him, uncrossing his legs and sinking into the deep red chesterfield chair beneath him. The hand not clasping the phone taps mindlessly on the wooden arm, not a musical rhythm, but instead one more repetitive. It matched his own heartbeat with the thump thump thumping that didn’t seem to cease. It seems to increase in speed and thrash in his chest, screaming so loud he can hear the blood rush in his ears. After what feels like an eternity, but is realistically more like a minute or so, he speaks.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, yes, fine.” She squeals, genuinely squeals, and thanks him a million times over. One would mistake her voice for a child's the way she seems to portray the feeling of a young girl bouncing on the balls of her feet through the phone. He brushes every inch of gratitude away, mumbling annoyances of his newly semifilled obligations. Placing the telephone back onto the receiver's cradle with a final click, he takes a deep, long breath. What has he agreed to?

In the following weeks he’s given plenty of information, legal and otherwise, on the boy. It’s avoided in any conversation he’s roped into having with acquaintances and employees. The march of the calendar to the day the boy arrives– the 18th of the month– comes closer and faster than any date has ever come before. It’s a blink of an eye before he stands in the airport, arms crossed tightly and standing stiffly amongst the seemingly endless amount of people surrounding him on all sides. People with suitcases running to missed loved ones, adults in suits walking quickly to their terminal, families holding signs with big smiles on their faces. The chatter is ceaseless. Amiss it all, he fiddles with a photograph of a little boy, nine years old, smiling big with his mother on Christmas day. The creased corner of the polaroid bends under his touch (it’s only a couple years old, yet clearly well loved and observed. He imagines someone had it under their pillow, or taped in a scrapbook before it was sent to him to assist in finding the kid in the crowd.) as he scans the tiled floors.

His eyes finally land on it. Well, not it. Him more accurately. A mop of haphazardly brushed brown hair upon a little boy wearing a backpack borderline his height and looking around frantically. He’s a mouse amidst the bustling commuters rushing around him, entirely alone and dwarfed by impossibly tall heights.

“Hello,” Brooker speaks while walking, approaching as casually as his stilted posture may allow, and praying this is even the right child (the dark, inky eyes do give him away. A familial trait he, his sisters, and his mother all possess) “River… Spring, yes?” The little boy nods. Christ, is he really 11? He looks nine, maybe younger– although in all fairness, he has no expertise in guessing ages. Still though, he’s short and impossibly frail– his muddied eyes flick around, never truly landing on Brooker for longer than a minute. “...swell. Come along then. You’ve had a long journey, haven’t you?”

“...uhuh.” A simple reply, followed by a simple nod. His eyes remain locked on the floor as he shuffles behind the adult. At some point, while crossing the road to exit the airport, he raises his hand to clutch onto another's. He only grasps empty air, and allows his arm to fall back to his side, embarrassed and disheartened. Brooker doesn’t notice until he looks to his side on the other side of the street, the boy chewing his knuckle. He taps his backhand three times with a disapproving frown.

“Stop that,” he scolds, nudging River's hand away loosely while simultaneously gesturing for him to get into the car, opening the backseat door for him. He crawls into the deep burgundy car, buckling himself properly and placing his backpack horizontally in his lap. Letting out a deep sigh, Brooker enters the left side of the front, diagonal from him, and starts the car.

It’s a long and quiet stretch of time, driving to the apartment. He searches for anything to say, comforting words that reaffirm how sometimes change is good come to mind first, yet he can’t find any air in his lungs to speak. For a moment he wants to comment on how the young boy's eyes seem to latch onto every passing building and park, observing how the fences latch together and awnings curve like waterfalls against the roof paneling. Many of the buildings are older than his name, intricate detailing carved into the stone. Statues of monumental heroes stand proudly in the town park where robins and squirrels run between sharp blades of grass and fluffy dandelion buds.

The Springside Diner was a modestly sized building. A sign with labyrinthine strokes of paint dancing around each letter to create a design as appealing as the smell wafted through the air whenever you came near hangs above three large vertical windows, allowing passersbys to peek inside and look at the pristinely clean tables and dark red booths. On any other day, each chair by the counter would be filled, and the tables would be covered in plates licked clean. Today, however, the only customers walking through are cold breezes and the occasional insect trying to seek warmth inside that Brooker swats at as soon he catches sight of it. Pulling out a ring of keys, he inserts one with a matching row of divots before pushing the door and letting it swing open.

“After you,” He announces it with a small flourish of his hands. River looks at him momentarily, a flicker of hesitation coming across his eyes. “Well? Go on, it’s not dangerous.” The suspicion and general anxiety about the boy doesn’t go away, but he does go in. Progress. Maybe. River pulls at his backpacks straps as he looks up and around, taking in every last detail. Brooker comes in a little later, locking the door from the inside again. “Like it?” There’s little to no genuine curiosity in his voice, more of just something he thought to ask while racking his brain, looking for the part of his brain that knows how to handle children (it’s filed somewhere over by “How to Talk to People”, but he struggles to find that one as well, so this isn’t unusual). Despite this, River nods contently, standing on his tip toes to see over the counter.

“Dark,” He says, the one word alone, so matter-of-factly that Brooker huffs a small laugh. How observant.

“Yes, yes well we’re going upstairs in a moment. I didn’t think there was a reason to,” He nods his head, gesturing for the kid to cut his investigation short for now, and follow him to a flight of stairs nearby. “Do you like the dark?” He must’ve used his words allotted for the conversation, because he returns to responding more nonverbally, shaking his head in response. “Ah, I didn’t think so. Most children don’t.” The stairs creek under their combined weight, one of Brooker's hands go to flick the lightswitch on from the stairwell, one switch at the bottom of the stairs and three at the top. His eyes widen as he comes across a potential problem (and trust him, he’s been going over these all month.) “You’ll be able to sleep, yes? I won’t need to read you anything or stay up because you had a nightmare?”

“Uhm- I-” He looks up, hands fidgeting with his hair, and if not his hair then his backpack, and if not that then his clothes, he never stays entirely still for longer than a few seconds– even if he does still momentarily when attention shifts to him. His mouth opens and closes a few times, hands grasping the air as if searching for the words within it. Of course, he turns up empty, and settles on just remaining silent. He shakes his head, eyes falling back to the floor. Brooker hums and raises his eyes from River, turning to open the door at the top of the stairs. He coaxes the boy to follow him in suit.

“Good. Your room is down the hall and third door to the right. You can set your things down there,” He raises an eyebrow when the boy doesn’t move immediately. “Well? Do you need something?” He shakes his head repeatedly and dashes down the hall with haste. “...Strange child,” he mumbles under his breath.

The following night, they sit at the dinner table together and eat. Homemade food, chicken with noodles and alfredo sauce. He rarely cooked for himself, but this felt appropriate considering the circumstances. It takes him a moment to get comfortable with it, but eventually River begins eating. Brooker hums, watching him. He thinks– no, knows– his cooking is good, but good enough to scarf down like he hasn’t been fed in weeks? Maybe he should rethink staying a non-chain restaurant if this is the review he’s being given.

“Is it… good?” He prompts gently, suppressing another huff when the boy looks up and blushes, using a napkin to clean his mouth and hesitating to eat again, looking away. “No, you can go on,” the fork clicks against the plate in front of him as he taps it incessantly. “I’m not scolding you. Just curious.”

“...mhm.” Nodding with a hum, he creeps back to his place, keeping his eyes on Brooker in case he changes his mind. “...’s good.”

“Good.”

“...Good,” The boy echoes again. Brooker smiles a tad, perplexed.

“...Yes. Well then…” He collects the dishes, rinsing them off and stacking them in the sink. They’ll get washed in a moment, for now he needs to make sure everything is as orderly as it should be. “It’s later than I would’ve liked it to be, but your plane landed later than anyone wanted. You ought to get to bed.” The little boy doesn’t offer much response, electing instead to hover nearby for a moment. He seems to do… this… a lot. Brooker gives him a look, and he runs off to his new room once more.

Before Brooker can even tsk to himself, or question Cordelia about putting her eleven year old child with clear issues on a plane by himself, he prepares for bed. Brushing his teeth in the bathroom connected to his room, dressing in more comfortable clothes, and turning the lights out. I’ll call her in the morning. He rolls over in the bed, covering himself in his comforter.

It hasn’t even reached the AM when he’s upright in his bed, breathing heavily. Blinking quickly and looking around, blonde hair all out of sorts from the sleep he was just awakened from by… something. He had heard something, he’s sure of it. Holding a hand up to silence the room, he waits and listens. The house hums with air blowing through the vents, the creaking of the wooden floors, dripping of a leak nearby– each water droplet lands in a ceramic bowl he had placed beneath it– the only sound that’s noticeably unusual is rain, wind causing a tree branch to slam into the window repeatedly. He exhales with mild relief. How silly, it was only a-

His feet hit the floor and he’s throwing his bedroom door open before he even really registers it. A scream had cut through the crisp air, and there’s only one other person in the house. He can’t recall the last time he actually ran, let alone this fast. The doorknob feels impossibly cold in his hand as he turns it and steps in without a second thought.

The guest bedroom, now River's room, is clean and impersonal, as all guest rooms should be by nature. The dark wood bookshelf is empty, pressed against the wall with about seven unread books with a thin layer of dust on them, all gifts from over the years. It seems River has elected to put his backpack in the bottom shelf, using the other shelves like a table. In the white hot light of lightning flashing through the window, his eyes meet wide ones, caught in his blanket. Rivers' hair is in utter disarray, strands falling in his face and sticking up wildly. One hand is wrapped around himself, hugging tightly, and the other grips the bed with all the strength he can summon.

“River, what’s-” One step closer and the boy jumps back like he’s been shot. It catches him so off guard, he’s stunned still. Even coming to his senses, heart pounding, he opts to stay where he is, as to not frighten the child any further. He’s shaking, Brooker realizes as his eyes adjust to the dark, the little boys eyes are wide and look like two little watery inkwells overflowing with tears. He continues to scan the room, his gaze darting back to River regularly to make sure he hasn’t dropped dead in the few moments he’s not looking. As gently as possible, he speaks. “Are you hurt? What was the screaming about, I-” He falters, almost imperceptibly so. “May I come closer?” The boy doesn’t respond in anything that resembles English, choking on sobs and shouts. He buries his face in the blanket, shrinking further and further away. “O- okay! Okay! I’m sorry! I’m here! Just- stop screaming,” It’s the most unusual feeling he’s ever experienced, causing such a typically composed man to stammer dumbly and run a hand through his hair, begging a child for something instead of the other way around. He’s at a loss. The neighbors must be thinking horrid things, hearing such calamity through the thin walls. He tries hushing the little boy, to no avail. It feels as if it took a decade for River to tire himself out and hyperventilate himself to sleep, but the sun hadn’t risen at all. Brooker didn’t bother checking the clock either, opting to sleep in the chair outside of Rivers' room.

The months after follow this pattern closely. Sometimes the boy is calm in the morning, only frightening himself to tears once or twice in the day, instead of the alternative of a “bad” day– as they’ve dubbed it– where he doesn’t stop sobbing unless he’s gasping for breath in between them. The closest he’s gotten to his uncle is to push him away, or kick when he’s near because the man had been trying to keep him from pulling his hair out, or from gnawing on his knuckles. Getting him ready on his first day of school (and every school day after that) is… a struggle, to say the least.

“He has night terrors,” Brooker presses his back against his chair, holding the phone up to his ear. He speaks factually, coldly. One could mistake him for being detached from his own statement if they didn’t understand that he had a million things racing through his mind as he speaks.

“Lots of children have night terrors,” His sister responds through the phone, matching the energy. “I know you did.” He bites his lip sharply. As true as it is, he’d rather not remember. In any case, that only causes to increase his suspicion and concern. He knows why he had terror as a child– any child in his position would’ve (and he likes to believe he did a very good job coping. He truly believes he turned out fine. Now, neither you nor I, dear reader, are in any position to critique that statement, but we can certainly find one or two contradictions in that, but I digress.)– but the idea that River has a similar cause, a fear of peoples so deeply rooted in his mind he won’t allow anyone near, unsettles him.

“That doesn’t…” He trails off, trying to lay his thoughts out clearly. “I don’t know. He doesn’t look like he’s eaten, Cordelia.”

“Maybe he’s not hungry.”

“Why are you being so flippant with me?” He snaps, words cold as ice, chilling his office around him. “This is your son- how can you be so sarcastical when he’s clearly-!”

“Excuse me?” Her voice raises, both in volume and octave. “What exactly are you accusing me of, Brooker Edwards?” I don’t know! He wants so badly to shout at her. I don’t know! I don’t know and what did you do? His older sister was never responsible, always naive, always getting into messy situations, but to spin him into a situation where he has to step up and be the worried one? To make him into the one stepping up for another person. “I told you I was struggling, but I raised him fine,” the defensiveness in her tone elicits a scoff from him and causes ire to bubble in his chest.

“He can’t sleep! Are you seriously going to tell me he’s fine!?” He can hear her breathe an edge of a word, so he cuts her off before it can take its form as some half baked excuse or argument. “No, you are going to listen to me now. He can’t sleep. Do you understand that? He showed up at my doorstep with eyebags! He’s eleven you said? What eleven year old looks that small?” Through the phone, her breath audibly hitches. He understands he’s hurting her, that this could entirely be the fault of circumstance, but it’s impossible to stop now.“How- how should I know? He doesn’t speak!”

“He-!” He turns, hearing the creaking of the door opening slowly. River stands there, poking his head through the gap he’s made between the door and its frame. He stands quietly. Brooker's voice turns quieter, no longer a yell. “I’m hanging up now. Write me when you grow up.” The phone clicks with finality and he sighs. “Loud?” The boy shakes his head, prompting confusion in Brooker's eyes. He could’ve sworn he was yelling– in hindsight not a bright idea in this house– so what could’ve been the issue? “You can… come in.” He begins, softly. “If you’d like.” He tags on at the end, quickly and less hushed.

“...lied.” He says quietly, inching into the doorway.

“Hm? Who did?”

“...” The boy gestures to himself. “‘t was loud.” He dawdles there, fidgeting with his hands. “...’m sorry.”

“That’s not hardly a reason to be sorry,” Beckoning River closer, he clears his desk of its flurry of papers, giving his hands something to do. “If you apologize for things that don’t need them, people will find reasons to justify it.”

“...I… don’t know what that means.” He says under his breath. Brooker huffs a small laugh. River comes a little closer, looking at the desks' surface inquisitively.

“You’re… awfully calm tonight.” Studying him, he speaks carefully, trying to keep the atmosphere light, despite the lingering tension. He’s conscious of every movement, acting as if the little boy in front of him is a live bomb, possibly exploding into a flurry of tears and fears at any moment. “Is everything… to your liking?” He breathes a sigh of relief when the kid– after a beat of hesitation– leans in and gives a small thumbs up. “Excellent.” The word is a breath upon his lips, hushed in the air of the room.

River raises his fist to his mouth to bite his knuckle, but lowers it just slightly when a look of disapproval flashes across Brooker's face. It seems he’s struggling to articulate something, opening and closing his mouth as to find words to verbalize his thoughts. “Can I…” He starts and stops, unaware of how Brooker listens intently. “...stay? Here? …’for a bit…?”Such small words hit so largely in his heart. Speaking is so rare for the boy in general, so any words are treated as monumental steps towards progress (although, he equally understands that River can find his own voice too loud at some points, so standing mute is his best option at times), especially as those words are asking for him to stay near, not pushing him further and further away. He’s yet to ask for comfort in a time of anxiety, the alternative usually being curling up and hiding somewhere.