Title: To Be Somewhere Good
Word Count 475
“Kyd left food for you.”
Kit handed Watson the leather bag.
He, himself, had eaten all that had been brought for him. His gut and throat hurt from the sudden stretch after emptiness. Still when Watson opened the bag, the smell was sharp and good, and he found himself drooling like a dog. He turned away in the darkness and swallowed his spit.
“By God, that's good.” Watson's voice was thick, soft and hushed. The last crumb of food was gone. It had not taken long.
“What did he say?” Watson asked.
Kit made his voice dispassionate. “Allyn gave up garnish to see us set here rather than-- rather than below. Trial is on Monday.”
“Think you they will hang me, Kit?” It was a creditable try at bravado. Kit honored it with his own casual reply.
“Sack of bones like you, Tom, would just be a disappointment to the ravens.” He poked Tom Watson gently in the side. Watson's chuckle sounded much like a sob.
“Kyd said not to fret.” Kit added, “He's going to Henslowe tonight, to see about bail.”
He felt Watson sigh. There was little to say, after that. They composed their limbs for sleep.
Kit was somewhere good. He was warm. He had been so cold, and he had been frightened. He could not now remember why, he did not want to remember. Here he could feel the sun on his shoulders here, and it pressed kindly against his closed eyelids. He could see the shadow of sunlight, the eye's idle flashes of red and blue.
There was a sound of trickling water. He knew it would be cool and kind to his hands and feet. In a moment he would move from where he rested. The little stream would have rocks of shining brown, dappled by the leaves above. Small fish moved there, like streaks of molten silver. Maybe Kit would leave his clothing on the bank and swim, easy and naked as a fish himself. He had been beaten at school for swimming, but could do it here, it was all right.
And now he heard a person beside him, the small breathing rustle of another sitting nearby. He was happy. This was a someone he wanted, a someone with whom he did not have to keep eyes open. He did not have to watch his words. He reached a hand out, and the someone took it his own. It was good. In another moment the hand was going to draw him close, and kiss him. Kit knew the taste of those kisses, the wanted tongue against his own, sliding, heating.
Oh, it was fraying. It was not real, it could not stay. He struggled But he was leaving it. Fading, going, gone.
Tom Watson. Newgate.
“Were you dreaming Kit?”
“Aye, I suppose I was.”