"I… I'm sorry, I just made it worse, I'm so sorry-"
"Nah, it's chill," I respond brightly. "Pun totally intended."
My weak attempt at humor falls flat. He still looks petrified, pupil-less eyes wide. An odd feeling tingles once again where the frost touches my skin, and I stare at my hand. The weird discoloration is probably frostbite; go figure. Though… normally, the long dysfunctional sensory nerves in my skin wouldn't even bother trying to respond. Now? Some part of me is actually registering the lower temperature.
I want to laugh giddily, but it'd probably be inappropriate considering the situation. I should also probably just fix it and stop freaking the poor guy out. I'm not sure why my hand hadn't just automatically solidified like the last time I'd touched him, but that probably doesn't matter right now.
I will my hand to turn into lead, bracing for the immense weight difference. Blood and ruined skin sloughs off, and I sluggishly flex my fingers. Denser metals always mean slower movements, which can be annoying sometimes.
After a couple of seconds, the lead starts to disappear. Dark gray melts away in blobs, until there's nothing left but the typical scarred brown-ness that characterizes my skin. There are new scars on my knuckles, though they're barely noticable.
I look up. He's staring.
"What? You can make ice. I hardly think that being able to turn into metal is weird."
"Help!" the parakeet interjects.
I point at the bird. "That? That's a little weird."
He shrugs. "The higher-ups decided I needed a 'lesson in empathy' and got her to broadcast my feelings 24/7."
"… you feel like you're dying?"
He blinks, like he's realizing what he just said, before breaking eye contact. Silence reigns again.
I'm not quite sure what to do at this point. Something tells me suggesting counseling would not be well-received, so I'm at a bit of a loss. My eyes land on my bookbag, and I quickly look away. That homework isn't due for a couple days, anyway; I can afford to stay longer.
He reminds me of when I was a kid, of the days when random parts of my body would change without my permission. Losing control is terrifying. I don't really like to think about it, but…
"I get stuck sometimes, and I… I can't change back," I say quietly. "It's usually because I, like, panic or something. Which happens pretty often. I, um… I can't concentrate enough to get a hold of it, which makes me panic even more."
Echoes of my own frantic wheezes sound through my head. I close my eyes against the memories and pretend they aren't there. "Sometimes it gets bad enough to start spreading inside. Like, beyond just my skin. I've had to go to the hospital a couple times, because, um… well, it could kill me. If I don't get a hold of it. I already feel anything anymore; pain, light touches, temperature… and that's pretty terrifying."
"…Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll never be able to get control again." His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally speaks. I glance up when I hear him shift. He's a little less curled up in himself, now, and is staring at shaking hands. "Sometimes the ice just vibrates out of my skin and I… that's when it starts spreading to other things. Other people. Then I can't touch anyone without hurting them, so I just… I mean, it… If I don't let it out, feels like a bunch of needles just stabbing me all at the same time. So I just… hide."
I nod, and the silence is different this time. Comfortable. He has a different type of control to lose, but it's still kinda nice to meet someone who sorta gets it.
"Can I sit next to you?" I ask.
He nods stiffly, ignoring the indignant squawk from the parakeet at the movement, and I shift to sit next to him. After a while of the both of us pretending he's not sniffling, I say,
"I have a pretty great shoulder, if you're open to leaning on it. The metal will keep you from hurting me. And. Well. I'd actually feel it, which would be nice."
No response. I tip my head back against the tree and close my eyes. Eventually, my shoulder sinks slightly under an added weight. I wordlessly raise my arm and pull him a little closer. Frost spreads, and I pretend not to notice the beads of ice rolling off of his cheeks. The cold is comforting.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
