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His little friend is trying not to touch him.
Quirrel hadn’t noticed, before, watching them through a haze. Detached. Seeing, without understanding, the way they always stopped just short of meeting him. How they tucked themself up small on the bench, joining him, still carefully held apart.
It could almost be personal preference. Not all bugs –or other creatures, for the longer he watches them the more he sees what they are not– like to be touched, or like to touch others. Particularly not strangers.
Could almost be personal preference. Save that, when they'd found him just now on the lakeshore, when they set a careful hand on his shoulder and startled him, his jump had been met with a flinch. With a look, gut-wrenching, as though he had struck them, for the instant before they backed away.
He had not wanted company. Not really. Had not wanted anything, except to be alone with his aches and his pain and his bone-deep weariness, and perhaps soon to be alone with nothing at all.
He had not wanted to get up. To reach out.
But they had flinched. And that- that wasn’t right.
He’d called out. Apologized, told them they had only surprised him, and asked them not to leave. Begged them not to leave, really, not wanting-
His last act could not, would not be hurting his only living friend.
They came back. Pulled him to his feet, in gesture and a single careful tug on his hand more than anything, and coaxed him to follow them.
He hadn’t wanted to. Hadn’t wanted to move, tired joints and cracked plates protesting. Hadn’t wanted to go back down into a city that he should know far, far better than he does. A city he had lived in, once, with an echo of certainty that there had been a family somewhere, with flashes of memory of what it was before it and he crumbled to ruins.
He had wanted nothing more than to sit down on the shore of that lake and not move again, unless it was to be done. To cast aside returning memory and old pain alike, to end the understanding he did not want of how much he had forgotten. Nothing more than to be at peace.
Almost nothing.
His little friend is, deliberately, not touching him. They want to- they kept almost moving towards him as they led him here, and they are, now, looking down at his wounds every time they come over, nearly reaching out every time they return to set a jar or a roll of bandages or a filled canteen next to him. But they are not touching him.
It stuck in his mind the entire way here, and it sticks, now, watching them leave the room to find supplies and return with a haste that suggests staying away too long will see him at the bottom of the hot spring.
They aren’t touching him. It sticks in a way nothing else has in an amount of time he does not dare contemplate, the wrongness of it gnawing at him, tugging him along until he finds himself, slowly, every joint aching in the motion, reaching out.
They go still. Stay perfectly, unerringly still as he carefully takes their hand in his, thumb pressed to their palmpad, feeling that strange, statue-stone chill.
Perfectly still, save that they are, ever so faintly, trembling.
“Please,” he tries, the word far rougher than he would like, “please, my friend. You have done nothing wrong. I…” oh, perhaps he shouldn’t be touching them, but there is a sense to them like they will run if he lets go, and he knows they’re strong enough to escape, and he needs to feel something real other than how much he aches.
What is there to say? His mind is a mess, ruins he hadn’t noticed falling down around him, crushing him under their weight in cruel mimicry of the Archives equipment that had so nearly removed the need for him to find the lake at all, and someone drowning in their own memories is in no position to offer a stable hand to anyone else, but- he has to try.
“I really was only startled. And not- not at the chill,” he whispers, pressing gently at the nail-callused pad against his thumb, “that- I already knew. You sat close enough to me, on the bench, for me to realize that you are something far more extraordinary than any mere bug.”
They are. He had, somehow, faintly known it the moment he saw them, and that had only been reinforced as he watched them. The strength they hit with, the way they would shrug off a blow as though it was nothing, the spellwork like nothing he’d ever seen. Their utter silence, too, and the weight in those odd, compelling eyes, telling even his dazed mind that there was something special here, far before they ever drew close enough for him to notice the chill.
“It wasn’t the cold. It wasn’t… anything about the feeling itself,” for their touch is, truthfully, odd, cold and strange-textured, but he hadn’t noticed in the face of-
The words stick.
He manages, after a breath.
“It was the kindness.”
The trembling stops.
Quirrel forces himself on, struggling against the feeling that, if he stops now, he will never find his voice again. “I… can truthfully say that I do not remember, clearly, the last time anyone offered me a gentle touch. You haven’t seemed particularly tactile, my friend, and I…”
Gentle, gentle, he takes their hand in both of his, meeting their eyes. “I was not upset, or dismayed, or angry. Your touch is not something to be avoided, friend, please,” voice wavering, begging them to understand, “the trouble was me.”
For an agonizing moment, they do not move. They only stare at him, inscrutable, save the faint swirling in their eyes that he does not know how to read.
Slowly, they pull their hand free of his, and reach for his wrist. Careful, careful, their first touch tentative- until it tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to trap, and they pull his hand in. Pressing his palm against their flank, under their cloak, stance shifting in the motion until they’re braced as though for battle.
Like a challenge, some part of him whispers. A part that entirely fails to win out over reflex, fails to stop him reacting.
“Fascinating.”
They are. Their flank is worryingly soft under his hand, soft enough to suggest they have no armor at all, no matter that they are like no vertebrate he’s ever seen and are far too agile and canny to be something new-hatched. Their skin has a strange texture to it, just on the edge of fuzzy, with a texture like they’re coated in- something, oil or wax, save that a gentle rub transfers nothing to his fingertips. They’re cold, colder than he had entirely realized, and they are-
They aren’t breathing.
A construct? A spirit? his little scrap of inquiry wonders, until he remembers- they do breathe. That had been part of how he had noticed the chill of them, in the way they had panted when they first joined him on that bench, in the curl of cold air against him from the vents in their flanks.
They’re holding their breath.
Oh.
Quirrel cups his hand gently against them, not holding, not pulling, only keeping that touch, as they let his wrist go. Still braced, shoulders squared, head lowered slightly, staring him down.
“Oh, friend,” he whispers, heart somehow finding a new way to split itself in two, “oh no, it’s-“ were they trying to push, trying to-
He understands. They haven’t spoken in any way he’s seen, sign or writing or voice, but he understands, and the hurt of it escapes all at once in what is probably entirely the wrong thing to say.
“May I hold you?”
They tense up, staring at him like the idiot he is, and pull away. More than pull away. They start to leave, turning towards the door, back straight and steps quick, because the proper response to someone being uncomfortable with touch –no matter the reason– is not to ask to hold them-
They turn.
Quirrel watches, not daring to speak, as they pace back and forth along the wall. Measured steps, quick and snappy, the same number each time, until they turn and approach him.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach out, doesn’t say anything, as they step into the hot spring. Only waits, and hopes, somehow, with the last, strained scrap of hope he still has left, that he hasn’t-
They nod. Once, sharp.
Everything about them is drawn up as if in anticipation of a threat, but they step into easy reach, and they answer yes, and they do not pull away as he reaches for them. Slowly, slowly, giving them time to change their mind, until he can set his hand back on their flank.
Gentle. He doesn’t want to startle them.
As they lean into the touch, so softly it could almost be his imagination, he pulls them closer. Slides his hand up their back, deliberately under their cloak, coaxing them in to tuck his other arm around them. Gentle, gentle- they are formidable in battle, but touching them feels as though digging his claws in too hard will draw blood with alarming ease, and they’re so tense.
They weigh less than he had expected, somehow. Certainly far less than would explain the strength he can feel, dangerous, dangerous, some little part of him fascinated with it, with feeling what may as well be steel in their core and knowing they can (and likely will) break his arms to escape if he gives them any need to do so.
He doesn’t. They don’t.
So tense, hands only cautiously touching his arm in return, as if still expecting this to change somehow. Still not breathing as he pulls them, carefully, against himself, tucking them against his side, running his free hand up to the back of their mask.
(It’s not a mask. He had suspected when he saw them on the bench, and he can see better now- up close, and to the touch, their mask is textured like living bone. Whorls and loops and the faintest lines flowing along each curve in a manner no mask-maker could ever hope to replicate so perfectly, broken here and there by small nicks and scuffs that are, in spots, showing signs of healing.)
For a few moments, nothing happens. They stay tense against him, staring at nothing, braced.
He does not move. Does not flinch from the chill- it’s only cold, he’s dealt with far worse, and the spring will keep him warm. Does not shy from how close they are to the cracked places in his shell- they don’t need to take advantage of an injury to kill him, if they decide they want to.
He does not move.
Between one heartbeat and the next, their breathing starts again.
Their frame, slowly, settles against his. Tensing a little when he speaks.
“Your touch is not abhorrent, my friend,” as softly as he can manage, smoothing his thumb against what he can only understand as their skull. “It may be unfamiliar, and I cannot promise I would not have been startled if you had touched me before I knew to expect the cold, but I do not object to it, and I vehemently reject the idea that anyone should ever avoid your touch any more than they might avoid anyone else’s.”
The trembling starts again.
“I am not put off. I am not repulsed, or disturbed, or in any way upset. I am fascinated, I would dearly like to have a close look at you if you would be comfortable with that, and I am-“
His voice catches. He is, he realizes, trembling a little as well, fighting the urge to press his face against their horns.
“-I will not, will never ask this of you if you are uncomfortable, but, if you- if you would be willing, I-“
How long has it been? He remembers soft touches, certainly, friends and lovers and traveling companions, but the when and the who slip away as he grasps at them, and all he can think is that it’s been so long-
He does not mean for his voice to shake as much as it does. “May I hold you a little longer?”
He is so, so tired, and he aches, and thinking of any reason why he should do anything other than stop is an exhausting prospect, but he will not voice any of that, will not make it their problem, will not-
They nod.
A weight lifts off his chest.
He doesn’t mean to curl around them quite as much as he does. They tense, a little, bracing their feet against him- then, deliberately, settle, relaxing back into his touch. Setting their hands, after a moment, on his chest.
Somewhere in the feeling of having someone in his arms, in tucking his face against the only living person he can clearly remember, he loses his grip on his tears. Plunges himself, headlong, into- everything.
This, too, he could drown in.
Save for the small hands that pull him out of it, eventually, patting at his mask with more and more vigor and urgency.
Quirrel fishes the pieces of himself back together just short of being repeatedly smacked, leaning back a little in an effort to meet their eyes. Trying to find his voice, needing them to know- “-oh, I’m- I’m sorry, my friend, it isn’t you, it’s- I-I haven’t-“
Speaking hurts. Like a muscle left too long un-stretched.
“…there is something terribly wrong with me.”
Worn down. A nub of a person, used up in writing a tragedy. Starting to understand that he has lived far longer than any mortal bug has a right to, that every face in his blurred, rent-up memory is that of a ghost, that he-
His little friend starts wriggling. Trying to get out of his grasp.
He will never, never be too lost in his own thoughts to ignore that. Will not let the pain of them pulling away stop him from letting go, will not make them-
They don’t leave. They only lean away, stretching, trying to get to the heap of supplies they’ve piled just at the edge of the spring. When they succeed, they grab a jar of- something, pickled roots by the look of things, and press against him once more. Shoving the jar, rather aggressively, into his hands.
Hm.
The weight is a grounding thing, alongside the cold presence tucked against his flank. As is…
“You know. I don’t think I remember the last time I ate,” he muses, turning the jar over.
That… may not be helping anything.
As it turns out, that is definitely not helping anything.
By the time they’ve shoved him into finishing what do turn out to be some sort of pickled roots (bitter), a little jar of a large seed he doesn’t recognize (stale, but not bad), and a canteen of water (cold), Quirrel finds himself feeling significantly less like someone ought to chuck him into the nearest rubbish bin.
The hot spring helps, as well. The heat of it seeps into his joints, into his cracked shell and every bruise and cut underneath, soothing away the pain. Quieting, gradually, the sensation that he might fall apart if shaken too briskly.
Somewhere in all of it, his mind quiets as well. Enough for him to look at his little friend, who’s now sitting in his lap, alternating between staring at his closing wounds and what he thinks is them following the outlines of all his shell’s plates with their eyes, and to realize something important.
“…you know, I normally get someone’s name before I cry on them,” he muses, sizing them up.
With how perfectly silent they are, he wouldn’t be entirely surprised to learn that their ability to speak out loud is limited, if not nonexistent. Still, surely they can sign, or write, or- ah! They can write, evidently, judging by the wax tablet they pull from-
How had he not noticed that before? He’s seen them take their map out of nowhere. How had he not questioned what trick, what spell, what feature of anatomy they were using to do it?
Intrigued, he props himself up on his elbows a little, just in time to read.
Ghost.
“Well met, Ghost. I… thank you.”
He still aches, but far, far less, with the sharpness of the wounds almost gone. His belly is full, his joints eased, his mind settling. He wants, now, only to sleep- not to fade and never reawaken.
Hallownest is a ruin. His memories are fit to match, crumbling the longer he looks. There is a lingering feeling that he has been involved in something terrible. He is tired, and old, and worn out, and hurting.
But.
He knows his friend’s name.