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.
Fives shivers at the touch and turns his face into Jedao's chest with a shuddering sigh. He can't cry over this, won't cry, but he'll let himself have this little comfort, at least. Even if-
"He was already dead," he murmurs, with the kind of flat, toneless, steadiness that would become a scream if he let it. "Before I came here, he... died. The day before. He never knew any of it." He'd like to believe somehow, though, that what happened here for Tup will carry over. Did carry over? That when he died on the table in Kamino that he died with the memory of the last week still fresh in his mind, even if it just seemed like a dream.
"Ratiin," he agrees with Jedao, voice going hoarse and knuckles going white. Always. "Everyone else... they'll all be free because of him." It seems, right now, a paltry exchange for a life cut so brutally short.
"... he wasn't even ten yet," he whispers, and his shoulders shake for a moment before he goes rigidly still, draws in a handful of shallow breaths before one deeper one as he lets it go.
"He's... marched on with our brothers," he answers Quentin quietly. "And... his last words. To me. They were... they were that... the nightmare is finally over," he adds, voice fading away raggedly at the end. "I... I think that's peace. I hope."
Jedao squeezes Fives' neck, less for comfort than his own struggle hearing how young Tup was. He knew, more or less, or could have guessed, but - he kisses Fives' temple softly.
"He wanted not to kill anymore. He had that, and he has it. Rest and peace."
"Rest," Fives echoes them both, quiet and choked but... resigned. Maybe a little hopeful. "He deserves rest. And peace. He... was always gentler than the rest of us. He would have made ARC, but war-" He shivers a little, grateful for the steadying hand at his nape. "It never... it never quite suited him."
He takes a shuddering breath and finally opens his fist, lays the delicate hairpin with its glittering blue gems on Jedao's chest and reaches out to settle his hand on Quentin's shoulder. Gratitude and comfort. "It's good... that he'll never have to kill again."
"You really were both very good with Jedao-ye," Jedao murmurs, letting go of Quentin's hand to brush his fingertips over the cheap filigree of the hairpin left over his heart. "He came closer to self-acceptance in a few days with the two of you than he has in two years locked up in Shuos headquarters and locking down any feelings he could catch."
The lack of give in Quentin's shoulder takes him by surprise, but he doesn't mind it at all. Many of his brothers have prosthetics, he just hadn't realized Quentin had one as well. All he does in response is slide his hand farther up, until he finds the join between what he assumes is some kind of plastoid and Quentin's own flesh, because he doesn't know if the prosthetic is high enough tech for him to have feeling in it, and there's no point trying to provide a comforting touch that can't be felt.
"He should have brothers," Fives murmurs, partly because he thinks that of everyone. "Brothers always accept you, no matter what, and... they help you learn to be yourself." It bothers him deeply that the boy hadn't seen the importance of that, that he was so set on masquerading as Jedao, taking responsibility for all of his atrocities and none of his accomplishments. That he had no idea how to be himself, or interest in it even if he had.
He's quiet for a moment, then adds. "Thank you. Both. For-" He has to draw in a slow breath to keep his voice steady. "Tup. His week here... it made him happier than I think he'd ever thought he could be."
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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."
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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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Says Quentin, very quietly, reaching down and resting his hand on Fives' knee.
"I met him too. He seemed extremely proud of you."
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"He was already dead," he murmurs, with the kind of flat, toneless, steadiness that would become a scream if he let it. "Before I came here, he... died. The day before. He never knew any of it." He'd like to believe somehow, though, that what happened here for Tup will carry over. Did carry over? That when he died on the table in Kamino that he died with the memory of the last week still fresh in his mind, even if it just seemed like a dream.
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He doesn't say the rest, not gone, merely marching - not in the terrible freshness of knowing he is gone.
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Agrees Quentin.
"The pain is ours to carry, and no longer his to bear."
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"... he wasn't even ten yet," he whispers, and his shoulders shake for a moment before he goes rigidly still, draws in a handful of shallow breaths before one deeper one as he lets it go.
"He's... marched on with our brothers," he answers Quentin quietly. "And... his last words. To me. They were... they were that... the nightmare is finally over," he adds, voice fading away raggedly at the end. "I... I think that's peace. I hope."
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He reminds him, quietly.
"It is peaceful. It varies from world to world, I'm told- but there's time to rest."
And that sounds so seductive right now. Just, sleeping.
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"He wanted not to kill anymore. He had that, and he has it. Rest and peace."
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He takes a shuddering breath and finally opens his fist, lays the delicate hairpin with its glittering blue gems on Jedao's chest and reaches out to settle his hand on Quentin's shoulder. Gratitude and comfort. "It's good... that he'll never have to kill again."
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Warns Quentin, but maybe Fives won't mind the wood, even though he doesn't know about it yet. He subsides, and settles in to watch them.
"Someone share some good news?"
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"He should have brothers," Fives murmurs, partly because he thinks that of everyone. "Brothers always accept you, no matter what, and... they help you learn to be yourself." It bothers him deeply that the boy hadn't seen the importance of that, that he was so set on masquerading as Jedao, taking responsibility for all of his atrocities and none of his accomplishments. That he had no idea how to be himself, or interest in it even if he had.
He's quiet for a moment, then adds. "Thank you. Both. For-" He has to draw in a slow breath to keep his voice steady. "Tup. His week here... it made him happier than I think he'd ever thought he could be."
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