#myownmeadow

Legs is more careful when he nods off again, even as every muscle in his body is primed to leap away from the touch.

Touch isn't an easy thing for him. Touch means something is close enough to stab, to slash, to bite, to maim--to kill. His skin is pockmarked with the scars to prove it, and it's the one thing he can be grateful to this winter hell for: at least it means he can cover most of them up and they won't think anything of it. They stare enough at the ones marring his face.

(He denies that he craves any touch they offer. That the warmth of their hands lingers when they help him up or offer him tools or pat him on the shoulder.)

(Denying it to himself is easier.)

(It will make it hurt less when he's torn away from them to be alone again.)

He's grateful for the company--he is, really! He thinks. He hopes.

But he also hates that it means others have been dragged into this with him. He's supposed to suffer this alone--either surviving long enough or dying a brutal death to start somewhere new, so what had changed?

Viking shifts, an arm slinging across Legs' lap. He freezes and sucks in a breath, forcing his eyes to pin on the fire. (He wonders if the touch burns even more than it would to stick his hand in it.) It sinks its claws into his mind, ensures he can't ignore it no matter how much he tries. It's there, pressing against him. Trapping him-

A shaky breath, and he gently moves Viking's arm until it's tucked into his own lap. The man grumbles something in his sleep and presses his face more firmly into Legs' coat.

He tries not to think about what will happen when--no, no, if, he needs to think if not when--he can't save these people.

Right now...he just needs to make himself focus on survival.

Like he always has.

Just...with the added complication of other people joining him. He's had companions before. Animals, pets, but companions nonetheless.

He tries not to think about his track record of losing those companions.

This will be different.

Right?