Chapter Text
For a long, long while, Edwin had known many physical sensations to be a mild inconvenience, if not an outright bother.
Before he had died, there had been some small pleasures. Though he would not imagine proclaiming he would rather return to those days, he would not be entirely wrong to say he missed some of what came with being human.
Ghost hands were not nearly as perceptive as human ones; textures that were once vastly different soon blurred together, temperatures became dulled, even pain itself seemed to lose it’s bite. He found himself in a vast plane of partial nothingness, as if his entire body were nearly numb.
Occasionally, this proved useful. He did not need to worry about burning himself on natural flames, and textures that had once made him wince with discomfort were now entirely unremarkable. Edwin had grown accustomed to it all, so that he no longer thought anything of it.
That was, until he met Charles Rowland.
Edwin had lived for a few years in a state of numbness, and the years that proceeded it had been spent in hell, where there were no ‘small pleasures’ to be found. The life he had lived was long forgotten, and with it had left the memory of any comforting touch -if there had ever been much to remember-.
Thus it came as quite a shock the first time Charles touched him. It was a passing thing, a touch acquaintances might share. In fact, Edwin wasn’t sure Charles had even thought about it.
But Edwin, Edwin who had not felt such a sincere touch since he was a young, young boy, nearly flinched.
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The halls of St Hilarion were quiet; eerily so. In the silence, Edwin thought even his breaths sounded loud; his footsteps may as well have been the pealing school bell. Surely someone would hear them, would find them. Had he a heart in his chest, it would be pounding.
But of course, nobody could hear them. Nobody living, anyway. Edwin leaned against the shelves behind him, upon which old cleaning equipment had been left to collect dust. He inhaled slowly, if only to feel the vaguely comforting sensation of filling his lungs.
Running always sent him to panic. And when he knew he was running from Death, who could send him to hell again-
Edwin opened his eyes, needing desperately to be sure he was not in that terrible, terrible hallway.
And before him stood Charles.
Charles had left the door ajar when he came into the broom closet they found themselves in, allowing a faint sliver of light to fall upon his face. Edwin could just see the breathless smile on the boy’s face, his cold-induced exhaustion quickly gone in favour of a boyish excitement that Edwin could not seem to believe was directed at him.
“Is being a ghost always this… weightless?” Charles asked, and Edwin nodded weakly.
“Yes. Technically, you have no mass at all now.” Edwin replied, grasping at the chance to explain something he knew.
Charles turned in a slow circle, brushing his fingers along the wall as he did. Once he had turned back to face Edwin, his eyebrows were furrowed.
“‘Can’t feel anything… ever?” He said, the enthusiasm in his voice replaced with unease.
“Never.” Edwin replied. “You cannot… smell, either. Or… taste.”
The air huffed out of Charles’s lungs, and, as if on instinct, the ghost reached out, his hand finding Edwin’s hands where he had been holding them in front of himself.
It was as if a blinding torch had been lit in a room that had not seen light in years. Even through his clothing, Edwin felt the touch with a searing warmth, a solidity that he had not believed to be possible.
The whole world was made of shadows, surely, and here, now was the only thing that was real. Charles, his smile now returned, his touch on Edwin’s skin.
Edwin snatched his hands back, his lungs suddenly demanding far more air than he could give them. He must have looked horrified, because Charles stepped back.
“Sorry, mate. I didn’t- Won’t try that again.” Charles said.
“Right.” Edwin breathed. “Yes.”