He takes a bracing breath. Better here than at the Citadel of Eyes; he views it less a question of a lot of feelings to endure in a short time, and more in terms of the practical reality that he will feel these things now, here, where he can afford to be so exposed and uncontrolled - or never.
"I mostly feel like you're still on the first one," he says, made awkward by the intensity of Quentin's contrition, just as he was when Quentin first strode away from him in the garden.
"I've had outbursts on everyone since I got here. I just -"
Everyone in the Citadel of Eyes knows how to be delicate. Even Hemiola understands enough without pushing, and is constitutionally inclined not to, as an attendant servitor who considers him its charge. His therapeutic interrogators, especially, are masters of subtlety. With them, Jedao simply, categorically avoids anything he doesn't want cracked open; with Quentin, so many of their foundational assumptions are different that Jedao had to explain things, old painful things he'd never cared enough to excavate before. But Quentin made him care. And Fives, and Iris, and others. Nothing he's known could have prepared him for the barge.
"You made me - want to be understood. You made me want to be honest with you and I don't know how to do it without falling apart, but that's not something you did wrong."
"I like that you can't understand why I'd think I'm repulsive," he says, dryly and honestly. "It's - nice." Not a perspective he'd ever really credited before. But there's no doubting Quentin's sincerity. It's frustrating, but - it feels like possibility, too.
"I'd think it'd be because either people lied to you a lot, or because you don't like humans and you've been shoehorned into being one of us, which is gross to you."
He says, a little pang crossing his expression at the thought.
"But you're gorgeous to me. Anyways, let's do this."
Cracking his knuckles, limbering his fingers, then starting the first of the spells he'd mailed him earlier. Time to get serious.
He shakes his head for both guesses, expression a little crooked - Mahar and Dhanneth had both been utterly sincere in their disgust, at a very impressionable time. And he does resent, sometimes, the shoe-not-fitting feeling his dual nature sometimes leaves him with, but not humanity itself.
But he doesn't speak, presuming that would interrupt the work, watches Quentin's fingers with a curiosity more studious than smitten.
He ties off the last casting with a neat little smile, and steps back, letting out a breath.
He strips, once more, one last time, and now without any shame. It's a bare second, before the glorious dragon towers over him, all white ice and glittering scales, and five lovely long toes.
This Jedao doesn't remember any of the Shparoi folktales that steeped a happy childhood; all he knows is that something about this feels wild and wonderful. He just stares at first, feels light and bright and empty in a good way, uncluttered by his usual coil of thoughts.
Then he reaches out, for lack of better examples, not entirely unlike the way he would offer his hand to one of Zehun's cats.
Jedao strokes where Quentin puts his hand, fascinated by the texture and shimmer of the scales, then wriggles on, heart pounding. If he could have gone with Revenant -
He's not thinking about that. He's with Quentin right now.
Then up they go. With a leap and a bound, Quentin hurls them into the air. His wings stretch, then beat powerfully. Up, and up and up into the blue, and then through that into the black. Jedao wants to fly, and doesn't want to fly alone, and Quentin can do that for him.
Jedao has never properly been on a planet's surface before; he should have stared more, at the strange flat color of the sky, the density of the grass, except that Quentin draws his focus, and now the strange illusion of horizon line curls and falls away melting wire. He gasps but the wind, wind like he's never once encountered in his life of ships and stations, literally steals the breath from his mouth.
Up, and up- it's a long time, spiraling high enough that his wings can't catch wind, then using magic to shove himself the last few feet with a roar and a spell, so the lift is no longer organic, the result of his bunching muscles. Those wings spread, like he's gliding, and then mist gives way to brilliant stars.
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Says Quentin, ready to trust him. In that case, he begins to lead the way.
"So- I think this will be good, but also maybe I should warn you bittersweet? Are you- up for one more emotional thing today?"
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"Yes, alright."
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"I care about you like crazy, already. Thanks for giving me a second chance."
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"I've had outbursts on everyone since I got here. I just -"
Everyone in the Citadel of Eyes knows how to be delicate. Even Hemiola understands enough without pushing, and is constitutionally inclined not to, as an attendant servitor who considers him its charge. His therapeutic interrogators, especially, are masters of subtlety. With them, Jedao simply, categorically avoids anything he doesn't want cracked open; with Quentin, so many of their foundational assumptions are different that Jedao had to explain things, old painful things he'd never cared enough to excavate before. But Quentin made him care. And Fives, and Iris, and others. Nothing he's known could have prepared him for the barge.
"You made me - want to be understood. You made me want to be honest with you and I don't know how to do it without falling apart, but that's not something you did wrong."
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So, along they walk, to the enclosure, which he uses his pocket watch to open, instructing it to give him a field, please.
The point isn't the planet they're going to be on, after all. He turns to face Jedao.
"I'm going to cast a pile of magic on you. And if you want to stop, just, tap me three times, okay?"
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"Okay."
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He says, a little pang crossing his expression at the thought.
"But you're gorgeous to me. Anyways, let's do this."
Cracking his knuckles, limbering his fingers, then starting the first of the spells he'd mailed him earlier. Time to get serious.
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But he doesn't speak, presuming that would interrupt the work, watches Quentin's fingers with a curiosity more studious than smitten.
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He strips, once more, one last time, and now without any shame. It's a bare second, before the glorious dragon towers over him, all white ice and glittering scales, and five lovely long toes.
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Then he reaches out, for lack of better examples, not entirely unlike the way he would offer his hand to one of Zehun's cats.
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He lies all the way down, so he can climb aboard.
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He's not thinking about that. He's with Quentin right now.
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"Thank you," he whispers, with no belief that Quentin will be able to hear him.