Cassius says nothing as Doctor Hugh speaks. Lets him guide Cassius’ death-chilled hand up his back along a spine that is not quite a spine anymore. To ribs with those same, smooth pits that mark him as inhuman. A monster.
They wanted to make me something more.
He does not withdraw his hand, merely uses it to draw himself closer into Doctor Hugh’s contour. Mold himself into it, just a little, shell caving and stretching to cover more of his surface.
It scares me, Cassius.
He does not know how to comfort Doctor Hugh through this. Has never had to comfort his Hunter through the terror of their Newness. They had come to him full of scars already healed, a cocoon already ripped open and hollowed of the fully formed thing that had called that burden a home. And Doctor Hugh -
Doctor Hugh is still New. Still struggling with this YS. Still struggling to cope with his Song.
(Because that is what YS is, is it not? A force older than humanity, plagued upon a vessel with soft flesh so it could be sculpted into its image.
It does not matter to Cassius if it was lonely. Doctor Hugh is lonely now, too, because of it. Hurting because of it. Weighed down and crushed by his thoughts because of it.
Doctor Hugh says it cannot die, but -
His Hunter has not failed a hunt yet.)
“...you are much like my Hunter, Doctor Hugh,” Cassius says, when Doctor Hugh’s voice lulls with the emotion hanging upon his words. “They were human, too, once. Until the Song sunk its fangs into them and they were made New. Much like you are.”
He pauses for a moment, settles into a squirm that he has found to ease his Hunter (tight circles, bodies going round and round in a slow and steady pace).
“They are not the same person as before they were remade,” he continues gradually, as if forming the words is difficult for him (as if he is putting all of his worm-shaped heart into finding the right thing to say), “but they are still the Hunter. Still – Caelan, despite the years that have passed. Despite all that the Song has carved away from them.”
He loops his free hand around Doctor Hugh’s own, (another point of contact, another anchor from the heavy thoughts), and is met with the fluttering swarm of a pulse. Two heartbeats at once, three. No wonder Doctor Hugh is so kind.
“You will always be Doctor Hugh,” said with surety, with unfaltering faith. “Your Song – your YS – can carve away at you, too, Doctor Hugh, but it cannot change your roots. Not if you let do not let them.” A squeeze at Doctor Hugh’s hand, a pale imitation of the gentle gesture he had given Cassius earlier. “My Hunter took the Song and made it into something that helps in a way only a monster is capable of. With time, I believe that you can, too, Doctor Hugh.”
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They wanted to make me something more.
He does not withdraw his hand, merely uses it to draw himself closer into Doctor Hugh’s contour. Mold himself into it, just a little, shell caving and stretching to cover more of his surface.
It scares me, Cassius.
He does not know how to comfort Doctor Hugh through this. Has never had to comfort his Hunter through the terror of their Newness. They had come to him full of scars already healed, a cocoon already ripped open and hollowed of the fully formed thing that had called that burden a home. And Doctor Hugh -
Doctor Hugh is still New. Still struggling with this YS. Still struggling to cope with his Song.
(Because that is what YS is, is it not? A force older than humanity, plagued upon a vessel with soft flesh so it could be sculpted into its image.
It does not matter to Cassius if it was lonely. Doctor Hugh is lonely now, too, because of it. Hurting because of it. Weighed down and crushed by his thoughts because of it.
Doctor Hugh says it cannot die, but -
His Hunter has not failed a hunt yet.)
“...you are much like my Hunter, Doctor Hugh,” Cassius says, when Doctor Hugh’s voice lulls with the emotion hanging upon his words. “They were human, too, once. Until the Song sunk its fangs into them and they were made New. Much like you are.”
He pauses for a moment, settles into a squirm that he has found to ease his Hunter (tight circles, bodies going round and round in a slow and steady pace).
“They are not the same person as before they were remade,” he continues gradually, as if forming the words is difficult for him (as if he is putting all of his worm-shaped heart into finding the right thing to say), “but they are still the Hunter. Still – Caelan, despite the years that have passed. Despite all that the Song has carved away from them.”
He loops his free hand around Doctor Hugh’s own, (another point of contact, another anchor from the heavy thoughts), and is met with the fluttering swarm of a pulse. Two heartbeats at once, three. No wonder Doctor Hugh is so kind.
“You will always be Doctor Hugh,” said with surety, with unfaltering faith. “Your Song – your YS – can carve away at you, too, Doctor Hugh, but it cannot change your roots. Not if you let do not let them.” A squeeze at Doctor Hugh’s hand, a pale imitation of the gentle gesture he had given Cassius earlier. “My Hunter took the Song and made it into something that helps in a way only a monster is capable of. With time, I believe that you can, too, Doctor Hugh.”