like being hugged by the sun
Minoth's body existed in a near-constant state of agitation. When he wasn't walking, he was shifting his weight. When he wasn't standing, he was bouncing his heel up and down so rapidly that his entire leg vibrated. When he slept, he didn't toss and turn, but he did shift positions far more frequently than would be necessary for most.
Not being able to sit still, in so many words, was an embarrassing enough condition. Sometimes he wasn't able to keep silent, either. Knuckle cracks, jaw shifts, unconscious humming all surfaced from time to time. And then there was the passive state of agitation; the overall constant physical discomfort. Some muscle twitches felt automatic, motor jerks, while others seemed to be triggered by the simple thought that the appendage was there, still until observed. Some were necessary in order to alleviate or distract from a pain in his abdomen that lingered, inexplicably, for hours, if not days.
This pain was one of the reasons for Minoth's erratic sleeping patterns. Anybody could be a rough sleeper, though. No one would begrudge that. Having to constantly flex at the knees, while holding a specific position with your ankle and arching your back, was not such an understandable obstacle to sharing a blanket or a tent.
(And yes, Minoth had tried just lying still and gritting his teeth through it. By now, he trusted his rickety, good-for-nothing body. Pumping calves it would have to be.)
It was bad enough on temperate days, with shade and breeze available. When not afflicted with the horrors of a chronic thermoregulatory agony, Minoth truly loved hot days, with the embrace of a dry heat all around him. Sand in his boots had nothing on sunshine. But when the humidity cranked, Minoth found himself helplessly debuffed by a squirm in his gut just outside his stomach. He'd even eaten Mythra's failed experiments sometimes just to test it out. Nope, not an upset, though occasionally it got so bad he needed to puke regardless. Ice packs and cool washcloths did nothing to ameliorate; the problem was inside, and it wouldn't get out.
That's not normal, he thought to himself. Nobody else is getting affected like this, desert medicine or not.
Of course it wasn't normal. Flesh Eaters weren't normal. So Minoth squared himself with his chronic pain and got on with it.
On one particularly grim night, wide open to thick, heavy air with nary a rock around flat enough for Minoth to prostrate his heaving organs against, the time came for some princely assistance.
"Addam?"
Minoth tried his best to make a manly call, breezy in the absence of anything so fresh, but he was afraid it came out more a whimper. Maybe a whispered whimper, if he was less than completely unlucky.
And Addam appeared, looking quite worried, so Minoth just gestured to the blanket next to him, and waited for Addam to settle down.
"Everything alright, Minoth?"
But there was no time for a quip. Minoth reached for Addam's arm, found it cool with a sheen of sweat, and buried his face in broad armor of acromion.
"I suppose not," Addam answered his own question. To Minoth's credit, no further groans were heard for a few minutes, until he exhaled mightily, tossed Addam's arm away, and turned his back to the prince.
"Have you got a chill?"
"Probably the opposite. Not sure." Minoth lied because it was easier than explaining the fact that his body just didn't work the way it was supposed to, passing through such environmental trials as this like evolution and the Architect's surely-not-entirely-boneheaded design had intended. Addam could just assume it was a Flesh Eater vulnerability to such human things as "catching chills" rather than that it was a particular Flesh Eater vulnerability to any variance in temperature at all, or none whatsoever.
He tried to last another few minutes, but it only came to a few moments before he reached back for Addam's arm and pulled it across his stomach. When met with resistance, he tugged again, to make sure it was understood that this was a voluntary action.
"I thought you didn't like being touched."
Addam was exactly right. When the dysregulation struck, and even when it didn't, Minoth usually liked to be let alone, victim to no surprises nor supplications. He could touch others, shake hands and bump shoulders, which were activities Jin, for example, actively disliked, but he had to have control of his own personal space. Curiously, it was Addam's unexpected touches that jarred Minoth the most. Maybe they were the most earnest, or maybe Lora was more predictable.
Maybe, come to think of it, everyone else just respected his personal space.
But that was a separate issue. To point: "I don't. Except, sometimes I need to be."
"Need?"
Minoth sighed. It wasn't at all Addam's fault for not understanding. Indeed, Addam couldn't be faulted for, perhaps, assuming that what Minoth meant by "need" was a condition of Blades' existence hindered or exacerbated by the Flesh Eater transformation; some sort of requirement to receive physical touch at regular (or regular-ish) intervals in order to remain present in the mortal plane. Of course, that wouldn't quite make sense if the Flesh part was actually plain human cells, which never simply dissipated into the atmosphere no matter how much they worked together in a gland to push out sweat, but the concept was there regardless.
No, Minoth was admitting here to a much greater vulnerability, and one he much more sorely and regularly regretted.
He rolled over, eyes to the stars.
"I was groomed into being wholly dependent on another person who refused to accept me as anything other than wholly independent." Because Amalthus got cute with double standards like that. "So I got independent." And, relatively, fast. "And now it's biting me."
Not only was Minoth unable to physically regulate his body and systems in all the correct ways that Blades and humans usually might, he was unable to properly reconcile his existence with the perceptions of the people around him and the idea that people had to be interdependent. He needed approval and assurance, and not just verbally.
"Some acceptance," Addam scoffed. The circumstances were clear to him now. "I think it's been biting you for some time, my love."
It was Minoth's turn to snort. "Yeah, you think?"
These two topics, of physical discomfort and psychological discomfort, didn't necessarily overlap, but the thought of the wet heat had joined them together.
"Hugging you should be wonderful. It should be perfect. It should be like hugging the sun, warm and stable."
Addam's entire face quieted at this admission. His eyes, of course, seemed to gather water, just a touch. He gazed over at Minoth, into his cheek and the profile bridge of his nose, waiting to see if those ether-blue eyes would ever leave the stars.
"But it doesn't work. I can't handle it."
"I don't mind, Minoth," Addam said softly. "It's fine for you to not want to be touched, regardless of how it came about."
"I'm not apologizing to you," said Minoth, crossly.
"I mean the way you describe it. Being able to handle it, or not. That's not your fault. And you don't have to learn to 'handle' it, if it's not helping you."
Minoth finally turned, making eye contact (and Addam hoped he hadn't guilted him into that, either). "I wish I didn't need to be helped."
Addam looked up, away. "I wish I knew how to help you."