Running is still the instinctual reaction his body is ready to turn to -- a desperate option, but one that has served him pretty well so far. Hugh may be young and small, but he can move quickly, and he's spent more of his life outside than he has in. Beneath the dirt dusting his hair and skin is a natural tan from many hazy hours spent in the sunlight, and he knows how to blend in with nature. If he hadn't found that shack last night, he'd probably have been up in a tree.
But that ready tension coiled in him pauses when Cricket speaks. His head is half-turned towards the door -- just to keep it in his sights -- but now he tilts it back. Hugh's encountered many orphans over his years. Most of the kids he knows, probably. But that's just it; they're all kids. This is the first time a grown-up's ever divulged that they can understand directly.
"... I'm sorry." He genuinely is, brows knitting together with a soft, sad frown. He barely remembers either of his parents, but losing a mother so young, yet old enough to remember it, must be one of the hardest things in this world. That's something to be haunted by.
His fingertips poke out of the the ends of the jacket's long sleeves, rubbing against the material, at he listens to what the other says next. The words are sobering and, again, kind. The rather adult sense of suspicion he's learned to possess is countered by the sense of comradery and safety that Cricket is currently offering him.
'I will find somethin' better for you.'
After a moment, Hugh moves quietly to where Cricket is sitting, slowly lowering beside him, cross-legged. The heat of the furnace is warm and comforting, and now that he's sitting down, the boy's eyelids lull a bit, fatigue catching up to him all over again. He wordlessly tilts his head to rest against the older's shoulder, both an acceptance of what Cricket's told him and a means to attach himself to the kind person who is helping him.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2019-04-22 01:19 am (UTC)But that ready tension coiled in him pauses when Cricket speaks. His head is half-turned towards the door -- just to keep it in his sights -- but now he tilts it back. Hugh's encountered many orphans over his years. Most of the kids he knows, probably. But that's just it; they're all kids. This is the first time a grown-up's ever divulged that they can understand directly.
"... I'm sorry." He genuinely is, brows knitting together with a soft, sad frown. He barely remembers either of his parents, but losing a mother so young, yet old enough to remember it, must be one of the hardest things in this world. That's something to be haunted by.
His fingertips poke out of the the ends of the jacket's long sleeves, rubbing against the material, at he listens to what the other says next. The words are sobering and, again, kind. The rather adult sense of suspicion he's learned to possess is countered by the sense of comradery and safety that Cricket is currently offering him.
'I will find somethin' better for you.'
After a moment, Hugh moves quietly to where Cricket is sitting, slowly lowering beside him, cross-legged. The heat of the furnace is warm and comforting, and now that he's sitting down, the boy's eyelids lull a bit, fatigue catching up to him all over again. He wordlessly tilts his head to rest against the older's shoulder, both an acceptance of what Cricket's told him and a means to attach himself to the kind person who is helping him.