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Mr. Graves has touched him before, when they've met, small, casual touches, things he must regard as inconsequential; ruffling his hair, a hand on his shoulder, grasping the back of his neck, fingers under his chin, raising his gaze. Touches he must think of as nothing special, because he makes nothing of them, makes nothing of the fact that Credence has to learn not to tense at them, not to jerk away. Touches that burn, for days, haunting Credence, filling him with a desperate, smothered longing for more.
Touches that humiliate him, because every time, no matter how small, he cannot help leaning in, chasing after the withdraw, wanting it to keep lasting even seconds longer.
The first time Mr. Graves hugs him, brings him in and wraps his arms around him and presses him close, he gasps. He cannot even remember the last time he was hugged. He freezes, terrified and wanting, his head cradled and pressed against Mr. Grave's shoulder, uncertain what to do with his own hands. He settles for tentatively raising them to Mr. Graves' sides, but that's not what he wants to do.
He carries the warmth of it, the scent of Mr. Graves, the feeling of comfort, so fleeting, but so real, for days. Clings to it, as life bears down on him, as his hands bleed and he shivers with cold and swallows down the sharp ache of fear at every mention of 'witches'.
After that, he thinks that maybe, maybe Mr. Graves has noticed, because almost every time, he hugs him now, and Credence is growing to crave it. Even when it lingers, it's not long enough, not enough to fill that screaming, dark void within him that he fears so much. When Mr. Graves doesn't show up, several times in a row, when he goes weeks without that touch, that comfort, with nothing but the belt and the cold, tight grasp of Modesty's hand in his, he itches, feels sick and hollow with longing. For a breath or two, when Ma is telling him it's for his own good, as he struggles not to flinch away, hands held out before him, he hates Mr. Graves. Hates him for giving him something to want, giving him this glimpse of things he can't ever have, this bright something that makes every day a little more unbearable.
He doesn't mean it, he thinks, frantically, the next second, he doesn't mean it.
They meet again, and his hunger is given crumbs, given enough to keep him from starving, but never enough. Never enough. They meet, again, and again, and again, and it's never enough.
He crumbles.
He doesn't mean to, doesn't make a conscious choice to do so, but when Mr. Graves leans back to disengage, starts to remove his arms and the air and light and reality begin to rush back, he clings. Please, he thinks, please, before sanity returns and he lets go, all too aware of how Mr. Graves has stilled. “Sorry,” he starts, “sor-”
“Shhh,” Mr. Graves breathes, and then – and then pulls him back in. Sighs, and tightens his arms, nestles Credence's head in the crook of his neck just so as he leans back against the wall of the alley, and Credence can't help the desperate whimper he makes. “Dissimulo,” he hears, faintly, above his head, and then Mr. Graves resettles him, closer, cradles the back of his head. “It's alright, Credence,” he says, so quiet, a breath of warm air at his ear, and holds him.
And holds him.
Credence clings, arms wrapped around Mr. Graves as though this is a dream he has to keep from disappearing, breathes into the thick, soft fabric of his coat and gives in to the darkness behind his eyes, the illusion that he is safe, that he is protected. That he is wanted, just for who he is, as he is, and that void within him stirs, hungry.
He waits, soaking in the comfort offered, for the end, for Mr. Graves to pull away.
He doesn't.
He doesn't, and he doesn't, and he doesn't, and his hold never loosens, and his hand continues to stroke the back of Credence's head, gently, and Credence – Credence falls. Lets himself believe this is a thing he can have, that he really is safe, that Mr. Graves really does care. Nestles his face in, closer still, and sinks in, no longer clinging desperately, relishing being held like something precious.
Credence couldn't say how long they have stood like this, pressed into each other, only that it is long enough for the hollow inside him to fill, not barely, but completely, overflowing, turning into something bright and giddy and tight in his chest. Turn into feelings he doesn't understand, can't remember having, feelings that make him bones feel heavy and liquid and hot under his skin.
He sighs into Mr. Graves' neck, content, calm, and feels the smile that rises onto Mr. Graves' lips as he turns his head, presses a soft kiss to Credence's temple. “Good,” he says, “that's better, Credence.” Credence smiles, a faint, small thing, hidden against Mr. Graves.
The world is waiting for him, out there, beyond this safe little island. He knows what's waiting for him, once he steps back, once he returns to the cold, gray church, to offering himself up for pain and undeserved punishment. Knows the emptiness before him, devoid of this sort of comfort. Knows.
But for now, there is this fullness of spirit, this reminder that someone, somewhere, cares for him.
He pulls away, reluctantly, but not needing, not still half staved. Looks at Mr. Graves, not ducking away, not hiding, and thinks about saying something, thinks about thanking him, or – or something else, he doesn't know -
Mr. Graves presses a finger against his lips. Smiles, warm and cheerful and Credence feels his stomach flip. “Until next time, Credence,” he says, and steps back, dissolving into nothing.
This time, Credence thinks he can survive until then.