Edward's not a charitable guy. He doesn't really think of giving as the noble pursuit that most people do -- namely because, and let's be honest, he's never been given a single thing in his damn life. Not this couch, not this apartment. Definitely not the apartment. Which, perhaps, is why he's so irate when the three-day eviction notice on the door is, in fact, not a figment of his imagination. The possibility of crawling back to his father on his hands and knees, begging for a place to stay, is sickening and ever-present, and given this new development? Worse. Tenfold.
Three days to get out.
Or, three days to get the rent paid. Eddie doesn't focus on problems (he does). He finds solutions (he doesn't).
The inside of the university district coffee shop, dimly lit for the sake of wannabe beat-poets and black-clad intelligentsia types, the bright orange flyer seems even brighter as it sits irreverently underneath a disposable coffee cup. He likes to come here because he can overhear the conversations of those he might never admit he thought more intelligent than him -- more educated, more sophisticated. Richer. Like a sponge, he sits alone and soaks up the environment in silent and invisible desperation and the continuing conundrum of the night is the issue of somehow managing food, a roof over his head, and the coffee in front of him (which he bought with an overdraft of his checking account, of course [forty dollar fee!]).
"Did you hear Professor Quentin's lecture today on logical proofs?"
"I tried to take notes, but he goes so fast!"
"You can borrow mine if you want."
It physically hurts. He wants it so bad he can't even think straight, and soon, coming here seems like a terrible idea for the sake of finding a clear thought. Maybe his bare and depressing apartment is the more suitable option -- and he hates the fact that he considers that a legitimate alternative to suffering in envy, but he's already got a foot out the door. And it's pouring -- absolutely torrential.
Gravitating towards the bus stop to hitch a ride with public transit back home, there's no roof over the designated waiting area. He's got an umbrella under his arm, but...
The soaking wet young man that was already there doesn't. In fact, he looks like hell in more ways than one -- pushing past six feet into the realms of beanpolishness and thinner than a rail. The state of him makes Edward think he's homeless. What's unbearable about it is that he looks like he could be about the same age, if not slightly older.
Is Edward looking at his very near future?
Giving and charity are a waste of time, and Edward is exceptionally bitter about it.
But he holds out his umbrella anyway.
"Here. Two birds, one umbrella." That was almost clever. Cue the hand, proffered for a shake. "I'm Eddie."
