Cassius pauses at the concern, as if he has never had to think about it. His gaze drops to his opened palm, the rippling seams darkening at the edges like spoiled meat (like the unpleasant, dark thing wrapped around Doctor Hugh’s eye). Even now, the sensation of it is dulled, only really translated to him through the bodies underneath it.
“...this shell does not feel pain as you do, Doctor Hugh,” he says eventually, drawing his eyes back up. “It does not have the - ” he pauses. Struggles to find the word “ - the required components threaded through it for such a thing.” And then, said almost as an afterthought, “The things that hurt me are not physical.”
(Human rejection. His enduring Hunter, quiet and withdrawn from their memories. Kind Doctor Hugh, exhausted and afraid under the weight of his Song.
Cassius’ pain, as far as he has experienced, has always come from other people, monsters and humans alike.)
He reaches his unopened hand to Doctor Hugh’s own and winds cold, deadened fingers around it carefully. Pulls it closer to his damaged shell with just as much care. The mass beneath it shift in waves.
(A collective word, worms. Cassius is not just made of maggots, is not just made of things that slink through loosened earth. He is a hybrid of things, a constant metamorphosis between tiny, wriggling bodies. They crawl as easily as they squirm. Burrow as easily as they chew.
Can be thread-thin like the grass of his Garden, or long and coiled like the things he pushes down deeper into himself in favor for something with prolegs, something that can cling.)
Cassius lets out a small hum as the maggot (beautiful and plump and one of his largest) crawls out of the mass and onto his fingers. Waits with unnatural stillness.
“As I am in ‘decontamination’, Doctor Hugh, I cannot spread my presence for the Hunter to find,” he says, a serious, faint knit to his brow. “But you are able to move freely, Doctor Hugh, and it would - ‘make me feel better’ to know that I am with you, however small, in case -”
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“...this shell does not feel pain as you do, Doctor Hugh,” he says eventually, drawing his eyes back up. “It does not have the - ” he pauses. Struggles to find the word “ - the required components threaded through it for such a thing.” And then, said almost as an afterthought, “The things that hurt me are not physical.”
(Human rejection. His enduring Hunter, quiet and withdrawn from their memories. Kind Doctor Hugh, exhausted and afraid under the weight of his Song.
Cassius’ pain, as far as he has experienced, has always come from other people, monsters and humans alike.)
He reaches his unopened hand to Doctor Hugh’s own and winds cold, deadened fingers around it carefully. Pulls it closer to his damaged shell with just as much care. The mass beneath it shift in waves.
(A collective word, worms. Cassius is not just made of maggots, is not just made of things that slink through loosened earth. He is a hybrid of things, a constant metamorphosis between tiny, wriggling bodies. They crawl as easily as they squirm. Burrow as easily as they chew.
Can be thread-thin like the grass of his Garden, or long and coiled like the things he pushes down deeper into himself in favor for something with prolegs, something that can cling.)
Cassius lets out a small hum as the maggot (beautiful and plump and one of his largest) crawls out of the mass and onto his fingers. Waits with unnatural stillness.
“As I am in ‘decontamination’, Doctor Hugh, I cannot spread my presence for the Hunter to find,” he says, a serious, faint knit to his brow. “But you are able to move freely, Doctor Hugh, and it would - ‘make me feel better’ to know that I am with you, however small, in case -”
In case he gets injured again. Hurt.