Of Parakeets and Frosted Metal
There is a man wedged between the tree's thick roots. He is covered in frost and snow despite the spring air, and a green parakeet preens itself in his (literal and figurative) bird's nest of black curls.
He's a student here, I can tell that much; a bookbag that's probably his is flung carelessly off to one side. He's hunched over his knees, head down in his arms. Frost makes violent patterns on the tree bark behind him, on the carpet of dead leaves, on the thick tree roots around him, all converging on his spot like he's the epicenter of an explosion.
The bird stops preening to look up at me when it notices that I've stopped in front of them, turning its head this way and that in jerky little movements. I stare back.
"Help!" it finally chirps. I blink. The ice in the springtime doesn't phase me, all things considered, but… the bird is a little weird. I've heard of familiars before, I've just never had the liberty of meeting one. I know normal parakeets can mimic to some extent, but nothing about this situation suggests in any way that this is a normal bird, what with the snow and all... huh. I guess I did pick something up from Supernatural Animal Studies.
"Um," I respond eloquently. "…how can I help?"
"Dying," the bird croons, quieter.
I could pretend not to notice that. It's what I'm best at; I do it all the time with my responsibilities and things I'm not ready to deal with. This is technically none of my business. If I stopped and try to puzzle out every odd thing I saw on this campus, I'd probably be stuck in the Underworld or something. Messing around with things that don't concern you is a pretty stupid way to die. At the same time… I dunno. There aren't any alarm bells going off in my head right now, and I kind of want to help someone else for once.
I weigh my options, before sloughing my bag off of my shoulder. Homework and the library will still be there later, and if I die, well… I never liked Fae Economics anyway.
I crouch down next to the guy and put a hand on his knee. Frost instantly begins to crawl up my fingers, and the skin of my entire hand sheds involuntarily and grows a layer of malleable copper metal in its place. My fingers… tingle? What?
He jerks and tries to scramble away from me, falling as his hand catches on a root. I barely notice; I'm still staring at my hand. I felt something. I've barely been able to feel my own body for years.
I shift my attention back to mystery dude, whose eyes are glued to my metal-ified hand. I pretend not to notice and extend my other hand, partially to help him up, but mostly because I crave sensation on my fingertips again.
"Don't!" he snaps, shifting further away. His back hits another tree, and his hair shifts long enough for me to get a better look at his face. Frozen tear tracks streak his cheeks, stark white against the dark tan of his skin. His eyes glow a soft, pupil-less blue.
He can't control the frost.
At this point, I should probably call Campus Safety, and get them to bring a couple of specialists. Waywards tend to be dangerous. Even if this guy's loss of control isn't his fault, which it most likely isn't, he's still a risk to everyone and himself. Logically, I know this. Illogically, I can rationalize that bringing more people into this situation is a bad idea. Right? Right.
"Dying!" the parakeet screeches.
"Shut up," he snaps halfheartedly, still staring at my hand but reaching up to swipe at the bird in annoyance. The action sends a cascade of snow out of his curls and onto his shoulders. The bird nonchalantly flits out of reach before settling back in its perch.
"Are you actually dying?" I ask quietly.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
Silence, stretching on for a few quiet minutes. I sit across from him, leaning back against the tree behind me. He looks away from me and glares at his knees.
"Is your hand okay?" he finally asks, as if reluctantly. His eyes seem normal now, and dark brown irises stare back at me from behind his curtain of curls. "I got some stuff for frostbite in my bag."
"I'm fine," I respond.
"You don't look fine," he snarks, wary eyes on my hand again. It's already softening back into normal squishy dermal tissue, splotches of copper shrinking in miniscule increments with each passing second. It honestly just looks kinda like a nightmare of oddly shiny bruises.
"I don't feel it."
He raises a disbelieving eyebrow. I clench my other hand and punch the tree root on the ground next to me. He flinches, but I just shake my hand a little and stare at the split knuckles.
"What?" the bird murmurs quietly, startling a laugh out of me.
"What the- Why did you just do that?!" He surprises me in grabbing the newly injured hand to inspect the damage, but he immediately lets go when the frost races from his skin to mine. He blinks and his eyes are glowing ice blue again, fear beginning to mar his features. "I… I'm sorry, I just made it worse, I'm so sorry—"
"Nah, it's chill," I respond brightly. "Pun totally intended."
My weak attempt at humor falls flat. He still looks petrified, pupil-less eyes wide. An odd feeling tingles once again where the frost touches my skin, and I stare at my hand. It's not metal-ified at the moment, so the weird discoloration is probably frostbite this time; go figure. Though… normally, the long dysfunctional sensory nerves in my skin wouldn't even bother trying to respond. Now? Some part of me is actually registering the lower temperature.
I want to laugh giddily, but it'd probably be inappropriate considering the situation. I should also probably just fix it and stop freaking the poor guy out. My hand didn't automatically solidify because I was a little more ready for the frost this time.
I will my hand to turn into lead, bracing for the immense weight difference. Blood and ruined skin sloughs off, and I sluggishly flex my fingers as I adjust to the heavier weight. Denser metals always mean slower movements, which can be annoying sometimes.
After a couple of seconds, the lead starts to disappear. Dark gray melts away in blobs, until there's nothing left but the typical scarred brown-ness that characterizes my skin. There are new scars on my knuckles, though they're barely noticeable.
I look up. He's staring.
"What? You can make ice. I hardly think that being able to turn into metal is weird."
"Help!" the parakeet interjects.
I point at the bird. "That, though? That's a little weird."
He shrugs. "The higher-ups decided I needed to 'stop internalizing' and got her to broadcast my feelings 24/7."
"… you feel like you're dying?"
He blinks, like he's realizing what he just said, before breaking eye contact. Silence reigns again.
I'm not quite sure what to do at this point. Something tells me suggesting counseling would not be well-received, so I'm at a bit of a loss. My eyes land on my bookbag, and I quickly look away. That homework isn't due for a couple days, anyway; I can afford to stay longer.
He reminds me of when I was a kid, of the days when random patches of skin would go metallic without my permission. Losing control is terrifying. I don't really like to think about it, but…
"I get stuck sometimes, and I… I can't change back," I say quietly. "It's usually because I, like, panic or something. Which happens pretty often. And I, um… I can't concentrate enough to get a hold of it, which makes me panic even more."
Echoes of my own frantic wheezes sound through my head. I close my eyes against the memories and pretend they aren't there. "Sometimes it gets bad enough to start spreading inside. Like, beyond just my skin, to the muscles and stuff underneath. I've had to go to the hospital a couple times, because, um… well, it could kill me. If I don't get a hold of it. It's already messed up my nerves, so I can't feel anything anymore; pain, light touches, temperature… and that's pretty terrifying. I mean. Until your frost."
"Oh," he says, seeming lost. Or maybe confused? Like he isn't sure what to do with the information. He hesitates for a long moment. Then:
"…Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll never be able to get control again."
His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally speaks. I glance up when I hear him shift. He's a little less curled up in himself, now, knees a little farther from his chest. He stares at shaking hands propped against his thighs.
"Sometimes the ice just vibrates out of my skin and I… that's when it starts spreading to other things. Other people. Then I can't touch anyone without hurting them, so I just… I mean, it… If I don't let it out, feels like a bunch of needles just stabbing me all at the same time. So I just… hide."
I nod, and the silence is different this time. Comfortable. He has a different type of control to lose, but it's still a relief to meet someone who sorta gets it.
"Can I sit next to you?" I ask.
He nods stiffly, ignoring the indignant squawk from the parakeet at the movement, and I shift to sit next to him. After a while of the both of us pretending not to notice his sniffling, I say,
"I have a pretty great shoulder, if you're open to leaning on it. The metal will keep you from hurting me. And. Well. I'd actually feel it, which would be nice."
No response. I tip my head back against the tree and close my eyes. Eventually, my shoulder sinks slightly under an added weight. I wordlessly raise my arm and pull him a little closer. Frost spreads, and I pretend not to notice the beads of ice rolling off of his cheeks. The cold is comforting.
This short story was also published in the Spring 2019 issue of The Grinnell Review. It was also published on Odyssey, under the name, "One Frosty Boi."
Photo credit: Pétrin Express via Unsplash