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Edgar had only found the words to describe this feeling, when his eyes had fallen upon the little tiger atop their bedside draws, during an attack. Even as fear shook his brain like a snow globe, the similarity became clear in his mind. The tiger was called “The Chewed Tiger”, because he and Alan suspected that was what had happened to it, before they liberated it from the thrift store. Some little kid had grabbed the thing and gnawed at it with newly sprouted teeth. Great flakes of bright paint were missing from the poor creature’s head and forepaws, exposing white and tattered plastic. The proud colours that lent the tiger life and beauty, was revealed to be a skin so fragile, a child could strip it away.
That was close to how Edgar felt in moments like this. As though he were merely a single layer of skin, straining over a figure of solid iron. The iron figure hurt. It was heavy and hot, and so stiff that every move pulled painfully at the skin that was Edgar. He wanted it out of him, but to do that would be to leave himself a heap of scorching tatters upon the floor. Though fear rattled his heart and boiled his organs, he could not feel his insides for the feeling of terrifying solidity. Part of him wanted to remove the clothes that trapped the rising heat, but his racing mind wondered about all that could prick him, bruise him, tear him up if that protection was gone. The only thing he could ever think to do, was stand by the open window of the bathroom. He would try to feel the scant breeze on his face, flexing his fingers against it, praying the iron would cool and agree to move with him. Soon, he thought, soon it will be cold enough that I won’t feel it in me at all.
Then Alan would come in. Edgar would thank God it was Alan, not Eleanore, or Issac. Later, he would remember that Alan could see when the iron was spreading through him by now. He knew where to find him. Almost immediately, Alan would start to mirror him. His hands would flex and flutter at his sides. Anxiously, but to Edgar it looked so happy, and he his eyes turned from the strip of muggy grey through the open window, to Alan’s frenetic fingers. Alan closed the lid of the toilet and seated himself, his hands fidgeted, hypnotically in his lap. Edgar always forgot, in his frightened state, how much better Alan made him feel. Somehow, he felt that peeling off of the iron core into an agonised mess would not be such an irreversible hardship, with Alan there. At least would see it and know what has happened. At least he could try to piece him back together, again.
Eventually, a cooling began. Edgar’s twitching hands would begin to flap with ease, like a bird in a dust bath. Hot tears pricked at his eyes and burned in his throat, the molten heat oozing out. He could suddenly feel his shuddering heart, as the iron softened around it. He could feel the slithering of his organs, working inside him. It all hurt too, but it was movement, free movement. And at that right moment, Alan would hear his grateful, free flowing breaths and look up at him. He would stand and begin to reach out with both hands.
“Okay?” He would ask.
Edgar could hum and nod at that. Alan’s hands reached him and took hold of both his arms, squeezing firmly, very firmly. So firmly he bypassed the fabric of his shirt and pressed right into the sinew. Edgar would feel himself give under the deep pressure of Alan’s blunt fingers and know that he was pliant and whole. No iron within and more that a single layer of skin. It felt good, so good, so much better. Out of habit, a trace of his younger years, he would duck his head forward and press his face against Alan’s shoulder. Briefly nuzzle the sweetly rough, musty fabric of his jacket like an animal. He would pull away, contented.