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Edgar’s never liked being touched.
That’s a lie, he supposes. The sharp pat on his shoulder from his Granddad helped startle himself out of his thoughts when he was caught overthinking. That was always nice. And sometimes his Dad would pat his hand in quiet comfort if he was upset. That was nice, too.
His new friends at school do a lot more than that, though.
It’s overwhelming sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. He can’t help but lock his arms into his sides and go rigid whenever someone tries giving him a hug. It’s like being trapped – he knows it’s supposed to be comforting, but it never feels comforting. If anything it made him more anxious, overthinking how he’s so close to someone. Thinking about how bony he is, how all of his parts are digging into the wrong places, taking up space, invading someone’s boundaries. He hates it.
His friends give physical touch so freely and openly. Or, at least, Roland and Monty do. Roland loves hearty pats on his friends’ backs to encourage them, too short to reach their shoulders. Sometimes he’ll offer a hug. They always look so tight and warm, and whoever he’s hugging is usually laughing afterwards.
Monty seems partial to just leaning on people, sometimes. Rather than giving touch like Roland does, Monty takes it, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to just lean into your friends’ sides, or hug them, or hold their hand. Sometimes if they’re sat in the common room beanbags, he’ll rest his legs on the legs of whoever’s closest. It’s grounding, sometimes.
Sometimes it makes Edgar’s skin crawl as panic flits in his chest and he retreats into himself. Even then, Monty’s never offended. It’s not a thing for him. It’s just physical touch.
It makes Edgar’s head spin a little.
Kevin, at the very least, seems to look at it like he does: with extreme discomfort, retreating where he can. Edgar’s spoken to him about it before. They agree: hugs feel like being trapped. Electricity sparks at skin-on-skin contact. It’s too much.
Sometimes it isn’t, though. His shoulder feels cold sometimes. He tries his best to ignore it.
He’s usually good at ignoring bad things until they go away. Or, thinking himself into circles he finds a way to think about it so that nothing’s actually wrong. Usually this leaves him feeling empty, unmoored where he stands. That’s okay, though. It doesn’t matter that much, if things are okay in the end.
He knows bottling things up is bad. Of course he does. That doesn’t mean he’s simply going to bother people around him with his problems, though. Causing grief for those around him is infinitely worse than just going without whatever fleeting fancy took hold of him for a moment. It’s fine!
He’s fine. Everything’s fine. It doesn’t matter.
He’s already caused so many problems for those around him. Since the tower. Since joining St. Churnley’s. Since P-
Well. Since he was born, really.
That’s why it’s so easy to slip into a submissive sort of manner around his friends. Never asserting his own wants or needs. He can’t want or need anything; that would require others wasting their time and energy on him. And that’s the end of the world.
He’s a self-sufficient sort. He can handle it on his own. He’ll be fine. He is fine.
That’s what he tries telling his friends inbetween his sobs one Tuesday evening, anyway.
He’s not quite sure where it came from. Today had been fine. Uneventful, even. No distractions from his classwork, a successful plagueround venture, a filling dinner with some bread. He was fine.
Then he wasn’t fine.
Roland is to his left, hugging him tightly from the side and rubbing his hand over his upper arm. Monty is to his right, moreso clinging to his arm and leaning into him than exactly hugging him. Kevin is sat in front of him, in quiet solidarity, hands fidgeting like they should do something but are too scared to make a move.
His friends are doing their best to comfort him. He can acknowledge this. It’s why he’s trying so hard to insist he’s fine.
He’s not sure he’s fully understandable. He knows what he wants to say. He can form the argument in his mind. It’s just that his heaving sobs keep interrupting his speech, and even if he wasn’t crying he doubts his stammering would leave him in any way coherent.
He can practically imagine his paternal figures’ quiet disappointment in front of him. This isn’t very manly of him, is it? It makes him want to tear out his hair.
Instead he keeps babbling. Something about independence and being mature and grown up. Not needing to be coddled like an infant. Every self-deprecating word that slips into his speech however just drives his friends to hold him tighter. He can feel his shoulder digging in to Monty’s soft cheek, even when he tries shying away. He can feel his elbow pointing into Roland’s side regardless of how tightly he holds himself. He’s just taking up space, and he can’t escape, and it’s so much—
Kevin starts humming a tune.
He’s not sure he recognises it. It’s a soft, lilting tune. It dips and rises along to a beat Kevin taps onto his knee. Kevin’s knee, not his. Edgar watches the movement, words slowing. It’s only slightly distracting.
He realises he’s trembling. His friends must be so annoyed. Another apology bubbles out of him, quieter, and he tries to raise his voice over Roland’s indignant replies—
Then Monty starts fidgeting with his hands.
Monty often gets bored, Edgar thinks distantly. Fidgeting with his hands feels like a normal progression to take.
But he’s fidgeting with Edgar’s hands.
At first it was rubbing slow, calloused fingers over Edgar’s bony knuckles. Almost like he’s tracing every rivet and valley, charting the very skin that wraps around his flesh and sinew. It’s so gentle, so caring, that it makes Edgar’s speech falter.
Monty then moves to his fingers. He traces his longer nails under Edgar’s own short, bitten ones. It’s so slow, an almost tickling presence. Ticklish isn’t quite right, but it feels nice. He watches the claws move from softly tracing underneath his nails to gently pressing up on them. Not enough to hurt, but enough to apply the gentlest of pressure. It makes him falter; he can feel every movement, how intentional it is, how certain Monty is about this foreign display of affection. There’s no malice or intent to hurt or ridicule or mock. It’s just Monty, sharing physical touch. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It makes his head fuzzy. He doesn’t quite mind, though. His thoughts slow, and all he can do is watch Monty fiddle with his hands.
Kevin asks if he’s okay. Edgar flushes. He didn’t realise the humming had stopped.
He insists he’s okay. Of course he’s okay! That’s what he’s been saying this entire time. He pulls his hand away from Monty and wipes his face, getting up. Roland says something. Probably to argue. He doesn’t care.
The delicate fuzz clouding his thoughts has turned into a prickliness that he’s trying hard to not direct at his friends.
He apologises, again. He’s fine. He scrubs his face, going to leave.
Kevin’s frowning. He asks if he’s overwhelmed. That he stopped talking and was just staring at Monty’s hand.
Roland pipes up from beside him. Like sensory overload.
Monty’s lip quivers, at that. He apologises. He just wanted to comfort him.
Edgar ignores the pang of guilt wracking his frame and silently thanks Kevin for the easy out. Yes, of course. He was just overwhelmed. He’s going to go to his room, now, if that’s okay.
The others relent. He’s thankful. He makes sure to thank them. He tries to ignore the wave of emptiness that washes over him as he leaves the common room.
His room is dark, with just the flickering of the bedside table’s lamp to illuminate the book in front of him.
It’s a good one, he thinks. One about pirates and water and chains. He was enjoying it the other night.
Now he can’t seem to focus. It’s been hard to immerse himself in a good book, nowadays. He can’t do much except re-read the same page over and over, thoughts trickling out of his ears like they themselves were water and dripping onto the pages until there’s nothing left but a familiar fuzziness in his head that leaves him wanting...
Well. Wanting something. He’s trying very hard to ignore it. He’s trying very hard to read the book in front of him. He’s trying to pretend he’s as immersed as he usually is in his reading, and that he doesn’t notice Monty softly come in to the room. He’s trying very hard to act like he normally does.
He watches Monty faceplant onto the bed, hat falling off beside him, and he lets out a minute breath of relief.
It’s become routine for them. Neither of them are very good at words. They’d rather do their own thing in peace. It’s comfortable.
Edgar looks back down at his book. His eyes drift to his hand – the one Monty held. He worries his lip between his teeth, and grants himself a moment of fanciful thinking as he runs his thumb nail under the rest of his fingernails.
It doesn’t hit quite right. Doesn’t have that familiar creeping fuzziness that dampened his thoughts. That’s okay. He sighs, less minutely this time.
“Sorry, by the way.”
Monty’s voice startles him out of his reverie. He didn’t realise he was staring at him.
“Um- pardon?”
“Sorry. About earlier. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”
Edgar flushes. “Oh- No, no! It’s okay. Really. It doesn’t matter. Th-thank you, though, Monty. I should be the one apologising though. I mean, it wasn’t-“
He stops himself.
“...Wasn’t what?”
Edgar feels thoroughly caught out. Today has been too much, and now he’s being caught out. Ffffrick.
“Wasn’t anything. I mean, ‘it wasn’t’ wasn’t anything. Um. It doesn’t matter. Nevermind.”
Monty blinks at him, before looking away. “Okay.”
He flops onto his back. Edgar watches him for a while. Maybe he just feels bad about upsetting him, so he’s not pushing it? That’s probably a bit too socially aware for someone like Monty though. That’s a mean thought. No, it’s fine. He’s probably just sounding incoherent again. Like earlier. He really wants to stop thinking about earlier. He really wants to stop thinking altogether, really. He-
“You’re still staring at me.”
“Oh! Um! Yes! Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Did you want something?”
“N-no- well, I mean- No. It’s nothing, it doesn’t matter—“
“Edgar,” Monty sits up.”You keep saying that.”
“S-saying what?”
“’It doesn’t matter’. You keep saying that. What doesn’t matter?”
“Um,” Edgar squeaks out. “M-me?”
He’s not sure he meant to say that.
Monty looks confused for a moment, before his face practically melts with sorrow. “What do you mean?”
Can’t back out now, he supposes. He’s already here now, he supposes. “Um. I. I don’t matter.”
Monty leans forward from his bed. Without his hat, Edgar can see the tears shine in his eyes. The familiar guilt feels hollow in his chest.
“Why do you think you don’t matter?”
“I- Um,” he stammers again, thoroughly caught off-guard by Monty’s questions and his own confession in the first place. He never really questioned it. Just took it as fact. It doesn’t matter, really! There’s always better things for people around him to be concerning themselves with, and Edgar has gotten very, very good at staying quiet when he’s upset, so it doesn’t matter!
How does he explain all of this, though?
It feels so certain as he turns it over in his mind. It’s a fact he’s lived with. He never had to make peace with it if it was just the way the world worked. But, looking at Monty’s crestfallen expression... Thinking about how carefully, almost reverently his friend held his hand... How nice it made him feel. Grounded, in the moment, for once.
He doesn’t realise he’s crying again until the tears tickle his neck, wet and cold.
Monty lets out a broken noise and suddenly he’s beside Edgar’s bed, kneeling to look up at him. Pleading for a way to make it better.
“I promise you, you matter.”
Edgar retreats back into himself. His spindly limbs tense, locked tight into his body.
“I don’t know who or what told you you don’t matter. You matter, Edgar. You matter to me. You matter to your friends.”
He can’t help but shake his head a little. He doesn’t mean to. His head ends up shaking, anyway.
Monty’s voice starts raising. “If you didn’t matter, why don’t we just let you die in the Plagueround? Why did I save you from that tower?”
A sob rips itself from Edgar’s throat. He doesn’t mean to do that, either.
“If you didn’t matter, then why did Poe sacrifice himself for you?”
Edgar sharply inhales. Monty doesn’t look at all guilty. It’s a certain self-confidence Edgar can only dream of having.
“I’m sorry,” Edgar whispers out, wet and broken. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t- You’re right, I’ve already cried too much today, I just need to calm down and then I’ll be fine-”
“You’re doing it again!” Monty petulantly cries. “Why do you keep insisting you’re fine? Just tell me what you wanted!”
Edgar takes off his glasses. He starts laughing. He can’t help it. “It’s silly, it really doesn’t matter, I-“
“Edgar!”
“I wanted a hug,” he blurts out.
Monty stares at him for a few moments. It’s enough to make him want to scream. Edgar wants to crawl into his hole and actually just die, thank you very much. He’s being overly emotional and mopey and uncooperative with his friends who are just trying to help, and now they’re having to do emotional labour just to take care of him, and--
He watches Monty get up and all but collapse into the side of him. He brings his arms around Edgar’s body, as still and rigid as ever, and yet he holds on regardless. Even buries his face into Edgar’s sleeve. As easy as that.
It’s so warm. He’s so tired of being tense. Maybe he’s allowed to accept it. Even just a little bit.
“Let me know if you feel overwhelmed, okay?”
Edgar feels fresh tears run down his cheeks at the words.
Monty doesn’t move for a while. They simply sit there, in each other’s presence, Edgar feeling the warmth seep into his bones. His friend has always ran warm. It’s nice.
He still feels bad. For having to ask to be hugged in the first place. For being hugged. Surely this isn’t a good experience for Monty. Surely his lanky frame is digging into his friend’s body, surely his jagged and out-of-shape existence is causing more trouble than it’s worth.
And yet through it all, Monty holds on tight. Surely, if it was that bad, Monty wouldn’t be doing this? Surely it’s okay. Just for now.
Maybe he should try hugging back. Slowly, unrushed, Edgar relaxes muscle by muscle. And when he feels brave enough, he even leans in to Monty beside him, too.
Truthfully, guiltily, he realises this position didn’t let him hug Monty back very well, sat upright and trapped with his book on his lap. He should fix this, make it less awkward. He slowly moves the book from his lap and brings the arm trapped at his side around Monty, to gently, clumsily hug him back.
The sharpness of his joints softens as he tries adjusting himself to be more comfortable. Monty simply adjusts with him.
Edgar suddenly feels silly for feeling guilty about moving. It really wasn’t such a big deal, was it?
The realisation makes him laugh again. And then sob again.
They stay like that, for a while.
Monty rubs his arms. And then he starts rocking, side to side. Edgar’s seen Monty rock, before. He just assumed it was a Monty thing. Sat with him like this, he can see how it’s calming. It’s nice.
“Um,” he begins.
“Yeah?” Monty asks, not moving.
Edgar’s honestly not even sure where to start. His defense has already been lowered so much, he’s already said so many stupid things tonight. Vulnerable things that leave him feeling rattled and sick.
Monty continues over his thoughts. “You’re allowed to talk, you know.”
“Y-Yeah. Um,” he tries again. Subtly runs his thumbnail under his other nails again. “Earlier on, when you were, um. Holding my hand. Playing with my nails.”
“Yeah?” Monty’s tone betrayed nothing. Edgar takes a deep breath and continues.
“What, um—What was that? Like, why did you do that? Where did you get it from?”
He can’t see Monty’s face but he can basically feel him frown against his arm as he thinks. “I don’t know. Was it bad?”
“No,” he starts maybe too enthusiastically. He clears his throat, still wet from tears. “No, I, um. It was nice. I just didn’t know why you did it.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Got bored, I suppose.”
“Ah.”
And it makes him grin. He almost laughs. He doesn’t want to disturb the comfortable position they’d settled into, though. It’s just so funny.
Of course. He just got bored. And he just started being physically affectionate. As if it was worth nothing. As if it were the easiest thing in the world.
To Edgar, it meant the world itself. He’s not sure how he can explain that.
He’s once again taken aback at how easily his friend is so full of love, and how easily he’s willing to give it. Edgar can only wish he felt half as brave – can only wish sharing affection came so easily to him. If even after all of this Monty insists he’s a monster, then what does that make Edgar?
“If you liked it, do you want me to do it again?”
Edgar flushes pink. He should say no. He’s been weird enough already. He should pull back and go back to being alone and not disrupting his friend’s evening any more than he already has.
Monty’s so warm, though. Maybe he’s allowed this.
“Um. If- if you don’t mind. It—yeah. It was nice.”
“Okay,” Monty replies, simply. He removes the arm around Edgar’s front to instead gently hold Edgar’s free hand. He gives a reassuring squeeze which Edgar clumsily, perhaps too late, returns with a shakey smile. And then he returns to fiddling with Edgar’s fingers, softly tracing his fingertips with his claws, gently applying that same pressure as before.
The room is silent. The lamp’s golden light illuminates them in a comforting glow. Edgar simply watches Monty’s hand trace circles and shapes he can’t see, and finds himself leaning further into his friend’s embrace as the fuzziness takes hold again.
It’s nice. Calming. He doesn’t have much space in his room for anything but the gentle, almost-tickling feeling of Monty’s hand playing with his. Maybe he shouldn’t overthink it. Maybe it’s okay if he doesn’t. Maybe it’s okay if they’re just comforting each other with their company. Maybe he’s allowed this. At least, just for now.
Maybe he’s okay with physical touch, after all.