“Do you remember more of what happened at all?” Elijah asked, non sequitur, but Mortimer shook his head.
“Nothing other than what I told you,” he replied. He thought on it again, but again, there was nothing beyond what he’d already mentioned. He sighed. “I don’t get it.”
Elijah’s gaze snapped to Rakesh, and the two shared an intense look that said a million things Mortimer couldn’t follow before Rakesh shrugged. Rakesh set his coffee cup back down on the coffee table, turning a little to face Mortimer and putting his hands on Mortimer’s knees. The long lines of his fingers stretched up toward Mortimer, and even through the denim of Mortimer’s jeans, the touch was comforting.
“Alright,” Rakesh said, his tone chipper yet decisive, “I have good news and bad news for you. Good news: I think I might know what’s going on with you.”
Mortimer startled, his eyes going wide as saucers. He set his coffee cup down on the table half-carelessly, and the china met the glass tabletop with a loud clink. He leaned in closer to Rakesh, careful to avoid touching his hands. “You do? What is it?”
Rakesh sighed, his expression pinching a little. “Which leads me to the bad news, which is you’re not going to like it.”
“I don’t care,” Mortimer said. “If it’s--I mean--I don’t care what it is. If you know what it is and how I can fix it, tell me. I’m losing my mind.”
Rakesh shot Elijah another glance, and Elijah nodded, resolute.
“Alright, babe,” Rakesh said, squeezing Mortimer’s knees. “You’ve had a curse placed on you, Mort.”
Mortimer stared at him. Rakesh stared back. Mortimer looked at Elijah. Elijah looked back.
Mortimer chuckled. “You’re messing with me.”
“We’re really not,” Rakesh said.
Mortimer looked back at Elijah, pleading.
But Elijah just said, “Port Waide is a superstitious town, Mortimer. I’ve seen many signs around town for seances, alchemy ingredients, charms: all sorts of things. And those businesses aren’t gimmicks, either, not like the ones in central Salem. I was reading up on the local history, and this place was supposedly founded by a group of women who fled the witch trials. Obviously whether they were witches is up for speculation, but Rakesh said they don’t joke about this kind of thing around here--”
“You can’t be serious,” Mortimer groaned. “A curse? Really? You sound like my parents.” He seemed to notice his volume, then, and lowered his voice as he hunched over himself and leaned in closer to Rakesh and Elijah. “I came to college to get away from that kind of thing.”
“We know that,” Rakesh said, “which is why we’d never try to tell you something we weren’t sure of.”
Mortimer scoffed, looking down at his coffee, then at his gloved hands, sitting half-curled in his lap. It’d been about a week since he’d woken up different, and he hadn’t had much time to just take off the gloves and touch anything. He was beginning to miss stupid sensations, like being able to tell where the F and J keys were on his laptop just by touch, or the feeling of pulpy recycled paper under his fingertips when he rented a book from the library. Even not being able to eat messy things, like an orange, felt like a small kind of torture. And how long had it been since he’d actually touched anyone without it causing him any pain? How many late night moments with Rakesh and Elijah, the three just crammed together on their tiny sofa, had he not been a part of? How many handshakes and high-fives had he missed out on; how many hugs, or innocuous brushes of skin?
“So,” he said, low and tentative, “let’s say, for the sake of argument, I was cursed.” He sat up straighter, first meeting Rakesh’s eyes, then Elijah’s. “What would I do about it?”
Rakesh grinned the kind of grin he used when he was conjuring up some kind of scheme. “I know a guy.”
Mortimer looked unimpressed. “You know a guy.”
“Well,” Rakesh said, “I know of a guy. I haven’t really had a reason to visit his shop, since I’m not usually, y’know, cursed? But his shop’s one of the most well-reviewed places around here. He’s got a ton of five-star reviews of people swearing by him.” He shot Elijah a nervous look, but Elijah was nodding.
“That seems like a lot of work to go through to make a grift seem legitimate,” Elijah added.
“And what does he do, exactly?” Mortimer asked, half-sarcastic. “Does he make potions? Does he give you three riddles and if you answer them, you’re free?” He wiggled his fingers.
Rakesh glanced quickly at Elijah again before looking back at Mortimer and muttering, “Uh, he’s a witch, actually.”
Mortimer scrunched his nose. “An actual witch?” he asked.
Bumping Mortimer’s shoulder gently with his own, Rakesh grinned. “It sounds insane, doesn’t it? But I swear, Mort, he’s the real deal. I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t think it would help.”
Mortimer cast a pleading glance at Elijah, whose gaze was turned out the window. “You don’t actually believe this, do you?” he asked, unable to keep the whine from his voice.
“I don’t think what I believe actually matters,” Elijah replied before turning to Mortimer and fixing him with a patient stare. “What matters is that if you’re cursed, we may know someone who can help you.”
Mortimer groaned, putting his head in his hands. “But I’m not cursed,” he said. “Whatever’s going on has to be some kind of… fluke, maybe, or a disease.”
“I don’t think there are diseases that cause you to have debilitating migraines when you touch anyone else skin-to-skin,” Rakesh replied, leaning forward on his elbows.
“Is it still happening?” Elijah asked.
Mortimer put his hands down on the table in front of him, staring at them blankly for a moment before shrugging. “Not sure,” he replied quietly. “I haven’t touched anyone since…” He let himself go quiet. They all knew the last time he touched someone.
Elijah stretched a hand out to him, palm up in offering. Mortimer stared at it, hesitating, before tugging the glove off his right hand and reaching back.
As soon as Mortimer’s fingertips brushed Elijah’s palm, Mortimer jerked his hand back, squeezing his eyes shut. A high-pitched whine rang in his ears, his skull pounding in time with his elevating heartbeat. He feebly pressed his fingertips to his temples, biting the inside of his cheek. For a while, everything was this: the piercing noise, the thundering in his head, the strain of holding himself still and keeping quiet as he was wracked with pain.
“Easy, easy,” Rakesh was saying when Mortimer finally came to, the whining and headache slowly easing away. Rakesh had one arm around his shoulders, fabric keeping them apart, the other hand offering his cup to him. “Drink some coffee. You’re going to be okay.”
Mortimer shakily took his cup from Rakesh, sipping at it. The light in the cafe, somewhat moody before, now seemed almost impossibly bright, and looking at the window caused his eyes to strain so hard he couldn’t bear it. His head felt hollowed out forcibly with a dull spoon, and his ears were almost too sensitive, picking up the slightest sounds and amplifying them tenfold. Elijah looked guilty, his lower lip between his teeth, his hands tangled together in his lap. His eyes couldn’t meet Mortimer’s.
“Hey,” Mortimer croaked. Elijah looked at him properly, expression stern and self-deprecating. “It’s not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have asked,” Elijah replied, picking at the frayed edges of his coat.
“Well,” Rakesh said, “at least now we know for sure. Something’s happened to you. We don’t know if it’ll go away before it causes you any more pain.”
“It might,” Mortimer grumbled into his cup.
“But it might not,” Rakesh replied, pulling his sleeve over his hand so he could “boop” Mortimer in the nose. “We could call the shop and make an appointment.”
Mortimer snorted. “It’s appointment only?”
Rakesh thumbed through his phone, typing the shop’s name into a search engine. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I was being--” He pulled a face, grumpy and old, his lips pulled thin and into a tight frown and his eyes narrowed. “I was being fresh with you, young man.”
Mortimer laughed, a bit of the heaviness in his thoughts and body leaving him. “Alright, alright.”
As Rakesh looked through the information on the shop on his phone, Mortimer caught Elijah’s eye again and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Elijah smiled back, looking bashfully toward the window. Surrounded by his friends, Mortimer thought, hesitantly, that things may actually end up alright. It’d be okay, he surmised, so long as he did not have to do this alone.
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