Quentin had a rough time at the end of the flood, and I know you've got to be grieving. We're having a cuddle pile because we all need it. You can't ruin anything because we both feel safer and happier when you're there.
Thank you for taking care of my son. He didn't know how to say it, but you helped him a lot.
it didnt wurk i didnt du nething i culdnt get the admrl to let him sta or mukodz to relese him or him to evn want to sta hes gon bak nd hes alon witout evn ne bruthrs
And he's mostly defeating the purpose of text rather than voice, by being so wound up and miserable that he can't even bother with the most basic spell check, but he'd still rather this than Jedao hear his voice right now. And he'd rather focus on how he'd failed Jedao's boy than on the fact Tup's gone back to his death and, like Echo, all he has left of him is the messages he'd left behind for him on his communicator.
[The failure to switch away from text is indeed telling; Jedao resists the urge to run down the stairs and drag him up in a hug.]
You made him think about a lot of things he hadn't let himself before. He wants to know who I really am now, and he wants to live with other vode. He just wasn't here long enough to admit it to himself.
When I've graduated, we're going to get him. And he'll be ready to choose to come with us then because you were honest and kind to him. That wasn't nothing. He gets so little of either that he just didn't know how to deal with it.
I know sometimes it's easier to hide when we're hurting. But I swear, you did good with him. You deserve comfort, and we want to be that for you. When you're ready.
There's a muffled "Mmmhm," from within as Jedao extracts himself from the smile heap of cuddling and pads to the door. He pulls Fives inside, on tiptoe in his socks to kiss Fives deeply. It's not a sexy kiss, but an ardent one, because he loves Fives so much, because he wants him to be well. His hands trail down Fives' arms after the embrace, towing him toward the bed.
Fives leans heavily into Jedao, arms going around him as he kisses him back in much the same way. He doesn't have it in him right now to care about anything more than the comfort of not being alone anymore. He doesn't say anything, just trails obediently behind Jedao, face set in the kind of expression that reads to most people as stern, when it's really just exhausted and sad.
He stops at the edge of the bed, his right hand clenched around something, but he's snapped at least a little out of whatever space he's mostly retreated to in his head by Quentin's explanation, and his gaze snaps up, suddenly more alert and concerned. "By who?" he asks, voice hoarse. He wouldn't at all mind a reasonable excuse to do someone violence.
"One of the flood guests," Jedao answers, quiet with the sympathetic reserve of feeling almost exactly the same way, less a little bit of hunger thanks to his encounter with Mikodez earlier. "Quentin kicked his ass, but he's still shaken up."
Perhaps he should let Quentin speak for himself; but perhaps there's something in sparing him the need to repeat it all.
"You need to stop getting broken by strangers," Fives tells Quentin solemnly, looking at him for any sign of the damage. When he doesn't see any he settles carefully, and a little hesitantly, on the edge of the bed.
"And... you don't need to apologize," he adds quietly. He hadn't sought Jedao out, after all, there's no reason Quentin shouldn't have had the comfort of his company.
Since Fives left so much space, Jedao clambers promptly in between them, settles back into the divot in the mattress tucked against Quentin's side, and then reaches to tug Fives closer, encouraging him to drape on top of Jedao and close enough to touch Quentin, too.
Quentin reaches out, resting his hand over Fives' arm, giving him a gentle squeeze, tucking in closer so he's down behind the pair of them, a fairly solid pile of killing machine and muscle between him and the door.
Fives curls in against Jedao's side, tense, and uncharacteristically solemn and quiet. He still feels like he failed, like he should have been able to keep Jedao's boy from going back to the hellpit that spit them both out. That he should have somehow done more, and on top of it having Tup's memories, his stoic fear and resignation, the bits of happiness and freedom he let himself snatch knowing he was going back to his death-
He presses his face into Jedao's shoulder and lets out a shuddering breath at the unexpected, and unexpectedly comforting, touch of Quentin's hand. He finally relaxes, just a little, and settles his still tightly closed fist on Jedao's chest, and tries not to think for just a little while.
Jedao wraps an arm around Fives and grips the back of his neck, warm and firm, and murmurs soft, comforting nonsense in Shparoi. There's no need to think, and no way to understand it, and nothing to really say. Jedao can't fix Tup's fate (chooses not to) but he can do this, be the shape and soft sound of caring.
Jedao's voice is soothing, maybe all the moreso for the fact he can't understand all of what he's saying, just a word here or there. It's been more important to teach Jedao Mando'a than for Fives to learn Shparoi, after all.
He doesn't know what to say, or if he's supposed to say anything, when Quentin says whoever it was who'd done it cried afterwards. He's not sure there's anything to say. But he makes an inarticulate noise of agreement when Quentin says he hates these floods. He hates them so kriffing much, and there's nothing to be done about it. Nowhere for the anger or sadness or confusion to go, nothing to make any of it better.
He wants to reach across to Quentin, to try and offer him the same comfort of touch... but he won't, can't let go of what's in his hand. Not yet.
Personally, Jedao feels - good is an inadequate and far too simple word. He feels powerfully, he feels something beyond either happiness or pain, a consuming burning intensity. He has a son.
He didn't know he could have feelings this big, so much that he can't even see the full shape of it. He wouldn't give it up for anything. But he needs badly this time of quiet, to sit with it and learn to carry the new weight, learn the utterly rearranged shape of his heart and future.
Jedao catches one of Quentin's hands in his free hand, brings it up to kiss the knuckles. "He'll be alright," Jedao says, simple and perhaps cynical faith in the ability of people to adjust to most things. "And so will you."
He feels like this should be more awkward, lying here in Quentin's bed, both of them plastered to Jedao sandwiched between them. Maybe he's just too tired, too angry, too kriffing sad for awkward to penetrate. He doesn't know, but he takes a moment to toe his boots off and kick them onto the floor, grateful for the easy of triggering the magnetic latches, and then drapes one leg across Jedao's, stretching out just enough he can brush his toes against Quentin's leg.
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He wonders, quietly.
"I talked to him too."
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Proposes Quentin, tipping over and resting down on Jedao's knee.
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I'm at Quentin's. Come join us when you don't want to be alone.
I love you.
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dont want to ruin yor time nerkarta
i love you to
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Thank you for taking care of my son. He didn't know how to say it, but you helped him a lot.
Come join us when you don't want to be alone.
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And he's mostly defeating the purpose of text rather than voice, by being so wound up and miserable that he can't even bother with the most basic spell check, but he'd still rather this than Jedao hear his voice right now. And he'd rather focus on how he'd failed Jedao's boy than on the fact Tup's gone back to his death and, like Echo, all he has left of him is the messages he'd left behind for him on his communicator.
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You made him think about a lot of things he hadn't let himself before. He wants to know who I really am now, and he wants to live with other vode. He just wasn't here long enough to admit it to himself.
When I've graduated, we're going to get him. And he'll be ready to choose to come with us then because you were honest and kind to him. That wasn't nothing. He gets so little of either that he just didn't know how to deal with it.
I know sometimes it's easier to hide when we're hurting. But I swear, you did good with him. You deserve comfort, and we want to be that for you. When you're ready.
Come join us when you don't want to be alone.
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Instructs Quentin, from the pillow of Jedao's knee.
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"Thank you for coming, ner'karta," he murmurs.
cw violence, deadly injuries
Adds Quentin, from the bed, where he's lying tucked against the wall, still a little shell shocked.
"Sorry for distracting him."
Re: cw violence, deadly injuries
He stops at the edge of the bed, his right hand clenched around something, but he's snapped at least a little out of whatever space he's mostly retreated to in his head by Quentin's explanation, and his gaze snaps up, suddenly more alert and concerned. "By who?" he asks, voice hoarse. He wouldn't at all mind a reasonable excuse to do someone violence.
cw violence, deadly injuries
Perhaps he should let Quentin speak for himself; but perhaps there's something in sparing him the need to repeat it all.
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But he isn't, so he holds an arm up to him, inviting him into the bed.
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"And... you don't need to apologize," he adds quietly. He hadn't sought Jedao out, after all, there's no reason Quentin shouldn't have had the comfort of his company.
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"There really isn't," he echoes.
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He presses his face into Jedao's shoulder and lets out a shuddering breath at the unexpected, and unexpectedly comforting, touch of Quentin's hand. He finally relaxes, just a little, and settles his still tightly closed fist on Jedao's chest, and tries not to think for just a little while.
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He admits, quietly, settling in with them both.
"When he came back. I hate floods like this, everyone ends up so burnt, one way or another."
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He doesn't know what to say, or if he's supposed to say anything, when Quentin says whoever it was who'd done it cried afterwards. He's not sure there's anything to say. But he makes an inarticulate noise of agreement when Quentin says he hates these floods. He hates them so kriffing much, and there's nothing to be done about it. Nowhere for the anger or sadness or confusion to go, nothing to make any of it better.
He wants to reach across to Quentin, to try and offer him the same comfort of touch... but he won't, can't let go of what's in his hand. Not yet.
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He didn't know he could have feelings this big, so much that he can't even see the full shape of it. He wouldn't give it up for anything. But he needs badly this time of quiet, to sit with it and learn to carry the new weight, learn the utterly rearranged shape of his heart and future.
Jedao catches one of Quentin's hands in his free hand, brings it up to kiss the knuckles. "He'll be alright," Jedao says, simple and perhaps cynical faith in the ability of people to adjust to most things. "And so will you."
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He agrees, eyes lightly shutting, coming in closer against his side, hand still hanging on to Five's sleeve now.
"I'm going to fall asleep. You guys should make yourselves at home, though."
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