Chapter Text
When Torbek rejoined their group, there was something about him that drew others in. Something warm and magnetic, something Frost wasn’t immune to. His awkwardness was endearing, his stumbling amusing in a way that made even the sternest among them smile. His inability to grasp what was commonly understood, to read between the lines, was... sad. Not pathetic. Not laughable. Just sad, in a quiet, aching way. He carried an aura that begged for comfort in a nearly irresistible way.
Frost's friends fawned over him.
It had to be jealousy—surely—that stirred that uncomfortable heat in Frost’s chest whenever the bugbear was near. Whether Torbek was alone, smiling softly to himself, or wrapped in some inside joke with the others, it always lit that same strange fire. A fire Frost didn’t know what to do with.
It was odd, though—truly odd—to see how rude the others could be to Torbek, while still offering him a tenderness Frost had never been granted. Voices rough, but actions gentle. Constant teasing paired with patient instruction, a kind of awareness that ran deeper than it seemed. They ragged on him, yes, but they guided him, too—taught him, remembered what he forgot, helped him feel like he belonged.
Frost was never treated so gently.
When he missed a social cue, he was the joke. A laughingstock. A waste of time, or whatever other “kind” thing they chose to say that day. When he struggled with his emotions, it wasn’t endearing—it was inconvenient. He was a grown man, after all. The logical one. The smart one. The grounded one. He was expected to have it together. Always.
He wonders if something is wrong with him.
There was a time, at the start of their journey together, in which Frost felt so out of place amongst his friends that he thought of himself as expendable. Knew he was expendable. Even when they were just coworkers.
He hasn’t felt that way in a while now.
Or, hadn’t, rather.
He watches Torbek run around with Gricko and Hootsie, while Gideon and Kremy watch and laugh, and suddenly those feelings of inadequacy return.
He doesn’t know what to do with himself.
But the thing is—none of them are in the wrong. Not Torbek. Especially not him. The bugbear is good. Not just decent. Not passably kind. Good. In a way that feels unseen in their world. Good in a way that makes Frost want to believe in it again. He has a heart so open that Frost swears he can hear it beating from across the fire. And his laugh, rare as it was, the way it caught in his throat and burst out of him, the way it glittered beneath starlight. Beamed under sun.
No.
His friends were right to like him.
It was just… It got to a point where Frost wondered how much longer Torbek had to prove himself before Frost was tossed on the back burner and left to himself again. He knew Gricko would dispute it, sure he would, but he also didn’t call the shots. Kremy did, and Frost knew that Kremy didn’t actually care about him.
…
Torbek rests his clawed hand against his paw, and Frost is lost.
The scale teeters.
The touch lingers, neither of them moving even as Frost reads the map out loud to the rest of the group. He has no idea why Torbek had the map—of all people—but he finds himself resenting it, just a little, for being the thing that set this whole stupid feeling into motion.
Gideon says something off to the side. Processing the information being said but having no commentary to respond to it. Frost hears him, understands him, even responds with a quiet nod, but none of it sinks in. It never really does when he gets like this. He’s grateful for the years of discipline that allow him to drift so far from himself without falling apart. A ghost with bones. Grounded in muscle memory, even when his mind is miles away.
Even if he isn’t there at all.
He thinks about the moment more than he has any right to. The brushing of hands. Thinks about it throughout the trail and down the hillside. The warmth that flooded through him at a single press of fingers. Something electric, stupidly so. It was barely even a touch.
He wonders if Torbek thought about it. Did he ever cross the bugbears' mind? Probably not. Or maybe he does—maybe everyone notices the awkward way Frost stumbles around, and they’re just too polite to say anything about the way he looks at people, the way he lingers too long, the way he feels too much and hides too little. That’d be worse. That would mean they knew, and they pitied him.
But no.
If Frost weren’t so concerned about holding onto whatever dignity he still had, he’d laugh. The others aren’t exactly known for keeping their mouths shut when it comes to teasing or commentary. If someone wanted to say something, they would have said it. And they haven't. Not really.
They continue walking. Frost has no idea what face he’s making. Probably something stupid. He never knows how he looks in moments like these—when he’s caught off guard. Not for the first time, he’s grateful that most people can’t see past the fur along his snout, can’t see the way his jaw tenses.
Torbek laughs at something Gricko says—a loud, open laugh. His eyes crinkle at the corners, all warmth and teeth and the kind of softness that shouldn't survive the kind of things they've all been through. Frost stares for too long.
The flames brighten within him.
…
Frost has a dream, one he’s carried since he was a child at the monastery, after some mistake he never fully understood. In it, he lies back in a vast, still body of water. Above him, leaves hang with no visible trees or trunks to hold them. Some of those leaves press against his lips, dry and sharp, caught in his mouth and tangled with his fur.
He stares up at a pale, white sky. Clouds, faintly bright, peek through his blurred vision, while an overwhelming, harsh light bounces off the water’s surface and pierces directly into his retinas. It’s almost too much to bear — a flood of sensation that numbs and sharpens all at once.
And beneath it all, there’s a weight. Heavy. Crushing. Resting deep in his chest like an iron stone. A guilt he can’t name, one he doesn’t understand — but feels with every breath.
In the dream, he sinks slowly into the water. The deeper he goes, the heavier that weight becomes, pressing harder, pulling him down. Exhaustion, unlike any waking fatigue, seeps into his bones. He’s never been more tired.
It always ends the same. A gurgling voice berates him as he goes under.
In his mind, there is a scale.
Frost wakes, barely a few hours since he’d first lain down. The dawn hasn’t touched the sky yet, and the low, familiar murmur of Gideon grumbling to himself by the fire filters through the tent walls. One in the morning, maybe, so close to his watch.
That’s fine. He wouldn’t have been able to fall back asleep anyway.
He doesn’t deserve the rest.
When he was younger, if he couldn’t quiet his thoughts during the day, he’d be made to meditate past bedtime until he could. This wasn’t much different.
Maybe if he’d reacted faster—stopped that fae before it scrambled their minds into metaphorical brain spaghetti—they would’ve made it back on time. Kremy could’ve cooked instead of sending them to bed hungry. Gideon could’ve arm-wrestled Torbek and put on a show for the others. Gricko might’ve launched into another story, retelling their adventure like it wasn’t something they had just lived through.
Maybe, if he'd been more attentive, he could’ve gotten some sleep.
He’s not angry, though. Maybe he should be. At what happened, maybe. At himself. But what he feels isn’t anger. Not really. Just that slow, sinking sort of acceptance.
He…
He used to think he had more time. More chances. That eventually, he’d learn to articulate himself, his magic, his place among them. But maybe that was naïve. Or lazy. Or both. Because clearly, nothing’s changed. He hasn’t changed.
It’s not unlike Kremy—or Gideon, or even Gricko, no matter how cruel it was to say it, to let go of people they don’t see value in. Frost had thought they were friends. Real friends. But maybe that word means something else to them. Something more transactional. What did he really offer?
Nothing. He could think of one person off the top of his head who did, though.
Jealousy smoulders in his chest, lingering and hot.
He turns onto his back, staring up at the faint seams of the canvas above him. His hands are cold. He doesn’t bother tucking them back beneath the blanket. He doesn’t really feel them anyway.
Outside, he hears Gideon stand from the fire.