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The train didn’t feel like a place meant for forgiveness.
It thundered forward with no regard for the people inside it, iron wheels screaming against the rails as though the land itself objected to being split open. The interior smelled faintly of oil and dust and old upholstery, the kind of scent that clung to clothes long after you left. Lamps swayed overhead, their warm glow jittering with every lurch of the carriage, stretching shadows across the walls in uneasy shapes.
Boris sat rigidly by the window, shoulders hunched, hands clasped together in his lap so tightly his knuckles had gone pale beneath his fur.
Across from him hovered Cuphead.
Or—hovered was generous. He leaned against the back of the seat, half-floating, half-sitting in a way that didn’t quite obey physics anymore. His ghostly form glowed soft blue against the dim train car, edges blurred like light refracted through water. A halo drifted above his head, lazily spinning whenever the train shifted, and in the center of his chest—
His soul.
Bright. Exposed. Beating gently like a second heart.
Boris refused to look at it for too long.
The memory came anyway.
The fight had been chaos.
Shouting. Magic crackling in the air. Ink splattering the ground. Cuphead and Mugman on one side, backs to each other, desperate and furious. Boris and Bendy on the other, driven by fear, pride, and a long history of not trusting anyone who smiled too sharp.
Cuphead hadn’t fired first.
But he had fired.
Self-defense, Mugman had shouted afterward. Panic. Instinct. A split-second choice.
The blast that followed wasn’t meant to kill.
But it did.
Cuphead’s head had taken the brunt of it—magic tearing through him in a flash of light and sound that left Boris frozen mid-step, heart in his throat, watching someone he’d been trying to knock unconscious crumple instead.
Dead.
Not enemy. Not ally.
Just—gone.
They were only sitting in the same train car now because none of them could afford to go alone.
The Ink Machine was still out there.
And they all needed it.
“You’re doing it again,” Cuphead said, breaking the silence.
Boris flinched. “Doing what?”
“Thinking so loud I can practically hear it echoing,” Cuphead replied. His grin was there, sharp and familiar, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve got that look. The one where you spiral until you forget to breathe.”
Boris swallowed. “You shouldn’t even be near me.”
Cuphead blinked. “Wow. Okay. Straight to the point.”
“You know what I mean,” Boris muttered. “We fought. I fought you. And you—”
“And I shot back,” Cuphead said evenly.
“And you died,” Boris finished.
The train rattled over a rough stretch of track, lamps swaying violently. Cuphead’s form flickered for a moment, his soul flaring brighter before settling again.
“I’m not dead-dead,” Cuphead said. “More like… inconveniently displaced.”
“You’re a ghost,” Boris said hoarsely.
“Temporary,” Cuphead replied quickly. “Probably.”
Boris looked at him then—really looked.
At the faint transparency of his limbs. The way the glow dimmed and brightened with his emotions. The way his soul pulsed just a little faster whenever Boris raised his voice.
Guilt wrapped tighter around his chest.
“This never should’ve happened,” Boris said. “We shouldn’t have fought. We shouldn’t have—”
“Buddy,” Cuphead interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck, his hand passing clean through his own glow, “we were all kinda on edge. You had Bendy whispering doom in your ear, I had Mugman yelling at me to shoot first and ask questions later. Recipe for disaster.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” Cuphead admitted. “It doesn’t.”
Silence crept back in, thick and uncomfortable.
Boris’s ears flattened. “I keep replaying it,” he said quietly. “The moment before. Thinking if I’d moved differently. If I’d stopped Bendy. If I’d warned you—”
“Hey.” Cuphead floated closer before Boris could pull away. “Look at me.”
Boris hesitated, then did.
“I don’t blame you,” Cuphead said. “Not for defending yourselves. Not for fighting back. If anything—I pulled the trigger.”
“You pulled it because you were scared,” Boris said.
Cuphead’s grin faltered. “…Yeah.”
“And now you’re like this,” Boris whispered.
Cuphead exhaled. “Okay. I’m gonna try comforting you. Fair warning—I’m bad at it.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Never said it would be.”
He drifted closer, hovering right in front of Boris. “We’re not friends,” Cuphead said bluntly. “Not really. Not yet. But we’re not enemies either. Not anymore. And I don’t want you tearing yourself apart over something that happened because all of us were desperate.”
Boris stared at him.
“That just makes me feel worse,” he said quietly.
Cuphead groaned. “Dang it. See? Bad at this.”
Boris’s shoulders shook with a humorless huff. “You keep talking like nothing’s wrong.”
“Because if I don’t,” Cuphead said softly, “I might actually think about it.”
That shut Boris up.
Cuphead hesitated, then slowly reached out.
“Can I?” he asked.
Boris tensed. “What?”
“Touch you,” Cuphead clarified. “Just—like this.”
Without waiting for an answer, Cuphead’s hand settled on Boris’s shoulder.
It was warm.
Not cold like Boris had expected. Not numb. Just—warm, like sunlight filtered through glass. The glow of Cuphead’s fingers soaked faintly into Boris’s fur, leaving a tingling trail behind.
Boris inhaled sharply.
Cuphead froze. “Too much?”
“No,” Boris said quickly. “Just—unexpected.”
Cuphead relaxed and began to pet him gently, fingers combing through the thick fur at the back of Boris’s neck. It was awkward at first—Cuphead clearly guessing at pressure and placement—but there was intent there. Care.
Boris’s shoulders sagged despite himself.
“…You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.
“Yeah, I do,” Cuphead said. “Because every time I stop talking, you look like you’re about to collapse.”
His hand continued its slow, steady motion, petting the way Boris had comforted others a hundred times before. The glow of Cuphead’s form brightened subtly with each pass.
Boris leaned into it before he could stop himself.
Cuphead noticed.
A small, almost-smile tugged at his mouth.
“There we go,” he murmured. “See? I can be useful.”
Boris huffed quietly. “Don’t get used to it.”
“No promises.”
The train rocked gently, carrying them forward. Outside the window, the landscape blurred into streaks of dark green and silver.
Boris’s breathing evened out.
Then his gaze drifted.
To Cuphead’s chest.
To the glow.
The soul pulsed softly, brighter now, reacting to Cuphead’s focus, to the contact, to Boris’s attention. It was beautiful in a way that made Boris’s throat tighten—fragile and open and unmistakably alive.
“…That’s you,” Boris said.
Cuphead’s hand paused.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s me.”
“It’s exposed,” Boris said. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Cuphead shrugged, though it looked strained. “Comes with the territory. Ghost perks. And downsides.”
Boris hesitated. “Does it hurt?”
“When people stare?” Cuphead asked dryly. “Or when they touch it?”
“…Touch it.”
Cuphead went still.
“That’s not something people usually ask,” he said carefully.
“I won’t,” Boris said immediately. “I just—I wanted to understand.”
Cuphead watched him for a long moment, then sighed. “It’s sensitive,” he admitted. “Like—really sensitive. That’s where everything is. Thoughts. Feelings. Pain. All of it.”
Boris swallowed. “I won’t—”
“You’re not going to hurt me,” Cuphead interrupted. “I know that.”
Boris looked up sharply.
“You do?”
Cuphead smiled faintly. “Yeah. I do.”
He hesitated, then shifted closer, angling his body so his soul was more visible. “If you’re gonna do it,” he muttered, “just… be gentle. And tell me before you pull away.”
Boris’s heart hammered.
He reached out slowly, claws trembling as they hovered inches from the glow.
“Tell me if I should stop,” he whispered.
“I will,” Cuphead said.
Boris touched the soul.
Cuphead gasped.
Light flared between them, warm and overwhelming. Boris felt it immediately—a rush of emotion flooding his senses. Fear, stubborn resolve, exhaustion, affection buried beneath sarcasm. The moment Boris’s fingers settled, Cuphead’s form flickered, his free hand gripping Boris’s sleeve tightly.
“Oh—wow,” Cuphead breathed. “Okay. Yeah. That’s—intense.”
Boris adjusted instantly, gentler, cradling the glow instead of pressing into it. The soul steadied, its pulsing evening out beneath his careful touch.
“I’ve got you,” Boris whispered.
Cuphead leaned forward until his forehead rested against Boris’s chest, breath shaky. “…You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
The train surged forward, steel screaming, carrying two former enemies bound now by necessity, guilt, and something fragile growing between them.
Cuphead stayed there, letting Boris hold his soul like something precious.
And for the first time since the blast, Boris believed he might someday forgive himself.
Cuphead stayed pressed against Boris’s chest, forehead resting just below his collarbone, as if the solid weight of him—real, breathing, warm—was the only thing keeping the glow in his chest from spilling apart.
Boris didn’t move.
Not because he didn’t want to—but because every instinct he had was screaming careful, careful, careful, and he was afraid that even breathing too hard might shatter whatever fragile balance they’d found.
Cuphead’s soul pulsed beneath Boris’s palm, bright and alive and frighteningly responsive. Each beat seemed to echo up his arm, thrumming against his bones in a way that made his claws itch with the urge to pull back—and the stronger urge to stay.
“You okay?” Boris asked quietly.
Cuphead let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a whine. “Define okay.”
“That bad, huh?”
“No,” Cuphead murmured. “That… intense.”
Boris adjusted his hand again, easing the pressure until his palm was barely cradling the glow rather than touching it directly. The soul reacted immediately, its light softening, settling into a steadier rhythm.
Cuphead shuddered.
“Hey—” Boris started.
“No, don’t stop,” Cuphead said quickly, fingers curling into the fabric of Boris’s sleeve. “Just—yeah. Like that.”
Boris obeyed, his touch feather-light now, more presence than pressure. He could feel everything through it—the warmth, the vulnerability, the way Cuphead’s emotions seemed to bleed straight through the light and into him without any filter at all.
It was terrifying.
It was intimate in a way Boris had never experienced before.
“…I can feel you,” Boris admitted softly.
Cuphead’s breath hitched. “Yeah. That’s the downside.”
“And the upside?”
Cuphead was quiet for a moment, then murmured, “You can’t lie to someone holding your soul.”
Boris’s ears twitched.
“That’s… a lot of trust,” he said.
Cuphead huffed weakly. “Guess I’m full of bad decisions.”
Boris’s hand shifted again, thumb brushing the edge of the glow—barely there, just enough to test the boundary. Cuphead sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders tensing before slowly relaxing again as Boris stilled.
“Sorry,” Boris whispered.
“It’s fine,” Cuphead said, though his voice was a little rough now. “Just—feels like you’re touching every nerve at once.”
Boris swallowed. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” Cuphead said. “Just… exposed. Like standing in front of someone with no armor and hoping they don’t flinch.”
Boris tightened his grip—not on the soul, but on Cuphead himself, his other hand coming up to rest against Cuphead’s back, anchoring him.
“I won’t,” he said firmly.
Cuphead let out a shaky breath and leaned into that touch, the glow of his form brightening subtly where Boris held him.
The train rocked again, harder this time, and Cuphead instinctively clutched Boris’s sleeve, the soul flaring brighter in response.
Boris reacted without thinking, both hands steadying—one bracing Cuphead’s back, the other shielding the glow as if his body alone could protect it from the world.
Cuphead noticed.
His breath stuttered. “…You didn’t hesitate.”
Boris looked down at him. “I won’t again.”
That seemed to hit harder than anything else.
Cuphead’s fingers tightened, then slowly loosened, his posture melting as the tension finally began to drain from him. The glow in his chest dimmed just a fraction, no longer flaring with panic but humming softly instead.
“…You know,” Cuphead muttered, voice quieter now, “this is the first time since it happened that I don’t feel like I’m about to… drift.”
Boris’s heart clenched. “Drift?”
“Like if I stop paying attention, I’ll just—fade,” Cuphead said. “Ghost problems.”
Boris adjusted his hold again, more deliberate this time, one hand still cradling the soul while the other drew Cuphead closer, until his glow pressed faintly against Boris’s chest.
“Then don’t stop paying attention,” Boris said. “Stay here.”
Cuphead smiled faintly against him. “Bossy.”
“Protective,” Boris corrected.
“Same thing,” Cuphead replied, but there was no bite to it—just warmth.
They stayed like that, swaying subtly with the motion of the train, former enemies caught in a quiet, fragile truce made of shared guilt and gentler things neither of them quite knew how to name.
Cuphead’s soul continued to pulse beneath Boris’s careful hand.
And Boris held it like something sacred.