thinking about touch starved edwin and charles, newly terrified every time his best friend leaves the room.
edwin comes back from his second go at hell worse for wear, jumpy and tight-faced at all hours of the day, wringing the hems of his sleeves near threadbare if his clothes hadn’t lost corporal existence alongside him.
charles comes back shaken, clingy and fierce in his fear of losing edwin again- of seeing him die firsthand, torn apart in those damp, dingy halls of hell.
they get touchier, which almost feels impossible. charles will loop an arm around the crook of edwin’s, tugging him closer, shoulder to shoulder.
edwin will reach out for charles when lost in thought, scrutinizing old police reports on the office desk and thumbing gentle circles into charles’ hand.
one that comes entirely from left field, however, is the discovery of just how easy it is to get eachother to relax with physical touch, despite the sensation’s complex relationship with the paranormal.
charles will get the good kind of quiet with a gentle pressure on his back- edwin’s arms, looped around his middle where charles’ face is tucked into the cut of his shoulder, palms flat against the clothed skin there and rubbing gentle, steady pressure into the long-dead nerves of his spine.
crystal mentions something about back rubs awakening some childhood ease, a reminder of maternal memories. edwin tries his best not to think of charles, a baby in his mothers arms. fails when trying not to cry about it when he thinks about it alone.
edwin will curl up on nights when a phantom exhaustion eats at him, bone deep, and charles’ hands will find their way to edwin’s hair, raking dark brown strands from their slicked usual appearance into tumbling, messy curls. charles will smile and tell him that they’re matching now while edwin dozes against his side. ghosts don’t need sleep, but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt.