Out of the corner of his deliberately closed eye, change in luminosity level detected.
One red orb cracked open, rotating 98° in socket to fix on the source of environmental disruption. His datapad laid on the dark wood edging of the caf table, its screen having briefly lit with the reception of a new message from one of one, formerly two, priority contacts for which he allowed the function. No sound came from it, as the only contact with audio notification was–
Hee-hoo…
His eye slipped back closed. He felt warm all over, in a way that was. Good. Only good. The barely-there weight on his chest, slow breaths puffing out across his neck and collarbones to the tempo of an easy, resting rate of 24 bpm – birds, and Omwatis, had quicker baselines than mammilia – the tickle of growing feathers along his jaw and occasionally up his nostrils.
It was all.
Good.
Wetness welled under the singular outer eyelid. His face made a curl at the lips at another hee-hoo, and the moisture slipped sideways, down/up towards his headtails and temple.
The screen lit again, he sensed it, even if the input was blurrier with happy tears. He would need to look. But he was.
Comfortable.
His bad hand, which Flyndt had taken to calling the cool one after he referred to it as such out loud, sat on the Omwati’s back. His thumb made slow circles, occasionally pressing in at the base of neck. Breakfast had been a successful experiment in honeyed seed cakes and fruit. Then gentle preening of the regrowing feathers, so incredibly tiny and spindly and peeking out of follicles. And now second sleep, a rare occurrence, but a welcome one. Naps together: superior use of downtime.
- He doesn’t sigh, because it might wake his bird, but he wants to.
Removing the free hand from next to Flyndt’s – they had been holding, but in his sleep, the Omwati had shifted – Foxen reached out and stretched his arm ligaments as far as possible in order to reach the very edge of the pad without moving at all. It nearly slipped from between his finger pads, but a swift pinch/grab managed. Bringing the device up in front of his face to another easy hee-hoo on his chest, he checked the messages.
🐠: how much do u love me? 🐠: 🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️🤗🫶🙌
Oh, so it’s a big favor, and one he’s not going to like.
The question is of course rhetorical. Something infinite cannot be measured.
Typing one-thumbed while also using the rest of the meat of the hand to hold up pad from it falling vertically onto one’s face: ugh.
But then again.
He glanced down, and his gaze softened.
Okay, he’s in a good mood, what.
🦈: Does it have to do with the Jare Brulee. 🐠: OMG FOXIE snfop calling her thag!!! 🦈: Deny. 🐠: no u butt not SAGITTA fkfjfdh 🦈: You may continue. 🐠: So it’s about bril
Oh for frak’s sake.
Hee-hoo.
Ugh.
🦈: What. 🐠: OMG UR SJA SAYING YES 🦈: I didn’t say anything yet, tadpole. Details. Go. 🐠: well ok Idk actuly he wants 2 come see u. Said he wants to get to know u better. For me! 😍😍❤️💖 🦈: What a terrible idea. Did you tell him that? 🐠: Foxxxxxxxie 🦈: You know how this will go. 🐠: plz let’s just tryt? Itmight not be soz bad
He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead he just adds:
🦈: Don’t hope.
And because his sister is his sister, she just responds:
🐠: ik.
Exhaling hard, Foxen arranged an acceptance of whatever fraking visit and outlined details/restrictions. They chatted only slightly more, because his hand was really cramping, and then he dropped the pad off the side of the couch and crept the appendage back towards Flyndt’s hand. Stuck the little finger he still had out and carefully curled it around the Omwati’s own.
Closed his eyes again.
Happiness.
The whole other thing could wait until it got here.
Prior to embarking on his journey , Bril had never considered the title of his brand of Force-wielder. Jedi and Sith had been known to him since he was a child, yet the term “Force Disciple” didn’t become a part of his lexicon until his induction into the Brotherhood. It was a catch-all term for the myriad orders, sects, and schools of thought considered heterodox to the binary of Jedi and Sith - light and dark - that had persisted in the Galaxy for thousands of years. At least, that’s how he thought of it when he was still a knight. It wasn’t an incorrect view, but one that lacked the depth of understanding he now had. For him, the term “Force Disciple” described just that, someone who was a disciple of the Force. What better way to view the Force, especially the Living Force, than as his teacher? He’d heeded its call, consulting his edalinare along the way to help clarify the details, and he hadn’t been led astray thus far.
This time, the Force – and more importantly, his conscience – called him to the estate of Foxen and Flyndt, so that he could make an effort to learn more about Minnow’s brother and his partner. In the the months following their first meeting, Bril and Minnie had grown very close and though the precise title of their relationship was nebulous, he believed forming a more positive relationship to those she cared about most would show her that he was serious about them.
So, here he was.
He had ensured that Minnie called ahead to let them know he was coming. This time, he waited until he was certain that Foxen was aware of his intentions. He certainly didn’t want these robes, fresh as they were and a gift from his new Consul, to receive the same … modification his last ones had.
“I’ve arrived,” Bril said into his wristlink, sending the brief audio transmission to Minnow.
-
A pause. Then, a light chime indicated that a new message had arrived. “Okay, Kitty. I let Foxxie know,” the transmission rang out. He could hear the trepidation two layers deep in her voice. “Let me know how it goes, okay?”
He sent another in response. “Of course, pur'ka. I’ll pick up those pastries you like on the way back, so don’t eat while I’m out. Pelir fursi.”
A gentle smile appeared on his face, accompanied by a pleasant warmth that filled his chest. He’d ended the message with a phrase that Minnie had been hearing a lot recently, Ul'Zabrak for “love always”. It had become his farewell saying of choice for how endearing it was, and how accurately it reflected how he was beginning to feel more and more by the day.
Once that bit of business was finished, he took a step forward while adjusting his microsensory gloves, remaining alert to any movement in his surroundings or any other salient details. Even at their home’s perimeter, Bril could sense Foxen and Flyndt’s presence within its walls as he approached.
As the Zabrak on a mission for his Lady love approached through the low alpine grove trees of and rocky terrain, having made the hike, mild though it was for him, from Minnie’s own “apartments” further down in the valley, the house he sought became more obvious to him. Certainly, he could see how an untrained eye might have missed it, particularly given the remoteness of the area in general, the density of brush and slope of the land, and the Erinos Clan’s penchant for coloring the exteriors of their buildings in such a way as to camouflage them.
It was almost as if the compound wasn’t intended to be found. A fact he knew, given his Minnow had warned him that he would need her transponder codes if he ever visited in an unregistered ship, or else the air-defense systems would shoot them down.
But there was more to investigate immediately in front of him, and as he navigated another outcropping, a very hidden footpath became more obvious in the play of shadow and stone in the earth. Pushing aside the skirt of an evergreen and ducking through the overhang of the boulder he’d just passed, Bril was met with a thicketed clearing on whose northern edge nestled a single-story, high-ceiling abode. The rooftop was flat, but curved upwards in a concave bend from the front face of the cabin, creating something of an overhang shadowing the dark front door. A natural stone and cobble mosaic path curved in tight switchbacks up from about ten meters from where he stood to the low, slightly raised porch itself. The ends of beams stuck from the sides at intervals, indicating vaulted rafters in the interior, and the walls visible from his angle were all smooth, slated wood. What little glimpse he could catch of the roof materials seemed gray in color, and vegetation rose from it and wavered in the wind, a thin coating of mosses and wild grasses.
- Around one side of the house stretched a small pond, ringed in wildflowers and cattails, a short dock, or some kind of platform, sitting at its side– the addition, to his experienced eye, looked more recent than anything else, as did the box on the opposite side that was topped with dark soil and small stones, an obviously different kind than the ground underfoot, though anything else wasn’t exactly one of his areas of study. It was empty besides the soil and some erected trellises that were yet bare, and there were even some building materials left beside it, planks of the same wood in a tidy pile, the impression in the dirt of perhaps a heavy tool box or some other machinery? Light glinted off of glass above the front door, a singular round window, and off of a jut of glass on the pond’s side– another wall, maybe? He’d need a better look.
There was no speeder out front, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a garage or something somewhere. Nor any sign of either man he was looking for. At least, not yet.
A little bit ago, a little gayer.
Meanwhile, indoors, Foxen’s pad lit up again. He stirred, having actually started to doze himself, and slitted red eyes open to glare at the device.
Right. Agreeing to favors and shit.
Ugh.
Indeed it was from his baby sister, warning him that Bril would be leaving soon and adding that the man was walking up. So, roughly anywhere between 8.3-24 minutes standard, depending on if the fraker ran the sprint like a jediit or not.
He put the pad down. Definitely didn’t drop it. His jaw tensed. Definitely didn’t jut in a pout.
He looked down at Flyndt, whose hee skipped a hoo as the Omwati rolled over on top of him and balled in the other direction, talons kneading lightly.
His internal organs spontaneously transmuted into sugar and caramelized in 0.03 seconds flat.
A rumble rose in the hybrid’s chest, a low bass sort of thing, as happy as it was longing. With only some regret he pushed himself up just enough to dip his head down, nuzzling at Flyndt’s brow, lips brushing over pinions and preening lightly. He moved a hand to soothe up and down the smaller man’s back, gradually increasing pressure and nuzzling all the more.
“Ner ver-copa,” he murmured, and placed a kiss. “Wa-ke up.”
Feathers and pins twitched as the kneading stopped and the body unfurled into a stretch, a long inhale ending in a sigh. Sunset orbs cracked open to meet the Nautolan hybrid’s sanguine eyes while Flyndt shifted back onto his stomach, chin resting on crossed arms. A lighter, still groggy sigh.
“Hoo…what, time is it?”
With his free hand, which really didn’t want to be free, but rather on the Omwati, Foxen signed the numbers. Information first. Their time had an upward limit. Even if he just wanted to…
13:00. Minnie called. Asked if B-R-I-L could visit. Was happy laying here with you, so said yes. I now have regrets.
He offered a wry smile to the last, rumbling aloud again, and then, staring blatantly at each sleepy blink of sunset eyes now open for gazing into, touched his fingers to his lips with a question. His caressing hand trailed low down spine, lingering, and then up again.
There was a pause as the avian processed this, more trying to decipher what it meant presently. His brow furrowed slightly, yet in the meantime his gaze was more content in following the last gesture. He answered the question with a peck of a kiss before Flyndt rose to a sitting position, straddling the other man’s waist as one hand scratched the back of his own head.
“Hrmm, when is he coming? Today? Tomorrow? Later or here now?” he frowned, currently not in a dressed state for meeting people, not in a tank top and shorts, feathers still growing out. A sigh. “Did say why visit?”
Foxen…heard all of that.
He did.
There was input.
But, also:
Staring.
“Hmm?” the Nautolan replied, awestruck and enraptured.
TIME ≤ 22.47.53, his mind supplied helpfully.
Ugh.
TIME ≤ 22.46.49
Yes I know, ugh, frak.
The Nautolan dropped back down onto the pillow and closed his eyes with great willpower, loosing a groan.
You look too good like that, he said, and then, today, on his way. Probably in next twenty minutes. Sorry. Meant to wake you up sooner, confirm permission from you too. Dozed off though. A sigh to echo his bird’s, if much deeper. Minnie says he wants to get to know me. Fraking ridiculous.
Olive skin flushed peach a bit in the dim light of the living room and a small cough of a chuff followed the praise. Several thoughts flit across his mind, and Flyndt shifted where he sat. He gratefully set his focus to reading answering hands.
Twenty minutes.
A quiet groan escaped him – not because he would not have time to get physically ready but more mentally. How did Minnow put it? To people. A hand rose to rub his slightly warm cheek. It will be fine…yes?
“Hoo? To get to know you?” Flyndt blinked, head tilting slightly with slight click of his beak behind inked lips. “I do not see how is ‘ridiculous’. Is that not common among those courting?”
He paused, his own mind wandering briefly. Would…Foxen wish to do the same for his people? His bro–family? His mind faltered and stumbled in a way that could only be described as one of Minnie’s keyboard smashes. It seemed way too early to take Foxen home to Auntie, even if he could.
“Should see, give opportunity maybe for man to be known. Though it is only for you to decide whether you do know him, yes? Relate.”
“What lovely scenery,” Bril said to himself as he walked. Whenever he took the time to observe the Selenian landscape, it never failed to take his breath away. That Selen possessed some of the most beautiful environments he’d had the pleasure of seeing while also housing wildlife that even eclipsed Iridonia in its danger. Since his induction into Arcona two weeks prior, he’d taken to studying everything he could about the local fauna at the Estle University library. Bril had amassed quite the corpus of knowledge despite his short time here, but his familiarity with Selen’s animals existed in text only. Until now, at least.
Caught in his musings, he’d nearly missed a tiny creature drift by him. Held aloft by four cobalt wings with rounded tips whose breadth made the little insectoid about as large as his own hand, it fluttered around him, seemingly as curious about him as he was about it. “Fascinating,” he muttered while leaning his face toward it to get a closer look.
And that, it seemed, was his first mistake. One of the set of wings kept the creature aloft while the other two began to flutter rapidly, producing a high-pitched buzz that set alarm bells off in Bril’s head. That was an intimidation display. And as was often the case with buzzing insects, it possessed a barely perceptible aculeus that was now aimed at Bril’s face! The young zabrak lifted a hand to seize the creature with the Force and send it soaring off in the opposite direction. It’d be fine, right? It’d be fine.
Taking a breath of relief at having avoided being stung by edalinare-knew-what, he continued on his stroll toward his destination.
“Hrm,” Foxen replied, cracking eyes open again because he was entirely incapable of resisting for more than a few seconds – and besides, he was allowed, and wanted to, and this was happiness. So he was going to take it.
Red eyes stared at the head tilt, ears taking in the click of beak, and the pause and stretch of pinions as Flyndt briefly thought on something.
Give him a chance to be known. Up to him to decide if he Knew him. Relate? As in, be related?
Clarity needed. But time limited.
He decided to address the simpler aspect, glancing briefly at the wall across from them, the shadow boxes hanging on it, then back to his home. His hand rubbed circles at the Omwati’s lower back and hip bone, just to touch, to ground, to know.
It’s normal for those courting, yeah. Common, what have you, meeting family or friends is a pretty common concept. I agreed on my half for her, he answered slowly with one hand. That’s not the ridiculous part. I–
Pause. Another hrm, and he found himself uniquely unable to hold Flyndt’s sunset stare, so he chose to watch his pulse flutter under his inked throat instead.
I…hope to meet Gaile. Obviously. Not just by… actually finding him with you. But. To also. Be worth you, to him. Because he is important to you. I’m just also pretty sure that’s going to go like shit. Expect it. Reasonable. Evidence: 99.98% of all previous interactions of a lifetime. Don’t mean to insult/assume of Gaile. But likelihood: high. If you even wanted me to meet him.
His hand stills again, opening and closing not in words but to chase off that annoying, nagging ache. His hand is healed. Six weeks healed. And still. He didn’t need more phantom pains, dammit.
- Another huff left the Nautolan. His good mood was rapidly cooling to something more dead and numb, per baseline. Necessary. Company incoming. Inventory: hostile. There would be. Conflict. If not physical then at minimum, verbal. And he would be tired. And Minnie would be disappointed/defensive, as she always is.
Inventory: he began again. ‘Put you on a leash. What the hell are you doing. Why do you sound like that. What’s wrong with you. You got worse. Why can’t you tell me anything. You’re obsessed. Overreacting. Control your dog.’ Etc. Ridiculous part is idea that B-R-I-L will find anything better to get to know. I don’t care. Make space for him in my head, next to Minnie. But I don’t care. Prediction: argument, disagreement, violence. Upset sister. Upset who she cares for. Exercises in futility are not a superior use of time compared to cuddles.
‘I…hope to meet Gaile…’
A knot formed in the Omwati’s throat, and he swallowed around it. There was a welling bittersweet feeling in his chest hearing that. So consumed with the longing to reunite with his kin, of wondering and preying he was alive, Flyndt had not thought on them meeting in such depth and meaning before…now.
He inhaled and stared down at where his fingers splayed on the other man’s chest, over a pale scar and inked feathers. Brow furrowing, his olive cheeks puffed slightly for a moment, ready to defend against assumption that Gaile would not care for him – that is not for you to determine. But Foxen continued, explaining, and some of the words he recited echoed with the past, Flyndt himself present to hear them. His features softened and lowered. He felt pulled in two directions, from his own emotions and yes, the many responses the hybrid had experienced.
A heavy sigh exhaled.
“O.K.” he responded. His hand echoed, then reached out to brush against firm cheekbones.
Pressing gently onto the older man’s sternum, Flyndt rose and slid off the couch. Several steps carried him to the hall before he paused and turned around. He chewed on his lip for a second, then shrugged lightly, gaze averted to stare loosely at the wall.
“Some have found better to know…I did,” sunset drifted back to sanguine and a faint smile offered back, less positive as, well, something. “We will see, yes?”
Then he dipped down the hall to get ready for their guest.
The long silence went on approximately: 957372626485 minutes/forever.
The Omwati had been crouched over him before, not like this, but close, with his chest just as exposed, with blood pouring from around the polearm he’d wielded. And yet that had felt like.
Like gratitude, peace.
This felt…
His chest wasn’t even literally open this time, and yet he felt so much more exposed. Vulnerable.
And when Flyndt did respond, Foxen was helpless to anything but to lean into that brush of hot olive palm, to whimper into it…
O.K. what, though?
The Omwati climbed off, and that was it. He sat up and turned to watch him go, eyes never leaving, watched the pause and shrug and sunset eyes not meeting. They flickered back with the smile, with words.
I found better.
But not a word of his brother. Of the question implied: would you even want me to meet him?
Then Flyndt was drifting away to change, presumably, and the warmth and goodness of the morning was quickly crumbling into something shaped like pain, rejection, loss–
Guess we’ll see, yeah… Right.
Set status: ignore. Deny. Assumptions unhelpful. Emotion: unhelpful. Deny.
Asking too much.
Deny.
Mission: make Flyndt happy, sub-mission: find/retrieve Gaile. No further parameters. No expectations.
Affirmative.
Foxen pushed himself up and collected datapad, began assessing living space with critical eye of category: guest incoming. Everything was clean.
He would clean anyway. Also, refreshment preparation.
After clothing.
Mechanical, the Nautolan went to his own room, passing Flyndt’s closed door without breaking stride (false: stutter, 3 seconds) and going to his closet. He selected a shirt to actually put on and replaced silk lounge ware with trousers/belt/accessories.
Exiting, the Nautolan proceeded to kitchen and swept general area for any specks of dust/smudges. Set water to boiling. Selected a string of bright red chilies and spices/tea.
Set task: go to war. T-17.07 minutes.
Foxen and Flyndt had really done well for themselves. That’s what he kept thinking as he approached their estate. It wasn’t until he was halfway to the house’s front door that he noticed the faintest glint of something metallic reflecting sunlight off to his right. Stopping in his tracks and taking a few moments to investigate, he realized that this was a trap rigged to fire some kind of sharp projectile at him. At first, he was taken aback, wondering why such a thing was necessary. But then he remembered who he was visiting. Yep. That checked out. He had no problem taking the extra time to avoid this thing.
Once he reached the door, he gave it two good knocks that were loud enough for anyone inside to know he’d arrived. Then, he took a step back and folded his hands in front of him while he waited. Bril cast a wayward glance to his lotus robes, wondering if Foxen would find them more fashionable than his previous ones.
Knock-knock.
The Nautolan waited for the trill in reply. But none came. Fitting, perhaps, given, he realized, it would be the Zabrak at their door, and not him calling out, but–
None came.
Because Flyndt recognized the difference, or because he was choosing to ignore?
Had he messed up that badly.
Making assumptions. Stop it. Deny.
Shaking his head hard, Foxen braced his hands on the counter with a single, fierce sigh, bowing head, breathing, then straightened up. Squared shoulders/lift spine. Set face: blank.
Set self: blank.
Confirm.
Rounding the island, sanguine eyes made a last sweep. Spying the tub of Flyndt’s trail mix on the counter, which had become more its spot than actually in the cupboard, Foxen narrowed his eyes and moved to put it up.
It was not for anyone else.
Satisfied as he could be (status: not), the Mandalorian strode to the door and pulled it open without further preamble.
The eyes assessed, cutting up and down.
Object: category: Zabrak male, 1.97 m, approximately 92 kg, jediit, position: 0.7 m distance from door, permissible within parameters, acknowledged, hands at front, visible, empty. Vambrace. Gauntlet. Lightsaber with tell-tale shimmer of cloaking technology, category: Shadowsheath, recognized: similar kind to some of his own weaponry. Alias: Bril Teg Arga. Status: important to Minnow.
New robes.
Hrm.
Better than the High Republic bullshit. Tolerable for entering their home.
Foxen stepped back 0.5 m wordlessly and gestured with the arm inside, turning the body so that no contact would be made even as the Bril passed.
When the door opened, Bril lifted his head a bit to meet Foxen’s gaze, crystal blue optics opposing his crimson ones. There was a moment of tense stillness shared between the two of them as they regarded one another. Bril took note of any salient details on the nautolan’s person while he did the same, though not out of concern or paranoia, but mere curiosity. His observant eyes noted the missing pinky finger on one of his hands–a consequence of the recent kidnappings, he surmised. He’d learned from Minnow of the incursion on Brotherhood territory from two of its most formidable enemies while he was still away, after they were all returned. And not immediately after, but days after the event when he was still on Bardotta.
Bril remembered how distraught Minnie was when she finally told him. Nigh inconsolable, terrified that her brother was going to succumb to her wounds. That he was going to leave her again. The sound of his nautolan heaving and sobbing and stammering over their comlink was one he’d never forget despite how much he wanted to. And the knowledge that he’d failed to be there for her and for Sivall, his lora, had lingered in his mind since that day. It was an acute sense of failure that stood in stark juxtaposition to his belief, his conviction, that the Force had placed him where he was for a reason. If you were meant to be there, you would have been. But despite how much he told himself that, it didn’t mitigate the sting of disappointment he felt.
He was glad Foxen had lived.
Bril gave an appreciative nod when he invited him inside and stepped forward, though he stopped just before entering the door to remove his shoes. He stepped inside and placed them neatly on a small mat just inside the door and to the right, so he didn’t track any dirt into their home. Once he was inside, he took a moment to examine its interior. It was nice, cozy looking. Like something he expected to see in one of those lifestyle holochannels.
-
“You have a lovely home,” he began while rotating in place to get a good look at the decor. It reminded him in some ways of his grandfather’s estate.
Red eyes clocked to the hallway where Flyndt had disappeared.
I know, he thought, but didn’t say, because he knew that the Zabrak was referencing the house even if it was not his home. Common parlance.
Instead, the Nautolan nodded and gestured again, then turned and moved to the kitchen.
As Bril looked around, he would note several stark differences between the siblings’ styles; color, for one. The floors of Foxen and Flyndt’s abode were a dark, deep cherry wood, looking like spilled ink or almost a deep, whorled pool of blood depending on how the light hit it. The smooth lacquer was disrupted, oddly, by rugs, ones that didn’t seem to match any of the other decor or each other, and varied primarily in visible texture: one by the wide, black ash leather couch was thick, plush, and stiff at once, a beige, soft bristley thing; another round number laying between couch and open kitchen was dense and woven knit, heavy and cabled in multicolor, threads picked at like Femi had done to Minnow’s blankets; yet another just in the middle of the hallway, exceptionally smooth, nearly glossy, and deep blue. None of them matched the other neutral-toned furniture, nor the walls, which alternated between more rich wood and a charcoal gray accent wall. Small, black shadow boxes lined that one at precisely spaced intervals, and seamless black wooden shelves made short juts between, all hung with perfect levelness. There was no massive holoscreen, unlike at Minnie’s, and very few knickknacks. Mostly, it was open space around the furniture that somehow retained that coziness as well as its classy glamor, dim and deep colors restful to the eye, which was drawn to various focal points by positioning and highlights, like the gentle, inset white lighting under the shelves.
- When Bril looked closer at those singular displays, he found something much more familiar: pink. Pink crayon, pink glitter, pink macaroni stuck to pink flimsiplast. Each box contained its item like a treasure, obviously made by Minnie, from various periods in her childhood. The shelves, meanwhile, held different objects. One, a black framed photo, and one that Bril had seen before, Minnie in her AAF uniform, standing beside someone whose arm she had wrapped around; a copy of this photo was on her wall, proudly displaying her and Foxen himself. This one here was carefully folded to only show her. On another shelf was a blue-green glass orb, whose sentiment he couldn’t suss out, and on another…an art piece? It was something, certainly, and some of the parts seemed familiar; that was a caf pot, wasn’t it? But other pieces were welded in too, and it seemed more like a junkyard piece.
The others were empty, as if awaiting items, or simply balancing the space.
When he turned around, there was the kitchen. An entire orderly domain of steel and wood, the opposite wall entirely glass. Framed by wooden pillars above and on the sides from the roof’s overhang, the area seemed set back, sheltered, despite the translucent surface. Out it Bril could see the pond he’d glimpsed, with its little add-on dock structure, and further along what must be more of the house going back into the trees. Another wall of glass was visible, again flat-roofed and moss-covered, but the windows were steamed, implying some temperature and humidity differential inside. A greenhouse, perhaps? There was the empty garden bed up front.
Besides the entrance way, open living room and kitchen, there was a singular hallway going deeper. The way Foxen met his blue eyes from the kitchen when he looked to him after looking that way and slowly shook his head signaled he wasn’t welcome to go touring that way.
- Despite that no signal however, the Nautolan hybrid gestured to the Zabrak again, pointing at a glossy black table set into a nook. It seemed to have enough room for perhaps four, judging by the size of the chairs, but only three were present. Foxen pointed at one of the chairs specifically, neither the one that had its back to the wall nor the ones whose seat was scuffed with scratch marks. Apparently, those were claimed.
Only once he was done pointing did Foxen seemingly go back to what he’d been doing when Bril knocked, pouring hot water into small earthenware cups without handles, from which a spicy, rich scent quickly arose.
Bril took a step closer to the displays, smiling gently at seeing the bright pink creations that stood out amongst the other items on the shelf. “That’s Minnie’s work, no doubt,” he said while gesturing toward it. There was a distinct softness in his voice when he mentioned her. He’d have to ask her about them later. Their discussions of her past had thus far been brief, and he wanted to change that. He wanted to know more about her.
The glass orb caught his attention, prompting him to take a step closer to examine it further. The glass in the interior was shaped in such a way to resemble the rolling waves of an ocean. This also brought Minnow to his mind. He just couldn’t stop thinking about her lately, especially in light of everything they’d experienced during their travels. His hand instinctively brushed against the datapad tucked away in his robes. Did it vibrate just now? No, he was imagining things.
“This one here,” Bril began again while pointing to the orb, “It reminds me of what she’s told me about her upbringing, her love of the water. She’s called Selen her ‘home ocean’ before, but this doesn’t resemble Selenian waters. Does this represent your ‘home ocean?’ The place where you were born?”
He shifted his attention again to the metal creation, which appeared to be made of a recycled caf machine and tubing from various objects. It didn’t seem like something Foxen would create, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was Flyndt’s doing? Interesting, nonetheless.
Bril took a seat at the table Foxen pointed toward and folded his arms in his lap. The aromatic scent of freshly brewed … tea, if he had to guess, helped him relax a bit. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
The Nautolan in the kitchen tensed in 0.04 seconds when the Bril’s hand went for pocket of his robe, eyes fixing, but not weapon was drawn. He sighed silently, ordering his muscles to unclench, to 56% success.
An unclenching that fully undid itself when the Zabrak pointed at the glass and then leaned to inspect Flyndt’s caf machine. A possessiveness surged in his chest, stark and fearful, begging for movement, intervention. No don’t touch it don’t break it leave it alone go away stop get out.
BREATHE, he told the lungs, and did. LET GO OF KNIFE.
It disappeared back into the block before the Bril turned around again. He focused on the task of tea, and of not watching the hallway hoping for Flyndt to reappear, and of replaying the Zabrak’s comments from memory audio file.
Talking about his baby sister: manipulation tactic, using their common ground. Asking questions. Background, invasion. Why do you want to know.
But that was the point of this.
That is the point.
Audio memory file replays:
“…Next time, jendonis, save yourself the effort and stay home. That way these nice folks won’t have to worry about you breaking your leash.”
And in contrast, Flyndt, minutes ago:
“Some have found better to know. I did.”
This is for Minnie.
Try, dammit.
Mental timer for tea steeping set: 6:00:00.
With a hrm, Foxen picked his data up from one counter and started typing. Inefficient, as always, but necessary, as always.
It was a slow process, chiefly because he was debating how much/what to convey. Adjusting response. The need to be minimal and evasive battled with the recognizably soft tone with which the Zabrak’s voice wrapped around his sister’s outward nickname, his recognition of her beloved pink disasters even at three, four, and five years old. The Bril was quiet and sat with arms in lap, in visual field, patient. He was trying.
Another few hrms and grunts followed, some deletions, and then the Nautolan hybrid finally extended his pad.
Confirm, Minnie’s work. Saved everything she made for me growing up. Others in sealed storage. Rotate pieces for display every 5 month basis. Confirm, Selen is her home ocean. Nautolan term. She grew up here. Astute guess as to object purpose. Confirm correct assessment. Saw it on a job 16.2 years ago. The color is very close to the region of Glee Anslem where I was born. Do you want tea?
The emotions Foxen exuded came in bursts, like the discordant beats of a drummer struggling to find the proper rhythm. One could say the two men had yet to find a shared rhythm; they’d obstinately stuck to their own cadences since their exchange of harsh words months prior. Bril had reflected on the events of that day a lot, of the disappointed looks and biting words he’d earned from every member of the klatsch at Karran’s estate. He had to be better this time. Wiser. Less reactive. But that was becoming difficult when what seemed like every move he made set off klaxons in the larger nautolan’s head, a hypervigilance to potential threats that buffeted against Bril’s mind even though he wasn’t searching for it.
Kriff.
But he was trying. And he could tell Foxen was trying, as well. He didn’t have to accept his request, after all. He didn’t owe him anything. He returned to the tea and Bril felt relief wash over him. He would have never guessed that feeling nothing from someone, like the void of space, would make him feel better than feeling something–anything at all. But evidently, when Foxen felt, the feelings were immense.
Welcoming the datapad, Bril took it in his hands and began reading his response. More smiles for details about Minnie and the things she made for him, as well as confirmation of his inference’s accuracy. “I’ve never been to Glee Anselm, but I would like to one day. How long has it been since you were last there?”
“And yes, I would love tea. Thank you.”
The Nautolan paused at the question. It was somehow unexpected, despite the logical pathway of the topic progressing. It had been perhaps a decade since Minnow last asked frequent questions about the seas she had never known.
This time, the typing was short, the recall/calculation brief. He paused only to add a query despite lack of curiosity; it would fulfill conversational moors of back and forth while his hands were busy.
27 years galactic standard. Why do you wish to go.
He left the device with the Bril– with Bril as he moved for the tea cups, leaving the leaves to sit weighted at the bottom of their milky depths and collecting them onto a tray as the steeping timer ticked down. Along with it he arranged three small matching plates and a larger one with sweet scratch biscuits with currants and poppy. Twenty minutes was a tight amount of time, but he was nothing if not efficient. An addition of carefully positioned whole clove and cinnamon stick on each saucer sufficed for such a scrapmeal arrangement, which he carried back with a last longing look at the hallway.
Bril paused for a moment to consider Foxen’s inquiry. Once he was certain he had a suitable response, he began to speak. “Well, I love to travel and see other worlds and interact with the people on them. To learn about their cultures,” he stated, “And it’d be remiss of me not to mention that I’m an archaeologist. The tales of an entire continent that disappeared between the Anselmian seas have captivated me since I first heard them as a child.”
Bril set the tablet aside when Foxen set the tray between them. He noticed the man cast another wayward glance toward the hallway but said nothing of it. It wasn’t his business nor his place to prod. Remembering the frequent lessons on etiquette his mother taught him, he didn’t make a move to take the tea or the biscuits Foxen prepared for him. He did, however, use one hand to gently waft the steam that rose from the nearest cup toward him so he could more easily smell it. “It smells good,” he noted with a gentle smile, “You’re seem far more practiced at this kind of thing than I am.”
“Hrm,” the Nautolan allowed to the matter-of-fact commentary that was likely meant to be complimentary of some sort. He picked up one of the saucers and set it in front of Bril, repeating the process twice more before returning the tray and resigning himself to taking a seat. He gave flick of his fingers to indicate the Zabrak should help himself, folding one leg over the other and reclaiming his datapad.
Cooking or presentation? Either way: confirm. Here I thought it would be for Minnie, incorrect though you would be. Didn’t expect chasing fairytales. It’s oceans. Too deep for land breathers to go. Sounds like you should be talking to Jax, not me. Memory indicates Minnie mentioned him at first interaction 8 months 1 week 2 days ago. Surely she has done so more since, and already informed you of your shared interests.
He slid the pad back over and took a drink of his own tea, inhaling deeply beforehand.
Bril nodded in thanks and took his cup, raised it to his lips, and sipped. Just as he thought, it was good.
“I don’t chase fairytales, Foxen.” he corrected. There was credible evidence that suggested that there was a sunken landmass beneath the planet’s oceans, but he wouldn’t go into it because he knew the nautolan didn’t care to know. “If Minnie expressed interest, then of course she would be at the top of my list for going. But as it stands, Glee Anselm hasn’t come up.”
He took another sip of the tea, savoring the taste.
“She has spoken of him, yes,” he replied, “And I look forward to meeting him, as well. But you asked, so I shared. Have you considered going back? Maybe we could plan a trip there, some day.”
He wasn’t surprised it hadn’t come up from from his sister. She had no reason. Red eyes followed Bril’s movements, watching for micro expressions in reaction to the tea.
Good.
To the last, he shook his head.
Nothing for me there. No reason to go back. Only memory/pain. Where I was born: yes. But it is not my home. Minnie expressed interest on four separate occasions as child, but not since. Uncertain of present day preference. Confounding factors. You could ask.
A pause to allow Bril to take in the weight of Foxen’s words. It made him think of his own home on Iridonia and how long it’d been since he’d returned to visit. It had been less than a year since he joined the Brotherhood and saw his family but given the fact that he was used to seeing them nearly every day for his entire life, it felt like it’d been a lot longer than that. He’d considered visiting during his travels, but he ultimately decided against it. If he was to visit his folks, and especially if Minnie was with him when he did so, he wanted it to be under more positive circumstances, not while he was fighting the temptation of the Dark Side. Plus, it was still too early for him to introduce her to his family … wasn’t it? They weren’t officially an item, so it seemed premature to be thinking about introducing her to them.
“I’m sorry to hear that, that there are no pleasant memories for you there,” he replied, a touch of sadness in his voice. “But I’m glad you’ve found a home here, with Flyndt.”
Hrm, the Nautolan grunted, starting to say, incorrect, there are some– before catching himself signing.
Sigh.
Flyndt has, in so many ways, spoiled him.
Grumbling shortly, he set down his cup delicately on its saucer – the clack was harder than it should have been, without pinkie to brace, damn, adjustment necessary – and quickly took the pad back to type again.
Incorrect: not no pleasant memories. Approximately 4 years standard of precious ones + end of them. Not what I meant when indicating nothing there but memory/pain. Memory is with the mind/body. Stays with the self. All of it. No one is there on Glee Anslem. Therefore, nothing left there to visit, and no reason to go. However, very correct: home with Flyndt. For Minnie, Selen is home ocean. For me, this is a house. Flyndt is home. Observation: vocal tenor indicating sadness. Unexpected. Are you sad for a dog, Bril Teg Arga?
Bril nodded to convey his understanding of and appreciation for Foxen’s correction. That was good. But his remark that there was no one left for him on Glee Anselm, it gave Bril pause. He hoped that meant that the rest of his family had moved elsewhere but given the context, he suspected it meant something worse.
His eyes shot up to Foxen upon hearing how he referred to himself, face contorting into something between confusion and shock. “Why do you refer to yourself in such a way?” he asked, “I’m sad for you, the man. The person.”
Foxen’s head actually tilted, a full 44°.
Curious.
And the visceral reaction, also curious.
Referring to established parameters: “breaking your leash.” Am I not a dog to you? Clarification: I don’t care what you think of me, but I was surprised by display of sadness for the self. Sadness not expected. Hence the query.
“I…regret the words I uttered that day,” he admitted, pausing for a moment to drink more of his tea. “I want to apologize to you for saying that to you. I wasn’t myself, but that is no excuse. I don’t think you’re a dog, no.”
The Nautolan regarded the Zabrak for a moment, searching for signs of sincerity/deception. But no audiovisual cues of a lie. And minimal reason to lie besides, unless manipulation for Minnow’s good graces. But if so: good enough that he could not detect. And a marked effort nonetheless for his sister.
Foxen nodded, gauging the amount of tea left in Bril’s cup before he began typing back.
Apology inventoried, input accepted. Parameters for your file updated: not a dog. Query: ‘not myself.’ Is this metaphor or highly ignorant logical fallacy? The self is the only self at all times. Or more plainly: didn’t see anybody there take your place or move your jaw for you, pal. Your eyes flashed. Jediit danger. Still you though. Yes/no?
“Like I said, I am ultimately responsible because the choices I made led me to that point. But that wasn’t me, not entirely,” Bril explained. At least, he tried to. “I encountered these … things, animals but more like monsters. Creations of Sith alchemy. I encountered them in battle.”
He spoke in a measured tone, ever vigilant to any emotional responses, if any, the recollection evoked within him. To his relief, none came. It seemed that his training had paid off–for now, at least. “In order to defeat them, I had to … enter their minds. But doing that left echoes of their consciousness behind in my own. Specters, if you will. They whispered in my mind, pushing me to behave in ways I normally wouldn’t. And, when they saw an opportunity to do so, they tried to take control of me. And nearly succeeded on more than one occasion.”
Bril finished the last of his tea and gently slid the cup forward. “Another, please.”
“So, the onus is solely on me for what I said to you, but I would have never said such a thing had I been in my right mind.”
Sanguine eyes unblinking as ever stayed fixed on the Zabrak as he spoke, slate and granite features revealing little, littler so when Bril seemed focused inwardly besides. Foxen’s only movement was to nod and rise silently as he took his guest’s cup and saucer and brought them back to the island to refill with a newly brewed cup. His motions were methodical as he whisked milk in a pan once again to steaming, blooming sweet smelling clouds over the stovetop.
Busy as his hands were, Bril was left to rumination after his explanation. Foxen signed to him, I hear you, but had no expectations of being understood beyond a general assumption.
As minutes passed, the cup was cleaned and another dose of tea and spices mixed with the milk, stirred by the cinnamon stick on the plate, the Nautolan returned to the table. He held up a hand over the cup, then showed the number for six minutes.
Then, to typing. It was a short reply for such an academic confessional.
Are you still infected. Danger?
Bril shook his head. “I’m not,” he assured him, knowing full well that this conversation would likely take a turn for the worse had the opposite been true. “Not long after our first meeting, I embarked on a journey to find myself. To rid myself of my demons, so to speak. They won’t be hurting anyone else I love.”
The words, that word barely left his mouth before he realized what he’d said. He shifted just barely in his seat and instinctively reached out to pluck one of the biscuts off the table, breaking off a piece and shoving it into his stupid mouth before he went and let anything else slip. Love? Why did he couldn’t have said cared about or literally anything else? Maybe, Foxen wouldn’t realize that he was mostly talking about Minnie when he said that. Hopefully.
Not. Sure. We’ll see. But the was what the knives on him were for, just in case.
As it was, Foxen observed as an expression of juvenile panic stole over the Zabrak’s face and he promptly squirmed and shoved biscuit into his mouth like a fraking heathen. One pierced brow rose 5 mm.
Aww. Are we shy talking about our feelings, buddy? It’s like high school all over again.
Foxen arranged his expression into one of more open concern and typed quickly.
You must be hungry. Have some more. Confirm. Status remains: you or your demons don’t give me a reason to hurt you, I won’t.
Was that sarcasm? Snark? From Foxen? Well, he was somewhat glad to see that the nautolan had more layers, but not at his own expense. Though, it may have been amusing if it was directed at anyone other than him. The young zabrak made a face in response to his question, took one look at the biscuit, and set it back down on the little plate. “No, thank you,” he said, corners of his mouth dipping into a frown – an addendum to Foxen’s unexpected, though perhaps not entirely uncharacteristically ludic response. “It is a tasty biscuit, though.”
“And I appreciate that. I don’t intend to give you a reason,” he continued, “And I can assure you that there are no demons.”
There’s always demons, kid, you just control them, the Nautolan thought. The amusement he felt had nearly soured into distaste at the single bite/look and return of biscuit, but the description of tasty saved it.
Though, with one topic resolved with more clarity – he could report to Flyndt that the Bril did not think him dog in need of leash, tell the Omwati he was perhaps correct to hope…maybe…red eyes looked again to the hallway, then fell to the unused cup on its saucer, and shoulders fell too. He would give it another ten minutes and then just turn the cup over…confirm… – and another affirmed, they were left needing another. Small talk was required.
Ugh.
Try.
He searched the data of the conversation thus far for a lead. Queries were easier.
Journey?
Bril followed Foxen’s gaze to the hallway, himself wondering where Flyndt was. Clearly, the nautolan expected him to be here given how frequently he looked in that direction. But, he decided to continue avoiding the subject. And Foxen made sticking to that resolution easy by asking about his journey. Now that he’d calmed his nerves from the slight embarrassment he’d felt earlier, he took another, larger bite of the biscuit so he could actually savor the taste. There was a savory richness to it that complemented the tea well.
“Yes. For the last seven months or so, I traveled the galaxy, led by the Force on a journey to strengthen my skills and deepen my connection to it,” he explained while moving a hand to show the necklace he wore around his neck. Etched into the center of the pendant was an obsidian equilateral triangle composed of four smaller ones. “I needed to overcome my demons, as you call them, so I studied under many different Force orders while I was away.”
He tactfully avoided filling Foxen in about the nature of his journey’s end, how he and Minnow had fought again. No sense in making him angry when things were going pretty well thus far.
Foxen eyed the revealed pendant, resisting the urge to reach for his own in mimicry– the necklace of feathers, like the metallic wings of the selfsame tattoo on his chest, were both hidden under the ecrue, short-sleeved turtleneck he’d selected, feeling undeserved of showing off. Granted, having the cord tucked into such form-fitting wool ruined the lines of the shirt, but it was a price worth paying out of respect to Flyndt’s evasion.
He didn’t recognize the symbol, beyond a glimpse in recent research on things he’d missed of the damn Brotherhood in five years no contact, search his memory banks though he did. Something about balance, or a middle path. Jediit things.
Would Flyndt be interested.
What is that.
“It’s a symbol that represents the effort of those who seek to find their own path. A middle way between the Jedi and Sith. Light and dark,” Bril explained, running his thumb over the pendant’s face. “During my travels, I learned that the ancestors of the Jedi and Sith–the Je'daii–used both sides of the Force in equal measure. That spoke to me.”
The Nautolan nodded to the explanation, making note of it to share with Flyndt if the topic did not resurface, and gestured to indicate Bril could now drink his second cup.
Set internal timer: 4 minutes.
His hand rested on the datapad as it lowered, but he didn’t know what more to type yet. Conversation was stilted. This visit was unexpected. The same day and twenty minutes post-nap was neither enough time to prepare a list of socially-cued questions nor to acquire ingredients from Iridonia/Tattooine/Dathomir for authentic Zabraki dishes.
“Hrm.”
Words were substituted with a thick silence whose awkwardness was palpable. Not one to allow himself to suffer so, Bril decided to go with the first thing that came to mind. “So,” he began, drawing out the syllable in an exaggerated manner, “Do you like holofilms? Holonet fanfictions?”
Foxen physically blinked at the Zabrak. There just. Wasn’t any other response to that.
Fan fiction.
The Nautolan made a disgusted noise.
Has Minnie already gotten you on to that garbage? Jax is even helping write it. Deny. Films are… something. Inferior entertainment, rots the brain. You’ll notice there isn’t a viewscreen in here. Don’t need that garbage.
Then he paused in his typing, recalling the night Minnow had had friends over at hers for a sleepover and requisitioned him for catering. Her invitation to Flyndt to come. Flyndt’s confusion, and Foxen’s explanation of the customs.
How they had ended up not noticing whenever she had left, the door still open, having gotten busy talking. About Minnie growing up, and her friends, and how Foxen had no such experiences. No childhood games, no friends, no gossip or films or trash saccharine snacks or such frivolities.
How Flyndt took his hand and asked if they had any ‘bad horror holos’ to watch. And how they had superior snacks, and curled together on the couch, setting his datapad on the table to watch its small screen after a bit of holonet skimming. How Flyndt mocked and was just so confused at turns, remarking on character idiocy and strangeness. How he won their popcorn catching match by an order of magnitude. Brushing a kernel out of his feathers, and a happy trill.
He blinked again, then looked back to his pad and held down the delete key.
Has Minnie already gotten you on to that garbage? Jax is even helping write it. Deny. Films are occasionally okay. Not my interest. But some good memories. Do you?
Then he slid the pad back over.
That was without a doubt the most amusing reaction that Foxen had offered up thus far, even if it was just him blinking. As Bril expected, Foxen didn’t seem like the type to read fanfiction, even if he was Minnie’s older brother. The family resemblance didn’t include that particular interest, it seemed. Nonetheless, his ikopi-in-headlights stare made Bril laugh, a chest-shaking chortle that left Bril wiping his eye afterward. “Believe it or not, Minnie didn’t get me into it,” Bril admitted, “I started reading them well before we met. Are you sure you don’t like a good romance fanfic?”
Teasing aside, Bril was happy to know that the man had found some enjoyment out of holofilms, at least. He wondered if any of those good memories included Minnie as well. Or was it just with Flyndt?
“I do enjoy them, yes,” he said, “I don’t get to enjoy them as much as I’d like at the moment because of how busy I’ve been either training or doing research at the Academy, but I tend to enjoy myself when I do find the time.”
Bril paused to finish the biscuit he’d bitten earlier, then to wash it down with a sip of tea. “Speaking of training, have you been keeping up with yours?”
Minnie wasn’t responsible for this?
Foxen’s lips twitched up and away from his teeth, not in a smile, but a curl of disgust. The noise he made matched at “Like a good romance fanfic?”
DENY.
Inventoried: snippets of atrocious grasp of the Basic language, minimal and pithy plots, and little to no meaning of the concept of consent. All that touching. And fetishizing.
Ugh.
He felt a very strong and sudden need to turn himself inside out and shower, to cleanse the viscera.
Also: to ask to curl up with Flyndt again. That was good touching.
Alas.
Further commentary, and question. The Nautolan tilted his head, but dragged the pad back to start typing.
You make poor literary choices. Minnie likes trash holos. Got her own screen as soon as she moved out – I didn’t allow growing up. Brain rot. Still don’t have need. But watch them, sometimes. If she really wanted to. Or recently with Flyndt. Still brain rot. But fun/pleasant to mock/watch them watch the film. Confirm, maintaining training regime post-recovery. Six weeks recovery post-rescue and multiple surgeries, treatments. Physical therapy, then resumption of training. Low impact, progressing to normalization. Off-hand suffers affected grip, 30% less control, muscle degradation and reset, building up of new muscle required in order for ligaments to compensate. Estimated grip strength return: 87% efficacy. Also: flexibility, finger dexterity, touch, mental parity with phantom pain sensation. Most impacted: language. Many signs use little finger. It is…frustrating. Adjusting. Flyndt is clever. Relearning, adjusting too. He…understands me. Knows me. Amazes me.
It was sentimental at the end there, for a status report, but Foxen reread and decided it sufficed. He nodded to himself and passed the pad back over.
Bril shook his head. “I don’t make poor literary choices,” he said, “I just think entertainment comes in many forms. I don’t always have to read classic literature or dense textbooks.”
The zabrak was, of course, quite the erudite young man. His short tenor in the Collegium and the lesser-known Shadow Academy attested to that fact. It just wasn’t something he went around telling people. Nor did he feel the need to explain himself further to Foxen. If there was one thing he disliked, it was people who felt the need to brag about how many books they’ve read or the quality of said books. Having encountered a few people like that in the schools of his youth, he now preferred to knock such braggarts down a peg or two whenever he had the chance. “I’ve seen and read plenty of them and I turned out just fine.”
As he continued to read, Bril felt his lips tighten at the mention of Foxen’s recovery. “Have you considered a cybernetic? The technology even for small-scale cybernetics such as that is great. If you want it back, that is.”
“I’m glad that you have someone who truly understands you. Who loves you.”
A smile briefly appeared on the man’s face, only to be replaced by a look of concern. “And I’m glad that you’re still training…” The trepidation was clear in his voice. “Something is coming. Something bad.”
The Nautolan shifted at mention of a cybernetic replacement. Though it wouldn’t be visible, his skin heated along his throat, and he pulled slightly at the snug woolen collar of the turtleneck, suddenly feeling overly warm.
He refused to cough though. Deny.
Deny thoughts going anywhere too.
No funny business, pal, sit your ass down, we’ve already errored enough for the day.
He was distracted from nodding in affirmation to the question of thinking of a replacement digit, though, by the Zabrak’s following romantic allusions. While it was true Flyndt understood him more than likely anyone else – small world it was, between the three of them – and he felt and tried to be Known to the Omwati, love…
Red eyes fell to his hands, making the shape, missing the I.
Flyndt cared. And Flydnt said, in this way, in Bapti’s way, with bent fingers and scarred knuckles and hot olive palms that touched gently, like trust, I love you.
Love didn’t have to mean staying. Love didn’t have to mean meeting Gaile. Or anything after tomorrow. Love just was now.
It was. Enough.
Confirm, he told himself, and looked back up, finding Bril staring into his tea with the pensiveness and foreboding of a hanged man. He sighed softly at himself, rewound the audio.
Something is coming. Something bad.
Yeah what else is new.
Welcome to the shitshow, kid. To the Brotherhood. To life.
There’s no rest, just fighting.
He is.
Tired.
Foxen was slow to reach for the datapad this time. His internal timer had come and gone. He should have already turned the teacup over, but he didn’t. Want to.
I told you hope would kill me, Kymis.
Another sigh, which is objectively too many for the damn room. Ugh, moreoseness. He typed.
You haven’t been here very long, so take the experience for what it is: it never stops. I’ve done ‘something bad’ for 23 years standard. Over and over. Jax, Minnie too. The Arconans. Clans. Galaxy. Etc. Etc. It’s shit, you do it, you and yours live or don’t. Objectively worse here than in other professions/areas without jediit fraking things up. But still. Learn to compartmentalize. Prioritize. Or you will not survive. And seems like that would be a shame for her.
As the Nautolan hybrid finished his message, the empty third cup still resting on the table, soft footsteps approached from down the hallway near by followed by a metallic clicking taps of one-two, one-two, one-two-three. Repeat.
Slipping into the room and near gliding over the floor with his light and brisk pace to the kitchen island, was the missing Omwati. He was dressed in the same attire as the very first day Bril had met him, and any encounter after that in fact. The clothes wearing more and more near seamless patches and threadwork repairs each time. The stark difference in this moment was the purple scarf usually around his waist had been fashioned over most of the avian’s plumage, and only one long silver tail feather was visible among the loose ends of fabric. At his heels, a grey L0-LA droid with flakes of red paint across its shell hopped after the man, attempting to keep up but either was not motorly refine in movements or distractable – its optical sensors shifting and narrowing in almost wonder at the floor beneath it more than the entire room around it. Perhaps it caught its reflection in a bit of light reflecting off the dark floors.
A short couple clicks garnered its attention once more. It skittered out of sight behind the cupboards as the sound of silverware being rifled through stirred. Flyndt searched for a couple seconds before pulling out a small fork. He set it aside and turned to help the droid climbing up his leg onto the counter.
He paused. .
Him half bent and twisted to the side with gloved hands clasped about the metallic dome. Sunset eyes finally glanced over at the table and despite the man’s often blank face, it was clear he apparently had forgotten there was company. M4L-N13S plopped onto the island with a light cooing robotic ree, the Omwati clearing his throat as he straightened up.
“Bril! Hoo, hello!”
His tone betrayed his surprise despite an effort to play it cool. Was not the Zabrak supposed to arrive in another — his gaze flicked to the chrono on the wall — thirty minutes ago?!
Puhta!
Shoulders sagging a little, Flyndt dipped his head to the pair. “I am sorry, appears I lost time while working on Mal'nies.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, he sighed and took up the utensil, sliding the L0-LA unit back to him and away from a vase it wanted to rub against. He set to work with the prongs on a couple small screws set into its plating beneath a ‘wing’ that seemed stuck in place, not folding back seamlessly as the other side did.
“What, hoo, were we talking about?” he clicked, gaze shifting between the droid and the table.
The relief Foxen felt was…palpable. And visible. Massive shoulders sagged, revealing their tension – or in Bril’s case, revealing they were even capable of relaxing. A fond, helpless smile lit his face, a small curl that twitched, fighting laughter, at the Omwati’s abject surprise, and his gaze softened.
Thought of something new for her? he asked of the droid, still grinning. The revelation that it was distraction that had kept Flyndt away, not a boundary crossed or avoidance/rejection of the things he’d expressed, was a happy one.
The shift in Foxen’s emotions didn’t go unnoticed. There was a flash of warmth within the cold void of his mental space, like fuel poured on an open flame. Then, it faded, snuffed out be the suffocating stillness of Foxen’s mind. Despite its brevity, the man’s instinctual reaction to his words earned a slight tilt of Bril’s head to accompany his knowing look.
Try all you like to appear as otherwise, pal, but you’re a person with feelings, Bril thought.
Bril read the message over once, then again. It was … largely unhelpful. Of course, he couldn’t feel what Bril had been feeling for weeks, now. Nor could he feel the swelling tide of terror–of righteous and malicious anger; of doubt, of death–from some event whose time and place were mysteries to him. He wondered if Foxen would have seemed so blasé about it if he could feel what he felt. He’d sighed at least, and the flashes of world-weariness helped to color his response as Bril read it a final time.
He was going to ask about the apparent disdain he held for Force-wielders, but Flyndt’s arrival took his attention away. Standing up to properly greet him with a half-hearted smile, Bril inclined his head. “Flyndt, it’s good to see you again,” he said. And his words were true, but it was hard for him to show that when his thoughts still lingered on the previous topic. He’d left a sliver of those positive feelings open for the Omwati to detect in the Force if he was paying attention.
“We were kind of all over the place. Many topics. Foxen was advising me on how best to prepare for the future.”
Bril’s response made Foxen realize that he had failed to answer Flyndt himself, too enraptured by the rising hope of the Omwati’s presence. He might have been offended by the Zabrak’s lame enthusiasm for the best member of this household, except that he stood up to actually greet him.
Points, kid, the Nautolan approved, and then signed again to Flyndt when sunset eyes flicked up from Mal'ines.
Conversation inventory: lovely house, home oceans and visitation to ocean planet, B-R-I-L journey, holofilms, B-R-I-L trash taste in reading. He nearly stopped there in summary before realizing he hadn’t reported the intel Flyndt might find relevant. Also, he does not think I am a dog, confirm.
With that and a nod, the Nautolan where stood as well to collect the previously unused teacup and bring it with him to the stove, setting about making Flyndt’s tea.
Watching Foxen sign to Flyndt and blissfully unaware of what he was saying, an amusing thought crossed Bril’s mind. Keeping his eyes squarely on Flyndt, he pointed at Foxen while speaking with a comically deadpan tone. “I’m sure he’s mentioning my alleged poor taste in literature, so, in my defense, I read a lot more than just fanfiction.”
Foxen did not pause in his whisking/heating of milk, but he did snort and lifted one hand to snap his fingers and then make a sign that Bril knew from Minnie: yes.
Flyndt’s gaze flicked from Foxen’s hands to the now standing Bril, inclining his head and returning his greeting. It seemed he had not been bothered by his absence, maybe. He offered the man a nod and a brief smile, dropping a micro screw into a shallow dish on the island afterwards. It and a few others had appeared in various places around the house, no doubtedly after his partner had noticed the migrating ‘workplace’ the Omwati kept. Often times filled with small odds and ends.
“It is good to see you as well,” Flyndt replied in kind, returning to M4L-N13S. Three screws remained, the fork twisting in his grip.
It slowed, gradually, as he listened and watched.
Then, stopped.
The small feathers at the nape of his neck raised slowly and his hand clenched on the utensil. His heartbeat quickened with an inhale, tension setting in his jaw. Anxiety. He was feeling anxious and more so than his remorse for his time blindness earlier. Resting his wrist on the countertop and turning to read Foxen’s account of the conversation topics, Flyndt found himself reflecting on this sudden feeling and only when Bril interjected did it click.
This was not his own emotions, that smile a veil to something lingering in the young man’s mind.
What part of their conversation has caused this? Future advice? Ocean planet visits? With how Foxen was anxious about returning to the ocean during the Kote Katam remembrance, maybe. Bril was gone awhile and Minnie with him, did something happen? What does a dog have to do with this? Was this about reading preferences?!
Flyndt realized he was staring and gave a couple small clicks of his beak as he grabbed M4L-N13S’s shell and pulled her back away from the vase once again. He glanced between the other two men.
“You two…disagree in reading tastes?” Was his somewhat awkward attempt to probe.
Foxen’s relaxed brows furrowed as he watched Flyndt’s hand clench and stare off, the brt-t-tt-tt of rapid beaky clicks. Confusion? Upset? Maybe it hadn’t just been distraction with the little bumble droid. Maybe Foxen had overstepped. Or maybe Bril doomsaying was obvious. Reasons unclear.
Pouring Flyndt’s tea to steep as he thought on this, he set the cup and plate and everything back together, moving to the table to grab a biscuit too from the bigger serving plate. Another detour took him over to the cupboard where he extracted a small, wide metal dish that didn’t look like any dishware so much as maybe a mixing bowl. From the pantry came oil, which he started to heat. When it grew hot, he poured it into the dish, and slid it over to the droid as an option. The whole arrangement was placed next to Flyndt and Mal'ines as Flyndt asked a stilted question.
I think he reads trash like Jax and Minnie, he thinks he’s fine. He can explain, might interest you? the Nautolan answered, and then, setting his hand on the counter about 0.03 m from Flyndt’s hand/thigh, asked with the other, Are you O.K.? Is this O.K.? Can throw him out. Or I can take this, his face twisted a little at using the word, like he was smelling something bad, or pained looking at terrible fashion, bonding exercise outside?
The Omwati dipped his head for the gifted tea and biscuit, and the oil for the L0-LA droid. He was about to sign his gratitude when one large dark hand rested beside his. His sunset gaze flicked up to sanguine in mild surprise, the closeness noted and the thick shoulder partially obscuring their words. Oh, Foxen noticed the shift, which meant Bril may have…
Flyndt shook his head slightly. No, it is O.K. Just…mixing feels. Leather clad fingers raised to touch forehead, gesturing their sign for his abilities. Are you two O.K.?
Again, Foxen’s features gentled, concern somewhat assuaged. He nodded, creeping his hand on the counter forward just enough to brush Flyndt’s with his ring finger, now lacking the pinkie, and then lifted both for speaking.
The same. Mixed feelings. Conversation is fine for me. More worried I upset you. But you say O.K., so O.K. He smiled briefly to show this, then the expression smoothed back out as he nodded his head back towards Bril behind them. He’s moody. I think it’s, he made the sign for powers back, touching forehead, this? Said something is coming. Tried to comfort, but you know me and comfort.
Bril took another bite of his biscuit, finishing off what remained and savoring the taste before having another sip of his tea. He remained silent while the two of them conversed, thoroughly unaware of what they were discussing.
You comfort fine, Flyndt responded with a slight smile, lopsided as it was with his mind drifting elsewhere.
Something is coming.
He has felt that, a sense of insecurity, of impending danger. There was an underlying energy of late in the atmosphere, like a thin fog one noted in the first light of dawn but does not dissipate. A warbler slipped under his breath after a pause of thinking. The Omwati turned and leaned against the counter, letting go of the L0-LA droid who wandered over to check out the shallow bowl of oil.
“Bril, hoo,” Flyndt started, shifting his gaze from the brewing tea to the Zabrak, “Foxen said you sense something coming? What, the Three Pillars, the Collective?”
His brow furrowed as he held up three fingers. A symbol he knew too well from the wounds the Nautolan hybrid had inflicted by the people his family’s traitorous partner once worked with. Flashes of that night weeks ago briefly crossed his mind, quickly quieted as the avian continued, attempting got keep his tone even. “Or Something else? I know little of the Arconan’s enemies, yet have felt unease, dread and suspense.”
Upon hearing his name, Bril lifted his eyes from the table and looked over to Flyndt. “Yes?” he said, curious yet hesitant. He could feel the uncertainty–the anxiousness–looming in the Omwati’s mind like a dark cloud.
He tilted his head at the gesture Flyndt made, failing to recognize it at first. A flash of recognition appeared on his face when he eventually recalled where he’d seen it before: he’d reviewed the history of the Brotherhood and its enemies prior to his departure. Three pillars represented the three leaders of the Collective.
“I’m not certain but I don’t think what I’ve been feeling is the Collective,” he replied. “The Force is too heavily involved. The most likely candidate would be the Children of Mortis, but everything is clouded. I feel so much pain … so much death. It’s suffocating.”
Foxen observed the two – more interested in Flyndt, of course, but making the effort of pay Bril mind. He forwent grabbing his teacup as he turned and reclined smoothly against the counter beside the Omwati, wanting to be near but not come between the two conversing, and wanting his hands free to actually talk if he had a response.
The Omwati clicked his beak behind thinly drawn lips, brow furrowed in deep concern. Sivall mentioned the Mortis Children, shared of the crystals that had been embedded into her arms. Pain, suffering, and death… If Bril was skilled with the sight as it seems, then he was speaking of some dire event hovering on the horizon…
…Flyndt exhaled a heavy sigh and touched a hand to his temple briefly. It lowered and fell to cup around the heat of the teacup. His gaze shifted to the droid dipping its leg into the oil bath carefully before withdrawing it suddenly with a shake. Normally the mimicry of people actions would get a laugh from him, yet now his mind was heavy. He glanced back to the Zabrak.
“Perhaps we can discuss more of this later, maybe?” spoke the Omwati. He sipped his tea and looked between the other two, not wanting the meeting to be cast in shadow for the rest of their time together.
Amidst his musings on dark times to come, Bril had allowed his gaze to drift down toward his lap, to his hands. It wasn’t until he heard Flyndt’s suggestion that he realized just how quickly the room’s atmosphere had taken a turn for the dour. He was right, of course. There were more appropriate things to discuss. He was a guest, after all, and with the way their first meeting ended, Bril didn’t want them to think drama and angst were all he had to offer.
“Right,” he began, taking a breath to steady himself. “Thank you again for allowing me to visit. I hope you’ve been well, Flyndt. Anything new since we last met?”
The Omwati’s inked lips pursed momentarily. His mind blanked for a second, leaving him treading for how long had it been since he saw the Zabrak. The reminder of time passed furrowed his brow, shifting the feathery wisps framing his face from under his headscarf. Flyndt took another drink and shoved that feeling aside to focus on the question. The corners of his mouth ticked upwards a smidge in a small smile when he met Bril’s gaze again.
“I am well, alive still under the suns’ light. Hrmm, feel there has been so many new things, and maybe not at same time? I have been training with Karran between, hoo, breaks…” Breaks that had been due to a dislocated shoulder and – Flyndt clicked his tongue and continued, “Assisted on rescue mission, met more of the Arconans, yes? Explored the Estle City and Selenian foods…”
He trailed off and set his cup down to lean against the counter. His gaze shifted over to Foxen at his side, lingering for a moment as his smile softened. The Omwati reached out and brushed the man’s side gently before turning his attention back to Bril, chin raising a bit.
“Foxen and I are courting,” he shared. The L0-LA droid coo’d electronically while she settled into her bath. Flyndt chuffed, “and this is Mal'nies.”
“And you Bril? Anything new? You went on trip? Read many, hmm, fan-fiction?”
The Nautolan hybrid had been quiet, just watching his bird ruminate and Bril do it in turn, the dark thoughts hanging the and dismissed as Flyndt changed topics. Then he was just listening to the Omwati speak, the cadence of his voice and choice of words, what he shared. Training, “breaks,” yeah, that was one definition, the mission…he took a sip of his tea when there lulled a breath of pause, and saw as sunset eyes met his and inked olive lips smiled and–
The hand brushing his side, leaning into it, and–
Flyndt lifted his chin and
“Foxen and I are courting.”
Foxen nearly dropped the cup. Nearly. His arm twitched and he lowered it, slowly, red eyes widening just slightly in shock at the declaration.
The Omwati was saying something more, asking, conversation, but his mind stopped recording it. It went blank, the disc skipping, connection cut.
Instead there was just warmth, all over, starting in his chest and blooming like a bomb blast, flooding every membrane and nerve from headtail to fingertip to the few remaining freaking toenails. A sound scraped out of his throat with the heat, and it could have been called a giggle, if he was normal and whole and unbroken, whispering out from around the two rows of teeth that showed from the beaming smile on his face. If it weren’t for how the windows washed the kitchen in afternoon sunlight, the faint green glow along his pores might have been visible even to untrained eyes.
Foxen and I are courting.
Confirm.
Happiness.
Confirm.
Fucking yes we are and he’s proud of it too.
Maybe not for meeting Gaile, but for this? This was. Telling someone. And the chin lift. And.
Mmm.
Fuck, he was going to need to perform some percussive maintenance to reboot his fucking brain, what were they talking about? Eh. Maybe the gap could be okay. For once.
The smile didn’t settle, and he didnt try not to make what were probably googly eyes at Flyndt, maybe listen with half a neutron to Bril’s response.
It brought the young Zabrak great joy to hear that the two of them were happy, with each other. And seeing Foxen smiling the way he did was something he hadn’t expected, and the fact that he did so easily in response to Flyndt’s comments helped put it into perspective how much they meant to one another.
“I’m really happy for you too,” he said, exchanging warm glances with the two of them. “I haven’t seen Karran in quite a long time. I hope he’s been well. I’m sure he’s been a great teacher to you, as well.”
When Flyndt inquired about how Bril had been spending his time, he chuckled upon hearing the mention of fanfiction. “A good bit of that, yes, but more studying than reading for leisure, usually.”
A hand found its place on the back of his neck, massaging it in an instinctual soothing gesture. “I went on a trip with Minnie, yes. It was … eventful. Eye opening. I learned a lot. And I think she and I grew closer as a result.”
He hoped, at least. He was sure that she felt closer to him in some ways, but it was hard to determine if it worked the same for him when she still felt so withdrawn, at times.
Perhaps, were he functioning at baseline, the Nautolan hybrid would have noticed the soothing gesture Bril made, the hesitation in his words and careful pause of description, the undertone that indicated worry/confusion/frustration medley that was: feeling like you couldn’t reach the person you most wanted to, because they would not let you. Foxen could recognize that, from multiple angles. From the self, from his sister.
However.
He wasn’t paying that close attention. The man’s round red eyes may as well have been shiny pink cartoon heart shapes for how enamored he was in that moment, just gazing adoringly at Flyndt, happy about this, and even… Pleased that Bril was happy for them.
The conversation had been stilted, but reactions positive. There had not yet been arguing, aggression, offense. Apology even, and clarity.
It was on every level exceeding his expectations.
So it was that while he missed obvious details, Foxen was enough at peace and bouyed by unadulterated pure fucking joy to invest in continuing to try with more conversation.
You said you went searching for different Force orders, many different worlds, he began, dragging his eyes towards the Zabrak was HUMONGOUS effort. Thankfully Flyndt could translate for him now that he was here, and the slow datapad was less necessary. Which was your favorite?
“Hoo, I am glad that some closeness found,” Flyndt commented.
He sipped at his tea before coming around the island. With one glance to make sure there was not any spilled oil – Mal'nies was fairly laid-back with soaks, her optic sensors just widening at the reflections in the oil – he hopped up onto the counter to perch a seat there. A moment later he was habitually interpreting for Foxen, his feathered crest raising with genuine curiosity on Bril’s reply. For himself, there was only one answer but he had since learned of other ways people practice the Force after coming to Selen.
Foxen’s efforts to form a connection with him didn’t go unnoticed by Bril. And the fact that Foxen had refocused his efforts to that aim despite the ebullient yet secure energy that practically seeped from his very pores in response to Flyndt’s confirmation of their standing made his gesture all the more impressive … and touching. Bril had scarcely noticed that his lips had stretched into a radiant smile that he would’ve never guessed that the nautolan hybrid could get out of him.
Then, his brain registered the question that Flynd so kindly translated. Right, right. The Force orders. He hadn’t really considered which one was his favorite. Did it even make sense to speak of them in that way?
“I’m not really sure, to be honest,” he answered, taking the time to order his thoughts on the matter. “Each one gave me something I needed but if I had to pick one that I would like to return to one day to continue my studies, it’d probably be the Dagoyan order. They believe in enhancing one’s personal connection to the Force through long meditation sessions and asceticism. Nonviolent by nature, and they don’t believe in dividing the Force into Light and Dark. They argue that the Force just is, and that we, in our need to categorize and label things, divide it.”
Foxen’s head cocked, a mirror of Flyndt’s, and he gave a short, “hmm,” of thought.
Categorization, division, order: critical, to me. Absolute disorganization undesired. Seems like just abdicating their own responsibility, to just say they ‘can’t know.’ But maybe talking out of my ass about things I can’t understand. Does the Force, he repeated the gesture he and Flyndt used for Bril, so that the Zabrak could add it to his lexicon even as the Omwati translated, then spelled, F-O-R-C-E, feel like one thing, to you? No differences?
As Foxen signed, Bril paid close attention to the gestures he used to refer to him and to the Force, cataloguing the information away for later use. A brief nod signified that he understood to what the large male was referring. Foxen’s question was a good one, one that he hadn’t given himself much time to think about since his return, but it did bring to mind his frequent contemplation of that very subject during and after his time with the Dagoyan ascetics. Not one to speak with authority on subjects he wasn’t well-versed in, Bril took as much time as they’d allow to consider what he was going to say. He needed to choose his words carefully.
“I’m … not the most qualified person to speak authoritatively on the Dagoyan order’s views; but I can tell you what I experienced when I was with them,” he began. “Every emotion I feel, whether it’s anger or sadness or love, has a different … flavor to it. Force users can draw on any of those emotions to harness the Force and, to me, it always feels slightly different when I use one emotion versus another. We divide these different emotions and how they relate to the Force into categories: Light and Dark. But what the Dagoyan’s teachings allowed me to glimpse was a different perspective, a different sensation: that on a deeper level, the Force is one unifying presence, and the way we tap into it is through our desire. Our will. Desire is what informs all of our emotions.”
Enraptured and intrigued with the conversation, Flyndt had unintendedly abandoned sipping from his tea, his cup halfway raised to his lips. He noticed the fact and took a drink before setting the cup aside. His gaze glanced to Foxen and he shook his head.
“No, it – I do not agree that it is, er, avoiding responsibility? Hrmm,” A spotted tongue tucked behind his upper beak-plate while his mouth was open, thinking. He turned his attention back to Bril, “We, the Enedh Ingolë of the Omwati Order, believe that Force just is too. Exists all around, in life to core of nature and planet. Though it is, hoo, taintable by strong dark emotion, acts, tragedy. Malleable to the life around it and hard to mend if ill treated or influenced wrongly. No light or dark like, hmm, Sith or Jedi?”
He was not confident on his knowledge of Sith and Jedi. There was scripts on the such, ancient ones that he never bothered to read and only heard through a peer. He learned more about the sith through Karran alone recently. A light hum escaped him. It had been some time, too long that he had thought on philosophy and thinking upon Force beliefs. It was not something he enjoyed usually but was important on embracing one’s connection, and this conversation brought him back to the halls of his order. Debates usually won by his more studious friend. He had shared with Foxen a bit, more in his personal experience but still.
A gloved hand gestured towards the Zabrak. “I think what you said, experience with emotion is similar. Life goes by different tunes, emotions, will. Though…hmm, maybe our views do differ from this Dagoyan what with the view of blights.”
How is it not avoiding responsibility, Foxen began, looking mostly (of course) at Flyndt, but also with a glance at Bril, to say the Force ‘just is?’ Implies nothing we do can impact it. Which your people, I had understood, believe it to be taintable? That means, we can do bad. People feel. People commit actions. Commit tragedies. And must do the work to heal, as you say.
He gestured to himself and between them, brushing the spot on his chest where sweater completely covered scar, indicating how they were fighting so hard to heal from how they were broken.
Not trying to speak for your people, never. Deny. However: seems more determined than that to me. More responsible. If you own that you CAN influence it. Then you own how you influence it. Take responsibility. D-A-G-O-Y-A-N saying just is, removes that. But not here to argue about them. Established none of us three are qualified. Red eyes fixed on the Omwati. You’ve talked of the blight before. Isn’t that what you mean? Taint, and removing it? Or?
Flyndt’s scalp tingled under the scarf wrapped about his head. His pinned feathers wanted to raise with the snappiness, quickness of an incoming and immediate reply to the first question Foxen spoke, heralded by an inhale. Yet, red eyes looking to Bril prompted him to hold his tongue and be patient, setting himself to interpreting for his partner and their guest. A pause interrupted, stuttered with the brush of Foxen’s hand against knit. He nodded lightly and gave a wince of a smile before continuing, just was not expecting the mention.
The blight…taint, and removing it? Or?
“Hoo, heal it, it, ah–” His beak clacked behind pursed lips, his birthmarked brow furrowing. Philosophy was not his strong suit. His head would be hurting if the Omwati was not obsessively circling back to proving the Force is one thing, ‘just is’ as Bril put it.
Two clicks.
And two light thuds as Flyndt hopped off the counter and wove past Foxen into the kitchen more. He ducked from their Zabrak’s view for a moment, the sound of a cabinet door opening and the shifting clanks of dishes. Purple fabric peaked over the edge of the counter before he stood back up, a metal pan in hand.
“What is this?” He asked, setting it on the counter before Foxen with a tunk that prompted a quiet chirping whirl from Mal'nies.
Foxen’s eyes caught on a barely perceptible twitching under purple scarf wrap, like tiny creatures moving under the sand. But this, he knew, was only the pinions on his bird’s head lifting.
Would the feathers be lifting in excitement of flaring in agitation? Had he upset, or made a valued point?
Hrm. He had not realized how much he depended on the Omwati’s feathered cues to read his moods. Weakness identified. At least the noises still told plenty. Thoughtful, annoyed clicks.
His partner hopped down, always a sight that endeared, and went off to rummage. When he put a pan down, Foxen lifted a brow, but gamely answered, familiar by now with such charades as they’d strove to learn how to speak to each other when he couldn’t speak.
A pan. Metal. Specifically titanium/aluminum composite.
Flyndt nodded a small twitch of a smile at his lips. Then, his hand went behind his back and a second later a blade was stabbed into the cutting board. Leather clad and bare olive fingers gestured at it.
“And this?”
“Mmm…” The Nautolan rasped at the sudden display, and if he’d had feathers, they’d have been standing up.
Deeply. Distracting.
However:
A knife, he went along. Also metal, primarily.
“Yes, metal.” Flyndt nodded at the two items. His tone was passionate, yet it did not seem to hinge into frustration, “that changes not. Used different ways, but still metal. Responsibility is not what the Force is, but in the one using it. That is a different thing, yes? People who act and bring blights like illness. Are the sick different people?”
The Omwati looked to Bril brow raising a bit, “Do you agree? Is that similar, er, alike? Or am off mark?”
Hearing the passion in Flyndt’s tone made his lips curl as much as it made a pit in the chest. He nodded to show understanding of the comparison.
Still metal, he echoed in acknowledgement. That the Force just was. That did not make the Dagoyans any less inactive and ineffectual, but he could see the point his bird seemed to be making about the Force itself. They weren’t actually particularly different in view.
Unless there was more he wasn’t – couldn’t – understand. Red eyes dragged themselves off of dragging up and down Flyndt to turn to Bril, face blanking once more, waiting for his confirmation or disagreement.
Bril remained quiet for the duration of Flyndt’s explanation, tapping his fingers on the table’s surface. He nodded to Flyndt. “Metal begins in a raw state. It’s unrefined … undifferentiated. But it’s still metal. Iron ore has to be worked to become something that can be turned into a weapon. It also has to be worked to turned into a tool to help others. But it’s all still iron. And allowing iron to simply exist as it does naturally, doesn’t mean it has no use.”
He paused for a moment, thinking he may be on the verge of stretching the metaphor to its limits. “I don’t think the Force’s value is dependent on what it can do for us, anyway.”
After all, they may not have been alive to have this conversation without it, to begin with.
So easily did Bril and Flyndt seem to agree here. But of course, Bril understood. Could understand.
Foxen…couldn’t.
They could talk about Flyndt’s powers, train together to fight seamlessly with them, could trust his every sense and instinct. He could feel Flyndt, when they swam together, like Flyndt could feel him at any time. And he could let Flyndt into his mind to speak freely there. Could be supportive and try as much as possible.
But it had a ceiling, and he couldn’t breach it. It just was. Like being born with something broken.
Another deficiency. One no amount of rigorous research, self-discipline, effort, or willpower could repair.
Another way he could never really Know Flyndt.
Not the way someone else could.
His malfunctioning thoughts made the logical connections before he could schedule them for a more appropriate time: this was another major calculus in favor of him not meeting Gaile or the tribe, as unworthy of Flyndt.
- The diagram looks like:
Positive: * Capable warrior (to a culture that valued warriors and possibly protection from outside forces) * Capable cook (possibly) * Flyndt loves him
Negative: * Broken voice (to a species that lives and breathes by song, by noise, by tone. Flyndt is sound incarnate. His music is in everything, it moves him, it moves Foxen. And not only can Foxen not fraking talk reliably, nevermind anything else, he is not even remotely musically inclined towards instruments to try to make up for the mutism. It’s frustrating and terrible and he hates it.) * Incapable of the Force (can never truly Know their Flyndt) * Outsider of a disparate species * A career that could be broadly defined as mercenary * A whole pile of extremely inconvenient phobias and traumas, chiefly including aversion to animals, which would not be survivable in a hunting/gathering society * Generally, the rest of him, inventory: as stated to Flyndt earlier
Unweighted * Financial excess (what would the Handu'wil care for his material riches? Money is an operating system of the wider galaxy, convenient and meaningful in less independent societies.) * Land owning (the will has been updated to reflect Flyndt and his people accordingly, but a few good acres on another planet mean diddly squat, again, to an independent and proud society intrinsically tied on spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical levels to their own land across multiple generations. It’s actually so galling, this asshat suggestion is to be recategorized as a negative.) * His family is truly wonderful (Minnie and Jax aren’t for bargaining. Even if they are the valuable and socially positive assets of their trio that is no longer a trio.)
It’s a bleak equation.
Small wonder he is not fit to meet Gaile.
However: the most important part is still how Flyndt feels, and Flyndt loves him. Chooses to court him. Chooses to tell Bril of it. These are irrefutable.
- And that is the crux it. Flyndt hadn’t said no; he hadn’t answered. A nothing was not a negative. And why would Flyndt answer? It was unfair, for Foxen to express the want to meet Gaile when they still had not found him. When all of Gaile was uncertain. Unfair to Flyndt and his emotions and unfair to them.
So it was not a no; but he had errored.
He would ask again, he determined. When he actually fulfilled his goddamn oath to Flyndt and found his brother instead of being useless as an individual with deterioration in all previously elite skillsets and assets (ugh, being broken and dead for five years, ugh. The frustration is. H i g h). Then, and only then, can he ask again. And he will, because he wants to. That is most fair to both of them.
This much, the current moment, sharing with this person, is their present. And it is a gift. A Good Thing.
He is glad for it.
And staying in the present, he considers Bril’s response and looks back to Flyndt, red eyes gleaming, hopeful to find agreement/happy trills of being understood.
There maybe was a smidge of an air about being right or agree with from the Omwati. If his feathers were free, he may have preened them. He did well, however, to rein in such a reaction and instead nodded to the Zabrak in an agreement with a small smile. He leaned against the counter for a moment before patting the cutting board with one hand. Planting that same hand, he unlogged his knife and returned it to its home, tucked within his belts. Grabbing the pot, he gave Foxen a small smirk before putting it not quite away but on the far counter out of immediate sight lines. He slipped back around to his half drunk tea once again.
“Hmm, you very knowledgeable on Force orders. Do you research many people, cultures? Why, and what drove you to, Bril?”
The smile smile was not quite what hoped for, but it was still Flyndt smiling, and that smirk, and that was everything. Foxen smirked back, then turned to Bril in genuine curiosity at the question.
And not subtly scooted one hand along the counter to settle the back of it against Flyndt’s upper arm while the Omwati slipped back into place.
“My mother is an archaeologist,” Bril explained, seemingly lighting up at the opportunity to share. “Growing up, my parents taught me the importance of learning about one’s ancestors, and the ancestors of others and their civilizations. My siblings and I would accompany them on most of their expeditions, except for the ones that could be dangerous, of course.”
He paused for a moment to reflect on all the memories they had made traveling the stars, learning the tricks of the trade. “Ancient artifacts and the cultures that created them is just fascinating to me, so I would study them anyway, but there’s something to be said about the valuable lessons one can learn by studying past civilizations.”
Red eyes flicked over briefly to olive and ink features in concern, uncertain whether the topic of mothers would be difficult for his bird. Flyndt had been there for him, in taking back the ocean enough to honor his mother, had shared about his Atta, father, but his mother was specifically not discussed. And then there was Gaile…
The heart hurt in his chest.
Don’t look at it, he ordered himself. Set status: ignore. Be here. Be present. Enjoy this much. Just this.
He looked back to Bril, pondering a neutral but still positive conversational response. Examining what emotions the information caused when he shut down the noise of the others. Searching for a question to contribute that would not relate to feelings of parental pride or missing family or homesickness or tragedy. Hrm. Social inventory: poor. Backup required. Where’s his sister when he needs her.
That is nice, he settled on eventually, and then frowned slightly, and reached back over to recover his pad. If the topic caused any emotional duress, he did not want to add stress to Flyndt burdened with translation, no matter how intimate it felt to truly speak, in his way, with the Omwati.
He typed to repeat himself, then flipped the orientation and increased the text display size, turning it out and showing them both the screen that was hopefully more readable.
That is nice. I feel pleased that your childhood sounds pleasant/productive with parents and siblings. Archaeology: shaky ground. Presume your family only studied with permission?
The warmth touching his arm was a welcome surprise, the contact broken by Flyndt only to sip his cooling drink. He listened to Bril’s sharing. His head tilted a degree to the side and feathers ticked beneath his scarf in curiosity, mostly. There was a faint muddle of feelings, notable in the brief shift of his gaze and idle turn of his teacup on its saucer. But also within his Force aura that visibly undulated to those with the sight in pale blues, greens, and pink. It twitched and faded in parts while brighter in others with genuine interest.
Because hearing of this small glimpse into Bril’s past was nice as Foxen put it, even if he was not completely certain what an archaeologist was for a moment.
“I did not know what an Archaeologist was till now. The past is very important to remember, yes,” Flyndt nodded. “And our ancestors.”
He took another sip of his tea, uncertain what Foxen meant by ‘shakey ground.’
Bril took a moment to read what Foxen had typed. A small smile crossed his features upon seeing that he expressed approval of his upbringing. They were making progress. He did notice that there were signs on his expression that he was having some mixed feelings on the subject, which he figured likely had something to do with perhaps his own childhood or even Minnow’s. Flyndt, too, was seemingly in a state of ambivalence if his aura in the Force was any indication. But Bril knew that it wasn’t his place to pry, so he kept reading.
“Shaky ground, indeed. Good one,” he said, cracking a grin at the unintended pun. But his expression became more serious as he nodded at the implications of his statement. “Yes, always with permission. My people have seen our own share of opportunistic scientists who come to our land looking for treasures to fill their worlds’ museums. only to learn that we are fiercely protective of our heritage. My parents made sure that my siblings and I understood the evils of doing excavations without the native population’s consent, especially with the intention to take.”
Foxen nodded once sharply to Bril’s explanation, though his approval seemed more concerned with Flyndt, as his scarlet eyes inevitably fixed on his home, especially on a topic of taking.
He did though take the time to type to Bril a simple note.
Good answer.
Flyndt leaned back against the counter with crossed arms, his cup in hand as he listened. The implication some pun occurred went over his head, earning only a blink from him. Instead, he nodded firmly at equally the instilled respect Bril’s family taught them and the intense protection of one’s people’s history and culture. A solemn look crossed his features, interrupted by a whisper of a trill as he inhaled. The Omwati shifted his weight, eyes flicking to the wall for a heartbeat before returning to the Zabrak.
“Fiercely protecting heritage, good. It belongs to no one else and someone must preserve way of life as others change,” he affirmed, “Respecting may lead favor to being shared in their culture, yes. It would win so with mine.”
Flyndt paused, clearing his throat lightly, scratching his brain for something else to say. A small smile faintly lifted his lips. “Your parents must be proud to hear you continuing to learn of other cultures, ways? Visiting the Force practitioners and studying at the, uh, academy, yes?”
Foxen’s response made Bril smile, and he nodded to show he appreciated his approval of his answer. Then, he turned to Flyndt and watched him expectantly. It seemed that neither of them had caught his pun, but he said nothing of it. He’d just have to save it for Minnow, later.
He made a mental note of his comment about his own culture; he’d have to remember to ask Flyndt more about it later. When the question of his parents’ thoughts came up, he shifted his gaze to the left, looking for something else to hold his attention while he contemplated an answer.
“They actually … don’t really know what I’ve been doing since I joined the Brotherhood,” he admitted, “They know about my research, of course, since that’s what got me accepted in the first place. But I’ve left all the other stuff out. The fighting and … well, you know. The worrying parts.”
<@244244163002892288> <@244244400488710155>
Flyndt’s approval was noted, as was the note of how to earn sharing of culture with the Han'duwil. Foxen swallowed thickly, thinking of the Omwati’s aunt and Gaile again, and let his idle hand brush idly at his home’s sleeved arm, anchoring while he listened.
But then Bril went and said something stupid.
Red eyes gave a look.
He actually stopped touching Flyndt to type quickly.
So if/when you end up in a black bag, they will have no idea why, no expectations, no plans, no brace. Do you have a will? Does anyone know what to do with your body? Your property? Practicalities aside, as someone who has disappeared and died to his family without any trace: fraking do better. I couldn’t tell them what happened to me. You still have your fraking freedom.
He turned the pad back around directly towards the Zabrak, realizing milliseconds later that he should not have bothered to comment.
The priority was Flyndt. And hearing that…
The Nautolan’s gaze softened immediately as it snapped back to his bird, expression writ with concern.
Foxen’s light brushes were welcomed, even if Flyndt never spoke as such or even realized himself. The first time the man’s thumb stroke his sleeve, the Omwati thought of him and how the contact murmured like grey slate and orange coals, opening himself to his presence settling while he listened to the Zabrak. Bril adverted his gaze at his question and Flyndt swallowed, nictitating membranes passing over staring, waiting, almost dreading eyes.
What did he have to dread for? To be trepid for the Zabrak’s response coming? A sour taste settled on his tongue as soon as he heard the words…
‘…What got me accepted in the first place…’
‘…not the fighting…the worrying parts…’
They repeated in his mind, like lapping waves dispositing pressure to his temples and pitting in the back of his throat. Flyndt swallowed but with the sudden void of contact at his arm and the swell of emotions a rolling boil suffocating, drowning…
A splatter.
“What?” came the sharp snap of disbelief. A brief reprieve. .
Tea pooled on the floor at leather sandals, sloshed from the cup in Flyndt’s hand when his crossed arms had unfurled as he stood upright, straighter. No longer leaning against the counter, he seemed to notice the mess he made only enough to have the mind to discard the glass haphazardly on the counter. Teetering on the edge, Foxen swiftly grabbing it prevented it from joining the fate of the brew on the wood below. Flyndt crossed the short distance to the table, oblivious to the message Foxen has typed or whether Bril was reading or not, oblivious to the concern. His brow furrowed and upset clear on his usually enigmatic features, a stark contrast to his minite facial expressions. If his feathers were not wrapped beneath cloth and half molted, his crimson crest would be raised sharply and fully.
“Your parents are alive, well? Your siblings? They love you? Why are you here? Should be with them!” The round table rocked as the Omwati smacked it, who grimaced slightly at the sting and leaned into it. His voice bit as he continued, sharp trills and lilting words not of the basic tongue.
Exhaling sharply, Flyndt switched back to more common language, punctuating his words. “Be. Honest. Do not rob them the chance to –”
“– To…”
He drew quiet.
His energy still flickered, angry and unyielding, wanting and remorseful. A wavering flame swelling to spring fourth against a storm, yet fighting to even prevail against opposing winds. It lashed and retreated, much like the sudden outburst now quieted on a bitten tongue, the taste of copper. Sunset eyes avoided looking at the Zabrak, his shoulders were still coiled as the Omwati stepped back, distancing himself.
The cup was plucked up. His set aside. The spill was irrelevant. Data, obstacles, discarded.
Only Flyndt mattered, and he could count on his mangled hand the number of times he’d seen his home in a fire and fury like this.
(And oh, his fire and fury is beautiful, sweet and rare, the finest wine, but–)
Flyndt is upset, those are not just the bad trills but full sentences of covenant Omwatese he has yet to earn a drink of understanding, and it’s about his family. It’s about Gaile.
Foxen knelt down there slowly, pant knees wetting with the tea as he shuffled around to be in the Omwati’s peripheral. He gently waved his hand, making their gesture, tilting his head in question.
O.K.? I’m here.
One thing Bril hadn’t expected was such a strong negative reaction from the two of them. The young Zabrak was nearing the end of Foxen’s message when he felt a powerful set of emotions simmering within the Omwati standing across from him. Foxen’s words were harsh, but nothing he wasn’t steadily becoming accustomed to. But when Flyndt jumped from his seat and crossed the distance between them, anger flashing across his features, Bril sank into his seat. But there was no getting away from what he felt emanating from the Force, from the probing questions, from the anger and longing and remorse.
The disapproving, lancing look of Foxen coupled with the landslide of fiery sentiment from Flyndt pressed up against the carefully placed walls of his mind and punched a whole straight through the mortar.
“I-I…”
He bit his lip, unable to utter another word because he knew if they did, he’d release every ounce of shame and frustration he felt along with them. Feelings that he had harbored for a while, now, that had only grown with his continued avoidance of that difficult conversation with his family.
The words caught in his throat like a broken turbolift.
The legs of his chair groaned against the floor when he forced it backward so he could rise from his seat.
“Excuse me.”
He had to force the words out before turning to quickly exit the front door, rounding the corner until he was sufficiently far away to let it all go. And he did, exhaling sharply while gripping the nearest solid object he could find. Desperate to fight back tears, he shut his eyes tightly and tried his best to breathe steadily; it wasn’t working well.
The sturdy wood – a dark, strong spruce of some sort that matched some of the surrounding trees in the semi arid alpine forest, but cut, sanded, and sealed against the elements – creaked softly under Bril’s grip. His fingers dug into loamy soil, the churn of it producing a fresh waft of the earthen, living scent. Short, newling shrubs of a variety sat there under the sunlight, other mounds indicating plants that had yet to sprout or perhaps grew underground, and a miniature awning had been erected over the 5 m by 3 m box. It was folded back now, but surely could provide shade or shelter to the stems as necessary.
A woodpile lay not far away, a stump likely used for splitting (unless someone wanted to show off by Captain America-ing this mf). Other wooden additions were visible but seemingly had no purpose: a rough, untreated sheet of wood, the kind that could seem fuzzy but give splinters at a touch if not careful, just nailed there; some loosely hanging ropes, a few strung up, others draping; what could have been handholds up to the roof, but not spaced for such convenience in climbing, and oddly long for it. Up on one of them, a bird perched, peering back down at the Zabrak. Maybe it was an important bird. Maybe it was just some pigeon. Who knew.
A soft ping came from Bril’s datapad, whether he chose to look or not.
🐠: hey u s3xy lil kitten 💖🔥😌 just felt like time 2 check in 🫣😽🤞 how’s it going????? R u gais hvaifn fun??? Still alive? Proud of u 💋💋💋 🐠: i promise foxxie is a big softie rly. & if he’s mean ill punch him 4 u. 🐠: also sneak me some of whatever he makes u i want that good shit
Why did he have to be feeling this way right now? Out of all the places and times, why now? If things had just continued the way they had been going, he could have listed this as a successful second meeting with Flyndt and Foxen both. But all he’d managed to do was upset one of them and out himself as an inconsiderate coward in the process.
An oddly familiar presence caused him to look up after wiping his eyes. There was that bird again. He had no idea how long it’d been following him, but it kept appearing in the area to just … watch him. It didn’t appear to be malicious at all, and he sense that it was Force sensitive. But what did it want with him?
The chime of his datapad pulled his attention away from the convor, prompting him to open it to see who’d messaged him. Warmth coalesced beneath his tattooed skin, accompanied by a faint feeling of dread that tugged at his core. He opened the message. A budding smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he read, sniffling.
Had to step aside for a moment, but things are going well overall. Happy to be here. I’ll make sure to bring extra food for you. How are things over there? Not getting into trouble, are you? Mwwah.
🐠: YOU ARE? OMG KITTY THATSB GREAT.
Her reply attached specifically to his comment about being happy to be present. Another message shortly followed.
🐠: 💋💖 🐠: we’re fine boo-boo. Just having some pawpering while we wait for daddy 2 get home. Still brt if u need me 🐠: check these meownicures
Then an image of Minnow angling the camera came on screen, revealing her face and some of the couch, a pink bottle of nail polish on the caf table, as well as a tube of glue and some other packaging. Beside her, taking up most of the frame besides her cheek, sat Femi, little paws crossed, tiny pink claw caps on each one.
Flyndt grimaced and shut his eyes to the sound of the door clicking closed in the Zabrak’s departure. It felt like a portion of his frustration left with him, a heaviness lingering in its wake. Exhaling long and low, he opened his eyes to find Foxen close, face level with his own where he knelt.
The anger was a stubborn thing, yet still a fresh remorse and shame crackled here and there against its shell. Flyndt took a couple deep breaths and forced himself to unfurl his fists. Swallowing was easier, it washed some of the emotional swell away but still he struggled to find words to say. So, he accepted the invitation to open his mind to the Nautolan. To the older man, it must have felt like a faint prod, a humming buzz before suddenly an incoherent screech as more the avian’s mental space collided haphazardly with not a lick of coherent thought. It was over just as swift, the connection quickly severed as Flyndt pulled out. The Omwati clicked his beak behind his pursed lips and scratched lightly at his arm in his failure thricefold.
Once for the telepathy.
Twice for his outburst.
And thrice for his growing irritation around thoughts of his brother. It had been a year since he left to find him, and nothing. Seven years since he even last saw him.
A sigh. His gaze searched for something light, easier to comment on.
“Your pants are wet.”
So stupid a remark, just like his reaction.
“I…I do not know. Just…I should not have yelled. Was not fair. I…” Flyndt raised a hand and rubbed at the feather line above his birthmark, disrupting the scarf wrapped there as he did. He stepped closer, not taking a hand nor hugging but pressing his shoulder to Foxen. A bit of contact, almost too much but desiring so much more.
The screech in his mind was a cascading thing, noise and emotion and color, but not an unwelcome one. The Nautolan frowned slightly when it pulled away so quickly, a flashflare and nothing more.
When Flyndt pressed into him, Foxen turned his head, pressing his mouth to that birthmark and then a small nuzzle up towards exposed pinions, tasting the mix of kaskoto oil and other mineral oils – his best suggestions for substitutes, lacking other Omwati ingredients – laved on them.
You don’t have to hide it. Frak shame. If you want, need to speak, scream, he signed out in front of them both, careful not to brush too much with his arms when the Omwati was angling away. A whisper croaked across the small sprouting shoots of red and brown wild type crests, barely the length of his missing pinkie. “I wo-uld Know you.”
He smiled brighter this time upon seeing the image of his two babies, and chuckled when Femi’s claw caps came into view.
How in the world did you keep her still long enough to put those on?
🐠: I’m a gal of many talents. And she knows she’s getting pawmpered like the queen she is 😺👑✨ 🐠: r u hiding in the bathroom cuz F² being super gay?
*I could use some pampering when I get back. If Femi hasn’t tired you out by then. <:CE_SadEyes:909555287185305601>
And they’ve been pretty tame about that so far, haha. Conversation got a little tense so we’re taking five. Nothing bad, though. Don’t worry your prettt litle headtails.*
🐠: lucky u, our beskar couldn’t cut the their frak me vibes they’re so thiccc every tiiiime I’m trying to EAT 😂😂😂👏🔥🪦 🐠: what’s tense? r u ok?
Flyndt leaned into the contact. It was a pleasant feeling to combat the urge to plant his head solidly against a wall, or into Foxen’s clavicle – and not softly. He exhaled, tension melting into tired waters. One gloved hand raised and pulled down the shifted, purple-striped scarf, the cloth sliding slowly off of feather old and new alike. It would have needed fixing anyways, the Omwati mused idly as he rakes his brain for what exactly irked him so much, his thoughts on it. Why was it that they seemed to escape through his mind like a sieve once he comes down from an outburst?
‘I would know you.’
His sunset gaze rose quietly from scarred hands to meet sanguine, a light murmur behind his lips. The ask to hear and understand his thoughts if allowed. “I know. I…it has been so long, Bapti. To hope he is alive and out there…”
The Omwati shifted, gaze glancing away briefly before he flashed a small wince of a smile. Words started cascading from his mouth at a gradually increasing pace as he started opening up.
“You help. Knowing was gone five years and still alive. I…I can not let go of believing. But was not just Gaile I was upset about, I think. At myself too. I snapped at Bril but what better am I? I have not told Inid Low anything since left. And I am unable to now. After–” he waved a hand to imply the place they met, the situation there.
🥼 : Just a difficult topic got brought up. I’ll be okay, though. Will fill you in later. 🥼 : Holofilm night when I get back?
Bapti.
Been so long.
You help.
Unable.
The Nautolan hummed again, holding those beautiful sunset eyes with nothing but ardor and understanding, a pain. With Flyndt leaning more into him, and the scarf pulled off, he reached up to smooth over brow and head, petting as he spoke slowly, stilted.
“No-t your fault…what hap-pened to you. Danger-ous. You-ur people…alrea-dy been hurt. From outside. Your caut-ion. Is smart. Even. When. Hurts.”
That produced a small coughing, and so he frowned – not pouted – and drew his hand away in order to grab his discarded pad and show Flyndt what he’d said to Bril. How he’d had harsh words as well, for having been unable.
Only once the Omwati visibly had a chance to read did he start signing.
I believe Gaile is out there, and will not stop until we find him for you. And I’ll believe for your aunt too. Refuse other realities where you don’t get to have your family, home, happiness back. And until then, that is truth. When I was there…when I still thought anything at all…the earlier years…I was so angry. And then I worried. I thought, I had to get back to them. If I was gone. Minnow had already lost enough. I had to get back. But then more time. And started to think sometimes, what if Jax and Minnow weren’t even alive anymore to get back to. And then… He shook his head. I stopped existing. And then you. Your color. Your song. Your light. Your anger and fire and spirit. Brought me back to life. So if you ever angry at yourself. Frak that. I love all of you. If you ever waver about Gaile, then I’ll believe for you. And maybe we can do something, for Inid Low.
.
‘No-t your fault…’
But it was! His thoughts rebelled against the assurance, only hushed internally by the gentle petting of his feathers. He felt that if he had not been so ignorant and naive, more cautious, used his Force-given sense he would not of gave been caught…but then he would not have met Foxen.
Jostled lightly by the coughing and the feeling of touch withdrawing, Flyndt pulled back just enough to see what the man was up to. Reading the tablet took a moment, less in the words melding together as it was the giant text up close tripping him up. His gaze followed along with the speaking hands that came to rest after his Aunt’s name sign. A sigh escaped him, and the younger man pressed his birthmarked brow against Foxen’s.
“Thank you, for everything, and believing.”“ Flyndt massaged and kneaded into the man’s shoulder while he worked through his thoughts. The Omwati pulled away from their closeness, his other hand rising and flashing an ‘I love you’. "O.K. we think of ways to contact her. I…I should go talk with him, if still here and…clean up.”
The later bit was waved off by Foxen, firmly told not to worry about the spilled tea. Flyndt steeled himself and with one final exhale, exited the house in search of the Zabrak and making things right.