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Wignall likes to divide his life into a before and an after.
The before is warm. It is golden rays streaming through the forest’s dense foliage, his sister’s laughter ringing like wind chimes in the Nullsmoon breeze as he conjures butterflies for her to chase around.
(The after begins when Ellenor leaves. It is cold and lonely and it’s all he has left.)
It also begins with a feeling that takes root inside of him with a violent lurch one day, all of his muscles locking up when one of the younglings that probably haven’t been warned off Wignall yet stumbles into him, her small hand grabbing his exposed calf to keep herself from falling.
The child runs on, and Wignall is left frozen still as the tight grip of repulsion spreads all over his skin.
So Wignall starts to think of it as the touch thing. He knows it’s immature and foolish and a lot of other, more refined words his kin like to sneer at him, but he allows himself the lenience in the privacy of his own mind. Because regardless of what he calls it, the touch thing persists.
If he really tries, he could perhaps even remember the feeling of a hand in his, a touch to his shoulder that wasn’t accompanied by the sharp sting of nails digging into skin. Back then, before, his skin didn’t crawl at the mere thought of someone wrapping their arms around him, craved it, even.
But the more time passes, the more certain Wignall becomes that he’s always been this way – that he went so long without touch he’s made himself believe he doesn’t want it; decided he’s better off without it.
That he’s undeserving of it, anyway.
By the time he leaves Alfswood, he’s half-convinced that the before is something he merely made up, his imagination filling in the blanks like it used to after the worn tome filled with fantastical tales he would read to Ellenor was taken from him.
(He likes how the phrasing makes it sound like it just… happened. Like it was some natural development.
The book was taken. Wignall was shunned.
No one would think to ask who or why they did it. It simply was.)
He was always good at coming up with happy endings for characters whose names he can now barely recall.
(Wignall doesn’t know what it says about him that he could never do the same for himself.)
He tries not to think about the touch thing. Surrounded by Lyzances as he is makes it easier than he would have expected.
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Wignall is in his third year when he holds his hand out to Lihanna for the first time.
Her blue eyes widen slightly as she looks up at him from where she’s collapsed on the Spellhall’s floor in exhaustion. “Are you certain?” she asks because it’s Lihanna and she’s never been one to waste her words.
Wignall hesitates, gives her a nod that is more decisive than he feels, and doesn’t move his hand.
When her skin touches his, it’s… it feels wrong. Like an itch has burrowed under his skin.
His mind is empty and frozen still while he pulls her to her feet, a sigh of relief climbing up his throat and getting stuck behind his teeth when she lets go.
And Wignall has no idea why.
The touch thing has grown into something he can’t parse out at all - his eyes lingering on arms casually thrown over shoulders while his stomach twists in on itself the moment he grabs his friend’s hand.
(He had expected it to be different. That his fingers would tighten their grip subconsciously; that he’d be reluctant to let go.
He wanted to want it. Wanted to feel that memory-faint warmth again–)
“I’m honoured you consider me worthy,” Lihanna says, her voice distorted by the white noise filling Wignall’s head. “I will aim to prove that your trust wasn’t misplaced.”
“You already have,” he says without thinking, and knows she understands him even if he doesn’t elaborate. She always does.
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His arm hurts. His head does too, but Wignall can’t really chalk that up to the fall nor the exhaustion, the pressure behind his eyes not letting him forget how he’d embarrassed himself a mere couple of minutes ago.
(Crying. How unseemly to let someone else see how pathetic he really is – wholly unbefitting of an elf, but it’s not like that is anything new, now is it?)
He ignores the burn in his legs and trudges on, keeping pace with Will’s sure strides. With the swordsman in front of him, Wignall takes a moment to glance at his hand, the feeling of wrong wrong wrong still making his fingers twitch at his side as his teeth grind together in painful frustration.
He doesn’t regret it – if anything, he owes Will more than a mere apology – but the contact has him out of sorts in a way that feels too much like all the times he’s collapsed on the cold tiles of the Spellhall after a night spent casting spell after unsuccessful spell. Like the vicious drag of inadequacy against the pleura of his lungs that comes with failing at something that should be as natural as breathing.
(He’s pretty sure he’d been called a waste of breath at one point, and isn’t that just so wonderfully fitting?)
It was just a handshake. Over before he could register much more than the callouses at the base of Will’s fingers, really, and yet–
If Lihanna’s hand in his felt like an itch, then this has ants crawling all over his skin.
He feels raw and exposed and like he messed up somehow – the ease with which Will accepted his apology leaving a bitter lump in his throat.
But there’s no time to ponder it as the dungeon is relentless, and by the time they make it back to the Academy, Wignall is tired enough to forget about it completely.
(That night, he lies awake on the hard infirmary mattress and thinks about what he had said before everything went wrong – the cheek with which he let them all know he only considered Lihanna worthy. As if touching him was some sort of privilege, as if he wasn’t just saying it for the sake of keeping up appearances, as if–
As if Wignall wasn’t an utter disgrace of an elf, trying to maintain his fragile ego by pretending to be better than those around him.)
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The Thunder Faction is gone on a dungeon exploration mission, neither of them have seen nor heard from Sion, and Wignall tightens his grip on his wand with a confidence he doesn’t feel.
“We’ll face them head on,” he tells Colette, intent on following through. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, sees the determination in her eyes, and it makes him think of what Lihanna had told him – how Colette had tried to cheer her up when they were stuck in the dungeon, how she hadn’t blamed her for what happened.
Lihanna cares for her. So does Will. And if Wignall’s memory of juvenile rumours of crushes and rejections echoing in the Academy’s halls serves him right, then Sion does too.
(He silently vows to do everything in his power to make sure she gets to return to them.)
What feels like hours of relentless fighting later, he hears a shrill peal, the sound seemingly splitting the air open as a black-red guardian soars towards them.
Wignall’s breath hitches. He’s unable to tear his eyes away from the breathtaking falcon for a second too long, and that moment of distraction is all their enemy needs.
“Wignall!” Colette’s voice is terribly loud even in the roar of battle, and before he knows it, her hand is around his wrist and pulling him out of the way of a blast.
The unexpected contact makes him stumble, the touch thing rearing its ugly head again at the worst possible moment, but Wignall knows he can’t let himself grow more distracted and tries to force it down before the next spell hits home.
He finds his footing, meets her eyes, and can only hope she can read the gratitude in his gaze. “We need to–”
The Gohtia mage starts an incantation, and both of them freeze.
Colette pulls her hand away and Wignall raises his wand, but they won’t be fast enough–
Fire envelopes them. The falcon touches ground right in front of Colette, its flaming wings protecting them from what was most likely certain death just as a harsh, familiar voice calls out for her from the end of the street and makes Wignall’s anxiety ease.
Though bruised and singed, they manage to survive.
Wignall isn’t reminded of the touch until he spots Colette during cleanup the following day, his heartbeat picking up when she makes her way over to him.
(He doesn’t know why he’s expecting her to berate him. Knows he would deserve it.)
“Hey, Wignall,” she starts, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I just wanted to apologize for grabbing you like that yesterday. I know I don’t have your permission and–”
“It’s alright,” he says before she could continue, surprising even himself with how resolute he sounds. But then again, the problem has never lain with the people who touch him. “You are all mages worthy of respect, and the fault lies with me for not telling you this explicitly.”
To his continued surprise, Colette smiles in response, then nudges her shoulder against his. It’s less jarring than the touch before, the lack of skin-on-skin contact making it almost… tolerable. “That’s good to know. Don’t tell Sion just yet though,” she says, tone turning mischievous as her smile widens. “Let him fume a little longer.”
“Sure?” Wignall says, unsure of how else to respond, but based on her satisfied nod, it seems to be the right call.
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When they learn that Julius is not only alive, but has been working to help them in secret this entire time, Wignall feels nothing but relief.
He watches Colette try to wipe away tears that just don’t seem to stop coming, watches Will and the ice mage share a private look – full of something he will likely never understand – then steps aside to let Julius’s two friends tackle him with loud calls of his name.
Wignall waits until things have calmed down somewhat to approach Julius, a strange nervousness settling just beneath his sternum. “Julius,” he says, and holds out his right hand. He manages to keep it steady, silently daring the touch thing to get in his way. “I’m glad to have you back. It was beginning to get too quiet without you here.”
His hand hangs between them as those bright eyes regard him.
He swallows, and for the first time, it occurs to him that Julius could refuse to shake his hand. It’s not like the two of them were particularly close before – although, who is Wignall close to that doesn’t already have people they care for more? – so it would make sense for him to ignore Wignall’s pathetic attempt at showing he cares. He wouldn’t even begrudge him for it; after all, it’s Wignall’s own fault for not doing this sooner.
Before his thoughts could wobble to darker places, Julius takes off his glove with a huff and grabs his hand with cool fingers. “That’s hard to believe considering Ulster’s usual volume, but I’ll take your word for it, your Excellency,” he says, and despite the taunt and the mocking curl of his lips, Wignall feels himself relax at the familiarity of it all.
Julius lets go and Wignall waits for the itch and the prickling sensation all over his skin, only for nothing to happen. His palm tingles a little, but it has more to do with the temperature of Julius’s skin than the touch thing, and he finds himself rooted in place with disbelief.
He must stay still for a moment too long because he receives a raised eyebrow and an eye-roll, Julius’s exasperated voice muttering something about getting a grip before he walks back over to the others.
(Wignall’s thinking leads him to the conclusion that perhaps it had never been so much about touch as it was about the trust in Lihanna’s gaze and the kindness in Will’s. That Julius’s gentle grip was somewhat eased by the rest of his demeanor.
He’s not sure if it is for better or for worse.)
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“What’s your problem with me, huh?!”
Wignall startles at the interruption, turning his head to look at Sion. “I beg your pardon?” he says on reflex, and watches the fire mage’s frown deepen and his eyebrow twitch in a way that makes it clear Wignall’s answer wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“Don’t play dumb,” Sion spits out, crossing his arms over his chest.
He blinks at Sion slowly, confusion making him grip onto his sleeves to keep his hands still. With a nod towards Lihanna, he turns so that he’s fully facing the walking fire-hazard currently demanding some sort of explanation from him. “I apologize if I sounded insincere, but I truly have no idea what you mean,” he says, watching Lihanna disappear down the hall out of the corner of his eye.
Sion gives him a long look, then seems to decide to indulge him. “I’m asking what I have to do to get you to respect me, because apparently not even saving your ass from the Gohtia was enough. I get that you’re all big on defending the laggard now and that I… that he and I have history, but so does Julius! And you let him touch you, anyway, so why am I–”
“I do,” Wignall says quickly, not wanting Sion to divulge something he might regret later in his anger. “I do respect you. And I know I never explicitly said so, but all of you have proven that you’re more than worthy, it’s merely… I didn’t think you’d appreciate being allowed to do something.” He averts his gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of the tingling in his fingertips.
His uniform’s collar feels tighter than it should around his throat, the too-familiar lurch of his stomach making his grip on his sleeves tighten.
Last time with Julius hadn’t been so bad, he reminds himself. And now he has a chance to prove that he’s finally gotten over the– “Here,” Wignall says, tugging his sleeve up a little and holding his hand out in front of Sion. “If you, well, want to, that is.”
For some reason, Sion’s expression doesn’t lighten. If anything, his glare turns even sharper as he keeps looking at Wignall’s outstretched hand like it had personally offended him. “I’m not just going to randomly touch your hand,” he grumbles, his knuckles turning white where he’s gripping onto his own arms. He scoffs, voice a sharp bark when he adds, “And you don’t have to force yourself. It may have escaped your notice, but you’re shaking like a leaf, so I guess I already received my answer.”
Wignall’s eyes snap up from where he’d let his gaze drop to the ground between them and he watches Sion’s shoulders tense to the point where it has to be painful.
(No! he wants to cry out, the touch thing making his skin crawl with thoughts of gentle hands and kind gazes – with how undeserving Wignall is of any of them.)
The tremor gripping his arms spreads slow and cold over his shoulders until it reaches his lungs, and Wignall is distantly aware of how Sion is probably waiting for him to say something.
He can’t let Sion think he’s somehow less than the others.
Because Sion’s stunning guardian may have appeared just in time to protect Colette, but there had been a space left for Wignall too, and that–
That is more than what most people in his life have deemed him worthy of. And with how weak and useless Wignall keeps proving to be, it is infinitely more than he deserves.
He doesn’t realize Sion’s crossed the distance between them until he feels an unfamiliar warmth against his cheek. His breath hitches, and he tries to blink away the strange haze in his vision as he looks at the Ulster heir.
“You’re crying,” Sion says, the usual bite in his voice replaced by a quiet sort of steadiness.
Wignall blinks again, and it takes another long moment for him to register the meaning of Sion’s words and the wetness on his cheeks – the slightest pressure at the corner of his left eye as Sion’s thumb wipes away a fresh tear.
He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m–”
“As much as I would love to listen to you flounder your way through an explanation, I’d be toast if Lihanna saw this, so try to stop, yeah?” Sion’s palm is warm against his cheek, the lilt of his words like a soothing balm against the tension coiling in his muscles.
Wignall tries to get his voice to work. “Your guardian… ” He averts his gaze, mind empty as his body remains frozen between pulling away from Sion’s touch and proving to him that he meant what he said, and–
He forces himself to meet Sion’s eyes. “It protected me too,” Wignall manages – shaky and strained and pleading for Sion to understand.
Sion’s gaze softens as he retracts his hand, and his lips twitch into something that could almost be a smile. “There’s always going to be a place beneath its wings for you, idiot.”
For the first time, Wignall feels like the after might not be so cold, after all. “Thank you.”