This time he doesn't shiver away; this time he welcomes it, lets her pull him in, wraps his arms around her in response. He hates this; he hates it, the heaving of his shoulders, his entire body wracked, the noises he's making - how fucking pitiful, in front of a stranger, clinging to her no less. But she knows how to take it, how to hold him, it's awful how instinctive it is. How long has it been since he had this? Really, really had it? He doesn't want to think about it. He learned not to cry when he was nine (at least not when anyone could see); learned not to trust when he was seven (when they took her away). He feels the sting of the oil on his skin like it was fucking yesterday and remembers how she held him afterward, the only time he can remember anymore, but she's gone, long gone, gone in her letters, gone before he'd let her go.

His voice gives out after a moment but his body keeps quaking, and he stays there, huddled nearly in her lap. No idea what comes next. He can't bear the thought of looking up again, wiping his eyes, trying to carry on like this didn't just happen. He wants to stay here, as long as he can, maybe until he wakes up.