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Chapter Text

Hizashi tucks himself in the corner furthest from the door, his head resting against the cool ground.

The See’krtsh couldn’t really discern the Human’s proportions, the dim lighting blurring the borders between the honestly absurd amount of textile and their skin.

Goosebumps appear all over his head when his jaw feels the small hitch in the alien’s breath, the vibration travelling through the metal floor and reverberating in his bones like a funeral gong.

In normal circumstances, Present Mic, half of the infamous UA pirate duo, would have no problem taking down opponents twice—even trice!—his size with a tympan-bursting screech, his razor sharp talons ripping into them while they’re disoriented.  A Deathworlder would have been nothing.

Here, with plucked feathers, broken talons and an electric collar that shocked him every time it sensed the beginning of the distinctive rumbling preceding his deafening screams, he stood no chance against even a mere Igve.

He loosens his body in a deceivingly relaxed pose, eyeing the Human as they grunt and uses their forelimbs to push themselves up.  They have no fur, except for the purple crown flared in warning, and their flesh is bone white with splashes of purple, green and yellow, a sharp contrast to their predatory beady eyes.  They still unnaturally when he accidentally meets their gaze, their lips curling to discover two lines of teeth in what is clearly a threat display.  

Hizashi flattens his body further, projecting harmless, harmless, I won’t hurt you, I’m not worth attacking, going as far as to hum a low friendly greeting when the Human alarmingly lowers to a predatory crouch, hoping they can understand the appeasement gesture despite the interspecies difference.

There was no delusion about why the Feczoits had placed him with the Deathworlder instead of killing him immediately; he was enrichment and food in a neat package for the Human.

(Shouta and he had busted many of their lower level ships and anonymously reported their whereabouts to the Interplanetary Safety Commission.  Their trafficking ring was held together by threads because of them, and putting him at the mercy of a Deathworlder was probably a convenient way to get rid of him.

After Shouta was done with them, nothing would be left.)

He hums slower and slower as the Human stalks closer.

There had been rumors of a human who wasn’t performing well in fighting rings, constantly ignoring their lesser opponents and trying to go after the very loud, very violent crowd instead.  

Combined with the overheard hushed discussions about how this Human’s preference for vicious and bloodthirsty fighters was starting to become costly, especially when they didn’t even eat the remains despite their substantial need for caloric nutrients, Hizashi was hoping they didn’t enjoy killing ‘weak’ aliens.  However, the organizers were convinced the Human was simply distracted by the more interesting beings in the arena and were hoping they could train the Deathworlder to attack smaller, easier—and more importantly cheaper—prey.

His wish for a lenient Deathwordler (ha! that sounded like the beginning of a joke) are crushed into tiny pieces when they tighten their limbs, shuffling backward to get a running start.  

Hizashi’s glad the last thing he shared with Shouta was a warm embrace, his tail wrapped around the flesh scarf to bring them closer, face tucked in the crook of his neck and the words ‘Let me live centuries with you’ echoing in his head and leaving tingles in his lower jaw, the words getting caught in the feathers trailing down his shoulders as he rhythmically flares his crest, his response mumbled into his bondmate’s fur.  At least, according to the dissatisfied spectators unknowingly giving out the emplacements of fight arena ships, the Human was boring, killing his prey fast.  He’ll put up a fight, sure, but there’s almost no chance he gets out of this alive.  

Go for the eyes first.  Just wait for them to come to him, explode into a burst of motion and violence and pounce—

The Human is mimicking him.

They are laying on their stomach, fleshy claws splayed near their face, head slightly tilted to the side as their skin distorts where it’s pressed on the floor.  They inhale and repeat the greeting back to him again, a distorted echo bouncing up at the point of contact between his chin and the metal under him.  

(His mind whirls, somehow unearthing old stories of Humans imitating the call of a youngling, luring an unsuspecting guardian toward them, only to rip them apart with their hands, crushing their skull like overripe fruit.)

“No fight?  No fight, yes?”  Hizashi startles at the low raspy voice, barely understanding the heavily accented Standard.  The only way he realized they were speaking was because they were both pressed on the floor; otherwise, he might not have even noticed it.  He missed his feathers, every reminder of his loss sending aching pangs to his chest.

When all the See’krtsh can do is stare incredulously, they repeat themself.

“Yes!”—he flaps away the bewilderment—“No fight!  I won’t fight you, and you don’t fight me, alright?”  They shake their head up and down, hair swaying.  It must be a human agreement gesture, since they aren’t ripping him to shreds.

“No fight,” concludes the Human, and they back away to the farthest part of the cell, both staying in their respective corners, eyeing each other in case someone breaks the deal, until exhaustion makes Hizashi’s eyelids too heavy and terror is not enough to keep sleep at bay.

The Feczoits are holding him down, sharp pain erupting from his toes and pulsing up his limbs.  His talons manage to catch someone’s eye, sinking with a wet pop and tearing it open when they instinctively stagger back, blood mixed with clear humour seeping between clenched fingers.  

He can’t bring himself to feel bad, especially when it allows him more leeway to turn around and bite the hands keeping his wings restrained.  They lose their grip—and two of their fingers—and the last can’t quite contain his thrashing while avoiding the same fate as their colleagues.  

The door is right there, but Minus-two-fingers’ thundering steps thunder behind him.  His crest flares instinctively to intimidate the asshole, and his ribcage expands to screech—

The small beep is his only warning before his muscles convulse uncontrollably, his throat locking up before any sound can exit.  The fucking collar, but before he can do anything about it, his vision whites out, freezing fire shooting out from his neck.  Over the feeling of being stabbed by a thousand needles, he’s vaguely aware they’re lifting him, the impact of being thrown on the table barely registering to his flaming nerves.  

Even when he’s spasming as the remains of electricity sparks through numb extremities, they don’t stop the harvest, unveiling more of his skin as they grasp his sensitive feathers by the handful and pull—

He wakes up cold and trembling, each shuddering breath burning through his oxygen-deprived lungs.

It’s over, he tells himself.  It happened and it’s over.

The phantom hands scraping at his skin don't disappear though, and he’s so sore, each movement straining rigid overextended muscles.  

Instead of the soft shift of wind against his golden plumage in the periphery of his eye, he’s greeted with shivers as the ambient air steals the heat from the wrinkly pink skin draping his entire head, encircling his neck and trailing down his shoulders, petering out as it finally gets covered with black and grey scales.  He looks like a hatchling, unprotected to the tempers of nature and, most alarmingly, practically deaf, unable to catch the vibration of sound without his feathers.

It’s oddly humiliating, being vulnerable and exposed like this.

(He used to bemoan the color of his lower body, so boring and dull compared to his clutchmates' iridescent blue or fiery orange.  His first ecdysis were spent hoping for the sudden appearance of shimmer to cover his new scales.

Now, there’s only gratitude; they didn’t catch the Feczoits’ attention, hadn’t been worth the effort of having to painstakingly wedge a pincer under every scale and pulling carefully so as to not damage them.)

His wings rub his sternum—the texture of sticky flesh is strange but it still makes him feel better—and sense the soothing vibration as he starts an overtone chant.  He can already feel his heart calming down as he concentrates on the comforting lullaby.

He nears the end of a song his mothers used to rock his siblings and him to sleep when he finally notices the Human's staring.  His voice stutters and gives out.  They look away quickly, but Hizashi’s still unsettled.

He doesn’t pick the tune back up even though he itches to finish it.

It had been two human cycles—his internal clock was muddled by the absence of windows and his small bouts of unconsciousness when he was knocked out, sold and brought on this ship—since they’d made him the Human’s cellmate, and nothing has disturbed their careful peace, barring the occasional guard checking to see if he was still alive, a bowl of murky water slipped through a food slot and the lights emulating what seemed to be a human circadian rhythm.

No food has been delivered, and the Human often stares forlornly at the door as if expecting it to appear.

It’s becoming increasingly clear that they want the Human to eat him.  

Nevertheless, even though they’re obviously hungry, they surprise him by drinking half the water, barely a sip, and pushing the bowl toward him, avoiding his gaze.

Cooperation had not been one of the traits Humans were commonly known for—actually quite the contrary—but it might simply be an unusual case of a milder personality.  Captivity does strange things to people and animals too.

He’s praying that the Human’s hesitation at killing non-threatening beings lasts until Shouta can find him, but the way they keep glancing at him and wrapping their forelimbs around their rumbling stomach is not looking well for his continued survival.

A sneaked look reveals the Human is still wedged in the corner in a feat of contortion that makes his bones ache just looking at them.

They jump when they hear the hello-friendship-attention thrill, and the way their beady eyes pierce him almost makes him regret this.

Almost.

“Human,” he begins,  “I am Hizashi of the Yamada flock.”

It’s a gamble.  On one wing, most sentient beings were less likely to harm someone they had a conversation with.  On the other, there are more chances for cultural missteps and misunderstandings to occur.

(Being stuck in a cell was also incredibly boring, and he’s going to vibrate out of his body if he doesn't speak with another person.

There was nothing to do except look at the ceiling, sleep and drink.  He couldn’t even examine the room for any weaknesses because the Human’s head snapped toward him every time he so much as shifted, and training was out of the question if he wanted to keep his non-threat status.  Since their shared agreement to not fight, there hadn’t been any exchanged words.)

“Hizashi,” he repeats.  When he only receives a blank stare, he draws an arc with his tail over his head.  “Hi- za- shi.” 

The Human’s eyes widen in understanding, their mouth forming around his name (from what he can hear, they’re honestly doing well enough for someone whose vocal cords aren’t made to produce those sounds) until Hizasi copies the agreement-head-shaking from earlier.

They say his name one last time before poking themself on the chest and declare, “Shinsou Hitoshi.  Shin- sou.”

He can barely catch what they’re saying, but he still tries to recreate what he thinks the warbling is supposed to sound like.

Luckily, his bondmate is an Eer’ahseer, or he would have lost fifty years of his life when Shinsou bares their teeth for a second when he tries to pronounce their name.

He can’t help taking a step back though, and the Human must see something in his expression because they bring their hands up and start waving them frantically. 

“No, no, no, Hizashi, no fight, Shinsou no fight Hizashi,” they babble, touching their teeth.  “No fight.”  

When Hizashi doesn’t move, they hum his friendly greeting and lower themself on their stomach.

“It’s not… a threat display?”  He’s still shaking slightly, but his heart slows down now that he realizes that the squinty-eyes-asymmetric-teeth-baring isn’t meant to be a show of aggression.  It could also be a sign of mischievousness or smug delight at having successfully tricked someone like Shouta’s species (although his was more of a wide-eyes-symmetrical-teeth-baring), which wouldn’t really bode well for him, but it didn’t seem likely given the context.

Despite suspecting Shinsou didn’t understand a word he just said, he seems relieved Hizashi isn’t cowering anymore.

There’s an awkward silence between them, but Hizashi cuts through it with the skills of someone living with an—albeit atypically social—Eer’ahseer.

“I could teach you See’krtsh’ish,”—he taps the ground with his wing without waiting for a response, making the appropriate sign, grateful the word didn’t require any tail gesture—“Floor.  Floor.”

(The Human’s had only tried to speak in Standard, and even then, he knew very few words.  Communication was very important, even for solitary aliens.  Hizashi could be useful, and useful things aren’t discarded or eaten, at least not before things get desperate.

He would prefer teaching them Standard, but his lack of feathers makes it harder than it was worth, and Standard Sign Language was in its infancy, mostly intended for treaties and politics currently.)

Hizashi repeats the word another time before moving on to the next thing and the next and the next after that, until Shinsou starts repeating after him while directing a lowered-eyebrows-squinty-eyes expression at the object they’re naming.

He has to use a combination of modified versions meant for the injured, disabled or older members of his species, alongside home signs he shares with Shouta.  There’s still some tweaking here and there, as there wasn’t a variation of his language accounting for the lack of tail and the inability to produce and perceive certain sound waves and the absence of feathers—the Human doesn’t seem to be able to control their purple tuff.  

It isn’t too difficult though, and Shinsou goes through thirty words, ranging from basic emotions to simple verbs with enthusiasm before the lights dim too much for Hizashi to be able to see them.

Somehow, things are looking up for the See’krtsh.

Chapter Text

His tongue passes over chapped lips.  He knows it's just making it worse, but he gave up trying to overcome the instinctual urge to wet the dry skin a long time ago.

“Many Human… have… small not human friend,” he signs with a vague gesture he hopes isn’t an insult.

“----- --- aliens that ------- your planet?”  Hizashi tilts his head almost ninety degrees to the side.

“No, not aliens,” God this is so embarrassing, “Friends not Human.”

Hizashi’s tail swishes behind him as he tries to decipher what could barely be called a sentence.  The rhythmic back and forth is slightly hypnotizing, and he can feel his breathing slow, until he’s snapped from his daze by a quiet chirp telling him Hizashi thought he understood what he meant by ‘not human friend’.  His wing draws a wide circle followed by a silent clap.  If Hitoshi remembers correctly…

“Animal-friend,” he repeats while nodding, “You have?”

(It took him some time before he could stop sneaking looks at Hizashi, distrust slowly melting into curiosity as the days went by without being attacked.  Without the threat of violence, it's the first time he can actually look at an alien.

It's simultaneously disappointing and hilarious.  Hizashi looks like a child tried to draw from a description coming from a person who had only ever seen reptiles, and that person only knew the existence of chickens because someone described the poultry section in their supermarket.  Like an overly complicated version of telephone that somehow resulted in a glorified dinosaur.)

Hizashi starts explaining something about his spouse collecting similar—but different?—animals from multiple planets with a put upon expression that barely hides his fondness.

He’s in the middle of telling a story about his mate rescuing an alien animal from—a hole? a well?—from something and getting lightly injured or...?, only to be interrupted by a shiver, almost visibly starting from the wing that brushed the wall and travelling to the rest of his body, muscles and skin rippling like a wave.

Hitoshi can't stop thinking about his glazed over eyes, and waking up to a muffled cry and the same frantic humming as the first night.  Hizashi had talked about what the asshole guards had done to his missing feathers in strained stilted movements, how they had basically stripped him of one of his senses.

Without thinking too much about it, he shrugs off his zip-up hoodie before he can chicken out, thrusting it toward him.  

“You cold,” he adds when Hizashi doesn’t take his hoodie immediately, glaring at the floor.  He wonders who left the deep scratch leading to the door, but the way the edges were dulled with time told him he was probably never going to meet them.

Small clicks make him reluctantly look up.  Hizashi reaches out hesitantly like he’s about to get bitten, and Hitoshi’s arm is kind of starting to strain but he went through worse so he keeps still.  He almost drops it before Hizashi can have a secure hold, and there’s an unexpected pang when the dirty garment slips between his fingers.  The irrational part of him expects Hizashi to start ripping it up and laugh at him.  “You’re giving this to me?”

The way he cradles it like he knows the hoodie is one of his last vestiges from Earth, his last reminder of home, smooths out the ugly thing writhing in his stomach and screaming to take it back.  

Hizashi wraps his hoodie around himself, when he finally responds with a stilted nod, fumbling a little with the sleeves before tying it in front of him.  It kind of looked like it's hugging him.  “Thank you, Shinsou.”

A weight he hasn't been aware of lifts from his shoulders when the persistent trembling settles down, and the last of the ache disappears at the sight.  There’s a lesser chance his kinda-friend-kinda-cellmate is going to die of cold in the middle of the night.

“Your... animal-friends, what name?”  To his relief, Hizashi doesn’t comment on the very obvious subject change and his flustered face, starting on a rant about his mate’s horrible naming skills, and how he had to take over the task when they ended up with a pet called Motor.

Shinsou isn’t faring well.

“Let’s learn more words, yeah?”  Hizashi’s gestures are as exuberant as he can make them—to his delight, his talons have started growing back, and it doesn’t seem like they damaged the nail bed, but they're still quite sensitive—as if their vigor could transfer into his cellmate.  His purple hair barely moves as his wings draft some air on his face, matted and tangled in a hard knot.  There’s no indication that Shinsou is aware he’s right beside him except for the cracked slits lethargically following his movements.

“Come on listener, don’t give up now,” he tries with a softer tone, adding a low croon, but Shinsou’s pupils disappear again behind barely open eyelids.  He tries to get his attention with clicks that come faster than intended.

It’s so very different from their first lessons.  Shinsou had been really excited about learning See’krtsh’ish, his whole body leaning closer and closer toward him when they spoke.  His brain was like a sponge, absorbing everything he said with rapt interest.  The distance between them had reduced with every cautious shuffle, until Hizashi could touch Shinsou if he extended his wing.  

That vigor was slowly trickling out as the cycles went by without any food.  

His heart skips a beat when Shinsou lets out a long breath and there’s an hesitation before the next, and what is he going to do, the Human just expired, but he cracks an eye and thankfully starts breathing normally again.  “There you are, listener!  How are you feeling?”  

“Very good.”  It comes out slightly slurred when Shinsou eventually musters the energy to lift his head off the floor and somehow has enough energy to waste it by rolling his eyes.  The sarcastic reply doesn’t quite reassure Hizashi when his skin doesn’t bounce back to its usual shape, instead staying wrinkled and folded.  

It's taking more and more time for Hizashi to coax him out from his slumped position and for him to respond.  The four last cycles, his sentences started petering out before they could reach their end, and then Shinsou would just stare into empty space, squeezing his upper limbs around his abdomen.

Even when Hizashi had convinced Shinsou to take most of the water ration at the sight of his cracked lips—his species were desert dwellers, and Humans were definitely not—he suspects he barely bought the Human two or three cycles.

(Keeping his share of water would weaken the threat while keeping him in shape.

The soft fabric preventing the metal floor from leeching all of his body heat makes guilt bubble in his guts, a queasy wave that has nothing to do with the pangs drilling a hole in his stomach washing over him.  Shinsou has to know he's signing his death warrant, and yet, he continues sharing water with him, parting reluctantly with the bowl with sagging shoulders.  Besides, the whole point of dismantling the fighting rings is to save the trafficked victims.  What kind of hero would he be if he causes one of them to die of dehydration simply because they're a Deathworlder.)

The ringmaster seems to realize that in his worn out state, Shinsou won’t be able to kill Hizashi even if he decided to, because after fifteen cycles of starvation, a tray of… something is slid through the service hatch, alongside a deep dish filled with water.

As soon as the metal plate scrapes against the floor, Shinsou lunges at it, such a harsh contrast to his hazy eyes, that Hizashi’s brain takes several seconds to understand that the animal gulping from the dish, careful not to let a single drop of liquid fall, is the same cellmate eager to learn a new language.  The dish is almost tipped completely over the Human’s head before he finally sets it down, and starts shoving the goop in his mouth without swallowing the last bite, despite his slightly queasy look at drinking too fast.  

Hizashi doesn’t dare move or look at the Human.  Bringing attention to himself while Shinsou is curled protectively over his food would be the worst thing to do, right under walking up to him and stealing some of the slimy stuff.

Wet chewing fills the cell, only interrupted with the occasional clatter of the water dish and Shinsou’s sharp inhales when he remembers to breathe around the slop.

He’s debating whether wearing the ‘hoodie’ will make him a less alluring target or if he should risk taking it off, when his digestive system decides to make its discontentment known with a growl loud enough to cut through Shinsou’s eating frenzy.

Deep silence falls between them, heavy on Hizashi’s chest.  The Deathworlder—because right now, Shinsou looks nothing like the tired sarcastic guy, and everything like a predator, crouched like an animal and matted hair sticking to his face—turns slowly to face him.  His cracked lips bleed crimson beads.  As if he just devoured prey.

Please go back to the goop.  Please go back to the goop.

Shinsou doesn’t go back to the goop.  Instead, pink climbs his cheeks, and he thrusts the tray toward him while hastily wiping his face with the cloth covering his wrists, leaving thin streaks of red in the corner of his mouth.

The slop sloshes, and Hizashi quickly steadies the bowl before it tips over, mind blanking at the shy "Sorry".

He wants to politely decline the offer, but what tumbles out instead is “Is that for me?”  

He cringes as soon as the words form.  He really shouldn’t question Shinsou’s generosity, but this goes against everything known about human behaviour.

“Sorry, I am… hungry and thirsty,” the Human says with small tight movements.  “Next cycle, I give more to you.”

His eyebrows are lowered and the outer corner of his eyes are drooping in what Hizashi has learned is sadness, and he’s regretful for not sharing.

He manages a bewildered “It’s okay listener” before taking a bite of what’s left. 

It tastes exactly how it looks; that’s to say absolutely disgusting.  It’s so bland, and his stomach almost revolts at the random gritty chunks.  The mouthful goes down laboriously, sticking in his throat, and he wishes there was water left to wash the texture away.

Shinsou’s already pale face drains even more.  Hizashi gulps the last of the goop mixture without enthusiasm, shuddering as it lingers in the back of his mouth.  Hunger gnaws at him, like the food he just ate woke the slumbering beast, and it's now pacing, waiting for more to come.  “Are you okay?”  

“Eat too fast,” Shinsou responds slowly, resting his sweaty forehead on the cool metal.

His face has turned a sickly green, and Hizashi hopes he isn't going to barf.  The cell really doesn’t have good aeration.

Hizashi isn’t sure if his attempts at comfort are welcome, but Shinsou leans toward him when he comes closer, and he finds the courage to lay a wing on his back, giving him plenty of time to shrug him off, before rubbing gently in a way that usually helped him when he's seasick.  The textile is grimy, leaving a brown powdery residue when he looks at his skin, but the Human’s warm, heat radiating through the cloth.  He can’t help inching closer to ward the—though dampened by the ‘hoodie’—constant chill, edging the borders of the vomit splash zone.

They've become more comfortable with each other, their See’krtsh’ish lessons shining light on how Human ‘threat displays’ are actually cultural misunderstandings, and while bared teeth or sustained staring still makes his breath catch and his limbs freeze, it doesn’t make his life flash before his eyes anymore.  

It’s the casual contacts that really cemented that Shinsou is probably not going to snap and kill him for no reason.  Fingers grazing his scapulars here, a small teasing nudge there, it has helped him not go crazy.

He’s always been a touchy person, probably a result of growing up in a household where you were constantly being preened or preening someone.  Shouta had spent the beginning of their friendship embarrassed at his physical displays of affection, and even now, he hides his face in mortification if Hizashi brushes the side of his head in public.

He immediately stops petting Shinsou when he starts trembling, but the Deathworlder swivels around and reaches for him.  Hizashi startles, but the hand falls halfway before it can reach him.

He expects to see a snarl, or maybe annoyance, but Shinsou’s eyes are shiny, and to his horror, they start leaking, huge drops trailing down his face and sweeping away some of the dirt staining his face, leaving wet lines on his cheeks.

“You’re injured?”  He can’t help the alarmed squawk when Shinsou starts rubbing his leaking eyes .  “Don’t touch them!  Let me see.”

He pulls the upper limbs of the Human who is still touching his eyes .  

“How does it feel?”  There’s symmetric pupil size, but the skin around is red.  He’s sniffing, the profuse liquid spilling into his nose.  There’s no blood, thank the spirits, and they don’t look deflated or anything, but Shinso’s breathing is uneven and he looks like he’s not getting enough oxygen.  

“No injured,” he starts, shoulders shaking, “Big emotion, have… water in eyes.  Normal for Human.”

“Your eyes.  Are dripping.  Because you’re feeling too much?”  He can feel his own skepticism, because what the fuck.

That pulls a small wobbly laugh, and he has to keep himself from pulling Shinsou’s hands from wiping away at the watery discharge.

“Are you sure?  It doesn’t hurt?”  There’s still suffocating worry, but it’s quickly overridden by the rising curiosity when the Human agreement-shakes his head.

He must have seen Hizashi’s next question coming, because he sighs, pushing his hair away from his face.  “I feel… bad.  Hungry, and not give food to you.  And eat too fast, my stomach hurt.”  There’s a small hesitation, his whole body curling inward, before he adds, “I am… lonely before you.”

The shame in the twist of his fingers is not quite Shouta’s half moon eyes, but it’s still familiar.  He must have a special radar for befriending species who keep their emotions close to their hearts and will rather break a bone than talk about their feelings.

Now that he’s not panicking about Shinsou’s physical health, he notices the way he’s gradually leaning toward him, like an insect chasing a bright light, his hands clenched against his sides.

Oh.

A vice squeezes his heart to a pulp.  He can’t imagine it, being imprisoned here, his only interactions filled with violence.  He lets himself fall forward until his flank is pressed against Shinsou’s, but it isn’t until he wraps his tail around his ankle that the Human starts to relax, unwinding gradually until he slides flat on his back.

They fall asleep, sides pressed against each other. 

It’s the first time in a while Hizashi doesn’t feel cold.

Chapter Text

Hizashi stirs, trying to chase the warmth beside him.  Even though the smell is wrong, the texture slightly off, it reminds him of cuddle piles back home, where he could fall asleep next to his clutchmates and wake up tangled with twenty See’krtshes from different broods.

The illusion can’t last long.  He opens bleary eyes, blinking away the remains of sleep blurring his vision.  See’krtsh sleep cycles are shorter than a Human’s (even though it isn’t evident with the way Shinsou always seems to wake up right before or at the same time as him, even when the lights hasn’t turned on yet).  He's used to napping throughout the cycle; it's one of the few biological similarities Shouta and he shares.

Today, Shinsou doesn’t show signs of rousing yet, even though the lights are on.  The eye-leaking must have exhausted him.  Hizashi tilts his head slightly to take a peek at his cellmate’s face.  To his relief, the skin around his eyes is only slightly red, and the dried trails on his cheeks are the only trace left of last cycle’s fright.

He takes his time to look at the Human’s features.  He hasn’t been able to observe one from this close, not without Shinsou being aware of him staring.  That’s just a recipe for a cultural misstep.  

It’s… in his sleep, Shinsou looks soft.  There’s still some tension in the line of his back, but the space between his eyebrows is smoothed out, the tight wrinkles around his eyes and mouth nowhere to be seen.  It’s almost cute, if he disregards the tangled hair and the whole human Deathworlder thing.  Even his skin devoid of fur or scales or feathers makes him look younger.  Like a hatchling.  Hizashi resists the urge to reach up and preen his purple crown. 

The few testimonials reported from even fewer survivors about Humans’ impressive height must have been greatly exaggerated by the terror of meeting a Deathwordler.  While Shinsou towers over him when he stands up—and it’s not like that's a great feat, every bipedal beats him in the height department—he's a lot shorter when he's laying down, even more so when compared side by side with him.

His tail unconsciously slides closer to the body heat.  To his surprise, it curls all the way around the Human’s feet, until he can touch Shinsou’s knee.  If his cellmate tucks his limbs closer to his chest, it'd almost look like Hizashi is… He quickly moves his tail away, mortified even though no one witnessed him wrap himself around a Deathworlder, as if Shinsou were a baby See’krtsh.

The others would never let him live it down if they find out about this.

He takes a moment to calm his racing heart, biting off his laugh at the absurdity of the situation.  The warmth he’s leeching makes him almost doze off again when the Human’s breathing pattern stutters.  He can feel the almost relaxed muscles tense once again.  Shinsou stays still for a moment, before giving up the pretense of sleep and lifts his head. 

To Hizashi’s delight, pink climbs his cheeks in what he now knows is embarrassment.  He made a Deathworlder embarrassed via cuddling.

Shinsou quickly averts his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck.  

He doesn’t lean away.

His amusement fades when Shinsou’s head fur shifts.  With the way he tilts away his head, the raised skin and clumps of red is very visible.

“What’s that on your neck?”  He regrets his words as soon as he blurts them out.  

Shinsou squirms uncomfortably at his very nosy question, what was he thinking asking about something so private.  He’s about to apologize, tell him to forget about it, when Shinsou pulls his garment out of the way to expose his bared neck.  

Puckered scars line his skin, with clusters of fresh scabs spread out mostly on the back of his neck, where his hairline stops.  The upper part of Hizashi’s back starts itching, where maroon flecks stain the hoodie.  

He doesn’t understand how Shinsou has fresh wounds when they were constantly in the cell.  Weren’t Humans supposed to heal fast?

Shinsou just shrugs.  He does the terrifying diaphragm spasm that’s supposed to be a laugh, and mimes gouging into his skin with his tiny talons.  “Annoying.  Bored.  I take off.”

Hizashi isn’t sure what to say to that.  When they’ll get out, he’ll make sure Shinsou gets assigned to a reputable mind healer.  He has multiple favours he can call on.

Shinsou obediently lets him inspect his neck without protest.  The healing wounds are surrounded by streaks of red, where Shinsou has scratched too much.  They lost their initial form, and there’s not much information he can gather from them.  The scars that seem to have been mostly left alone form almost circular shaped starbursts.  

“How did you break the collar?” he squawks incredulously.  Multiple times too, if the overlapping starbursts are to be trusted. 

The Human lifts his shoulders, bemused, as if he isn’t just admitting to snapping almiun with his bare hands. 

“Can you break mine?”  Excitement bubbles in his stomach, overflowing into his limbs.  He bounces on his feet, too giddy to stand still. 

Shinsou startles, taking a step back, like he didn’t even considered the idea.  Several emotions, too fast to understand, flicker through his face, before settling on something Hizashi can’t decipher.  “No.”

His tail stills. 

“What do you mean no?  I know I don't look like it, but I’m actually really strong, you know?”  His gestures are more snappy than he intends them to be, but he can’t help the spark of annoyance.  “If you help me, we could get out together.”

He doesn’t understand.  He thought he could consider Shinsou an ally, or at least a well liked acquaintance.  Does he just look too pathetic, without his feathers?  Shinsou’s skeptical expression flames the outrage burning through him, bright and uncontrollable.  It comes out ugly and warped, and for a moment, he believes the venom he’s throwing wholeheartedly. 

Shinsou’s frowning now. He's signing too fast, not using the words he taught him, but his lost-hurt expression makes satisfaction curl languidly in his chest.  The rational part of himself is whispering at him to stop antagonizing the Deathworlder.  That he’ll regret trying to hurt his friend.  He doesn’t care. 

The Human tugs his garment harshly and jabs at a nasty scar he hasn’t seen, discolored skin pulling at the surrounding flesh.  It looks worse than the others.  He then forms a circle with his fingers, before abruptly bending them inwards.

“Hurt a lot.  You die.”  He takes a shuddering breath, pausing to gather his thoughts.  “I am not breaking anything,” declares Shinsou, upper limbs crossed over each other to show he doesn’t have anything to say.  He turns around so he won’t be able to look at Hizashi.

The anger sizzles out as soon as it comes, leaving him drained with harsh regret.  

He circles around Shinsou until they’re face to face.  The Human’s lower lip is jutting out, shoulders hunched to cover his ears.  He’s blinking a lot, glaring at the floor.

“Shinsou—”

He turns his head away, refusing to look at Hizashi.  He smothers the spark of annoyance, putting himself back in Shinsou’s line of sight and clicking his tongue to get his attention.

“What.”

Hizashi winces at the flat tone. He deserves that. 

“I’m sorry.  What I said wasn’t true at all.”  He goes to preen Shinsou in apology before realizing the Human might not want his wings too close to his face, and ends up nudging his thigh to cover his mistake.

Shinsou doesn’t respond for a long time.  Hizashi is about to go to his own corner to give him his own space, when he finally deflates like a balloon.  “You say before.  We get out.  It is true?”

He’s been thinking about it during the long stretches of silence between them, when Shinsou was too tired to learn or talk.  His plan is dreadfully simple, but without knowing the layout of the ship, or the number of people on it, a more complicated one would fall apart before he can say ‘listener’.

“Without this”—he taps the metal band—”I can help fight off the Feczoits.  We can find an escape pod.”  He pauses, petting the edges of his wings.  “Unless they don't respect the Life Saving Equipment Regulation, but even then, I can always hijack the ship.”

Shinsou mulls over his words for a while.  His sigh is long and drawn out, but he brings his hands up, resignation dripping from his every move.  “I do not break.  Only look.”

He’s careful not to do any sudden moves, acutely aware of the trembling under his hands.

They’re so close Hitoshi can see—what he thinks are—feathers right about to break skin.

He’s deliberately not meeting Hizashi’s eyes.

He doesn’t blame him for faking an apology; the alien had to save himself.  Hitoshi would do the same, would do anything to escape this hellhole.  (Would he? Would he actually do anything—?)

It doesn’t matter.  He knows he’s not a coward.  He’s used to people lashing out in anger, spouting lies about him.  Even if they hit a bit too close, even if they echoes his deepest fears, anything anyone says is stupid.  Being the target of misplaced resentment is normal.

What’s the point of wasting energy and making his captors angry anyways.  The urge to stomp his feet is strong, but he resists it.  He tried escaping and it didn’t work.  What Hizashi said doesn’t even phase him. 

His prickly eyes tell another story.

It’s just because of yesterday night, that’s all.  Everything feels like too much, as if the comfortable fog around himself has lifted.

His whole body is bursting with unused energy from the first almost uninterrupted sleep in a long time.  He hadn’t even planned on falling asleep, but the comforting pressure on his side had somewhat settled the want under his skin, his muscles releasing tension he hadn’t noticed until now, a pleasant fog sedating his thoughts only undercut by the almost overwhelming touch of Hizashi’s tail resting against his foot.  

It’s hadn’t been enough to move his leg away.  The soft breathing beside him, and the rise and fall of Hizashi’s chest had partially filled an aching hollow that had grown by such small increments he hadn’t even noticed how big the gap was until he wasn’t alone.  His face heats up at the memory.

Hitoshi pulls on the collar, gently pushing at Hizashi’s loose skin.  Goosebumps trail behind where his knuckles brushed.  He can barely squeeze the tips of his fingers in the gap, can see even less of what’s in the space between Hizashi and the collar.  He shifts closer to the side so his shadow doesn’t obscure his view, and he’s rewarded with a glint of light revealing thin strings, connected to the inside of the collar and pulling at a flat disk under Hizashi’s bruised skin.  The only way they would be able to take it off would be with the key or by cutting everything up.

It’s becoming harder to ignore the growing restlessness buzzing right under his skin; he doesn’t know if Hizashi noticed that the low background whirring has stopped at one point during the night.  If he has, he's shown no indication he knows what it means.

He hopes they’re refuelling, or picking up supplies, but…

It’s been too long since his last ring fight.  He’s just waiting for the squirrel-like aliens to come get him, make him entertain a bloodthirsty audience like he’s just an animal, the worry running round and round in the back of his head.  It’s what convinced him to study the electric collar (he's just looking, nothing more, there's no harm in looking).

The image of a thin broken neck and glassy eyes staring accusingly at him pushes to the forefront of his mind.  Something unpleasant lodges itself in his throat.

If he gives in to Hizashi’s request to break the collar, he’ll kill his friend.  He wasn’t kidding when he told him it was dangerous.   The squirrel aliens have given up on collaring him after the fourth destroyed piece, but every time had been painful, jagged metal drawing blood and bent parts crushing his throat, cutting off his airways for terrifying seconds while he tried his best to pull off the folded pieces through the pain and electricity arcing through his hands.  Half his fingers still pinprick unpleasantly when they get too cold.

He could try breaking the food tray and bend a piece?  Wedge it between Hizashi’s neck and the collar.  Would it be more or less dangerous than snapping it?

To his surprise, the See’krtsh gets a contemplating look on his face, actually considering the offhandedly idea.  “We can put it on the --------- until we get better ideas.  We’ll try and if it’s too risky, we’ll just stop, okay --------?”

Shinsou absentmindedly pets Hizashi’s shoulder to show his agreement.

It feels unreal, actually planning to escape.  Talking to someone that isn’t threatening him or begging for their life (even if Hizashi was yelling not a moment ago). He oscillates between squishing the fluttering hope or letting it grow. 

(His foot slips when he takes the corner too fast.  He goes down hard, shoulder slamming against the floor. He hastily tries to wipe the blood off his feet, barely registering the pain, but he still has to clench his toes to get a better grip when he goes back to running.

(On a school trip at the orchard, stomping on bruised apples had entertained him more than picking them.  The wet crunch , resistance satisfyingly giving under his shoes.  He left behind a trail of splattered red and white that oozed juices from their broken flesh, shuffling through grass to wipe away the stickiness clinging to the sole of his threadbare shoes.)

Every time he blinks, he’s haunted by afterimages of splattered fruit and broken in skulls.

His mouth is too dry, each inhale scratching his throat raw, feeding the fire in his lungs.  His heartbeat almost covers the piercing alarm, beating drum pounding at the rhythm of his strides.  It doesn’t stop the exhilarated open mouth smile; this is the farthest he’s ever gone, he’s going to get out of here, he can feel it.  The hallways are empty, there’s no one to stop him—

He stops, skidding and sliding until he finds his balance, two bloody purple lines behind him.  He’s locked into place, the smile frozen still.  For a split second, he thinks open your eyes why are you closing your eyes.  He’d ignored the cold hard reality of his situation, keeping that tiny ember burning just a little bit longer, convincing himself he just needed to try again.

There are no stars.  No blue planet.  Nothing at all.  

Only endless black.

Dread rises as unstoppable as the tides, swelling into hopeless desperation.  It washes him away, he’s tumbling under waves until he can’t make out up from down, and he’s only spitted out when he’s a faded shell left.

They find him staring motionless through the reinforced glass.  

He doesn’t know how to get back.)

The slightly strangled 'eep' interrupts the creeping cold climbing his forearms. He immediately lets go, having pulled too hard unconsciously. 

“Sorry—“

A beeping noise cuts him off. 

Incomprehension turns to horror as Hizashi seizes up for interminable seconds while he can only stare in shock.  The pained cry snaps him out of it, making him rush to his aid.  

He immediately retracts his hands with a surprised shout, fingertips tingly and numb.

“Hizashi?  Hizashi, you okay?”  The alien’s limbs are shaking while he tries to catch his breath, small hiccupy wheezes painfully dragging out of his lungs.  

What does he do, what does he do?   All his knowledge about electricity is to never involve water and to not stand under trees in thunderstorms.  

There’s too much happening in his mind, thoughts whizzing too fast for him to grasp.  He needs to do something anything do something— 

He’s barely aware of his strings of apologies, uselessly repeating the gestures over and over again.  Hizashi isn’t even looking at him, curled around himself with his tail twisting over his neck and head in an attempt to shield himself.

When he tries to touch him again, Hizashi’s beak snaps right where his hand had been.  It’s only his quick reflex that prevents it from ending in the alien’s mouth.  The hiss surprises him enough that he hisses right back, baring his teeth.  His hand slaps over his mouth to hide it but it’s too late. 

To Hitoshi’s alarm, Hizashi goes for the door despite having been warned repeatedly about it being electrified.  Unfortunately—or fortunately?—his limbs yield under him before he can hurt himself even more.  

Hitoshi tries calling for him with his voice instead of the name sign they’ve been using, tapping at the floor to get his attention at a safe distance, but all he does is rattle his beak in warning, wings flared out to make himself bigger.  He’s prepared this time around and doesn’t retaliate.

It’s for nothing though.  His heart drops at the same time as Hizashi does.  Strings cleanly cut.

He almost collapses from relief when he sees that the alien’s eyes are scrunched up tight, his breaths quick and shallow.  He sits down, giving him some space, but places himself between Hizashi and the door, just in case.

“Hizashi?”  he tries for the nth time when the alien lifts up his head.  His pupils are constricted into thin lines, and he looks…  he looks scared.

It hits him like a sledgehammer.  In a desperate effort to erase Hizashi’s fear, he adds the lilting friendship hum Hizashi helped him perfect, making himself as small as he can.

Hizashi’s whole body tenses like a bowstring, slit pupils flickering lightning fast to every threatening shadow in the cell, before he relaxes, bringing the edges of his hoodie around him.

“I’m okay, it’s okay, I just need to—” his thorax seizes up in terrifying stillness for a lingering second—“--------- ---- this.”

His hands flutter uselessly.  He can’t wipe the frightened expression from Hizashi’s face every time the alien’s gaze lands on him.  He admonishes himself for the way his heart pinches painfully.  This is his fault, Hizashi has every right to be upset with him.  He can hate him and Hitoshi would deserve every insult thrown his way.

“I am sorry,” he repeats.  Guilt, thick and acrid, claws at his stomach.

Hizashi runs his fingernail on the zipper up and down, producing a trrrrrr sound.  When he looks like he isn’t going to fall over, he lifts his wings.  “Wow, hope I didn’t fry more ----- -----.”  

His whistle is too brittle to be genuine.  Hitoshi doesn’t know if he wants to know whether the trembling is from fear or the lingering effects of electricity.   Realizing he's ripping the hem of his shirt, he places his hands under his thighs to resist the urge to fiddle with the fabric.

“So, did you get a good look at the collar?  Or do you have to look again?”

Right.  That was the point of all of this.  He gathers his hands, trying to remember how to talk through the fading panic.

“It is almost same.  Small... than—”

“Smaller,” Hizashi corrects him automatically, looking as surprised as Hitoshi is feeling.

“Smaller, and lesser string.  Only two, here and here.”

The alien looks at him expectantly, but there’s nothing else he has to say.  The silence stretches uncomfortably, until a small poke could make it snap like a rubber band.

It’s interrupted by the food tray clattering loudly.  Hitoshi scampers a little bit too quickly, thanking whatever guard had decided to give them food earlier.  It even seems like today is one of the few times whoever's on kitchen duty put in an extra scoop or two.  He places it right in front of Hizashi, silently imploring him to take a break from the conversation

Hizashi grumbles but eventually draws a line to cut the food right in the middle, his chewing slowing down as he nears the end of his half.  It looks licked clean by the time it’s Hitoshi’s turn.  Instead of scarfing his portion down, he shakes his head with a muted ‘not hungry’.

“You have to eat anyway,” Hizashi says, pushing the tray again.  “I ate half already, -------.”

“I eat more half last day,” Hitoshi counters, sliding it back in front of Hizashi.  His friend’s—can he still call him his friend?—pain, that he caused, weights on his chest.

“Shinsou—”

“Hizashi.”  If he thinks he can out stubborn him, the alien is in for a long ride.  He is fuelled with regret.  Weird sandy gruel and regret.

“I told you already, this is made for your ---------- needs,” he signs, throwing his wings in exasperation. “It’s a waste if I eat it all.”

Hitoshi doesn’t respond.  If Hizashi could just eat the damn food, maybe he could stop feeling like—like this!  He wants to go back in time and never touch the stupid collar.

Plus, he’s pretty sure there’s important stuff missing from the 'made-for-his-needs' food.  Vitamins or something.  He doesn’t think his nails are supposed to be this brittle. Or so flat. 

Hizashi is trying to convince him, but it’s having the opposite effect.  His limbs move like they’re underwater, as if all the energy was sapped out of his body.  

He looks at him straight in the eyes and very deliberately nudges the tray forward, channeling every bastard cats knocking trinkets from furniture.

He just wants Hizashi to eat the rest before the guards come and take it away.

He goes to pull his hoodie over his head, only to remember he gave it away.  His hands change direction, and he pretends to scratch his neck, hoping Hizashi didn’t catch his memory lapse.

“Shinsou, I don’t need as much food as you.”  Hizashi pauses.  “And I’m not angry at you for what happened,” he lies. “ I know it was an accident.”  

His nail catches underneath a scab.  He can’t help but pick at it until it peels off cleanly.

“Please, Shinsou.”  Hizashi looks exhausted.  Hitoshi doesn’t know if he’s imagining the disappointment in the alien’s posture.  He’s just making more work for Hizashi, making him have to babysit him and wait by his side like he’s a toddler who can’t be trusted to eat all their vegetables.

Hitoshi caves in, breaking out of his attempted sullen silence.  The oatmeal is cold between his fingers, and even colder on his tongue.  He didn’t think it could taste worse, but the guilt and shame makes everything bitter.  

It's entirely his fault.  He was been distracted.  If he had been paying attention instead of thinking of stupid things, Hizashi wouldn’t have been hurt.  “You need food and energy for live.  So you can escape.”

Hizashi’s frowns—or at least, he thinks he does.  He does the weirdly comforting hum while signing, “You need to eat too.  We’re getting out of here together.”

“But if we not?”  The words shoot out of his hands before he can stop them.

“The -------- will come get us.”

Hitoshi has no idea who that is.  Probably the ‘space police’ or whatever they had.  He’s not waiting for those people.  Unless Hizashi is actually a really important alien, they aren’t going to be found; no one has ever tried to stop what he’s pretty sure is an illegal fight ring since he’s been here, and it’s not like he’s the only one being held captive.  He’s seen other prisoners and shut door cells.

The giant spaceship isn’t particularly inconspicuous either; literally hundreds of people watch his matches.  

He keeps his hands still.  It would be cruel to crush Hizashi’s hopes.  Not when he full heartedly believes them.

He isn’t doing a good job hiding his doubts though.  Hizashi flaps his wings to loosen them, and starts talking about… honestly, he isn’t quite sure, and he’s not in the mood to learn more words or interrupt the really enthusiastic speech he thinks is supposed to be inspirational.  He just wants to go back to sleep.  Hizashi’s energy must dwindle down too, or maybe it's the effect of being electrocuted, because his gestures are even less grand than usual.

He should make him stop, he thinks through sluggish thoughts.  They should just take a well-deserved nap.  His skin is aching for the firm press of another person against his side.

“I…”  He trails off.  He thought he heard—

Hizashi tilts his head, asking him what’s wrong.

“Someone door,” he signs, pushing himself up.  He allows himself a moment to tear his eyes from the door to check on Hizashi, whose chin is lowered on the floor.

He holds his breath, trying to make out the footsteps.  Maybe they're only passing by?  Multiple cells line his.  It could just be an impatient guard coming to get the food tray earlier than the usual schedule.

He swallows thickly as the sound comes closer, stopping in front of his cell.  There are more than one alien out there.

Despite expecting it, he jumps when they bang the warning on the door, reaching out to jerk Hizashi back so they stand near the opposite wall.

Too many things are happening at the same time, the collar and the escape and now he’s going to be sent to fight.  The only thing he wants to do right now is curl up in a ball and go to sleep.  He entertains the fantasy for a moment, before steeling himself.

Hizashi’s muttering something about the collar and the guards, but he can’t pay him any mind.  His eyes are glued on the door.

Stillness shrouds his thoughts, drowning them before he can really worry.  

He just needs to survive and come back.  It's as easy as violence can be.  Walk in the arena.  Endure the shouts and screams from other contestants.  Fight.

He’s done this countless times.  There's nothing to worry about.

The door creaks open.

He can count six squirrel-like aliens, unlike the usual four.  Only three can fit comfortably in the cell, the rest waiting outside.

The cell door closes behind them.

One of them breaks off from the group, taking tiny steps toward him under the watchful gaze of the others.  He catches the covering-bag they throw at him from what seems to be as far as they can, immediately brandishing their stick with both hands, and to his amusement, they get reprimanded from what appears to be their senior.  They must be new to the job.  Honestly, he hasn’t even tried to attack them since that disastrous fight against the baby alien whose shrieks sounded like the cries of little Yamaguchi Aoi when he misses his parents. 

The urge to snarl at the alien for a little scare is strong, but the lightning sticks actually hurt.

Urgh.  He forgot how disgusting the covering-bag smelled.  A mix of forgotten wet laundry and garbage.

He clasps the band over his neck, tightening it until the familiar click.  Despite the bile and excess saliva, his mouth feels dry.  He hopes he doesn’t barf.

He’s ushered in a corner by the new guard, bodyweight supported by the wall so the stick doesn’t touch him.  His forehead is cool where it's pressed on the metal.

He startles when clammy hands start inspecting him, making sure the covering-bag is secured and searching him for improvised weapons.  He hadn’t noticed he had closed his eyes, whole body slowly sliding down.

He straightens, making sure to stay completely motionless, but he can’t help stumbling a little, ignoring the startled bark.

He’ll try to make it fast.  Quick and painless.  As if that made murder better, you fucking dumbass, says a voice that sounds uncannily like one of the night shift supervisors from his center.  He ignores it.  If he doesn’t come back covered in blood and gore, would Hizashi forget what he did?  Out of sight, out of mind, right?

The odd calm crumbles when the two remaining aliens behind him start to chitter, growing angrier, small whistles added to their conversation when they don’t seem to get what they want.  He should be nervous, but every feeling presses in a distant way, like listening to someone underwater.  What are they doing?

It’s only when Hizashi lets out a muffled scream that the distant panic finally pierces through the fog.

He turns around, but the room spins, his covered eyes not helping him fight against the nauseating vertigo.  He kicks blindly, and somehow, his foot makes contact with the alien, who crumbles easily in a way that still surprises him.  How can beings so fragile ruin his life?

They have the time to activate the covering-bag though, or maybe one of the others did it, because the collar starts whirring, the loose material immediately starting to tighten around his face.  He only has the time to inhale once before its molded solid over his airways.

He doesn’t try pulling at the fabric, knowing from experience it won’t give in time.  Instead, he goes directly for the clasp, crushing it at the hinge with a pained grunt, hoping shards of metal won’t be stuck in his hand.  They really didn’t changed the mechanism since the last time he tried to escape.

(Endless black endless black endless black—)

It scrapes his face when he pulls it over his head, but the pain floats away easily as he barely manages to throw himself on the ground when one of the remaining guards thrusts their stick, accidentally landing on the newbie’s shoulder, the wet crunch making his opponent wince for their colleague, furry tail flicking behind them.

They bring their weapon down on him. He’s too slow, and it hits him where his sleeve rid up his left arm. Intense chirping, before white overtakes his vision, flashing strobing lights.  And then, the familiar sting, everything contracting all at once and knocking his breath out of his lungs.  His back arches, he’s getting pulled taut in all directions under his own body strength, his muscles fighting each other to a standstill.  He can’t even scream, teeth grinding together.  It hurts it hurts it hurts—

They set it to a continuous stream, locking him in place.

He has to… he has to…

The electricity goes down, finally stops, and he falls limply, desperately trying to make his diaphragm work, he needs air he needs air he needs air—

His heart beats off rhythm, painfully hard against his chest, like it’s trying to hammer a bruise from the inside.  When he thinks it’s finally going back to an almost normal pace, it starts back up.  It feels like dying. 

It feels like a normal day from before Hizashi. 

The guard that shocked him barks out an order he barely hears through the fuzziness.  He knows what it means though.  Stay down. 

The stick digs threateningly in his side under his shirt, ready to activate as soon as he tries something. 

He wants to close his eyes, let sleep take the burning spreading out from his arm away.  Doesn’t he deserve to rest?  He’d fought as much as he could make himself.

He’s just so tired, even laying down takes energy. The floor should melt, until he’s swallowed up and disappears. 

He doesn’t notice the guard had come closer until their boots are all he can see, their stick now held against his stomach.  

Something takes over him, the same part of himself that sometimes comes out in the arena, when he’s against someone bigger, stronger.  The primal urge to get up fight stay alive that controls him even when all his heart wants is to lay down and die. 

The sudden burst of energy takes the giant squirrel alien by surprise, they can't activate the lightning stick, crashing with a pained squeak when he punches their legs, their ankles bending awfully.  The sudden movement stretches him uncomfortable, the burning spreading to his neck and up his face.

The lightning stick brushes his leg when it falls.  His pants prevents it from giving him anymore than a stabbing sensation shooting out toward his feet and his thigh.  It clatters away when his legs jerk uncontrollably.

He doesn’t know how he’s on his feet.  The adrenaline rushing through his blood makes it easier to cut through the haze and his numb limbs.

The last guard is almost at the door, speaking quickly into their earpiece.  They’re dragging Hizashi by the wings, nails digging until blood wells up, staining their bandaged hand.  His friend is barely thrashing, something metal over his face.  The door had been opened some time during the scuffle.

They’re trying to bring him out in the hallway.

His teeth snap in warning, but they only give him a side glance, trying to up their pace.  His heartbeat almost covers the crack of the metal stick he picked up hitting their arm closest to him and the thump Hizashi makes when he's dropped.

He doesn’t get up.

The bandaged alien starts yelling out, pointing at Hizashi, trying to keep him at a distance with their backup stick, moving the crackling point from side to side while approaching him.  Their face is contorted in a grimace, their injured arm tucked close to their chest.

He shouts something unintelligible, barking and screeching and hissing, making noise to scare them away as if they were a wild animal back from Earth.  They don’t seem to expect it, faltering for a second, and he immediately takes advantage of their hesitation, throwing himself at them.  The lightning stick doesn’t work well in close combat, and his hand finds their throat.  He squeezes it in warning when the others step closer. 

The guard under him has shinier armor, and they wear different colors.  Their attempts at pushing him off or clawing his forearms and face barely phase him, his other hand shooting up to restrain their arms.  Their fur turns purple when his fingers break skin, their ears pulled back as they howl in distress.

The others get the message, giving Hizashi, him and his hostage a wide berth, almost hugging the wall to get to their fallen colleagues under his watchful glare.  

It’s only when they’re all out of the cell that he lets himself move, gathering the leader in his arms and basically throwing them out, uncaring about whether or not the others can catch them.  The adrenaline is starting to leave his system and he tries to not let his exhaustion show, snarling and spitting despite not being able to feel his face. 

As soon as the door slams shut, he scrambles to Hizashi.  Now that he’s closer, he sees that it isn’t a covering-bag, but rather a muzzle-like thing, more to physically restrain than to asphyxiate.

It should be easy to untie, but the clasps and knots slip through his shaking fingers until he finally gets it off Hizashi’s head, dropping it somewhere on the floor.  His hands find his friend’s chest, feeling it expand and shrink; if he concentrates, there’s the steady ba-dum of his heart.  The small wounds on his wings already stopped bleeding, leaving bright green coagulated blood. 

Hizashi’s eyes stay shut even when he shakes him by the shoulder. 

He drags him as far as he can from the door, each step agony as ants seem to eat crawl through his veins, checking and rechecking to see if the position change alters anything about Hizashi’s condition.

Time stretches and blinks away.  He knows this isn’t normal, that his captors did something to him, it’s right there, but he can’t quite reach it, can only brush against it before the thought gallops away.

He gives up trying to figure out why he's slow slow slow.  Keeping a tighter hold on Keep Hizashi safe and Stay awake is more important right now.

He repeats the mantra, mumbling it under the heavy panting.  His clumsy tongue trips over his teeth and slaps against the roof of his mouth. 

His lids are heavy.  He pinches himself as hard as he can, trying to jolt himself awake, and it works for a bit, until it becomes too hard to open his eyes, eyelashes sticking together, and he has to do it again, slamming his heel on the ground to wake more of the ants.

Hizashi.  Awake.  Hizashi.  Awake.  Hizashi.  Awake.

When Hizashi wakes up, it’s to a pounding headache and a stale mouth.  Shouta—or was it Nemuri’s turn?—was supposed to stop him from over drinking.  

He tries to move, and for a terrifying second, he thinks he’s been bound (why would he be tied up?) but the thing over him is easily pulled away when he tugs at it sharply.  He blinks away the clinging remnants of sleep, trying to focus his blurry vision.  Now that he’s more awake, he can see it’s just the hoodie, that he’d only been bundled in it.

He looks up, and almost screams.  Shinsou is so close that he’s almost crouched over his sleeping body.  He doesn’t notice Hizashi is awake until he makes a noise while sitting up.  

The Human turns around, swaying dangerously to the side, but his pupils are slow on the uptake, staying glazed on the door, before following the movement of his head.  

Shinsou looks awful, under eyes a deep purple-blue.  His scleras are worryingly bloodshot, but it’s the way he holds himself, twitchy and too sharp that unnerves him the most.  His eyes grow wide, a wild look taking over his face, pulling at the two gashes running over the bridge of his nose.  It takes him a good ten seconds before he lights up in recognition.  

“Hizashi?  You okay?”  he slurs, the words almost unrecognizable.  The movement makes his eyes catch on his forelimbs, all blotched with broken capillaries.  He follows the trail of reddened skin down until…

There’s dried blood painting his cellmates fingers, like he dipped them in paint.  It matches his hair, a tiny part of him remarks.  Shut up, says the rest of him that's trying to figure out what the hell is happening.

He’s hit with the pungent smell of blood at the same time as the memories rush through him.  Eating.  The collar.  Putting off the unnatural dizziness.  The Feczoits.

His wings where he’d been grabbed throb, and the skin around his beak is sore.

He unconsciously takes a step back, unable to tear his eyes from the bloody mess.  Shinsou doesn’t seem to notice or care, waiting for his answer.  “Ye-yeah, I’m okay, listener.”

Hizashi squirms under the empty expression when the Human doesn't respond immediately.  Finally, Shinsou agreement-shakes his head—it looks more like his neck couldn’t support his head, letting it fall and hang limply.

He has so many questions.  How long was he asleep?

He doesn’t have the time to ask Shinsou anything; his cellmate crawls a tail length away, collapsing on the wall, whole body going limp before he startles awake, immediately squeezing his skin.  That explains his red forelimbs. 

Despite the blanks in his memories and the blood that is clearly Feczoit, he’s pretty sure Shinsou saved him.

Strolling up to Shinsou unsteadily, he lets himself plop next to him, hoping his nerves aren’t visible to the Human.  He’s pretty sure he isn’t imagining the way Shinsou leans into his touch, nor the glances aimed his way and the disjointed shuffling of his limbs, like he’s making place for him at his side.  The flaking blood is perturbing, but he hides it beneath faked confidence.

Shinsou’s mouth moves, but it’s too low for him to understand, which he seems to realize because he flails his arms, staring at him with crinkled eyebrows.  He’s asking something, repeating it again and again.  Hizashi doesn’t understand what he’s saying, but he does detect the hurt and panic under the lethargy.

He pats Shinsou’s fur, trying to bring him to breathe normally again.  The Human stops moving at the touch, eyes fluttering.

“I’ll wake you up if something happens,” he signs reassuringly.

Shinsou signs back something undecipherable, pressing a bit closer.

“Sleep.”  It's like he'd been waiting for the word the whole time.  A long exhale, and Shinsou is out like a light.

Chapter Text

Keeping guard is surprisingly boring.  Hizashi stretches his limbs as much as Shinsou’s embrace allows him until his articulations pop satisfyingly.  The Human had slung a heavy upper limb over his tail, and despite it potentially hindering him if the Feczoits come again, the warmth radiating from that point of contact helps him stay grounded. 

Except for the water dish slid through the food hatch—he can’t help but groan when nothing else is given to them—the Feczoits haven’t come back to bother them, probably too scared to try getting past Shinsou just to capture him.

That’s something he doesn’t understand.  They placed him specifically in this cell so he could get killed—why do they want him alive now?  

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down his spine.  He doesn’t know what could have brought this, doesn’t know what could make him more valuable than the Feczoits that risked their lives to get him—as expendable as they are compared to their sovereign.

From what Shouta and he have discovered about this organization, they have no care for life, sentient or not.  If it brought money, they were kept around.  If not…

(There was a reason they left what the locals affectionately called bone trails.)

Shinsou’s sleep looks anything but restful.  His face twitches at an invisible threat, and his limbs move in small jerky movements, almost knocking him over when his upper limb shoots out.  Hizashi thinks about sitting farther away for his own safety, but as he tries to stand up and disentangle the fingers clenched around the hoodie, Shinsou’s breath stutters out.  He opens his glassy eyes for a split moment, muttering something in his human dialect, and then falls right back to sleep before Hizashi can say anything. 

He settles with petting the top of Shinsou’s head.  He wants to believe it helps.

Biting his tongue distracts him from the sting of his wings when he forgets to avoid getting his wounds caught in the fur.  The fluorescent lights make him long for the warming lamps Shouta had bought him when he noticed he missed the hot beating rays of his home planet.  The unnatural white hadn’t given him reprieve either; the lights haven’t been shut off despite the human cycle being over.  He wonders if it’s petty vengeance or if the Feczoits are trying to confuse them by messing with their circadian rhythm.

The greasy fur is thin and soft on the front where the hair meets his brow, growing rougher with thick irregular strands the further his wing moves to the back.

His free hand drums a beat against his ribs to distract himself.  For about half a cycle, he has been forced to spend time alone with his thoughts, and he has come to the conclusion that he should send a care package to the Weq•itq journalist that got ridiculed for writing about Humans and their needs for packbonds.  It had been such a ridiculous notion, even he had shaken his head in disbelief when he read their article.

It’s a lot less ridiculous when he considers his position—clothed in the human’s garments and plastered to Shinsou’s side after he guarded him from the Feczoits.

He's been Shinsou's pack member since the day he accepted the hoodie, and there’s nothing he could do about it now.

It feels like an entire waking cycle passes before Shinsou stirs.

Hizashi can already tell he’s too strung up to talk.  He’s pretty sure he even saw him flinch away from his shadow when he got up too quickly.

Shinsou’s feet almost make no sound as he paces around the cell, looking for any forgotten weapon or object left behind.  When he passes the water dish for the fifth time, he gingerly picks it up like it’s going to bite him—and Hizashi can’t help but notice the plastic bowl that replaced the usual metal dish, too flimsy to use as a weapon— bringing it close to his face.  His warning squawk dies in his throat when Shinsou recoils from the water with a grimace, nose wrinkled in disgust as he methodically wipes his tongue with his clothings.

When Shouta told him he would burn all his taste buds eating too many egraks, he didn’t think he would actually be unable to notice if he was being poisoned.   At least Shinsou didn’t initially catch on either, he reassures himself, smoothing out his neck in habit even though there’s no puffed out feathers.  He can continue eating egraks without any worries.

They end up using the water to rinse their respective wounds.  Hizashi tries his best to dry himself with the hoodie, as the small amount of warmth he can produce gets leached into the water. 

He rearranges the hoodie so it falls more like a cloak.  Owning garnments is unusual for See’krtsh, making him unused to the shifting weight on his shoulders, now a constant reminder that he was part of a human’s pack, whatishesupposedtodo—

It makes him less likely to die from hypothermia, but it’s hard to appreciate that when the fabric won’t stop rubbing his sensitive skin in an almost painful way.  It’s just so unnatural being unable to feel the breeze and vibration in the air, and it hinders his every move, somehow pulling and being too loose at the same time, constantly snagging on his scales.

A hiss almost climbs out of his throat when he spots metal gleaming in Shinsou's hands.  He hadn't noticed him picking the muzzle up from where it layed near the door. 

He wants nothing more than to throw it as far as he can, even having it in the same room is making it a little hard to keep his breathing steady.  It’s a reminder of how powerless he was when the Feczoits came, of how powerless he still is .  He has to change that.

“Do you think you can use that to cut the collar?”

Shinsou looks at him with wide eyes, slowly looking from the muzzle to his neck.  His quivers slightly, but he doesn’t react otherwise, keeping his wings loose and casual while internally, his heart races and he can feel himself try to flare his nonexistent feathers.

“We have to do it now,” he pleads.  “If we wait too long, we won’t have enough strength.”

Shinsou doesn’t respond, choosing to play with the muzzle instead, turning and twisting the straps. 

“Let’s just try, okay?  Please, listener?”

He can’t—cant die .  Can’t have Shouta find another body he recognizes.

(Or worse, be damned to look in every corner of the universe for any signs of his life.)

He’d taken Ob—Oboro‘s death the hardest, his body almost giving up from the mind numbing grief Nemuri and he couldn’t completely understand.  They had barely been able to pull him out of the cesspool of misery and self-condemnation.  He knows his bondmate; if he got himself killed, Shouta would blame himself for the rest of his life, until he cuts it short to join him in their next lives.  He can’t do that to Shouta.

“I thought the UA” —his hands hold contempt—“are come here.”

Hizashi exhales loudly.  He gets why Shinsou does it so often, the Human gesture is very effective at diffusing irritation.

“And they will!  But I don’t know when, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re on a time crunch here.”

The metal creaks under the Human's grip.  His pained expression proves he knows Hizashi’s time is limited. 

“Come on, what do you say?  You just have to break this stupid thing, we run to an escape pod, and we’re out of here!”  At Shinsou’s blanching face, he adds, “Shouta, Nemuri or Tensei will pick us up—they should be on their way—and then we’ll blow this baby up.”  He mines an explosion going off, with sound effects and all.  Humans are supposed to like stuff like that, right?

(Everything he thought he knew about Humans turned out to be false, and ‘live for explosions and destruction’ is added to the pile of falsified information at Shinsou’s unimpressed look.  Who even came up with this bullshit?)

“Other aliens?  It is your bondmate?”

It was a clumsy attempt at deflecting his attention to another subject.  Hizashi takes the bait.  He’ll get nowhere with ruffled feathers.

He nods, and oh maybe that was Shinsou’s hangup.  He didn’t know he was THE Present Mic.  Without his feathers, he’s almost unrecognizable, and even if he was, Humans haven’t reached warp speed yet.  It was unlikely they were on the intergalactic news server.

He strikes a pose, chirping his signature jingle—it was recognizable and cool , and absolutely not a waste of time and energy, Shouta . 

“My friends and I are part of a group called UA.”  He rushed through an explanation at Shinsou’s blank look.  “We fight bad people”—more like looted everything they had—“and expose shaddy organizations”—anonymously dropped their coords to the closest Interplanetary Safety Commission center—“so you could say we’re kind of like heroes”—if one was generous, they were vigilante at best.  

It isn't lying per say, more like… blurring the truth a little.  It’s necessary, he tells himself.  He doesn’t think admitting he’s a criminal would work out well to gain Shinsou’s trust.

Shinsou is staring intensely at him in a way that still makes him shiver, but he knows it actually means the Human is paying attention and concentrating on his words.

“Fight bad people…”  Shinsou slides down the wall he’s slouched on, crossing his front limbs over each other.

“Yeah!  Like the Feczoits.  Sometimes serial murderers, if we’re on the same quadrant.”

Shinsou doesn’t seem reassured at all.  Hizashi doesn’t think he’s imagining the way he curls up to make himself smaller.  Hizashi doesn’t understand what he said wrong.  This isn’t going in the direction he wants.

“I know you won’t hurt me.  I trust you.”  He’s surprised he finds more truth in the statement than intended.

A weird expression crosses Shinsou’s face for a heartbeat, too fast for the See’krtsh to decipher.  Hizashi doesn’t know what he said to upset him, but it’s clear Shinsou isn’t going to give in to his request now that he’s in a bad mood.

Hizashi scours his mind for anything he could use to salvage the conversation.  He’s about to make a last ditch attempt at reassuring Shinsou when he feels a low tremor going through the entire ship, rattling his bones unpleasantly.  Before he can even go farther than what the fuck, the entire world flips over itself.

The ship shudders, the only warning before they’re sent crashing into a wall.  A loud crack rings through the cell at the same time as his head and shoulder cushion his impact, sending stabbing needles into his brain and the upper left side of his torso.  He clutches the side of his face, eyes shut to ride out the dizzy spell.

When he opens them, panic stutters his breath, and he starts reaching out blindly in front of him, calling out from Hizashi in fear.  His voice comes out shakier than he intends it, the innate unease of the dark taking hold of him.  He lets out a startled scream when something touches his back and almost swats the thing behind him before he realizes it’s Hizashi.  Thankfully, he stops himself before his arm makes contact with the lizard-bird alien, moving to touch him lightly as if that was what he wanted to do all along.

The thin skin under his palm staves off his mounting panic at his loss of vision enough that he can will his body to do more than gasp for air.

Wings move under his palm, and it’s only on the third try that he realizes Hizashi is signing.

“Are you hurt?”

“I am fine.”  He feels the weighted stare even without seeing it, the disappointment exuding from Hizashi pulling out a confession from him.  “Hit head, and I ca—cannot see.”

He doesn’t mention the ache in his shoulder.  It doesn’t hurt that much if he keeps it still.

He’s impressed that Hizashi can understand what he’s saying under the trembling.  Immediately, Hizashi starts signing in a flurry to reassure him that the light is gone, his eyes are okay.

Hitoshi’s whole body slumps over, the relief coursing through him too overpowering for him to care about having embarrassed himself in front of Hizashi.  He lets the alien’s wings move to his head without fuss, giving no protest when he starts inspecting his injury.  Hizashi cradles his uninjured side to keep his head slightly turned while his other wing touches his scalp.  Hizashi hums in apology when he presses in a sensitive spot and Hitoshi can’t help the small jolt.

After about half a minute, Hizashi leans back, seemingly satisfied he isn’t going to die.  Hitoshi catches himself following the comforting touch and he’s incredibly glad there aren’t any lights—even though it gave him the scare of his life—for the other to witness all of his blunders.

“Hizashi hurt?” he asks, a little bit flustered.

“I banged my head a little bit too.”  Hitoshi immediately starts reaching for where he thinks his head is to brush against his skin to find any injuries, swallowing his wince when the movement pulls at his injured shoulder.  To his relief, he doesn’t feel any blood or weird bone poking out.

The sudden realization hits him, and he almost smacks himself before the sudden movement reminds him of his injuries.

“Hizashi, your collar—!”  The constant light is gone.  The metal feels bent under the light touch of his fingers, but it doesn’t seem to cut into Hizashi’s skin or block his airways when he slides them around, in search of blood.  That must have been what he heard earlier.

“It’s broken,” he says after pulling Hitoshi’s hands away from his neck.  “Wait, I think—”

Hitoshi doesn’t get to know the end of the sentence because Hizashi insistently starts pulling him, and he doesn’t realize they’re out of the cell until he bumps into the frame of the door—with his uninjured shoulder fortunately.  There's barely time to register what’s happening before he’s dragged by Hizashi through a corridor, having to navigate blindly until red floods his vision—he hadn’t realized his eyes were open—the low buzzing coming from the cell doors starting up again.  He doesn’t see anyone near them.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut when a high pitched alarm starts blaring through his skull.  He instinctively presses his hands over his ears.  It barely helps him block the painful sound and the pulsing in his head increases.

He squints through the pain so he can continue following Hizashi, shooting him a quick tight lipped smile to make him continue.

The alien had been reading a sign before Hitoshi distracted him.  “There’s an escape --- on the twenty-seventh floor.”

They were really doing this.  Hizashi’s collar looked broken, there was an emergency to occupy the guards, they were out of their cell .  This was the perfect opportunity.

For once in his life, the Universe is smiling down on Hitoshi.

The Universe is not smiling down on him. 

Hitoshi is stuck in an elevator with two squirrel guards, a deliriously injured Hizashi and a half-empty syringe.  Gratefully, Hizashi managed to knock them out before they could do worse than break his wing, although the combined effect of whatever was in the syringe and the low silent vibrations that Hizashi let out was making him really nauseous.  He has to brace himself on a wall to take deep breaths so he won't hurl right then and there.  The enclosed space of the futuristic lift made the almost imperceptible scream reverberate right through his body, and he really hopes his insides didn’t actually vibrate like he felt them do.  At least he had the mind to cover his ears.  Aside from the fact that everything sounds like he’s underwater, he can hear just fine.

Once the pressure in his throat abates, the cold numbness spreading from his thigh becomes a lot more noticeable and worrying, seeping into his body to blur his thrashing thoughts.

Something flashes in the corner of his eye, making him stumble toward it before he can overthink it.  It’s an earpiece that he has to take out of the guard’s ear.  He almost drops it when it crackles, but manages to catch it before it connects with the ground.  His fingers accidentally press a button and the thing falls silent.

They were the only ones who saw them.  Hitoshi isn't delusional, the guards must know they’re trying to escape.  At least, their position was probably unknown to them until now.  He should keep it that way.  Thank god he broke the panel that calls for the elevator before getting in it.

The glowing numbers climb steadily as they make their ascend toward their escape.

Crackly chirps and whistles come out from the earpiece, a small lilt toward the end.  Hizashi’s pained crow falls silent when his hand moves without any input from his brain, like he’s seeing himself through glass, and brings it next to his face.  There’s a pause where a tiny inner voice screams at him, trying to shake him out of his trance, but it’s drowned out by his oddly calm voice, mouth forming around sounds he doesn’t understand but has heard often enough while crumbled on a floor.  As soon as he releases his death grip on the earpiece, the silence grows tense, stretches into hours and his anxiety starts building up, before finally, finally, it lights up again, and a tiny confirmation chirp comes out of the machine, just as the doors ding open.

He lifts his head and is greeted by an empty corridor.

Air he hadn’t even noticed he was holding rushes out from his lungs.  His legs tremble under his weight, he feels like he could laugh and never stop, this was the stupidest thing he has ever done and it worked.

He can’t let himself rejoice yet, although he lets himself a second to savor his small victory.  He goes to kneel next to Hizashi, who shuts his eyes in pain when he tries to sign something.  It’s obvious he won’t be able to walk by himself, one of his bone jutting out so much it stretches his skin.

He can’t feel his hands and he has to untie the hoodie around Hizashi’s neck by vision only.  It’s a lot more difficult than he expects, mostly because he has to guess how much pressure he’s applying.  Hizashi tries to say something, but Hitoshi doesn’t understand how he expects him to do two things at the same time right now.  His head is really spinning.  

Hizashi finally realizes that he can’t really multitask in his state and starts following his silent instructions.  He gets what Hitoshi’s trying to do after some careful nudging and rolls onto the spread out hoodie.

Hitoshi knows for sure the drug is affecting him when he can only watch in fascination when the bone shifts, Hizashi’s agonizing yell sounding far away.  He zips the hoodie around the shaking alien.

“I’m going to pick you up.”  He can hear his voice, flat and emotionless, but it’s detached from himself.  It reminds him of lukewarm baths, water the same temperature as his skin, matching it so well he couldn’t feel it slide around him.  Everything fading around him until he becomes unaware of his own body.

He knots the sleeves around himself, rearranging them so it supports some of Hizashi’s weight.  He only has to hold up his tail, leaving him with a free hand.

He’s about to reassure Hizashi again, remembering at the last second to use sign.  His fingers move too clumsily for anything he says to be understandable.

Hitoshi murmurs an apology while getting up; he has to lean on the wall for a second while blood rushes to his head, and something pulls his muscles, but there’s no pain, so he shrugs it off easily and heads toward the end of the hallway.

He barely manages to dodge a white flat thing thrown at his head, his hip knocking on the side of the console in his attempt to sidestep away.  It hits the shuttle hatch where his head had been a second before, and to his horror, it retracts with a shudder, slithering away to one of the corners of the escape shuttle room hidden in the darkness, where the overhead emergency light couldn’t reach.

Two red eyes reflect light, giving them an eerie glow in the overcast shadow.

Without taking his gaze off the unknown alien, he reaches behind him, fumbling until he manages to activate the shuttle hatch.  The doors behind him hiss open, but before he can step into the shuttle, the unknown alien takes a step into the light.

It’s a black furred quadruped—no, wait, that’s two more arms, one held up protectively over their face while the other twirls the long white thing  in between their fingers.

The white thing is half wrapped around their neck while the rest writhes along their shoulders and back.

It looks awfully like those tapeworms that could grow up to twenty-five meters long in someone’s intestines.

Hitoshi tries to step into the escape shuttle but has to stop to duck when the worm is thrown at him again.  He hisses—he doesn’t know why so many aliens were scared of that sound, but he’s glad for his warrior cat phase— to try to make them back off.

Instead of running away, they fix their heavy stare on Hizashi.

He covers the injured alien’s face, cutting off their view of his friend, and he’s stupidly comforted when they can’t look at Hizashi with that hungry gaze anymore.

Their tangled and unkempt hair makes them look haggard.  Their long fur hangs over their face, but Hitoshi doesn’t fall for the trap of underestimating them.  He shouldn’t count on it impeding their vision; they wouldn’t have survived—or be kept alive—if they didn’t win matches, if they weren't a good fighter.  Hitoshi isn’t scared.

He’s a good fighter too.

The other fighter must have taken advantage of the distraction power outage to escape.  While he feels for them, he won’t let them hurt Hizashi.  Cold sweat drips down his spine, ice cubes against his too warm skin, while he tries to hold their gaze, red glares pulsing and growing blurry even when he tries to blink the haze away.  He tightens his hold on Hizashi when they try to come closer while he’s distracted, snapping his teeth at them in warning.  They stop, even taking a step back, their extra arms waving around to intimidate him.

He waits for them to make their move.  The tension mounts slowly when none of them attack, until he can’t take it anymore, his heart is going to give out before they kill him. 

He jumps backward into the shuttle, hastily scanning around him to find out how to close the doors.  He opens a panel and starts button mashing randomly, alternating between trying to find a way to close those stupid doors and monitoring the other alien rapidly approaching him in long leaps.  Just when they pounce, the hatch finally starts closing.  The last thing he hears from them is their enraged yowl that worsens his headache.

The loud thump and following yelp when the set of doors closes in their face makes him feel vindictive.  Take that for trying to thwart his escape!

He peers into the porthole to see what they’re going to do, only to startle back when their face suddenly appears, angry snarling silenced by the barrier between them.  In a very mature, not at all impulsive move, he pulls out his tongue to mock them.

His amusement melts as soon as they start slamming their body against the hatch to get to him and Hizashi.

He scrambles toward the screens attached over a blinking panel where an animated video of a scaled alien pressing buttons and pulling levers plays out.  After realizing it’s instructions on how to launch the shuttle, he tries to follow the animated alien, too numb to get frustrated when he has to wait for the video to loop for the fifth time when he takes too much time to perform a step.  The other alien banging on the escape shuttle doesn’t help him concentrate on his task.

His stomach drops when the screen goes black, only realizing the shuttle isn’t irreparably broken when the ground under his feet rumbles to life.

Stars start to overtake the screens as an overhead door is lifted.  He stumbles onto the seat back when the round metal sheets in the walls start sliding backwards—or rather, the escape shuttle starts going forward—revealing what were in fact reinforced windows pressed flushed against a wall.

Hizashi’s eyes flutter under his fingertips with a pained exhale from the harsh jolt.  Hitoshi hums at him to go back to sleep, but his tail hits his leg in protest.

Before he can say anything else to Hizashi, the whirring grows louder around him, and he barely has the wisdom to sit in the pilot chair when he’s thrown back into his seat by the sudden acceleration.  He clutches the armrest like his life depends on it, one hand thrown over Hizashi to keep him from sliding away.

The escape shuttle seems to have an autopilot function, because when Hitoshi presses the big button flashing insistently, the shuttle rights itself and the rumbling dies down to a smoother buzz.

He takes a few seconds for himself, the adrenaline drop leaving him more exhausted than he ever thought he could be.  He still can’t feel his leg where he was injected with the syringe, but the fog it had induced is mostly gone now.  The pulsing in his head is worse though—it seems to reach right behind his eyes, thumping at the back of his vision.  Now that the threat to their lives is gone, he can’t bring himself to lift his arm through the sharp pain either.  

All his other injuries aren’t severe, or at least they don’t hurt as much, so he doesn’t pay attention to them.

When Hitoshi is almost certain he isn’t going to keel over and die in the next hour, he brings his attention to Hizashi, who’s trying to wiggle out of the improvised swaddle.

Hitoshi unties the hoodie and gently lays him on the ground.  Hizashi actually looks aware of his surroundings.

“Are we in an escape ---?”  he looks around in confusion.  Hitoshi guesses that to him, it might have seemed like falling unconscious in the elevator and suddenly waking up here.

Hitoshi can’t help puffing his chest when he nods, a little bit proud of himself.  Hizashi looks at him like he can’t believe it, before he lets out a triumphant whistle, his tail whipping around in his excitement.  “You did it!  You actually did it!”

“We escape.”  To Hitoshi’s bewilderment, a small giggle escapes his mouth, the overwhelming relief almost unbearable as tears gather in the corner of his eyes.  “We escape!”

He can’t hold it back any longer—he smiles at the alien, wide and unashamed until his gums show a little.

Hizashi doesn’t flinch back.

Chapter Text

Even when Shouta finds his partner’s scuffed bonding bracelet, the hidden tracking chip still intact in the hidden compartment, with absolutely no trace of Hizashi, he refuses to believe that the end of his search won’t end with them reunited.  He could bring himself to do anything, throw his moral code away without a second glance, spit over the hard lines he drew and promised he would never cross.

He’d risk having Hizashi look at him differently, as long as he can ensure his partner’s safety.

Waking up next to Hizashi and admiring his partner’s beautiful plumage.  His glossy scales reflecting beads of light on their walls when his tail whips behind him, as he goes on about a new musical instrument he discovered.  His lithe body nestled between his scarf, a comforting weight as Shouta plans their next market trip.

The weeping Feczoit begs for mercy they haven’t granted to Hizashi.  He pulls his scarf taunt until bones start grinding on each other, ignores the pleads and panicked cries, until the tension in his scarf severs as their limb snaps clean.  Their wounded howl makes Tensei flinch.

“Where is the gold See’krtsh?” he asks again.  They start to crawl away, but Shouta doesn’t have time to play.  He digs his steel toed shoe in their lower back, putting more of his weight until they start gasping in pain.  He bends to their height, waving the bonding bracelet in their face.  “The one who was wearing this.  Where.  Is.  He.”

Just a little bit more pressure and their ribs will crack.  Shouta won’t go that far, it might puncture their lungs accidentally and he needs them to be able to talk.  The Feczoit doesn’t need to know that though.

“The See’krtsh, we sold it to another branch, it’s not here,” they babble.

Shouta wraps his scarf around one of their hind limbs, looping it so it pulls their tibia in opposite directions.  Just as a small incentive.  “What branch?  Where are they heading?”

From there, information pours out of their mouth like a waterfall.  Nemuri’s spray cuts off their begging when they don't seem to have anything relevant to say while he pings the nearest ISC center.  Tensei finishes copying all the data from the ship’s computer, and they're off.

He ignores the shared weighted look between Nemuri and Tensei when he heads toward their stolen clipper without saying another word.

Tensei’s claws dig into his elbow.  He tries to pull him back, but Shouta doesn’t budge.

He can’t take his eyes off the red and gold headpiece, beautiful feathers arranged into shapes that evokes gentle flames.  When the underground shopkeeper talks, they flutter and sway, selling the illusion of having fur made of fire.

He wants to rip it off the Qeow’Fiu, preferably with their head still attached.

Nemuri subtly moves in front of him, gives him a warning look—she isn’t done sweet talking them into revealing when the supplier stopped by this trading post.  Tensei leans on him to stop his low hiss when the Qeow’Fiu takes off the headpiece and his tentacles bend the smaller feathers lining the base.

Intellectually, he knows Nemuri’s friendly demeanor is to foster trust, that she’s only trying to prevent Shouta from ruining this and that she’s not defending them, but he can’t stop the slow stir of betrayal from fuelling his resentment.

Shouta tries to diffuse his aggression by yawning.  He should follow the conversation, try to read their non-verbal cues.  He has to stay objective—look at this like one of his usual trafficking cases.  Stay calm, stay logical, find the victims.

But the victim is Hizashi, how can he swallow his emotions when Hizashi has such a hold on him?

He can’t quite tamp down the way his scarf wants to lash out when Nemuri laughs along one of their jokes, not when they’re still holding Hizashi’s plumage.  It hits Tensei on the back of his head, putting him on the receiving end of an angry glare.  “I’m sorry shopkeeper, but my good friend and I must part ways with this wonderful shop.  He is feeling unwell, and I must attend to his side.  Thank you for your hospitality.”

Shouta grits out a Thank you for your hospitality, unwilling to go through the entire polite Qeow’Fiu farewell, and then Tensei rushes him out of the market.

He tunes out Tensei’s lecture.  It doesn’t hold a candle against his own self-loathing.

His thumb traces Hizashi’s bracelet, following the delicate grooves.  There is a deep scratch slashing through the swirls representing their lives after their bonding ceremony—Shouta doesn’t believe in signs, but he can’t help but read it as a bad omen.

Just when he’s about to send Tensei back to help Nemuri, she comes back, brandishing her padd with a smug look.  “Who wants to visit TRE’s third quadrant?”

The ship is huge.  Shouta knew it would be, it had to hold a fighting ring, stadiums, and all of the victims after all, but it’s one thing to know it through blueprints, it’s another thing to actually see it.  “You all know the plan.”

“Shouta—”

“You comm me immediately if-when you find him,” he interrupts.

Nemuri places a hand on his foreleg, stopping him in his tracks.  “Shouta”—she exhales on his face—”even if he’s not here, we still have a lead with Overhaul.”

They both know the odds of finding Hizashi in one piece decreases drastically if that lead came to be.  He looks away, not wanting to see his friend’s concern.  While he may lose his partner—he has to believe he won’t or he might collapse under the anguish—Nemuri and Tensei have two friends’ lives hinging on Hizashi’s survival.  Eer’ahseer loved few, rarely chose to share their entire lives with a chosen one, but when they did, they loved hard and with their entire being until every atom sang for their other, and Shouta had always scoffed at his parent’s stories, believing them to be wild exaggeration to entertain children and romantic fools, but after Hizashi he has become one of those lovesick fools, and he had finally understood how one could stare at their life partner for hours, because even after their almost 200 years, Shouta doesn’t tire of drinking in Hizashi’s sight, and when his partner is in the same room, Nemuri would send him teasing looks while Tensei huffed in exasperation when he’ll find himself turning toward his other like he’s the sunstarsmoonswaterair.

(His parent had tutted at him disapprovingly, reproaching him of giving his heart to everything that moved.  He hadn’t cared at the time, drunk on exhilaration as he felt like he was orbiting around two supernovas, his body tugged here and there by passing comets, but always, always brought back to his own system by his accumulative two stars and two planets.

It had been too good to be true.  Loss was inevitable for a species like his, but Death had taken the one that was supposed to live just as long as him.)

Shouta lets his forehead fall on her’s to share their breaths.  Tensei joins them, knocking his limbs against theirs.  Their casual affection almost makes him tangle his scarf around their necks, but he feels too flower-fragile.  Instead, he gathers his self-composure and pats their shoulders with it before stepping back, feeling a little bit less unsettled for the first time since Hizashi’s capture.

“Let’s do this.”

Nemuri grins and activates a detonator.

The Feczoit ship’s solar panels and main generators immediately go out with an explosion.

While Nemuri and Tensei take care of the remaining Feczoits that aren’t trying to fix their power supply, Shouta slips through the elevators.  He’s supposed to head to the containment cells first, but before he reaches the area, his keen eyes spot flakes of shedding swept to the side.  On an urge, he inspects them, making sure he doesn’t blow them all away.  Cautious hope flutters in his chest that he promptly stomps, but it rises again—it looks like Hizashi’s molt.  Emboldened by his discovery, Shouta presses his rhinarium on the floor, uncaring of the grime joining the rest of the filth in his fur.  Under the pungent odor of chemicals and various bodily fluids, he can glimpse the familiar smell of his partner.  Despite his growing apprehension—Hizashi’s smell is mingled with nose-burning biliverdin, he hopes it’s not See’krtsh blood—pride radiates through him.  Even without him, Hizashi managed to escape.  His partner’s ingenuity always impresses him, and he can feel himself fall a little more for him.

He follows the scent trail and has to stop to bury his nose into his scarf too often for his liking.  His sense of smell has been shot since one of his missions to find a kidnapped Iodahc when he got a faceful of acid from the scared kit.  He hadn’t been that bothered by it at the time—he had enough self-awareness to admit his approach would have been terrifying to the young, and that he’s far from a comforting sight—only grateful he could hand the child safely to her parents.  His eyesight hasn't been affected, and olfactory fatigue alongside losing a few nerve cells hadn’t seemed that bad at the time.

He doesn’t hold any ill-will toward the kit, he still has her little thank you card pinned in a scrapbook, but he would exchange an eye for the ability to accurately sniff out this trail right now.  At least, he could thankfully deduce where Hizashi is heading to compensate for his inferior sense of smell.

The scent trail leads him toward an elevator he couldn’t call, the entire panel broken in two.  “Hizashi potentially heading toward the life shuttles in B-27.”

Nemuri whoops, and he can hear Tensei yell insults at someone.  “Okay, we’re going to—YOU FUCKER—we just need to finish up here and we’re on our way—TENSEI BEHIND YOU, GET THAT, YOU B—”

He mute’s Nemuri’s line for a few clicks before she can burst his eardrums.

Soon Hizashi, we’ll be reunited.

A fucking Human just took Hizashi.

Chapter Text

To Shouta’s defense, he had taken the time to inform Nemuri and Tensei, and he evaluated their situation before hopping into one of the remaining life shuttle.  It had been the logical decision—time was of the essence, even more so when the Deathworlder had taunted him about eating Hizashi.

“Shouta, they’re taller than Toshinori.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have warned them after all.  He buries his face in his scarf to block the light coming from the console, but it barely helps fend off the imminent urge to blink.  He can’t afford to lose sight of the barely visible specks of crystallized fuel.

“The one that had Hizashi wasn’t that big.”  His voice comes out firm, but Tensei has managed to cast a hint of worry he can’t ignore.  It was pretty dark, and they were hunched over Hizashi’s body.  He hisses softly in annoyance.  He has to trust what he saw, or he’ll fall into a pit of self doubt where he’ll waste more energy than he can afford.  His night vision might not be the best it should be, what with the tendency for lights to halo and take about a third more of their actual size, but it wasn’t anything to scoff at.  Still, he adds about half a s’phar to his mental image of the Deathworlder.

“Even if they aren’t, they can rip you in two if they grab you.  What were you thinking?”  Shouta winces at the sudden rise of volume.  He feels a twinge of guilt when he picks up the panic buried in Nemuri’s frustrated tone.  It’s, however, not enough to make him stop his life shuttle.  “Do you even have a plan?”

He doesn’t.  Information on Humans was sparse and wildly contradictory; ranging from their so-called cannibalistic tendencies, to someone swearing they witnessed a Human gnaw their own trapped limb off and then regrowing it in days.  The only thing people seemed to collectively agree on was their violent nature and astonishing pain tolerance.  He curses himself for believing he would never encounter a Human this far from their home galaxy and never taking the time to dig deeper into the subject.  “Yes.”

He is fairly certain he stands a chance against this one.  They were barely standing on their feet when he found them, only escaping through pure chance and carrying themself in the same way people who were used to relying on brute force did.

“Shouta, wait for us.  We’re almost done with this.”  Tensei’s tone is strained.  They both know it’ll take too long, they aren’t done securing all the Feczoits, and they still have to take care of the victims while they wait for the Commission to arrive.  They’re just trying to stall him, and he knows they believe he’ll have a better chance of surviving Hizashi’s loss if he doesn’t stumble onto a viridescent covered Human that already feasted on his partner.  But he knows himself, has grown up with the untold-but-alluded-to stories of griefsick Eer’ahseers.  Whether he walks in another bloodbath or he’s being told the news won’t change his biology.  

“Hizashi is going to be okay, you don’t need to rush in,” Nemuri pleads.  Her mic picks up the slow characteristic 'pshhhh' of her neurodepressor spray.  “You said it yourself, the Deathworlder was carrying him in cloth.”

Despite bringing the point up several times already, she doesn’t sound convinced.  Plenty of species wrapped their food.  It didn’t mean anything.

Blindly, he opens the panel under the monitor.  Three unplugged cords and a bit of unrefined scratches on the mainframe later, the generator starts whining worryingly, the life shuttle not manufactured to withstand the high acceleration.  The warning signals hit zero without triggering the disabled automatic safety shutdown, as he pushes the shuttle over its velocity limit.  Estimated time, 2800 clicks.

He’s not letting his partner slip away again.

His scales slink against the floor, back and forth, as he fiddles with the replicator.  He’s an error message away from giving up and settling with a dehydrated meal like Shinsou has.  He’ll just deal with the gastrointestinal problems this brand usually gives him.

They deemed it safer for Shinsou to choose from the revolution-worth of dehydrated meals rather than have Hizashi inaccurately guess the Human’s charades and program something in the replicator that’ll kill him; dehydrated meals were as bland as food could be, but it was produced to be healthy enough, or at least not toxic, to most mammals in the Universe.  The labels thankfully had pictures and infographics Shinsou could try to decipher, unlike this damn pre-warp machine that must have been archaic even to Shouta’s elders’ elders.

His growing talons click irritatingly on the glass screen, not even giving him the satisfaction of getting scratched.  The Human watching him isn’t helping either.

Said Human is squirming in impatience, nose practically shoved in the bag as he inhales the mouth watering smell.  His face is rosy from the warm steam, blunting the creepy edge that his harsh face structure gives him.  He hasn’t eaten yet, despite Hizashi’s insistence for Shinsou to start without him.  Another point to the human pack bond theory—eating together was an activity universally experienced in social species.

He whistles excitedly when the replicator finally starts whirring.  He grabs his food as soon as it pops out with the cheery jingle, almost dropping the coloured grain all over himself in his rush.  Shinsou claps his hands together, mutters something, and immediately shovels the stew in his mouth.  His own meal is precariously propped on the improvised temporary cast they made with sticks and ez-quick dry bandages.

Flavors burst on his tongue, almost overwhelmingly so, despite the replicated nature of the dish.  There’s texture, and he’s never going to take chewing for granted ever again.  He tries to pace himself and Shinsou, occasionally having to bump the Human’s hind limbs so he can slow down and take a breath.  

It’s over too soon.  He resists the urge to lick his plate clean, but Shinsou shares none of his reluctance, turning the packet inside out to reach the leftover sauce.

It’s mildly surprising.  He had assumed Shinsou would leave the vegetable and grain aside, but he had eaten it all despite what his set of teeth suggested.  Although, now that he’s doing more than sneaking glimpses when the Human’s eating, he can see that his back teeth are flat, made for grinding plant fiber.  An omnivore.  Got it.

He takes a swig of water to down the painkiller.  Thankfully, the med kit was supplied with a brand he was personally acquainted with.  The water doesn’t help his distended stomach, adding to the uncomfortable pressure that threatens to come back up at any harsh movement.  He didn’t pace himself as well as he thought he did.  Hizashi can’t bring himself to regret it though, and he’s certain he would salivate at the idea of their next meal if it weren’t for the nausea.

Shinsou doesn’t look so hot either, slouched against the wall with a hand over his abdomen.

“Do you feel weird?  Any difficulty breathing?”  Shinsou shows Hizashi a closed fist, all fingers tucked in the palm but for his thumb.

“Tell me if you think you’re having an allergic reaction, yeah?”  A bemused nod, and then they fall into comfortable silence.

He already sent out an improvised ping code with the built-in distress signals—he accidentally damaged the comms system when he disabled the mandatory tracker that sent out their location to the main Feczoit ship, and the escape pod was so old, it’s mainframe couldn’t support simple messages, let alone holocalls—and only had to wait for a response.

Hizashi rubs his face with his wing.  It’s prickly from his feathers regrowing, little patches where the golden tips had emerged from their germ spreading over his scapulars.  He can’t stop looking at them, urging the others to just grow already.

In the warmth of the shuttle, the hoodie isn’t necessary for his continued survival, but he’s reluctant to part away from it, even with the discomfort it comes with.  It makes him feel less naked than he is.  Less exposed.  He tied the sleeves lower on his shoulders though, even if it was more annoying, constantly having to rearrange the garment when it slipped down; his neck was finally free from the collar, thanks to a thin screwdriver and some clippers stored in a toolbox, and he’s not ready for anything else to come close to his irritated skin.  He could barely support the patches he stuck on the puncture wounds where the metal strings poked out, still attached to the two metal disks.

“Do you want to do something?”  Shinsou shakes his head in agreement and follows him, the opening of his water bottle left in his mouth.  He’s not drinking from it, just holding it there, but he doesn’t seem to be in any distress so Hizashi doesn’t bring it up.

With some help, Hizashi drags out what Nemuri likes to dubiously call the ‘pleasure basket’, taking out several things and putting them away under Shinsou’s curious gaze.  He’s too tired for the more complicated strategy games, and his broken wing really puts a damper on agility-based ones.  He also can’t go the lazy way and hand Shinsou a book, for obvious reasons.

A narrow blue container in the bottom of the basket catches his eye.  He pulls open the lid, half expecting to be greeted with dry brittle modeling compound only to be pleasantly surprised to find it soft and malleable.  He hands a clump to Shinsou, breaking off a piece of his own.  He can’t do much with one wing out of commission, and he has to content himself with squishing the modeling compound, occasionally sinking his talons in it.  Still, the soothing consistency calms his nerves.  

He almost laughs when he sees that Shinsou is squinting at his clump in confusion.  “You can make shapes with it, or just do whatever feels right.  It’s fun, try it out, listener!”

Shinsou doesn’t look very convinced, squeezing his clump hesitantly.  The way he keeps his left upper limb unnaturally quiet against his torso reaffirms Hizashi’s suspicion that his friend hadn’t been completely honest about his injuries.  Trying to make him share the extent of his wounds earlier had been almost as frustrating as the first few illegal scuffles Shouta and he had gotten into, when his mate had stubbornly thought he shouldn’t burden Hizashi with his troubles.  He barely got Shinsou to admit he felt dizzy.

His modeling compound smooshes satisfyingly against the floor, spreading in between his talons and distracting him from the itchiness that’s starting to overtake his body.  Shouta’s coming soon, and with him, actual medical supplies.  The scanner will find most, if not all, of Shinsou's wounds.  Until then, Hizashi has to monitor the Human’s health for any sign of deterioration, when all he really wants is to collapse on a cot.  Contrary to one might think, being unconscious is not restful at all.

At least Shinsou seems to be having a great time, despite his initial reluctance.  If Hizashi hadn’t witnessed Shouta carry on with his life as if he didn’t have a huge hematoma covering his side, he would have been convinced his friend was in great health.

Shinsou’s brow is all scrunched up in concentration, with a hint of tongue peeking out.  He molded his modeling compound into a misshapen sphere, and he’s in the process of pinching two triangles next to each other.  Curiosity gets the better of Hizashi, and he waits for Shinsou to finish detailing his sphere before pushing one of his hind limbs to get his attention.  “What are you making?”

Shinsou squirms a little bit, cheeks flushing a light pink, before signing stiltedly one handed.  “It is a pet on Dirt.  Very people have.”

Hizashi doesn’t ask if he has one, and Shinsou doesn’t offer more information.  From the way he cradles his modeling pet, Hizashi has the feeling it’s a sore spot.

Shinsou finishes rolling a snake and sticking it at the base of his creation to give it a tail, before showing it to him in his cupped hand.  It’s an artistic rendition of the human animal—or at least, Hizashi’s pretty sure it is, since it doesn’t look like anything that could survive a Deathworld—with a talon drawn face and asymmetrical lines adorning its cheeks.

“It looks good, listener!”  Shouta usually cuts Hizashi off when he uses his ‘children educator’ tone by dropping his scarf on his head.  Despite his exasperated huffing, the amused curl of his bondmate’s tail always betrays his amusement.

Shinsou doesn’t pick up the insincere tone, the corner of his lips twisting up.  Hizashi wants to laugh at how much Shinsou tries and fails to hide his beaming face by pretending to tweak his modeling pet with fumbling gestures.  Humans must not use positive reinforcement if the teasing compliment was enough to fluster him.

It settled something in Hizashi’s chest.  Those hints that Shinsou is nothing like the Humans featuring every gorey crime compilation.  That he can be gentle.  Soft, in that almost-but-not-quite way he had been that time he had been asleep.  Brief moments Hizashi can always fall back on when he’s taken by hints of primal terror, when the lingering purple blood crusted under Shinsou’s flat claws summons his prey mindset, and brought up half-remembered screams and faraway howls he overheard as he drifted in and out of consciousness on the way to the escape pod, now removed from their context and stitched together in a confused miasma only a pain-drugged brain could concoct.

He’s pulled out of his musing when Shinsou’s head snaps to the side with an alarmed look.  Hizashi follows his gaze to the console, immediately scrambling toward it.  He pulls out the logs, showed long scrolling lines of coords, with more still coming in.  Disregarding the coords' information after realizing they’re not changing, he turns to the time stamps to decipher their pattern.

DE NEM TEN.  SHO OK, ETA 50K AND OFF COMM.  QUR2?  DEATHW DANGER?  OV.

His ecstatic whistle catches Shinsou off guard.  Hizashi sends him a sheepish apology for making him drop his modeling pet, quickly translating the message to him while he sends out a response, tastefully deciding to leave out the last part.

DE HIZ.  QUR2 N.  DEATHW ALLY.  WILL INFORM OF SHO.  ALERT IF SHO COMMS.  XOXO.  OV.

While he waits for the radio waves to travel, Shinsou has turned his attention to his modeling pet, attempting to fix the flat side.  Now that it was apparent they weren’t in any danger, Shinsou completely lost interest in the messages.  Hizashi’s about to send another message when the shuttle receives another flurry of coords.  

DE NEM TEN.  WILL ALERT.  HAPPY HIZ OK.  ESCAPING ISC TTYL.  XOXO.  OV.

Disappointment washes over him.  He swallows it down, and turns toward Shinsou.  The flat edge of his modeling pet disappeared, although one side of it is a lot more lopsided than the other.  “Let’s get more comfortable, yeah?”

There’s a thick duvet folded in the corner of a storage cabinet, and with the Human’s help, they unfasten the sides to spread it out.  It’ll be thinner protection from the ground, but it at least covered enough surface area so they could both rest on it.  That, alongside the pillows that went past the sleeping quarter, would have been an automatic fail in his Category Nine Piloting lessons, but Hizashi can’t bring himself to care about the tripping hazards and potentially lethal projectiles in the event of an accident.  Getting his license revoked would be the least of his worries if the pod got accosted by an ISC patrol.

He’s the first to lay down on the gloriously soft duvet, unwilling to wait for Shinsou to get over whatever’s preventing him from crossing the invisible threshold of the sleeping quarter.  Finally, his weary bones get to be cushioned by something other than hard ungiving metal and oh, he can’t wait to sleep in his own bedding.  He’s at high risk of accidentally dozing off, but Shinsou seems fine enough at this point.  Loosening up a smidge should be okay.

Hizashi pats the place next to him, his eyes blissfully closed as he lazily attempts to bury his tail under a stray pillow.  It’s too still for a moment, and he’s about to call out for Shinsou—just feeling him stand around is making him tired and achy—when he senses muffled tremors and then shifting under him as the Human steps around to join him on the comfortable duvet.  He restrains himself from grumbling when Shinsou keeps moving to find a better position.

He waits until the tension leaves the Human’s shoulders, before clicking his tongue quietly.  Shinsou doesn’t react at first, not until he waves his wing lightly in his periphery.  “Shouta's going to come get us soon.”

Shinsou straightens, any signs of drowsiness completely evaporating.  He drapes his tail over his friend’s hind limbs, tapping them to be sure he has his complete focus.  “He’ll probably dock on the hatch.  Do you think you’re going to be alright with that, listener?”

Shinsou looks to the side, hand rising toward his neck before stopping in a stutter and letting it drop on his stomach awkwardly, his eyes flicking to him as if to see if Hizashi noticed the gesture.  Hizashi keeps a neutral expression, although he doesn’t think it’s necessary; Humans seem to use facial grimaces more than anything, judging by Shinsou’s insistence to constantly look at his face.  He’s proud to say that he’s almost completely used to it.  It helped that watching all of Shinsou’s muscles pull at his features was fascinating, the lack of feathers and fur making it easier to see the distortions.  Did Hizashi seem emotionless to him?  Maybe Shinsou would have an easier time reading Shouta; his bondmate’s ears and scarf were in the general proximity of where Shinsou’s eyes always defaulted to.

“I do not fight your friends.”  His friend’s hind limbs twist anxiously under his tail.

“Don’t worry, yeah?  Shouta is really nice!  You’ll get along well,” he signs, hoping for it to be true.  Hizashi scoots closer, offering his presence as comfort.  “I’ll be right there.  Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see!”

Chapter Text

The extremity of his scarf hovers above the door panel, where he hadn’t had time to input any information.

And yet.

The transition chamber lets out a dull hiss as it starts getting pressurized.  Shouta stares incredulously at the barometer and humidity sensor, updated every split clicks until the oxygen saturation stops at the level adequate for his body’s limitations.  The light over his head stops flashing in warning, the aggressive high pitched alarm lowering into a pleasant hum.  Safe to go.

He doesn’t dare let himself hope, not when the life pod he has been following had no hint of the serpentine patterns Hizashi enjoyed weaving when he piloted, not when there has been no moving silhouette flickering behind the viewing panels.  Not when his life pod received a series of distressed signals, sent one right after the other.

He briefly considers saying goodbye to Nemuri and Tensei, maybe leave a message for them to find, before discarding the idea almost immediately.  He can’t go into this fight with that mindset.  Besides, leaving a death message like that is bad luck.

Something moves, beyond the transition chamber.  It’s blurred by the remaining water vapor that hasn’t settled yet, but Shouta could recognize that form anywhere, had traced the lines of his body everyday until he could sculpt a model of his husband with his eyes closed.  Even without his recognizable feathers or the shape of his beak, the way he carries himself is unmistakable.  

Hizashi.

The sight is a punch to the lungs, a balm to his hurt.  His limbs go weak for a click as he stumbles closer, shortens the gap between them.  He throws himself through the hatches, only briefly envisaging that this could be a trap; some warring sentients sometimes puppeteered corpses to lure their grief-stricken enemies toward their death.

He discards the wandering thought when he hears the partner-whistle only Hizashi can produce.  Decades of living with Hizashi instinctually makes him fall back into habit; he braces himself when Hizashi hobbles toward him, one wing wrapped in quick-dry bandages and a cloth covering his naked upper body—seeing Hizashi without his feathers is disturbing—opening his scarf to soften Hizashi’s jump when he’ll throw himself at him.

That’s when he senses movement fluttering behind Hizashi, near the pilot area.

In any other instance, he would have taken in the fact that Hizashi hadn’t been frightened, that he must have spent all the trip with the Human and had the occasion to dress his wounds.  But Shouta’s hearts are leaping in his throat, and all he can see is a Deathworlder lunging at his partner.

They’re quicker than Shouta is, closing the distance between themself and Hizashi in long strides.  Despite being farther away, they reach Hizashi before Shouta does.

He expects to see his partner get killed right in front of his eyes, for limbs to twist and bones to be crushed.  How could he have missed them?  How many times has he berated newbie pilots, only to let his guard down now?

The Deathworlder hasn’t moved to kill Hizashi yet.

“Zashi,” he signs, slow and steady, forcibly lowering his hackles and fighting his scarf to settle into a neutral position.  Any sudden move could be read as a sign of provocation.  Could sign Hizashi’s death sentence.  “Don’t move.”

Hizashi’s tail is curled around itself, his eyes squinting in pain.  They’re holding him too forcefully, furless hands curled under his bandaged wing, crushing it between his body and the Human’s, the points of pressure making it hard for Hizashi’s thoracic cage to expand.  The Human is uncaring of Hizashi’s injuries, too busy baring their sharp uneven teeth in a show of territorial aggression, their face right up to his partner’s fragile neck.

Of course, that’s when Hizashi starts squirming in the Human’s grip, pulling and nipping at their clothes in a reckless attempt to free himself.  Shouta shifts, ready for the Human to lash out, stomach heavy with the knowledge that it’s unlikely he will be able to rescue Hizashi in time if the Human accidentally crushes him in their frustration.  

He falters when the Human sets Hizashi down more gently than Shouta would have thought a Deathworlder capable.  As soon as Hizashi’s free, Shouta can breathe easier, but his relief is quickly dashed.  His scarf escapes his control to lash out when Hizashi takes a step closer to safety only to be unceremoniously pushed back.

“Hey!  Stop that,” Hizashi signs while batting the Human’s grasping hands away.  Most of the words have been modified and rendered almost incomprehensible to Shouta.

The Human doesn’t respond even if their eyes follow Hizashi’s gestures, breathing hard and loud through their mouth.  Cogs are visibly turning behind Hizashi’s head, and Shouta has to tamp down the urge to grin.  Hizashi has a plan.  He turns toward Shouta, and Shouta expects hidden signals, an indication to cover his ears, or even when to jump in to surprise the Deathworlder.  Instead, Hizashi hums, way too calm for the situation.

“Shou!  Love, I’m really, really, happy to see you, but can you stop threatening the Human please?  He’s not going to attack me.”  And then Hizashi steps closer to the Deathworlder instead of away, making it even more impossible for Shouta to wind his scarf around his partner and pull him to safety.  He clicks his tongue to catch the Human’s attention, who snaps their gaze toward his partner at the noise.  Shouta instinctively lets out warning hiss to bring it back to him.

“Hey, no, look here,” signs Hizashi, thwarting Shouta’s attempts at saving his life.  His partner bears the weight of those beady eyes without a flinch.  

The Human looks conflicted, head twitching to try to keep Shouta in their field of vision, until Hizashi brashly pulls the Deathworlder down until they lower into a predatory crouch, ready to pounce at any moment.  They would only need to snap their teeth out to bite a chunk out of Hizashi.  His partner’s tail whips behind him, the only sign of his agitation.

Shouta doesn’t dare move.  He wants to scream, fling his scarf toward Hizashi to get him out of the way before he gets mauled, but he’s frozen by terror, the tension within him making his joints creak.  He’s seen how deceptively fast the Deathworlder is.

“That’s my partner, love of my life, Shou.”  The pleased embarrassment that his name always brings out when Hizashi uses it in front of strangers mixes with the rush of adrenaline, and acid bile rises up his throat.  “I told you he was going to come rescue us, yeah?”

The Human huddles into his partner’s wings, signing something frantic, and Shouta can only catch glimpses of some words.  “I—WHAT!?  No, no, listener, he’s not with the Feczoits.  Why do you think that?”

The Deathworlder sends him a simmering glare, their brow fur lowered menacingly, staring him down while he signs to Hizashi, explaining how Shouta had tried to attack him during their escape, had wanted to eat Hizashi.

Shouta’s fur puffs out at the blatant lie.  He hadn’t attacked the Human, they’re the one who stole his partner.  The Deathworlder throws their upper limb full of accusation toward him, one finger in his direction.  If he was Hizashi's partner, why did he attack them without asking any questions?

A ghost of embarrassment arises when Hizashi sends a dry questioning tail flick in his direction.  “I boarded a fighting-ring ship to save you, only to find you being carried off by a Deathworlder.   How was I supposed to know the Human wasn’t going to eat you?”

“Eat me?  Why does everyone think people want to eat me?”  Hizashi’s exasperated groan makes him want to sheepishly curl up.  At least, the Deathworlder cows under Hizashi's disappointment.  “Why didn’t you tell me you tell me about this?”

They lift their shoulders up to their neck, one hand twitching up before ducking their head, face pinking—vasodilation, a sign of anger?—while Hizashi looks at the ceiling, signing something too subtle and exasperated for it to be understandable.  Shouta takes the opportunity to creep closer while they’re not looking, but the Deathworlder’s head whips toward him, an apex predator sensing subtle movement in their peripheral vision.  Hizashi immediately puts himself between them, using his own body like a shield, as if he doesn’t reprimand Shouta for his own self-sacrificing issues before and after every mission.  And then, as if it isn’t enough, his uninjured wing hovers near the Human’s face and he starts petting their head fur, flattening it back and completely ignoring their aggravated jerk at being touched. 

“Okay, so my lovely Shou is going to come closer, yeah?  He’s a hero, just like me, so don’t attack, you got it?”  Shouta keeps his face impassive at the blatant lie.  Hero?  He gives an ambiguous huff and adjusts his posture, correcting his slouch when the Deathworlder looks at him for confirmation.  To Shouta’s astonishment, the Human somehow misses the lack of insignia marking him as an ISC patrol, the closest thing he could potentially consider a ‘hero’.  Hizashi waits for the Human to shake their head up and down before turning to Shouta, gesturing him to approach.  “Don’t worry, the staring isn’t a threat display!”

The staring is most definitely a threat display.  The Deathworlder doesn’t blink the entire time he makes his way to Hizashi, the white of their eyes showing unnaturally.  Shouta looks away—he doesn’t want the Human to take it as a challenge.  “Shou, love, this is”— Hizashi underlined the Human’s sign name with the whistle for ‘new friend’—”Purple.”

It’s a cute name that doesn’t match their frightening nature.  Shouta’s tension has nowhere to go, his body still in the mindset of 'fight fight fight’, and the fact it hasn’t been resolved yet makes him jittery and ready to snap.  He hisses quietly, his signing sharp.  “You named them?”

“Of course I did!  We’re friends, you know?”  Hizashi says, offended by his valid question.  And then, Hizashi let out the little nervous thrum that he always does when he’s about to tell Shouta something he won’t like.  “We might have packbonded.”

Shouta blanks at the statement.  Packbond?  A Deathworlder, a Human nonetheless, packbonding with Hizashi?  It’s something out of a badly written fiction story, and yet, Shouta can’t deny the apparent human garment draped over his partner, the way they move to stand between Hizashi and him—the perceived threat.  It doesn’t ease his worries; they could accidentally injure Hizashi, or lose their temper and take it out on him.

His doubts show because Hizashi signs, “I know, I know, but Purple’s super nice!  Do you think Weq•itqs like egraks?”  

Shouta and the Human both flinch, the Deathworlder when Hizashi’s wing almost slaps his face and Shouta from the Human’s reaction.  For the price of a few hearts palpitations, the Human leans away to not get caught in Hizashi’s enthusiasm again.

Thankfully, Purple isn’t upset by it.  Hizashi might not be lucky next time.  “Careful.”

“Don’t worry, love.  He’s really nice!”  Hizashi’s tail hooks around his wrist, squeezing reassuringly while he turns to the Human, who’s still crouched.  His wrist feels warm and tingly where he’s touched.  “Wanna tell him your human name, listener?”

Purple points at themself with a finger and says, “Shinsou.” 

Their human name almost sounds like a hiss, with odd syllables in between.  Shouta doesn’t want to offer his own.  What he really wants is to be in his ship, cuddling Hizashi in their den with Engine and Lamp.  Away from this place and it’s stench clinging to Hizashi’s skin, where they’ll be able to clean up and Shouta can take care of Hizashi’s wound.

“Shouta.”  But it’s more prudent to be polite while they’re stuck in a small space with a Deathworlder—no matter how much Hizashi claims they’re nice—until they can be somewhere safer.

Hizashi must sense his agitation, because he cuts through the staring contest that has somehow started between Purple—he refuses to use their actual name, and besides, he already forgot it—and himself.  “I’m going to talk a bit with my partner.”

Purple doesn’t take the hint, staring at Hizashi and Shouta intently.  There’s a terrifying, albeit awkward moment when Hizashi tries to herd the Human toward the strewn blankets, only for the Deathworlder to immediately trail after him when he steps away.  Hizashi has to push a modeling compound box toward him and push him down so he stays in the resting corner with a stern ‘Stay here, listener’.

Hizashi pulls him toward the pilot area, the sustenance compartments giving them a modicum of privacy by hiding them from the Deathworlder’s view.  It makes Shouta’s stress levels rise; his fur stands on its ends, ears swivelling to catch the slightest sound that might indicate the Human’s trying to sneak on them.  It takes all of his restraint to not scoop Hizashi up and try to make a run for it toward his life shuttle, far away from the Human.

Hizashi clicks his tongue.  “They’re really not going to attack out of nowhere.”

Shouta isn’t delusional enough to not acknowledge that he’s being irrational.  He still signs, “So you are admitting they could attack for a reason.”

His partner exhales loudly, the air tickling his fur.  “You know what I mean.  Come on, aren’t you glad to see me?”  Hizashi’s teasing tone misses the target entirely.  Shouta aches at the low trembling in Hizashi’s usually assured words, the way he sags and collapses on himself in the same way he does after long missions that involve too many sleepless cycles and too few survivors.

Instead of answering, Shouta gathers his life partner in his scarf, careful to not jostle the makeshift cast and the thin pin feathers, while he rubs his cheeks and the inner parts of his scarf over Hizashi to cover the mix of human stench and acrid fear with his own.  Purple’s garment is dropped at his feet.  It feels like coming back home, his supernova.  Alive alive alive.  “Zashi, I thought…”

He goes to bury his nose in the cold angle of his neck, intent on drowning himself in skin-dustyfeathers, but Hizashi flinches away as soon as he grazes the underside of his chin, tilting his head in a way that hides his neck.

Shouta takes in the bandages wrapped there, bulging slightly out.  “Did I hurt you?”

“No, sorry, it’s a little sensitive because of…”  Hizashi shuts his eyes to regain his composure.  “They had me in a collar to prevent my"—he gestures to where his amplifying organs rest in his chest—”you know?”

Something reaches in Shouta’s stomach and twists.  He suspected the Feczoits had done something to neutralize Hizashi, but to collar him, to bind him somewhere so private.  The most restrained Eer’ahseer would have been rendered into a mess.

“And it broke during the escape,” continues Hizashi, unaware that Shouta had been too blinded by his boiling rage to see what he had been saying, “and then I managed to cut off the outside metal with—so it’s not like it can hurt me again… but there’s still parts of it stuck, and I can't get some of the pieces out—”

“Zashi,” he interrupts, keeping his anger carefully hidden away.  It won’t help, not when his partner’s showing signs of hyperventilation as he works himself into full blown panic, and Shouta knows from experience that Hizashi needs to talk about his feelings but that he sometimes went too far in his head, and knowing when to listen and when to prevent him from spiralling down is something Shouta has learned through their time together.  “We’ll take care of it together.”

“I…”  Hizashi’s trembling too much for the words to come out.  “I don’t… my feathers…”

He says it as if it’s something to be ashamed of, as if he shouldn’t be upset by the violation.  It makes Shouta want to cry.

Gently, like Hizashi’s fragile gold thread, Shouta coaxes him closer.  Hizashi doesn’t resist him, lets himself fall forward until he’s cradled against Shouta’s chest.  Shouta kneads the tense muscles with his scarf a width away from his bandaged throat until the rise and fall of Hizashi’s chest against his transforms into heaving and the slight trembling grows into full blown shaking.  He loops his scarf tighter, partly to prevent Hizashi from falling apart by supporting most of his weight, partly to remind himself of his partner's presence.  He’s worryingly lukewarm from being unable to access his heating room, and Shouta intends on spending as much time in there with him when they go back home.  For now, this, sharing his warmth, will have to do.

Chapter Text

Hizashi’s all bundled up in his bondmate’s scarf, where he can feel the double badum badum of Shouta’s hearts against his head. 

Deep breaths warm the top of his head, tickling the nape of his neck.  He’s acutely aware of his lack of feathers when Shouta starts running his scarf on his naked back, and the vainest part of him screams to hide away and only come out when he’ll have all of his plumage back.  He has to beat the urge away with the reminder that Shouta has and will never care about appearances.

He curls further in Shouta’s front limbs, his mate answering his silent request to be held by squeezing him, positioning himself until he’s draped over Hizashi, hiding him away from the world.  It’s warm and soft, sweat with a hint of blood underlined with Shouta permeating the space between them.  For the first time since he’s been taken, he’s safe.  Covered in a way the hoodie could not achieve.

Here, protected, Hizashi can’t quite hold himself back, doesn’t want to keep all the anger and hopelessness and terror and guilt.  It spills over, a rush that can’t be contained and barely controlled, and Hizashi might have been afraid the intensity of his emotions would break pieces off him to carry away, but how can he when Shouta’s keeping him together?

When he feels like he won’t blow apart like a dropped fistful of sand, he parts away as little as possible, just enough to be able to speak, keeping their limbs entangled.  “I was worried you wouldn't—”  He interrupts himself.  It won’t do him any good to dwell on what-if’s.  “I'm glad you found me.”

Shouta’s scarf strokes his spine, warming his scales.  By the softer feel, he knows it’s the scarf’s inner length, where it’s more sensitive and isn’t used enough to develop hard calluses.  It follows the line of his back until the end of his tail, making him croon.

“Of course.”  Shouta signs it in the same way he did revolutions ago, when they declared themselves a bonded pair; certain, with no hint of uncertainty.  As if there was simply no other way it could have ended.

Hizashi’s talons run through the knots in Shouta’s fur.  He focuses his efforts on the top of his head and behind his mate’s twitching ears, where he knows they bother Shouta the most.  Something’s pinned there, and with a bit of fiddling, he unhooks it from where it was pinched too tight.

Shouta stiffens when he sees the earpiece, letting out a curse.  As soon as he unmutes it, the vibrations coming from the tiny speaker are loud enough that Hizashi can feel them even without touching it.  “Tell Nemuri and Tensei I say hi.”

“Hizashi’s safe,” he says instead, immediately grimacing and pulling the earpiece away from him, his ears flicking back.  His middle limbs move in tandem as he speaks in Standard, translating in See’krtsh’ish.  “There must have been interference.”

Hizashi thrills in amusement.  The earpiece had been clearly toggled on the off position.  Shouta closes his eyes in resignation when the lie doesn’t pass and their friends start lecturing him, leaning his forehead on Hizashi’s shoulder and keeping it pressed there.  Hizashi watches Shouta’s limbs, lazily following the mostly one sided conversation while he’s rocked by the low rumble when Shouta speaks on his uninjured side.  It takes a while before his bondmate can wedge a word in.  “The Human is—” his mate’s head twists around to check if Shinsou is still in the resting quarters—”I think Hizashi tamed a Deathworlder.”

Hizashi’s tail pulls at the pair of limbs framing him.  He didn’t tame Shinsou.  A loop of his mate’s scarf tangles around his tail as Shouta ignores his protests.  “He named him Purple. ”

He shouldn’t have given Shouta so much grief about the horrible name choice for his pets.  Speaking of which…

“How’s Engine and Lamp?” he asks with his free wing when his bondmate finally gets out from the call by promising Nemuri and Tensei that they’re okay, that they won’t get in trouble in the time it takes them to find their escape pod.

Shouta looks away, a heavy pause.  “We’re going to have to go fetch them from Toshinori.  I didn’t pick them up after you were… taken.”  His scarf tightens almost imperceptibly around Hizashi.  “He’s watching our ship too.”

The Oen•foaal doesn’t take as many missions as he used to before they found out about the extent of his injury.  They haven't quite been able to convince him that he doesn’t have to be useful to stay in their ragtag group, he has already helped enough, he deserves to rest, but they did succeed in turning his efforts to a less physically taxing task.  Now, he mostly gathers information and finds them ships to board, criminals to loot, safe planets where they can restock without the danger of being apprehended by the local authorities.  It also makes him the perfect candidate for babysitting duty when they can’t bring their pets on a mission.

“I video called them a few cycles ago.  Little bastards, like always.  They missed you.”  Shouta whispers the last part, limbs barely moving.  It looks a lot like ‘I missed you’,  and Shouta’s scarf pulls him closer, accidentally pushing his face in the unkempt fur, making him sputter through his mate’s heartfelt vulnerability.  Hizashi squirms until he’s not inhaling the long strands, discreetly wiping his tongue with his wing.  At least he isn’t the only one who hasn't cleaned up in forever.

“Hizashi.  Here.”

The fur shifts, and something is pressed in his free wing.

“My bonding bracelet!”  He hugs it tight, pressing it against his chest until a circle indent shapes itself on his skin. There’s a deep scratch he can ask to be filled the next time he passes near his home planet.  “Where did you find it?”

It had been taken from him when he had first been captured, alongside all of his jewelry.  He had fully expected never to see it again, had made his peace with it, and having it back is overwhelming.

Instead of answering, Shouta bumps the side of their faces together, his fur tickling him, signs, “Let me.”

His bondmate opens the clasp and slips it over Hizashi’s hind ankle.  He waits until Hizashi gives him the okay before closing it.  The metal is warm from his bondmate’s body heat, and it’s as if Shouta had wrapped his scarf around his ankle.  The weight is familiar, comforting.  He hadn’t noticed how off balanced he felt without it.

He’s pulled back into Shouta’s embrace, the skin of his bondmate’s scarf coiled around him, a slow lift until he isn’t touching the ground.

Hizashi’s enjoying the hold, and it’s only when Shouta’s stomach growls loudly that he realizes he’s been dozing off to the slow swaying.  “Let’s go eat something.”  He pushes himself away lightly with his wing.  “And don’t think we aren’t going to talk about the trick you pulled on Nemuri and Tensei.  They told me you left without telling them.”

Shouta reluctantly lets him down with a grumble, although he doesn’t untangle his scarf from Hizashi even when they walk back to the sleeping quarters.  Unlike the hoodie, the skin contact isn’t irritating his skin.  Despite not feeling like he needs it anymore, Hizashi makes sure to tie it around himself anyways.  It wouldn’t do to accidentally offend Shinsou by implying he doesn’t like his human packbonding offer.

Said Human is hunched over himself, the modeling compound untouched.  He must hear them coming because he lifts his head as soon as they exit the pilot area, waving lightly at their return.  His cheeks have red imprints from where they were pressed in his hands.

“You hungry, listener?”

Shinsou agreement-shake his head, but only stands up to move when Hizashi starts inputting his meal code in the replicator.  Shinsou goes to pick up a meal bag he had set aside in advance—a type of aquatic animal soup with vegetables—and goes to rehydrate it.

“Shouta, what do you want?  And don’t say a jelly pack!  There’s only standard meal packs programmed in here.”

His scarf flutters on Hizashi’s back.  “Not hungry.”

Hizashi turns around to face his bondmate, almost overbalancing when his makeshift cast prevents him from shifting his weight, but Shouta rights him up before he can fall over.  

(Hizashi can admit he’s being a little careless when he moves.  He has no excuse other than he missed Shouta’s touch.)

Hizashi inspects him, takes in his worn down appearance.  Shouta’s fur is sparser, his front limbs thinner where Hizashi is touching.  He’s lost weight.  “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

The subtil twitch in Shouta’s lips gives him the answer before his bondmate can come up with a lie—or a ‘logical ruse’ as he likes to call it.  Shouta sits down with a resigned huff, close enough to be able to intertwine their tails.  “R’bt ribs.”

Hizashi queues up the second meal with a smug look that Shouta tries to wipe off by tugging his tail lightly.

They just have to wait for it to be done.  Shinsou hasn’t come to find them yet, even though he should have already been done by now.  When Hizashi looks over to the rehydrator, he finds Shinsou fiddling with his food bag, staring at the machine with a lost look.

“Shouta, do you mind helping Shinsou out?”  The bewildered look he’s sent almost makes him laugh.  “Please?”

Shouta grumbles, touching their brows together for a quick moment before walking toward the Human.  It’s the perfect occasion for them to interact and overwrite their first—and second—meeting.  Shinsou will realize his bondmate is willing to help him, and Shouta will see that Shinsou isn’t going to snap and kill them for no reason.

It might take a bit more than this though.  Shinsou startles when Shouta comes up from behind him.  He’s making a clear effort to look away, but he can’t help glancing at Shouta’s face and neck, a light wrinkle on the bridge of his nose.

It’s making Shouta twitchy.  Without a word, he plucks the bag out of Shinsou’s hands to show him where he should put the rehydrator nozzle and which side to place it so it’ll scan the food bag.  Shinsou squints his eyes in concentration the whole time, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.

When the rehydrator is all set up and going, Shinsou signs a quick ‘Thank you’, eyes downcast.  His mate barely flicks one ear in acknowledgement before taking back his place next to Hizashi.

Their meals are ready almost at the same time.  Shinsou hesitates, scuffing his feet while he fiddles with his bag.  It’s only when Hizashi calls for him that Shinsou steps closer, although he still keeps a good distance between himself and Shouta.

Hizashi forces himself to eat slowly, counting to fifteen clicks before letting himself swallow his bites.  Shinsou tries to pace himself too, but he isn’t as successful, occasionally shoving down chunks of meat and handfuls of vegetables in his mouth before remembering himself.

When he’s finished, Hizashi can’t help eyeing the replicator.  He’s more than full, having had to choke down the last bites before Shouta stopped him.  A plate of fresh drupe shouldn’t sound so appealing, not when his stomach is so bloated.

A water-filled plate is waved in front of his face.  Shouta must have poured it while he was distracted.  “Drink.”

Instead of putting the plate on the ground, Shouta holds it up to his beak, the softer end of his scarf slithering around his waist and torso.  Hizashi’s heart does a small somersault at the show of affection.  His bondmate usually keeps his scarf to himself when they’re in front of others, preferring to keep tender touches for when they’re alone.  Hizashi’s disappearance must still be plaguing him.

Shinsou is nursing his own water bottle, his more malleable mouth able to drink directly from the small opening.  He’s carefully avoiding looking at them, his brows lowered.  It must be weird for him to witness this.  Hizashi can’t imagine Humans walking around and wearing their emotions for everyone to see.  Before Shinsou, he couldn’t imagine Humans being able to interact with each other for any other reason than fighting or mating.

“So!”  Shinsou jolts at the suddenness, and even Shouta doesn't expect it, his scarf stilling for a click.  “My friends are gonna pick us.  Please don’t freak out again.”

The Human agreement-shakes seriously, signing, “I do not attack Hizashi’s friends.”

It’s not like Hizashi thinks Shinsou’s lying, but he really doesn’t want another stressful meeting.  “One of them is a quadruped, kinda looks like Shouta here, but without fur.”  Hizashi waves his wing at his bondmate.  “He runs real fast.  And the other is a biped, like you!  She has sacs that contain a neurodepressor, makes you fall unconscious.  You haven’t met anyone like that before, right?”

E’nGnum and SoM-NamsM aren’t usually sought after for fight rings.  They’re more often poached for parts, their real values lying in E’nGnum exoskeletons and SoM-NamsM neurodepressor.  It doesn’t hurt to be careful though; if Shinsou has had to fight people who look like Hizashi’s friends, he wants to know now so he can reduce the risk of casualty to zero.

“Not going to attack,” Shinsou repeats.

Hizashi doesn’t push even if he isn’t completely satisfied with the answer.  He tries to bring his mate and his friend to talk to each other, but Shinsou’s too wary of his bondmate, interrupting himself to glance at Shouta, and Shouta’s only contributions are small grunts and high pitched sounds.  The conversation trails off and he eventually gives up, too tired to continue on.  The evershifting whirlwind of emotions he’s had to live through in the last cycle has drained him.  Shouta’s comfortable to lean on, even if his fur is greasy.

Hizashi realizes he accidentally dozed off when he’s woken up by gentle rumbling, the vibration tickling his teeth.  He’s warm, warmer than he has been in a while.  When he shifts, familiar skin rights him up, holding him so he doesn’t accidentally put his weight on his broken wing.

“Nemuri and Tensei called.  They’re here.”

That chases away all remnants of sleep.  He shoots up, hobbling toward the back porthole to peer outside.  If he squints, he can barely make out a clipper heading straight for them, growing bigger every time he blinks.

Shouta joins his side, preparing the pod to be docked.  He informs their friends that they're ready for boarding before unclipping the earpiece with a grimace, his ear flicking around to work out the strain.

“Shinsou, you ready listener?”

The Human’s in the middle of a stretch, one of his upper limbs—the uninjured one—held over his head with his fingers all extended.  “Yes.”

“They’re not going to hurt you or me,” he reminds Shinsou.

Shinsou’s gaze flick toward Shouta, a yawn stretching his jaw wide open.  “Okay.”

He seems more apprehensive than when they were waiting for Shouta.  Hizashi hesitates, turns the words in his head, before signing, “Listener, can you wait in the pilot area?  My friends might get scared if they see you without an explanation.”

Shinsou stays silent for so long, Hizashi thinks he’s going to refuse.  He’s about to tell him to forget about it when Shinsou’s eyes flit between the porthole, Shouta, and him, his lips thinning as he presses them together.  “Okay.”

He walks stiffly to the front of the pod, turning around to look at him.

“Just wait for me to call for you before coming out, alright?  They’ll like you!” Hizashi reassures.

Shinsou agreement-shakes, a bit stilted, before disappearing behind the sustenance cabinet, right as the ship starts shaking lightly, sending him stumbling back until Shouta catches him.  The shaking stops suddenly when the latches finally clamp down and the stabilizers start working in tandem.  His wings itch to flutter in anticipation.

Shouta and he wait for the chamber to pressurize, and then the hatch opens to let Nemuri and Tensei step in.

They look a little worse for wear than the last time he’s seen them.  Tensei’s exoskeleton needs a good buffing session and Nemuri’s decorative cloth has tears running down the side.

“You dumbass!  We were worried about you!”  Nemuri strides toward him, bumping their forehead together.  “And you!”  She turns to Shouta, the glands lining her sternum and neck turning warning-red in her anger.  “You can’t just leave without warning like that!”

Tensei makes his way to them at a slower pace.  He tries to hook his limbs with Hizashi’s, but the cast and Shouta’s scarf make the hug awkward.  “We’re glad you’re both okay.”

Shouta pushes past Nemuri, ignoring her scolding.  He nudges Hizashi forward, toward the clipper.  “Let’s go.  Hizashi needs medical assistance.”

“Wait, what about the Deathworlder?”  Nemuri looks around nervously.  “If you guys were playing one of your ‘logical ruses’, I swear—”

Hizashi’s about to call for Shinsou when his bondmate grabs Nemuri, pulling her along.  His ears are turned toward the pilot area.  “If we go now, he won’t notice.  Just don’t make too much noise.”

Comprehension dawns on her, and Nemuri pouts, signing a huge ‘Disappointed!’.  She follows Shouta to the transition chamber, her steps now silent.

Hizashi stops in his tracks, nipping a coil of scarf until Shouta slows down, indignation lighting his limbs when he’s shushed for the betrayed squawk he lets out.  “Hey!  What are you doing?  We can’t just leave Shinsou here.”

“Isn’t that why you sent him away?”  He tries to tug at Hizashi, but his unwillingness to hurt him makes it easy for Hizashi to resist and stand his ground.  “Hizashi, don’t get second thoughts now.”

“I—No!  That’s not why I—!  Shouta, he’s going to die here.  He barely knew how to use the rehydrator, how do you think he’s going to pilot the pod?”

Tensei and Nemuri stand frozen in the threshold of the hatch, their heads bobbing back and forth to follow the conversation.

Shouta has the audacity to huff, his ears flattening for a click.  “We’re not just going to leave him.  We’ll ping the Commission, they’ll pick him up.”

Hizashi lets out a disbelieving noise.  While they trusted the Commission to deal with most criminals, Shinsou’s a rare Deathworlder.  Not only that, but Humans aren’t on an officially registered sentient list.  The Commission’s more likely to keep him hidden away in a lab than to help him integrate one of the pre-contact colonies.

Shouta realizes his misstep and starts backtracking.  “We’ll call someone that’s more capable than us to help him out.  We know nothing about Humans.  For all we know, they don’t live in the same atmospheric conditions as us.  We could be killing him right now.  What are we even going to do with him?”

Shouta’s scarf is doing that rippling effect.  Hizashi knows him well enough to know that he’s using ‘rational’ arguments to hide a completely emotional reason for his disapproval.

“Shouta.  Listen.”   His bondmate reluctantly drops his front limbs.  Hizashi runs his free wing on the side of his face, caressing his cheek.  “Shinsou saved me.  He shared his food and water, he gave me his clothes.  He packbonded with me .   I owe him at least two life debts.  I can’t just—get rid of him!  He’s my friend.”

“He’s dangerous.”  Shouta’s scarf writhes around Hizashi, adds more quietly, “He hurt you.”

Hizashi winces at the reminder of how Shinsou had grabbed him.  Even though he’d been unconscious during most of the escape, he could still feel how tight the hoodie had been tied around him.  He’s lucky his ribs didn’t crack under the pressure.  Hizashi is absolutely not sharing that tidbit to his bondmate.  “He didn’t mean to, you know?  He just got startled, that’s all.  We’ll remind him to be more careful.”

The tension between them grows, holds their breath in a tight grip, only breaking when Shouta lets his head fall to rest on Hizashi’s brow.  “You can’t say anything about me bringing in strays anymore.”

Relief courses through him, makes him bury his face in Shouta's neck, running his beak over the naked skin before walking to where Shinsou’s waiting, his bondmate falling right behind.  He wouldn’t have left Shinsou all alone like that, especially by tricking him, but having to fight Shouta for it would have been more stress than he thinks he could handle right now.

Shinsou in that same position as before; tucked in a corner with his hind limbs bent to his chest, hands covering his eyes.  His shoulders rise in time with his breaths.

“Shinsou?”   Did he fall asleep?  Hizashi whistles an attention-grabbing tune when Shinsou doesn’t move, jolting back when his friend snaps his head up at the sound, eyebrows lifted high and lips slightly apart.  Hizashi thrills worryingly.  Shinsou’s pupil diameters are about the same as before, flitting around Hizashi quick and fast.  The edges of his eyes are slightly red, gleaming in the light.  “You feel okay, listener?”

Shinsou stares at him without answering.  Hizashi’s about to drag him to the clipper, where the medical supplies are better and therefore have a higher chance to detect whatever’s wrong with Shinsou when he agreement-shakes his head.  “Meet your friends?”

“Yeah!  Let’s go!”  Patting Shinsou with his wing is awkward when Shouta hasn’t stopped touching him, a coil of his scarf always around his shoulder, his waist, sometimes petting the back of his head.  His bondmate adds more length onto him when Shinsou stands up, but he doesn’t show any other sign of his discomfort.

Shinsou straightens up when he sees Tensei and Nemuri, but Hizashi isn’t fazed by his attempts to appear bigger; Shinsou is still trailing behind him, each of his steps having to dodge Hizashi’s tail from how close he is.

The Human falters, face suddenly turning bright pink, and he seems to find the floor absolutely fascinating to look at.  It doesn’t matter too much, Hizashi’s friends are too stunned speechless to notice Shinsou’s odd behavior.  He can’t begrudge them; the closest any of them have ever come close to seeing a Human is through blurry holovids or barely-holding-together remains sold by poachers. 

While live Humans are a lucrative business, they’re extremely rare to encounter; they’re expensive to procure, expensive to contain, and extremely dangerous.  Few wanted to deal with the headache of keeping a Human alive when there’s plenty of sentients that are less likely to destroy an entire ship but would still bring profit when thrown into a fighting arena.

Tensei is the first to shake himself out of his surprise, stepping forward and performing a formal E’nGnum greeting.

Shinsou stiltedly waves his forelimb, sharing his own name before he tries to repeat Tensei’s, mimicking his voice.  Shouta and Tensei look unsettled at Tensei’s warbly voice coming out of Shinsou’s mouth, but Nemuri’s shining with curiosity.  She leans closer when she tries to say his human name, but her lips won’t shape around the sounds well enough.

It snaps Shinsou out of his odd avoidance, although he still casts his gaze away from Nemuri, and his face hasn’t lost all of its pinkness.  While the two are going back and forth, Shinsou trying to coach her by exaggerating his mouth movements, Hizashi turns to his bondmate to sign, “Well, that went better than I thought it would!”

The glare he’s subjected to doesn’t even faze Hizashi, hasn’t had any effect on him for a long time.  “Don’t tempt luck.”

“Since when have you believed in luck?  Besides, I told you.  Shinsou’s nice!”

Shouta grumbles something under his breath, his scarf coiling back around Hizashi.  The soft skin rubs against his hind limbs and back almost aggressively, but his bondmate keeps the most callous parts over his scales.  Flakes of dead scales litter the floor around him.  “What are we going to do with him?”

Hizashi pats Shouta’s scarf.  “I thought we could teach him how to pilot a simple clipper, and if he wanted, he could integrate UA.”  He looks at his bondmate, an amused lilting hum.  “He’s not going to live with us forever, you know?”

The way Shouta lets out a relieved breath shouldn't amuse him so much, but he can’t help the few whistled laughs from escaping him.  The fond vibrations coming from his bondmate pulls out a few more whistles.  He feels light, lighter than he had for a while now.

Shouta’s nuzzling his shoulder when he startles, unintentionally hitting Hizashi’s head when he pulls back.  Coils and hands suddenly surround him, pushing him behind his bondmate.  His heart lurches in his throat while he takes a defensive stance.  He—he didn’t feel anything, the console isn’t flashing in warning, they aren’t getting boarded, but Shouta must have heard something, and his back is to Hizashi so he can’t ask what’s going on, all he can do is hope it isn’t the Feczoits coming back to get them, with bigger numbers and bigger weapons, because while they might have cut their losses and let Hizashi escape, they’ve invested too much into Shinsou to lose him.

Hizashi follows Shouta’s gaze, readying himself to see ugly armour embossed with the Feczoit insignia, only to find Shinsou, lips parted to show his teeth, expression frozen in confusion.

“What happened?” Shouta signs, hackles raised, his scarf subtly untangling itself from Hizashi, ready to be sent out.

Nemuri signs frantically, “Whatever I did, I didn’t mean any offense!  Hizashi, tell him!”

His brain’s frozen, still trying to comprehend what’s happening.  Hizashi forces himself to shake away the panic, makes eye contact with Shinsou.  The Human immediately latches on, fumbles through an explanation, pointing at his face.  “I scare your friends.  Accident.  I forget.”

It takes Hizashi a moment to understand what Shinsou means, and when he does, he almost falls over in relief, the vice around his chest easing up and leaving him feeling like he just flew through a sandstorm.  “Oh,” he signs, trembling from the surge of adrenaline, “if he shows his teeth with the corner of his mouth pulled up, it’s either an appeasement gesture or an indication of joy.”

His heart hasn’t calmed down yet and the few feathers he has refuse to flatten to a neutral position, making his uncovered skin have an odd bumpy texture, but it doesn’t deter him from being entertained by everyone’s reaction to Shinsou’s innocent teeth baring.

“Ah,” Tensei manages to sign weakly.  “Sorry Shinsou, we didn’t mean to react like this.  Hizashi, is there something else we should be aware of?”

Hizashi thinks for a click, adds, “It’s human custom to stare, so don’t mind that.  It’s really off putting at first, but you get used to it.”

Nemuri immediately stops pulsing warning-red, tries to rekindle the conversation she’d been having with Shinsou before the teeth-baring, but a hint of wariness now colours Tensei’s gestures.

Shouta takes longer to relax, and even when he does, he doesn't scarf Hizashi, opting to keep it ready and free.  He does rest a hand on Hizashi’s back, sneaking it under the hoodie, but it’s not the same, doesn’t quite ward away the restlessness threatening to burst through.  Hizashi doesn’t voice his disappointment.

“Let’s go back to the clipper.”  Shouta lets the others go through the hatch first, keeping Hizashi behind with him.  The transition chamber is cramped, not made to hold five people.  Fortunately, the squeeze doesn’t last too long.  As soon as the hatch opens, they all stumble out, Shouta even going so far as to shake away the feeling of bodies pressed against him.  While Tensei goes to the pilot console, Hizashi’s bondmate herds him toward the med bay.

He’s helped up the cot, and while Shouta tries to inconspicuously edge away from Shinsou’s curious stare while he calibrates the scanner, Nemuri waves her upper limb to get his attention, gesturing toward Shinsou.   “Hizashi, are you sure that’s a Human and not a new sentient that looks similar?  Convergent evolution and all that.”

“Yeah,” Tensei signs from the front of the clipper, fingers flying through commands while he takes advantage of Shinsou’s distracted state to inspect him, careful to avoid eye contact.  “I thought Shouta was trying to reassure us, but he really is short.”

Hizashi perks up, happy to share the hypotheses he’s been coming up during his emprisonnement, absently taking the quick-acting-short-lasting painkiller Shouta hands him and laying down so his bondmate can have better access to his wing, his tail swinging lightly over the edge of the cot.  It isn’t that he doesn’t enjoy speaking with Shinsou, but he’s been itching to talk to someone who has a better grasp on See’krtsh’ish.  “He really is a Human.  I thought it was strange at first, but I think it might be sexual dimorphism, or a rare phenotype?  His purple fur’s real eyecatching!.”

“I’ve never heard of a Human that came in that colour,” Tensei muses.  He types in coordinates, hand hovering over the last button.  “You guys need anything from the pod?  Last chance, I’m ditching it.”

He waits ten clicks for an answer, before he presses the button, the barely noticeable tilt the only indication that they aren’t attached to the pod anymore.  Tensei could drive through an asteroid belt without waking up most people.

Hizashi undoes the hoodie around him to make it easier for Shouta, using it to cushion his head.  Despite Shouta doing his best to be gentle while he undoes the ez-quick bandages, having wet them so they could soften, his broken bones seem to shift, grating together and echoing through the rest of his body.  Hizashi doesn’t dare look at the throbbing pain, not when Shouta lets out a hiss when his wing is completely uncovered, Shinsou blanching at the sight.  Shouta doesn’t let it faze him for long, already moving to his neck.  It’s somehow worse than getting his wing touched.  There’s no pain or odd pulling pressure, but every contact against his skin there makes him tense up in anticipation for… something.  Which doesn’t even make sense, because his bondmate would never hurt him, not intentionally.  Hizashi still has to resist the urge to snap at Shouta when he feels fingers touch him, dread pooling low in the back of his head.

“They really did a number on you.”  

Nemuri’s trying to distract him.  Hizashi sends her a grateful look, humming to ignore the fingers touching him while Shouta tries to unwrap his neck.  He puffs his chest out, head turned to the side in fake preening.  “Yeah, well, you should have seen the other guy!”

Her head twitches almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something passing through before she takes on a mock pitying look, blowing on her talons.  “What, did you bore them to death?”

Before he can defend himself, Shouta tsks at him to stay still, squinting at the scanner’s readings until he looks satisfied before passing the machine over the rest of his body, starting by his head.  Nemuri starts explaining what Hizashi’s bondmate is doing to Shinsou, and although Hizashi can’t follow the entire conversation with the way Shouta stands in front of him while he has to keep his head immobile, Shinsou seems to be understanding the gist of it.  It’s a pleasant surprise.  Hizashi hadn’t thought Shinsou would catch on to the different sign variations so fast.

“Healer, tell me, what’s the damage?”

His bondmate swats Hizashi’s tail with a huff.  “I’m not done yet.  For now, your broken humerus is the worst injury.”  He hesitates, gentle his gestures.  “There’s two metal disks leftover from the—the collar.  It’s right under your skin.”

Hizashi swallows at the reminder, the scraps of metal gaining weight.  Shouta senses the shift, pauses his scanning to brush their faces together and let Hizashi feel the comforting rumbling against his jaw.  While it doesn’t wipe away all of the discomfort, he does feel more relaxed, and he signals his bondmate to continue on.  Hizashi doesn’t join the conversation even if he can, satisfied to let Nemuri take care of it.  She’s now going on about a new medrepair model that was technologically advanced but not user friendly at all to an ever growing confused Shinsou.  The burst of energy he regained from seeing his friends has fizzled away, and Shouta’s skin against his, alongside the occasional rumble he gives when he warns Hizashi he’s going to scan another area makes his eyelids heavy.

The way Shouta’s ears flick around while he thinks makes him smile, makes him relax into the cot.  A stray part of his scarf comes down to rest over his uninjured wing.  “I think I can collapse the disks.  I’ll have to touch your neck a lot though,” Shouta signs apologetically.

His bondmate waits for his acquiescence before he brings out a small toolbox and begins sanitizing the screwdriver.  Every swipe adds another layer of unease to Hizashi’s trembling, his mouth dry when he tries to swallow.

“Hizashi, you want to see the pictures Toshinori sent?”  Nemuri holds her padd up to show a picture of Engine lazing over Lamp, who looks resigned to being stuck under her.  She swipes to another picture, this time of Toshinori laying in an uncomfortable position, unwilling to move and wake Lamp up from where she’s sprawled over his chest.  Engine is sitting in the palm of his hands, grooming herself.

Shouta picks up the screwdriver, the cold disinfectant wipe against his neck making Hizashi startle.

When Shinsou shuffles closer, silently asking permission to see, Nemuri tilts her padd to allow him to look..

He can feel his skin being stretched, the disk shifting despite Shouta holding it down.

Shinsou slowly turns to look at Shouta, and then back to the picture.  His hand lifts up and down, words aborted midway.  Finally, he asks, unsure, “They are… littles… of your bondmate?”

Silence, and then Nemuri wheezes, unable to hold herself up as she shakes her limbs in laughter.  The loud whistle he lets out takes him by surprise, and even the feeling of the disk suddenly snapping close and being pulled out, rivulets of blood tickling him before Shouta can wipe them away, isn’t enough to stop his laughter.  The only resemblance between his bondmate and their pets is their darker fur and their ears.  Did Humans have bad vision?  If he squinted and closed his third eyelids, Lamp could maybe look like a smaller, scarfless version of Eer’ahseers.  She would need another pair of limbs, longer fingers, a longer snout, and Hizashi could kind of see it.

“It’s—no—I—” Nemuri tries to say, “they’re his—”  She gives up, hands laughing too much to talk.

Tensei waves to catch their attention, swiveling in his chair.  “See, Shouta?  The Human hasn’t even met your mèos, and yet he already thinks you act like them.”

He loses his composure again at Shouta’s affronted glare, letting him turn his head to the side to get the other disk while he tries to breathe through the long whistles.

“Sorry Shinsou, we aren’t laughing at you.  It’s Engine and Lamp, I told you about them, remember?”  Shouta’s a lot faster with the second disk.

Shinsou flushes red, signing an embarrassed ‘sorry’ at Shouta, who walks past him to get to a machine partially slotted into a recess in the wall.  “We can use the medrepair.  There’s no fragments.”  Shouta brings up the barriers and lowers the medrepair’s arm until it barely misses touching his wing.  “Nemuri.”

She waves at Shinsou, who looks conflicted between awed and alarmed at the machinery.  While she scans his break again, Hizashi gestures at Shinsou to come closer.  The Human’s nervous, fingers tucked in his palms as if he’s scared he’ll break something if he touches it.  Which, considering his strength, wasn’t unlikely.  “It’s going to send targeted rays that’ll stimulate cell regeneration.  It’s safer than it sounds,” he tacks on when Shinsou seems more worried.

“Okay, let’s turn that baby right up!”  Nemuri makes sure everyone’s clear, nudging Shinsou away before she activates the medrepair beam.  It has numerous failsafes, but it doesn't prevent Shouta and Nemuri from monitoring him closely, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of trouble.

Even if he expects it, the sudden tingling sensation takes him by surprise.  It grows in intensity, making him grit his teeth through the insects crawling through his wing and the ebb and pull of his spasming muscles.  He must have metabolized the painkiller already.

“Aaannd… it’s done!,” signs Nemuri.  “We only let it heal so you won’t need a cast, but it’s still going to be weaker than usual.  Don’t get too wild with Shouta~”

As soon as the medrepair powers down, Hizashi lets his good wing fall over his face with a groan to block away Nemuri’s cackling.  Shouta doesn’t let him rest there, pulls him up and immediately moves to massage the cramps away and encourage blood circulation.  A new patch of feathers are revealed where the medrepair accidentally sped up their growth.  Hizashi rattles his beak at Nemuri when she covers her eyes with a scandalized gasp, sending her a rude gesture when she peeks through her fingers.

Once Shouta has made sure the tingling has faded, he helps Hizashi down the cot.  Hizashi slowly flexes his wing, holding his breath until he’s sure there won’t be any flare of pain.  He doesn’t think there’s any numbness, and flaring the feathers there is as easy as usual.  He’s rewarded with a brow-bump from his bondmate when Hizashi assures him there doesn’t seem to be any lasting damage, although Shouta still passes the scanner over his wing to be sure.

Hizashi encircles his mate’s front limb, unable to stop himself from teasing him when he notices that his bondmate’s scarf has come up to hide the bottom of his face while he tries to pretend he’s immune to Nemuri’s antics.  His amusement sours when he catches the way Shouta’s placing himself between him and Shinsou, shifting in time with Shinsou’s attempts to approach him.  He takes the scanner from Shouta's hand, having to curl his short talons tight around the handle to compensate for his weaker wing.  It doesn’t help that it’s a bulkier model than he’s used to.

“Shinsou,” he calls out, “your turn!”

Shinsou takes a step back, eyes wide.  Ignoring Shouta’s glare, Hizashi tries to reassure his friend.  “It only hurts a little.  I know there’s something wrong with your shoulder, come here.”

Shouta’s ears are pulled back in barely concealed agravement when Shinsou obeys him, skittishly sitting on the edge of the cot, ready to bolt at any moment.  Shouta goes to take the scanner, but Hizashi dodges his scarf.  He’s already asking a lot from Shinsou by making him show his injuries in front of the others when they weren’t pack yet.  Having someone familiar doing this should put Shinosu a bit more at ease, especially since he already doesn’t look comfortable doing this.

“Okay, so I’m going to scan you.  This shouldn’t hurt at all.”  Shinsou doesn’t move a hair, eyes following the scanner nervously.  Hizashi starts with his hind limbs first, standing on the side in case Shinsou reflexively kicks out.  He doesn’t think Shinsou’s injured there, but it’ll help get him get used to the scanner without having him feel too threatened by it.  Hopefully, he’ll let Hizashi scan the rest of him without making a fuss.  “Can you move the cloth?”

Shinsou agreement-shakes, pulling the clothing up so his hind limbs are bare until the top of his knees.  Aside from the dark purple and fading yellow bruises mottling his hind limbs, his skin is as pale as his face, no patterns or scales or anything.  Humans really are just… fleshy.

There’s nothing too serious that he can spot—excluding the bruises and the weirdly shaped feet—and the scanner isn’t calibrated for Humans, so Hizashi has no idea what Shinsou’s base state should look like.  All he can really do is compare both sides of Shinsou’s body and hope the scanner works.

Nemuri looks over his shoulder, bumping into Shouta from how close he’s sticking to Hizashi.  The three of them are invading Shinsou’s space, making him lean so far out, Hizashi’s worried he’ll tip over and fall.  “Do you even know what you should be looking for?”

He shoos her away, already aware Shouta won’t budge from his place no matter how much he insists.  “Well, it should be able to pick up on anything life threatening at the very least.”

His upper limbs are next.  Shinsou doesn’t want to take off his cloth this time, be it from the pain it would cause by moving or from modesty.  Hizashi doesn’t begrudge him; he can’t even imagine how awful it must be to run around without anything covering his skin.  At least, for him, his nakedness is temporary, and even with pin feathers already covering his entire body, he’s still self-conscious about it.

Everything looks relatively healthy until he passes over Shinsou’s left shoulder.  There’s a long hairline fracture running through the head of his humerus, and a huge collection of blood has been gathering in the articulation.

“How did you even move around with this?”  Hizashi doesn’t know how Shinsou acted so casually all this time without any painkillers and when his shoulder wasn’t immobilized.

“It is fine, no need,” Shinsou signs, already pushing himself off the cot.  Hizashi doesn’t let him, holding his hind limbs in place with the weight of his body and ignoring Shouta’s alarmed orders to stop.  Shinsou quickly stops trying to escape, which Hizashi would have been proud of if he didn’t suspect Shinsou was mostly settling down to prevent accidentally hurting him.

“What is it with me being surrounded by people who refuse medical care,” he signs dramatically.

“Didn’t you try to downplay your ankle injury to Shouta several revolutions ago, when you—”

Hizashi flutter his wings—plural!—to cut Nemuri off, hoping Shouta didn’t see what she said.  From the displeased way his tail has puffed up, he knows he’ll get questioned about this later.  “You promised you wouldn’t say anything about the Incident .”

Nemuri motions at him to continue scanning Shinsou, a smirk lining her fingers.  He swishes his tail in her direction, turning his back on her.  At least she isn’t spilling what happened, judging by Shouta’s pout.

Surprisingly, Shinsou puts up less of a fight when Hizashi moves to scan his abdomen and chest, even if it’s a pretty vulnerable place.  He… doesn’t think there’s anything worrying?  Shinsou’s doesn’t show any indication he’s in pain when Hizashi pokes him, so he’s pretty sure his friend’s okay.

Hizashi pats Shinsou’s lower limb when he bends his head to ease his job.  The scanner doesn’t pick up on anything important; a bruise under his fur, the long scratch over the bridge of his nose, the wound on the back of his neck, and—

“Oh, I’m so sorry Shinsou, I really didn’t mean it!”  He frets, wings hovering over Shinsou’s ears.  He barely remembers screaming, and somehow, that makes the guilt hit harder.  “Burst eardrums usually heal fast, you’ll get your hearing back in no time.”

“It is fine,” Shinsou signs, but some tension leaves his shoulders.  “I know it is accident.”

It doesn’t alleviate Hizashi’ guilt.  He reaches up to pat his head fur as another form of apology, almost crooning at the way Shinsou lightly leans into the touch.

“Okay, Shinsou, lay down, try not to move.  We’ll only fix your upper limb, is that alright?”

Shinsou lays down, rubbing the edge of his clothes between his fingers and looking wide eyed at the medrepair.  Barring the small jolt when the medrepair starts up, Shinsou doesn't show any indication of pain, impassive while his articulation gets drained and the bone knits back together.  The layer of fabric lengthens the time it should typically take, but Shinsou doesn't seem fazed by the particular tingling that always comes with cell regen, so Hizashi won’t insist on him taking it off.  They’ll just have to follow the progression more closely to prevent Shinsou’s skin from accidentally fusing with his garment.

It looks to have gone well; Hizashi and the scanner can’t detect any inflammation or blood in his articulation, and the hairline fracture has disappeared.  Shinsou’s even moving his upper limb semi-normally, brows lowered while he inspects it.

“How long ‘til we reach destination?”

Tensei brings up a screen over the fuel indicator.  “About half a cycle.”

“Enough time to plan how we’re going to sneak Shinsou past Toshinori then.”

The E’nGnum clicks his plates in disapproval.  “You’re not going to tell him?”

Hizashi takes a page out of Shinsou’s book and fixes him with a flat look.  “He can’t keep a secret even when he tries his best.  Do you want the whole quadrant to know we’re harboring a Human?”

Tensei moves to respond, pauses.  Finally, he signs, “What’s the plan then?”

Chapter Text

They’re all sitting in the shareroom, nervous energy weighing the atmosphere down.  While Engine doesn’t care, a little bundle perfectly content to be cradled in Shouta’s middle limbs,  Lamp has darted back into Toshinori’s ship as soon as her tongue flicked the air, clicking in front of the scullery door until the Oen•foaal had let her in.

Shouta eyes Toshinori’s sheepish pose.  He still can’t believe Toshinori buys his mèos fresh agki meat when his own plate is so bare.  Shouta himself didn’t eat that well every cycle.  Lamp was probably looking for one last bite before she had to go back to her usual—premium—wet food.

Thankfully, Toshinori doesn’t notice the way Tensei won’t stop glancing at the hatch separating their two ships, absorbed in a conversation with Hizashi.  Shouta’s keeping an eye on the hatch too, but at least he’s discreet.  “By the way, did you change the oxygen level?”

(They had barely managed to dock the clipper onto Shouta and his partner’s ship, catching it at the end of its maintenance run cycle, right before it was about to return to Toshinori’s ship.  His partner had only just managed to usher Shinsou into the scullery when Toshinori had rushed inside to greet them.

Shouta doesn’t like that they left the Human all alone on his ship, without supervision.  Nothing prevents them from wandering around and damaging important equipment.  He could be stinking Shouta and his partner’s resting quarters right at this very moment and Shouta wouldn’t know.)

Toshinori flusters at the question, his feelers lowering to feel Hizashi’s head, only to stop and back away right as they’re about to touch skin.

“A-ah, you noticed, young Hizashi?”  He looks away, ducking his head to let out a few wheezing breaths.  “It’s better for my wound.  The expense makes it worth it.”

Four pairs of eyes turn to stare incredulously at Toshinori.  He has never once admitted his injury bothered him, or let them know about the supplementary measures he had to take to compensate and facilitate his life.  Having him take care of all the info gathering had only worked because Hizashi and him had begged him to take care of Lamp and Engine when they had been on a particularly dangerous mission.  Him finally caving in and living in a more oxygenated environment instead of the usual oen•foaal atmosphere that always leave Shouta breathless is almost a miracle.

“Are you dying?  You’d tell us if you were dying, right?” Nemuri signs, a little frantic.  Shouta can’t deny that he’s worried too; Toshinori’s laugh has never been quite the same since his injury, but has it always been that weak?

Toshinori quickly waves his limbs to dispel the notion, feelers standing straight up in shock.  “N—no, I only had a, a wake up call, you might say.”  His hand ghosts over his wound.  He adds with a wince, “And Chiyo is very convincing.”

Shouta tilts his head in sympathy.  She’s truly a force to be reckoned with.

Toshinori suddenly takes a more serious pose, folding his claws over each other.  “I want to apologize to you, young Hizash.  I should have investigated what organizations were flying around your quadrant.  If I had known, if I had warned you…”

He trails off, bending in the middle as if the misplaced guilt he’s been carrying has finally taken its toll on his body.

Hisashi pats Toshinori’s forelimbs.  It leaves specks of green blood over his fur.  “Don’t be an idiot, yeah?  None of this was your fault.  Or your responsibility, for the matter.”

“I’m sorry.  You’re the one who went through this horrible experience, and yet I’m the one getting comforted.”  Toshinori clasps Hizashi’s shoulder, his paw engulfing half of his torso.  “I’m overjoyed you have been found.  If you need anything, I’m always there for you.  All of you.”

They would have stayed like that for longer if they weren’t interrupted by a resounding crash in the scullery, where Lamp had run off to.

“Sorry about Lamp.  I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble,” Shouta signs.  He wants to go back to his ship and pretend the Human doesn’t exist, nap with Hizashi, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t grateful for what Toshinori has done.

“It’s really no problem.  I quite enjoy spending time with your mèos.  They keep me company, make my ship livelier.”  A loud thump.  Toshinori stands up, and Shouta hadn’t imagined it, his laugh has a breathier quality to it.  “Let me bring you some snacks while I go check on what, what she’s doing.”

Shouta goes to join him—he isn’t going to let Lamp destroy Toshinori’s ship and do nothing about it—but the Oen•foaal pushes him back down, feelers twitching in protest.

“You need to rest.  Let me.”  Shouta goes to sign something, but Toshinori cuts him off.  “Indulge this elder.”

He’s off, feelers fretting nervously as he anticipates the damage done to his scullery.  Shouta grimaces at the reminder of Toshinori’s age.  He isn’t that old—for an Oen•foaal at least—and he has a long time in front of him, but every time Shouta tries to remind him that he’s far from an elder, he only nods indulgently, a limb twitching toward his wound.

“She got it from you,” Hizashi signs.

Shouta’s tail still.  When it’s obvious Hizashi isn’t going to add anything else, he decides to be a good partner and take the bait—

“What are you talking about?”

—and immediately regrets it when Hizashi’s sparse crest slowly rises in glee.  He hisses a warning, but Hizashi flicks his tail innocently.

“Your kit’s a troublemaker, love.”  Hizashi crows, singsigning and hopping away from Shouta’s light swat.

His ears pull back.  Because of Purple’s comment, he’s going to be teased about this until the end of time.  “If anything, Lamp got it from you.”

Hizashi squawks in outrage, beating his wings overdramatically.  Nemuri’s head hits Tensei’s limb when she bends over too fast, hands laughing too close to the E’nGnum’s face if the way he’s leaning away is anything to go by, but amusement still lines the tired curve of his back.   “You’re not even denying that Lamp’s your kit.”

Shouta’s saved from answering Tensei when Toshinori reenters the room with an assortment of fruits and cuts of meat.  Lamp is perched on his shoulder, his flabby loose skin giving her several footholds.  She leaps onto Shouta, who has to catch her before she goes tumbling down.  Somehow, she looks smug, even though the only reason she hasn’t crashed face first into the floor is because of Shouta’s quick thinking.

Toshinori waits until everyone has picked up something to eat.  “I found out some information about”—his feelers twitch toward Shouta’s partner—”Overhaul’s plan for young Hizashi.”  His gestures are small, tight against his core, as if signing louder could summon the alien.  When he’s certain Hizashi isn’t distraught by the news—they had told him on the clipper—he continues, “There was supposed to be a trap.”  Dread starts to pool in Shouta’s scarf when Toshinori sends him an apologetic gesture.  “There were… schematics.  About… combining… the best parts of different species.  Together.”

Tensei stands up in shock, his piece of fruit dropped on the floor.  “Is he still after them?”

Shouta wounds his scarf tighter around Hizashi’s waist.  He knows his species is sometimes sought after, for the simple fact that Eer’ahseers usually don’t travel this far out in the galaxy.  It makes him a rare acquisition for taxidermy collectors or poachers.  Or scientists.  He almost got Hizashi worse than killed.

Toshinori shakes the numbness out of his wrists.  “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.  I took care of it.”

“He has a lot of connections with powerful people,” Nemuri reminds him.  “No charge will stick.”

“I took care of him,” Toshinori repeats.  “He’s never coming back.  I made sure of it.”

Shouta’s fur slowly puffs out as he gapes at Toshinori.  That almost sounded like—

The Oen•foaal signs with a  slightly more defensive tone, “He hurt a lot of people.”

“And… you’re okay?”  Hizashi asks, his skin all bumpy from surprise.  Toshinori, like the majority of his kind, has a distaste for killing.  His rigid stance and complete refusal to kill in the beginning had initially been a point of contention between him and Shouta, until he learned that it’s one of the only beliefs Toshinori can carry, one of his only connections to his almost wiped out species.

Toshinori’s words are slow, serious, well thought before he signs them.  “I didn’t see any other choice that would have ended better than this.  You don’t have to worry about me.  I have people I can talk to.”

Nemuri interjects, waving at the air and Toshinori’s wound.  “Did you get injured?  Is this why you need more oxygen?”

“Oh, no, I stayed back while… trusted individuals were raiding Overhaul’s base.  I only came in when they gave the all clear.  To help my—some of the—the remaining victims.  And assure his death.”  He makes a crushing gesture with his hands and immediately grimaces with regret.  He turns to Shouta, feelers drooping softly.  “I had Lamp and Engine waiting for me.  I couldn’t risk my life and leave them behind.”

Shouta brings Toshinori’s head down until he can give him a soft bump, careful to avoid his feelers.  “Thank you.”

Toshinori seems to understand he isn’t only thanking him for taking care of his mèos.

Afterwards, the rest goes on in a blur.  They finish the plate, the easy conversation floating around Shouta, trying to cocoon him in a peaceful blanket.  If it weren’t for the Deathworlder waiting in his ship, Shouta would have fallen asleep.  Hizashi senses his agitation and starts rounding it up.  They give their goodbyes and promise to see each other soon, Toshinori handing Hizashi a small basket with various creams and soaps.  When he starts to explain how to apply them on his partner’s featherless skin, Shouta turns away to give them some privacy.  He doesn’t think Hizashi would mind him listening, but Toshinori is already uncomfortable when people stare at his missing patches of fur for too long.  Having Shouta know how he has to use special soap because of them when Toshinori only intends to share the information with Hizashi would be rude.

After a few moments, Toshinori makes a noise to get Shouta’s attention, a grateful curve to his feelers.  “I won’t disturb your time with Hizashi any longer.  You can stay docked as long as you need.”

Hizashi slumps in relief when the hatch closes between them and Toshinori.  “Okay, I don’t think he suspects anything.”

Lamp tries to squirm out of his scarf, but Shouta doesn’t let her scamper off like she usually does.  He doesn’t want her to be alone with the Deathworlder.  Scratching her side earns him aggravated clicks, but she settles down after he chids her.

“Are you really going to be alright with the Human?” Tensei asks.  “I can stay here longer.”

Hizashi lets himself fall on Tensei.  “My Purple friend isn’t going to kill us, I swear.   Besides, I'm sure kit Tenya misses you.”

Tensei doesn’t sign anything, but he relaxes at the dismissal.  “I’ll holovid you when I get home.”

Shouta locks his mèos in his resting quarters, where the Human won’t be able to get to them without breaking down the door, and heads to the scullery.  

The Human’s still in there.  It doesn't look like they moved, and the door doesn’t have any new log.  They give a small wave with their upper limb, muttering something in their human dialect when Nemuri and Tensei get back in the clipper.  Tensei will drop Nemuri at her secret base, ditch the clipper at a shipyard, and then go to his home colony.

Hizashi and he are alone with the Human.  Great.

“How do Humans usually wash up?”

Shinsou blinks slowly, the cogs in his brain turning slower than usual.  “Water?”

Hizashi gestures at him to follow him, bringing him to their washroom.  He should have guessed.  He doesn’t think Humans are advanced enough to have the sonic washer Shouta prefers—Hizashi tried it once and almost threw up from the way the strong pulses of air and energy had ruffled his feathers, never again—and Shinsou’s naked skin didn’t look prone to sand.

Shinsou’s focusing intently when he shows him how to use the toilet and the faucet knobs.  He makes Shinsou put a bit of Toshinori’s hypoallergenic soap on the skin of his inner upper limb, only allowing him to use it when he’s pretty sure Shinsou won’t have any allergic reaction to it.

The Human shifts his weight from lower limb to lower limb, giving him a small rocking motion.  He plays with the ear plugs and the pan—to pour water over himself since the tub is too shallow.  His eyes keep flicking around the room in a way Hizashi has come to learn means he’s on edge.  

Right, Hizashi’s ‘pack’ now, isn’t he?  He should be keeping watch while Shinsou’s naked and vulnerable.  “I’ll wait right outside, yeah?  Knock on the floor if you need anything.  And don’t let water get in your ear!” he reminds him once again.

He places the new garments they found in the clipper near the old bed covers Shinsou needed to dry himself.  The garments are from the previous clipper’s owner, an Afs’A.  Shinsou only has to tie nonstick bandages around his waist and it fit pretty well if anyone were to ask Hizashi.  They show the lower half of Shinsou’s lower limbs, as well as the ends of his upper limbs, and the holes where he threads his upper limbs through are big enough to see his flank, but Shinsou doesn’t seem to mind it much.  They found another similar garment, so Shinsou should have plenty of things to wear.

One last encouraging chirp and he shuts the door.  He hopes Shinsou doesn’t take too long.  Hizashi’s tail is really itchy, and he really needs to humidify it.  It’s just his chance that his ecdysis happened while he was captured.

Shouta needs to wash too.  Hizashi enjoys being held and kept close to his bondmate, but he’ll definitely enjoy it even more when they’re both clean.  And less itchy.

A single claw comes up and starts scratching at the base of his wing, in one of the most difficult spots to reach by himself.

“What are we going to do with Engine and Lamp?  They can’t stay cooped up for long.”  Shouta’s light scratching is bliss, the way he smooths and realigns the few feathers he has, and occasionally rubs away his tiny feather sheaths.  They probably shouldn’t do this in the hallway, where his feather dust will be more difficult to clean up, but right now, Hizashi doesn’t care.  He will nip Shouta if his mate stops.

“Shinsou won’t kill them.  He told me a lot of Humans have pets. ”

His mate unfolds his wing to inspect his bruises.  His tail has come to wrap around Hizashi’s, who has to swallow his disgust when Shouta’s fur and skin gets caught against his peeling scales.  “Are you sure his definition of a pet and our definition of a pet is the same?”

“Yeah, well, he said some people use them to hunt, or guard their homes, or as transportation, but they’re mostly there for companionship.”

“He might be okay with Lamp, but what about Engine?  Are you sure his instincts won’t make him try to attack her?”

Hizashi—Hizashi hadn’t thought of that.  He takes a moment to consider Shinsou’s behaviour, pushes through the initial instinct to shy away from the reminder of his vulnerable state.  “I don’t think he would.  He helped me even when I was useless.  Back with the Feczoits.  Even with others, when he had to fight, I heard he was lenient toward the smaller aliens.”

The floor vibrates in a way that indicates Shinsou got out of the tub and is dressing up.  A long exhale tickles his face, brings his attention back to Shouta.  Their foreheads knock against each other.  “I'll trust your judgment, Hizashi.”

It doesn’t comfort him.  If anything, it actually raises his anxiety a notch.  He hopes his bondmate’s faith isn’t misplaced.  He’s indebted to Shinsou, but if he hurts Engine or Lamp—or worse, Shouta—he won’t hesitate to send him out the airlock, life debts and everything.  “We’ll make a supervised meeting, yeah?.”

The door slides open, interrupting their moment,  A wave of heat washes over them, almost as hot as the dry seasons of his home planet.  And Hizashi loves his bondmate, but he’s so itchy, he’s been preventing himself from clawing his tail for forever.   He rushes in the washing room, not bothering to close the door—unlike Shouta, and apparently Shinsou, Hizashi’s more used to washing with other people and having preening circles afterwards.

He dives right in the tub, only taking the time to take his bonding bracelet off and put it on the side of the tub.  He tweaks the water until it’s just right, and after the initial sting of his wound fades, he feels like he can dissolve right then and there.  The water lapping at his naked skin is so weird, but not bad weird.  He doesn’t get why Shouta hates wetting his scarf that much if this is how it feels.  He flaps his wings, flaring his few feathers to shake off the blood and grime, but he has to resign himself to use Toshinori's soap for youngs over the rest of his naked skin when flailing around doesn't really get rid of anything.  It takes three refills before the water stops turning cloudy, and by then, almost all of his energy is depleted.  He makes sure his tail is fully submerged before letting his head rest on the side of the tub, closing his eyes and simply enjoying the warm water.

Shouta and Shinsou don’t come in, instead standing awkwardly beside each other.  They aren’t Hizashi’s problem right now.  They can interact without his input.

He can’t wait to sleep in his cot.  The cell’s floor hasn’t been agreeable to his body.

When the water becomes too cold to endure, he forces himself out of the tub, trying to quickly make his way to an unused bed cover Shinsou had left him, shivering so much that his beak starts clattering.  It would be faster to use the dryer function in the sonic wash, but Hizashi prefers suffering soaking wet than to go in there.

His bondmate abandons Shinsou to take the bed cover.  He starts patting him dry, replacing it with his scarf when Hizashi’s upper body is completely dry.  Hizashi whistles appreciatively when Shouta rubs circles over his tail, using the fabric’s roughness to help his ecdysis along, his dead scales now soft enough to peel away in long strips.

Shouta lays him on the dry side of the bed cover, bumps their foreheads together, and then goes to his sonic washer.  Shinsou’s looking away while he stands guard outside the room, and Hizashi waves at him when he jumps in surprise at the sonic washer’s sudden loud noise and whips his head toward the cause of his startle.  It reassures him, or at least Hizashi thinks it does, as the last thing he sees before Shouta closes the door is Shinsou going back to staring down the halls.

Shouta is done in under 90 clicks, shaking himself and putting his ear plugs back in their respective container.  His fur is softer, and most importantly, it isn’t itchy, doesn’t leave greasy streaks over Hizashi’s skin when Shouta rubs his cheek against his.

Shouta runs the end of his scarf over his scales, tracing them with his claw.  “What do you want to do?  Sun?  Nap?”

Hizashi opens the door and almost jumps when he meets Shinsou’s eyes.  He looks a lot better after washing—his skin is a healthy pink instead of the washed out almost-grey, his fur’s visibly brighter even through the darker shade all fur become when wet, his usual flare weighted down by water but for the shorter strands sticking out comically.  His features are a little bit softer too, like the water eroded the edges.  “Let’s introduce you to our mèos.”  His heart aches for his sunlamp, but if he reports this any longer, Hizashi’s going to fall over from the anxiety.

They relocate to the shareroom, where the open space will make it easier for Shouta or Hizashi to intervene in case something happens.  Not that Hizashi thinks something will happen.

Shouta hesitates a click, before heading to their resting room to fetch Engine, steps quicker than usual.  He’s back right as Shinsou finished hanging his old wet garments on the ledge of a table, Engine held against his chest.  Shinsou’’s attention is immediately drawn to her when she lets out a small noise.

“Shinsou.”

“Hm?” he says, eyes fixed on Engine.  His fingers flex, like he wants to grab her.  Shouta’s ears pull back and his limbs bend, ready to run away at the slightest sign of danger.

“She’s fragile, okay?  You can’t handle her like you do with human pets.”  He mimes petting her.  “Gentle.”

Shinsou shakes his head in agreement.  “Gentle,” he repeats.  “I know.  Small little—“ he says a garbled human word, but Hizashi’s feathers can’t quite catch enough for it to be understandable.  “So little, so small, I am gentle.”

Slowly, Shouta lowers Engine to the floor, a few tails away from Shinsou, who immediately crouches, one hand stretched out to her, fingers and talons tucked safely in his palm.  A litany in Shinsou’s human dialect is whispered, only noticed because Hizashi can see his lips move in the same pattern.  He’s cooing , Hizashi realizes with a jolt.

Engine waddles toward Shinsou, catching herself before she loses her balance in her excitement.  He turns to Hizashi, eyebrows tilted to the side.  “Hurt?  Engine is hurt?”

“No, she’s just a bit more wobbly than other mèos.  It doesn’t hurt.”  Shinsou turns back to her, his eyes going soft again.  He beckons her with his human cooing, voice going up a higher frequency.

Shouta’s scarf hovers over Shinsou and his beloved pet, ready to intervene at the slightest hint of provocation. 

But Shinsou doesn’t move to touch her, even when it’s obvious he wants to.  He lets her flick her tongue over his hand first, and when she ducks under his still hand to rub herself on his upper limb, he looks up at Hizashi and Shouta.  Only when Hizashi agreement-shake his head does he start petting her, only using one light finger to touch her head, scratching lightly behind her ears.  He uses the softer pad of his digit, and by her small bruxing and eye boggling, she appreciates the attention.

He looks absolutely endeared by her, keeping that gentle expression even when she starts scraping her tiny teeth nubs over his wrists.

Shouta has to wave his scarf to get his attention.  His bondmate doesn’t hold as much tension as before, so Hizashi counts it as a win, mentally doing a small victory dance at another good interaction.  “Lamp is more shy.  She’ll be hiding away from you.  Be careful where you step.  And where you sit down.  She likes to go under pillows.”

They watch Shinsou let her climb over his hind limbs while he waves a longer part of his garment around to amuse her for a while, Shouta a lot more intensely than Hizashi, his tail flicking back and forth as if he’s trying to unravel a mystery.  It’s interesting, and he doesn’t want to interrupt the moment, but—

“Sun lamp,” he blurts out, “let's continue this near my sun lamp.”

It’s more of a sun room than a sun lamp at this point, their ‘hard earned’ income allowing them to modify a small room previously used as a nav office—the overhead lights had been replaced with UVB bulbs, the walls refurbished with screens to give the illusion of being in one of Hizashi’s home desert, and half of the room was now at a lower level than the rest, lined with a heat mat and topped with enough sand that Hizashi could burrow himself completely.  Two comfortable shaped rocks Hizashi could lie on were placed on each end of the pit.  The other half had pools of shade so Shouta could hide before he burned his scarf and nose.

The sun lamp Shouta had gifted him was still in there though, propped next to his favorite rock.

Shouta catches Engine when she’s in the middle of a leap, eyeing Shinsou’s reaction and relaxing when all the Human does is brush himself off, not a hint of upset from having Engine taken from him.

On the way to the sun room, Hizashi catches Shinsou craning his neck to look around for Lamp, a small skip to his steps.  He even tries to sign to Shouta, albeit stiltedly, that his mèo is very cute.

Shouta doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t show any indication of hostility, so Hizashi’s not going to intervene.  His mate has never been great with small talk, even worse with strangers.

They get to the sun room in no time.  While Shouta applies sunscreen over his scarf, Hizashi turns to Shinsou.  “Do you need some?  It’s to not burn.”

As far as he knows, Humans aren’t immune to fire, so it isn’t that far of a stretch to think they would get sunburnt as much as anyone else in the galaxy.  Especially with how much of their skin is exposed.

Shinsou accepts the offer, slathering his uncovered skin, putting several layers over his face, his ears, and his neck in well practiced movements.  Hizashi had been right then.  He wonders what Humans usually use on their deathworld.  Mud?

Unfortunately, he’s pulled out of his musing when Shouta starts rubbing the sunscreen on his back and wings.  It should feel good, to have his bondmate touch him, but the texture is as horrible as he remembers.  The last time he had to put some on was several centuries ago, and yet no one has invented sunscreen that wasn’t so sticky, and greasy yet.   At least it dried a lot quicker than when he was a hatchling, but impatience still nips his ankles while he waits.  The only thing staying his wing are the memories of returning home with sand sticking everywhere.

He does his front himself—his enthusiasm abates even further when he gets to his neck—careful to avoid his wounds.  The bandages will act as physical barriers from the UVB rays.

When his wings don’t stick anymore, Hizashi rushes in his sand pit, jumping over to his rock.  It’s toasty, almost too hot against his naked skin, but it warms his muscles, spreads to the inside of his bones.  He positions himself so his tail can hang in the sand.  Everytime he flicks it, the grains roll over his scales, getting rid of the more stubborn flakes of dead skin, stuck in between his scales and in harder-to-reach places.  He could stay here forever.

Shouta is lounging on a soft pillow with Engine, his scarf unraveled in a sunspot, his eyewear protection in place—yellow, courtesy of Hizashi.  What can he say?  He loves seeing his bondmate in his colours.

Hizashi hasn’t noticed when Shouta has put his bonding necklace on but he has it on now.  The colourful beads line his neck in a way that makes something well up Hizashi’s chest, intense enough to hurt.

To distract himself, he beckons Shinsou to come closer.  The Human enjoyed the modeling compound, didn’t he?  “Come, touch the sand.  Do you have this on your planet?”

“Yes.”  Shinsou edges closer, hovers his hand over the sand.  He glances at Hizashi, as if to confirm he’s really allowed, and when Hizashi gives him the go ahead, he buries his hand, spreading it to let sand fall in between his fingers.  Hizashi lets his eyes close, ready to fall asleep and let Shouta wake him when the sunscreen’s time limit runs out.  He already feels so much better, the lead in his chest getting chipped away.  He doesn’t think the UVB lights can act that quickly, but the bright room, the sand shifting around his tail, his town peeking over the horizon, it’s enough.

If he tilts his head just so, blurs his vision until the sand melts into the metal floor, he can pretend he’s on his home planet with Shouta, visiting his flock.  That the kidnapping and the escape and everything in between has simply been a nightmare he just woke up from.

Chapter Text

Hizashi’s grinding and sharpening his talons, reshaping them so the broken edges stop snagging on skin and Shouta’s fur while Shinsou stares at him.  Shouta’s in the corner, reading something on his padd, but Hizashi knows he’s paying attention to what Shinsou’s doing by the way his ears are turned toward the Human.

He inspects his last talon, taking away some keratin on the left so it can fit in his talon sheath.  It’ll prevent the root from constantly rubbing on the floor and protect the more fragile ones from splitting again when he walks.

Shinsou’s touching his own talons absentmindedly.  They’re pretty long, but they’re nowhere as sharp as Shouta’s—really, even the broken off ends of his talons are sharper than the blunt things Shinsou has.  He gestures toward his grinding stone.  “Do you need to—?”

Shinsou’s eyes go wide, and he places his hands over his hind limbs, shoulders rising to his ears.  “I do not want to be trouble.”

“It’s no problem,” Hizashi reassures.  “I have another one here.  Do you have those on Dirt?”  When Shinsou shakes his head from side to side, Hizashi asks, a bit confused, “What do you normally use for your talons?”

“I use”—Shinsou flumbers a bit while he tries to remember the correct sign—”knife?  Two knife that are sticked together, but they bite.”  He places his hands so they look like a mouth, his fingers as teeth, and he opens and closes them to ‘bite’.

“Oh.  We don’t have that, but here, let me show you how to use this, yeah?”  It kind of makes Hizashi feel useful, even if teaching Shinsou how to use a talon grinding stone is nothing compared to fighting off Feczoits.  “You have to drag your talons like that—careful about your skin though!—and you just do it until you're satisfied about the shape.”

Shinsou squints while he tries to file his talons, his mouth slightly open.  The angle is difficult for him, he has to hunch over and even then, his upper limb is bent uncomfortably.  

“Maybe we can put it on a stack of—” before he can finish his sentence,  Shinsou picks up the weighted grinding stone one handedly, moving it back and forth instead of moving his talons.  Right.  Deathworlder—“Yeah, okay, that works too, listener.  Just be sure to do it over the vent.”

While Shinsou’s doing that, Hizashi heads to the storage cabinet—Shouta and Shinsou’s heads whip toward him at the same time, only relaxing when they both realize he’s still in view—to rummages through the various beddings and sleep accommodations they bought for when other members of UA sleep over.  He lets out a victorious thrill when he finds exactly what he’s looking for.

It’s a 4 in 1 cot, the same type as his own.  Shouta and he had bought a spare when their usual one’s seams ripped during a nap, but after one rest of tossing and turning, Shouta quickly mended it, grumbling about smell and wrongness, eager to return to their old yellow one.

The den mode is perfect for Shinsou, or at least Hizashi thinks it will be.  It offers covers from every side but one, and it makes a great hiding space if Shinsou wants to burrow all the way inside.  It’s also the only cot that will be comfortably big enough for the Human.

He drags it next to the doorway, too lazy to make the trip to his resting quarters.  He also doesn’t know if his bondmate will be comfortable sharing a room with Shinsou.  He needed several meetings with some of their friends before he stopped waking up hissing and all bristly.

Shinsou finished while he was looking for bedding, and to Hizashi’s dismay, his talons are completely ground down, right to the pink part.  They’re absolutely useless now, can’t be used to pierce or tear or scratch.  He gestures to Shinsou’s hands, trying to keep the panic out of his movements.  “Are they supposed to be so… short?”

“Yes?”  Shinsou looks down at his fingers.  “I was not supposed to?”

“As long as it’s what you wanted, it’s fine!”  Hizashi backtracks.  He can’t imagine intentionally weakening himself, especially after his stay with the Feczoits.

While Hizashi opens the faucet so Shinsou can wash away the talon dust from his fingers and his grind stone, a thought crosses his mind.  Was Shinsou trying to make himself less threatening to them?

The uncomfortable thought sits heavy in his stomach.  Hizashi’s about to nip that idea right out of Shinsou’s head when the Human’s stomach rumbles.  Shouta snorts and Shinsou instantly goes red in the face, bringing his limbs closer to his middle.

Hizashi wants to berate himself.  He forgot Shinsou hasn’t eaten in a while.  He’ll make something quick for Shinsou so they can go rest faster.  To keep himself awake, and because it's information they'll need eventually, he asks, “How often do you need to eat?”

Shinsou tilts his head, refusing to look Hizashi in the face.  “Three meals in a cycle.”

“And how long does one of your cycles last?”

“24—“ he cuts himself off, realizing the problem.  “It is okay.  I eat when I am hungry.”

Somehow, Hizashi knows Shinsou won’t serve himself without explicit permission.  There should be a spare timer lying around somewhere.  Shinsou shouldn’t have to rely on only internal cues to follow his human circadian cycle.  That’s one sure way for Shinsou to wither away.  Or for Hizashi and Shouta to have to handle a Deathworlder caught in a space induced delirium.

“What’s the smallest time unit you can count?”  Shouta has an app open, the one Hizashi uses to set a metronome.

Several feeps and some simple math later, they have an approximation of a human cycle.  Three meals divided through seventeen of Shinsou’s ‘hours’, and then one long resting period that should last around seven ‘hours’.  It’s an awfully big proportion of time to be awake, but who’s Hizashi to question human habits?  There  must be an evolutionary explanation, perhaps something about Humans having to defend themselves from... Deathworld... things…?

Stamping down on his curiosity and pushing his questions about Shinsou’s home planet away for the moment, Hizashi goes back to planning.  They can all go to sleep at approximately the same time after Shinsou’s last meal, and while Shouta and he will start their cycle a lot earlier, they can all spend some time awake together afterward.  If Shinsou stretches the time between his first and second meal, Hizashi and Shouta can squeeze their own resting time in between so they wake up right before Shinsou’s second meal.  The schedule will probably get disturbed when missions start back up and they still need to find good moments to nap, but for the meantime, everyone’s satisfied with Hizashi’s proposal.

This meal will be considered as Shinsou’s third, and then they’ll all rest.  Hizashi got to nap on the clipper, but judging from the way Shouta’s front limbs are almost dragging on the floor, his bondmate desperately needs sleep.

“What do you need to eat?”

“I do not mind.”  Shinsou is glaring at his stomach, as if willing it to be silent.

Hizashi lets out a long breath, in an imitation of human exasperation.  “No, I meant what should be in your diet?”

Shinsou fiddles with the nonstick bandages around his waist while he looks at the pictures Hizashi pulls up on the padd and holds in front of the Human.  He points hesitantly at some grains and the long strands made from a grain paste.

Hizashi tries to keep the skepticism out of his voice.  “Are you sure?”  Maybe he doesn’t understand.  “What did you usually eat every cycle?  On Dirt?”

The Human looks down, squinting in concentration.  He points more decisively at the grains again, but this time, he also gestures toward plants.  “I need this more, and then”—Shinsou gestures unsurely at a hu’ue—”and then… this?”  He stares at the aquatic animal’s meat blankly, before agreement-shaking his head more decisively.  “And after, I only need a smaller of… of…?”

Shinsou lets out a huff of frustration.  “It is for the—?  So you do not break your… wing?  Or other parts.”

“Unless he has a different bone composition, I think he needs a source of calcium intake,” Shouta signs sluggishly, eyes barely cracked open.

After Shinsou confirms Shouta’s hypothesis and claims he doesn’t need anything else, Hizashi makes him choose a quick meal to rehydrate.  Shinsou’s diet is a lot more diversified than Hizashi thought it would be, but it makes sense, he supposes.  Can’t be picky when living on a Deathworld.  Luckily, Shinsou’s needed food groups are pretty common.  They’ll probably have to shuffle things around so there’s less chance they miss a specific nutrient, and they’ll need to scan him often to follow his health progression and build a profile that can come as close to his base state as possible, but that’s something they can figure out as they go.  The immediate obstacle would be the food’s unfamiliarity to Shinsou and whether aliments will be to his taste.  An unsuspecting allergy will be something they’ll have to look out for when they actually start cooking instead of feeding him dehydrated food.

It doesn’t really matter for now, Hizashi thinks as he watches Shinsou eat his dehydrated soft vegetable soup.  If he likes those, he shouldn’t have problems with replicated or cooked food.

Hizashi chews his cut fruit lethargically.  He feeds every other slice to Shouta, holding them up in front of his bondmate’s lips until he delicately bites around Hizashi’s talons.

When they’re all done eating, Hizashi almost has to drag Shouta to the washroom.  He pushes a glob of cleaning paste on three toothbrushes, handing them to the two others.  The washroom isn’t very big now that the three of them are in it together, but Shouta and Hizashi are used to working around each other and Shinsou is pretty adept at keeping out of the way.

“Look, like this.”  Hizashi draws circle over the outer side of his teeth, and then crosses over to do the inside of the opposite row.  Shinsou doesn’t have that great of an access to his teeth, skin closed on the side of his mouth, but he manages to brush even the farthest teeth.  He adds, “It’s not food, so don’t eat it.”

By the way Shinsou’s screwing his face though, that won't be a problem.

“You okay?  Does the taste bother you?”

Shinsou’s stills for a fraction of a click before he smoothed out his face, “No, it is fine.  Thank you.”

Hizashi doesn’t understand how he can eat dehydrated meals but not endure the cleaning paste’s taste, but it’s amusing to see Shinsou try to hide it and fail miserably.  The muscles around his jaw tenses when he forgets to keep his face impassive, his features mushing together from time to time.

After they all spit in the tub and rinse the foam away, Hizashi has to tackle the sleeping arrangement situation.

“No.”

“Aww, come on Shouta, look at him.”  Hizashi turns to Shinsou, who had been trailing behind, holding the cot in his upper limbs.  Unfortunately, Shinsou looks pissed even if Hizashi knows he isn’t.  Exhaustion carves lines down his face, makes his eyes narrower.  The way he stares at them, motionless, combined with the ship’s lights dimming—it awfully resembles a scene in a horror play.

Shouta doesn’t even tame his words.  He glares at Shinsou, points to the a spare workroom adjoined to their resting quarters—the same one he used to quarantine Lamp, and then Engine, when they first got them, only until they would get accustomed to them and wouldn’t run and squeeze into their ship’s nook and crannies.  “You will sleep here.”

Shinsou looks at him nervously, squeezing the cot tighter.  He holds Shouta’s gaze intensely.  “What if the Feczoits find us?”

Shouta's hackles rise.  Hizashi intervenes before his mate can snap back.  “We’re right next to Toshinori’s ship.  He won’t let them enter the perimeter.  And look, we’re sleeping right behind this door, so we’re really close.”

He prays Shinsou accepts it.  Shouta’s not going to let him sleep in the same room.  Maybe he shouldn’t have drawn Shinsou’s attention to the fact that the workroom has two doors.  While it means two exits, it’s also two entry points to defend.

Shinsou takes a steadying breath, stands taller, and says, “Okay.”

Hizashi whistles gratefully as Shouta whisks him away to their resting quarters.  The door closes on Shinsou signing, “Good rest.”

Shouta’s scarf unwinds, trailing behind him.  He brings Hizashi close to his chest and sinks in their nest, a heap of beddings lining a wide bowl carved into the floor, crawling through the pillows and old sheets to get to their cot.  His mate practically shoves himself inside the yellow den, rolling Hizashi until he’s curled up between Shouta’s limbs, head tucked under his mate’s chin, his back to Shouta’s chest.  Engine and Lamp are in their own tinier cot, piled one over the other.

Hizashi waits for his bondmate to turn on the cot heater, all of a sudden excited by the prospect of a warm nest , but his bondmate doesn't budge.  Instead, Shouta squints at Hizashi, inspecting him.  He lingers on the bonding bracelet, and it takes Hizashi a click to realize the little patterns Shouta is drawing on his back matches his bracelet’s grooves, tracing every line and dot with the pad of his fingers.  Their meeting on his shoulder blade, running away together tickling his ribs, becoming bonded pair over his racing heart.  Shouta doesn’t finish the circle, stops right before their deaths and rebirths, breath shuddering under the weight of what-ifs and almosts.  Bristly fur on Hizashi’s back, where Shouta rests his head, a palm pressing right on his sternum, as if his bondmate has to remind himself that Hizashi’s still here, his breaths in tandem with Hizashi’s heart.

This isn’t the usual position in which they sleep.  Shouta usually enjoys resting his nose in the crook of his neck, and the memories of waking up with a slightly cold nose pressed there distressfully doesn’t bring up the usual fondness.  Instead, he’s dreading it, and then feels horrible about dreading it.  He knows Shouta will respect his wishes, won’t ever stray close to his neck until he gives him permission again, but Hizashi knows it’s his mate’s favourite way to show affection, his species way to say ‘I trust you, I care for you’, and he wants to cry, maybe break a Feczoit’s bone or two for taking that away from him.  He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forget about collars and electricity tensing his muscles; right now, it feels impossible to overcome the memories of fingers grazing his neck and tearing his feathers.

Shouta rumbles to get his attention.  The lights are starting to dim, slowly adjusting to the rest part of the cycle.  Shouta opens the cot so Hizashi can see him better, some of the heat rushing out into the room.

“You’re thinking too hard.  Sleep.  I’ll guard you.”

The cot opening closes back up, darkness falling back on him.  The heating pad starts warming up as Shouta’s scarf coils around him, arranged in a way that prevents anything from touching his throat.

And Hizashi wants fur to tickle the underside of his beak, wants a satisfied purr to vibrate against his trachea, but just the thought of it sends his heart into critter-fast pace.  His extremities are too numb to speak and there’s an empty hole right next to his heart that aches with loss.

Hizashi brings Shouta’s head down to his level.  Under the heated covers like they currently are, all Hizashi can see is the faint outline of his bondmate’s face and two bright red, glowing eyes.

He blinks, lets his eyelids stay close for several clicks before opening them.

A careful paw strokes the back of his head, smoothing his crest.  Shouta slowly blinks back, the two glows disappearing for long heartbeats.

Hizashi closes his eyes again, ‘Forgive me’ and ‘I’m sorry’ and other apologies Shouta would have called illogical falling away every time he eer’ahseer blinks.  He doesn’t voice his guilt, he knows Shouta will deny being disappointed.  He can only hope this is enough.

It’s taking longer for him to peel his outer eyelids.  They stick together, grow heavier under the secure red lights.  

A gentle huff brushes his face.  He’s going to open his eyes soon, tell Shouta to not worry.  He just needs to rest them a little, and then he’ll force his mate join him in his sleep.

Shouta's fur bristles at the display screen.  He’s reviewing the previous rest footage while Hizashi’s in a holocall with his flock, animatedly asking about the new youngs that hatched last season.  His flock is distracting him; they’re waiting for Hizashi to open up about the torn feathers and missed calls, giving him some control about the situation and trying their best to support Hizashi, even if they can’t be privy to all the details.  It’s sometimes difficult for Hizashi to keep information away from his flock, even if it’s for their own safety—plausible deniability and all—and Shouta knows it frustrates the Yamada flock when they’re unable to reach out to Hizashi in times of need.  There’s been many arguments over holocalls, signs all harsh and angry in the beginning, after they learned about Hizashi’s piracy stints.  It had only started to calm down when Hizashi reassured them that he would always consider himself part of the flock, even with billions of s’phars separating them, that he would continue giving and receiving support, even if that support might look different.

Shouta leaves his partner to coo about name ideas, proposing some of his own.  He has a Human to observe.

In the footage, they had stayed in their cot for about half of their rest before sitting up and looking around.  Despite their eyes not showing any signs of being able to reflect light, they move around the room without much difficulty, following the walls and looking in every corner.  They’re surveying their den, or the equivalent for Humans, making sure it’s secure.

It would have been all fine and good if the Human didn’t head for their shared den door.  They pace in front of it, occasionally stopping to run their fingers around the edges.  They press their ears on the metal and Shouta has to watch them stand there, unmoving in the dark, as if they were stalking prey.

Hizashi had tried to explain the behaviour away before he holocalled his flock, but Shouta can’t shake his unease.

The footage shows them going back and forth between their cot and their shared door, sleeping for intervals of feeps before getting back up to make rounds.

At least Shouta isn’t the only one who’s going to be exhausted.  He hadn’t been able to relax completely, spending more time stroking Hizashi’s head and the side of his beak when his partner started showing signs of distress, twining their tails together in an attempt to loosen Hizashi’s nightmare’s hold.

And when he hadn’t been soothing Hizashi, he was jerking awake at the slightest noise, expecting the ship's alarms to blare or for the Human to have sneaked in.  He had strained his ears only to be met with the soft puffs of air beside him and his own pounding hearts, even if he had been sure there was scratching on the other side of the shared door.  He knows now that it hadn’t been a trick of his imagination.

The footage catches up to the present.  They’re awake now, circling the room again.  Hizashi doesn’t know the Human’s awake yet.  Shouta takes advantage of Hizashi’s distracted state to observe Purple's behaviour before his partner makes him go fetch them from the room.

An inkling of guilt slithers through his thoughts when Purple starts scratching the back of their neck, ineffectually clawing over the relatively new bandages at the eleventh lap around the room.  Shouta can’t deny that they look pitiful like this—it reminds him of Lamp’s anxious clicks when she would accidentally get stuck in rooms, before she learned how to open doors.

Shouta glances at his partner.  Hizashi’s entirely focused on his holocall, Engine precariously curled on his tail.  He’s reluctant to leave Hizashi out of his sight, but now is the perfect opportunity to establish ground rules with the Human.  Lamp jumps off his back when he gets up, making her way to Hizashi and climbing in between his wings.  He quietly tells Hizashi he’s going to see the Human when he heads out, greeting Hizashi’s flockmates.

Shouta enters the Human’s temporary den by the main door, glad their human stench isn't as potent as he thought it would be.  The washing must have helped, and airing out the room will be easy when they’re gone, even if there’s an odd underlining smell—slightly familiar—that Shouta can’t quite place.

They don’t see him at first, their back turned to him.  When he walks up to their side, they startle, upper limb jerking back with a bang and leaving an indent in his door.  They look surprised to see him, and when they register the position in which they’ve been found, the blood vessels in their face dilates.

“I—”  They square their shoulders, but it looks ridiculous with the way they’re slowly shuffling to hide the dent with their body, as if Shouta didn’t already notice  “Zashi is where?  He is injured?”

Shouta’s tail lashes at the implication that he’s not capable of protecting his mate.  It stings even more so with the knowledge that Hizashi was taken when he had been only a few s’phars away, only separated by two rickety stalls and a curtain of people.  “Zashi is fine.  I can’t say the same about my door.”

Purple looks down at the dent with lowered brows.  “You scare me.”  They realize how accusatory they sound because they tack a less-than-honest apology.  “Sorry.”

They edge away when he stroll closer to inspect the damage.  The door is made of almiun.   They dented almiun.  They’re cradling their upper limb, so at least they aren’t unaffected by the show of strength.  It doesn’t stave the irritation of having to replace the damaged door and Shouta’s slight apprehension.  He should have knocked on the door before entering, or flickered the door light to warn them.

They had looked so gentle when handling Engine and Lamp.  This is a helpful reminder of Purple’s true nature.  “You have to be more careful.  Everything here is more fragile than what you’re used to on your planet.”

Purple’s shoulders lifts to cover the side of their neck.  The door doesn’t slide open all the way, but it closes fine which is what truly matters.

Shouta lets his scarf settle, rubs the space between his eyes.  “And stop trying to get in my den.  I don’t know how it is with Humans, but if you aren’t invited in, you don’t snoop.”

With the Human properly chastised, Shouta turns around.  Their lower limbs pitter patter behind him, but even then, Shouta slows until they catch up and isn’t in his blind spot.

He doesn’t bring the Human to Hizashi even if he’s eager to go back to partner’s side; it would be unfortunate if they went through the effort to hide Purple from Toshinori only for his partner’s entire flock to see them through the holocall.  The Human also needs to eat their first cycle meal under someone’s supervision until they have a good aray of safe food variety for Purple.

The Human watches him scroll through various meals, the robotic voice listing the nutrition facts and ingredients of each.  Something with grains, something with plants, and something with meat.  He can add calcium powder over whatever he replicates.  He purposely chooses a meal with different and new ingredients to optimize the amount of new variety they can add to Purple’s diet.  Despite what Hizashi might say, they can’t enjoy being watched by a non-pack member while they eat.

They inspect the food, bringing it close to their face to smell it.  It’s a pleasant Iodahc dish—grain ground into paste to coat stems, stuffed into hard shelled water he’eèc that crunch satisfyingly under each bite.  They don’t eat it immediately like he expects, glancing between him and the replicator.  “You do not eat?”

“We ate before you woke up.”  Hizashi’s whole plan was for all of them to share meals, but Shouta managed to convince him to eat when his partner’s stomach had growled.  “I’m full.  I’m only here in case you react badly to anything.”  Shouta doesn’t want them to think he’s going to steal their food.  

Purple nods hesitantly, waiting for a few clicks before pinching one he’eèc in between their fingers.  Their skin doesn’t change colour, and their breathing stays regular, but they chew slower than previous meals, and they pause in between bites for long intervals.

“Is it not to your liking?”

Shouta doesn’t mean to imply any wrongdoing on their part, only curious about Purple’s different taste buds.  They still choke down what’s in their mouth with their eyes squinting at a point in the distance.

“No, it is good.  It is very good.”  They do their pleased teeth baring to sell the lie and shoves a he’eèc in their mouth.  “Thank you.”

“If you don’t enjoy it, you can say so.”  They have a lot of food resources.  As long as Purple doesn’t take advantage of that fact, he doesn’t mind making them something else that’ll agree with their palate.  Usually, foul tasting food indicates it isn’t good for a species’ health.  Besides, it's important to eat good meals when they’re this deep in space, away from their home planet.

Purple leans over their plate, their upper limbs coming around to shield it away.  A muscle in their face starts twitching.  “I like this a lot.”

Shouta wants to reprimand himself when he finally understands.

It’s not that he forgot Purple was held in that fighting ring ship for who knows how long, but in the face of them being Human and the threat they pose, he had pushed it to the side.  Shouta gives them more space.  “I can make something else.  Don’t force yourself to eat if it tastes repulsive.”

Purple shakes their head up and down, but they don’t look like they believe him.  They finish their plate with a grimace, mouth held slightly open.  “Zashi?”

“Brush your teeth first.  He’s in a holocall right now.”

He waits outside the washing room, listening to the water dripping.  He doesn't know how much Humans need to clean, and it’s unlikely that there’s a nice complete guide out there that’ll carry that type of trivial information.

He's thinking about where he could find out more about Humans when his partner rounds the corner, wings relaxedly folded.  “Our flock wants us to visit soon.  I want to meet the new youngs!”  Hizashi chirps at the closed door.  Even after all these years, Shouta still feels a small thrill at being included in his partner’s flock.  “Is Purple in there?  Did you get along?”

“Zashi.  They can bend almiun.”  

Hizashi flares his feathers, but it’s too coordinated, too thought out.  When he shifts his weight from limb to limb, Shouta breathes out loudly, fixing his partner with an accusing flick of his tail.  “You already knew.”

Hizashi whistles innocently, and then moves forward to try and distract him.  His partner shoves his head against Shouta’s chin, copying the way Shouta marks him even though he lacks scent glands.

“Zashi…”

Hizashi keeps up the fake scenting, rubbing the side of his beak against Shouta’s jaw until he caves and scents him back, covering his partner with the inner side of his scarf.  It’s slightly frustrating.  If Shouta were a few decades younger, he would have pushed until an argument sparked into life.  

He changes track and signs instead, “They smell weird.”

“Oh, yeah, Toshinori gave me kit soap.  I let Purple use it since I didn’t know how his skin would react.”  Hizashi tilts his head to the side.  “You didn’t notice it on me?”

He hadn’t.  He had marked Hizashi almost as soon as he was out of the tub.  He knows his partner will tease him about it if he knew, so he asks, “What if they take offense?”

“Purple’ll understand, I don’t think they’ll mind.”  Hizashi leans into Shouta’s space with a mischievous swing of his tail.  “And it’s not like they have to know.”

Shouta snorts, bumps Hizashi’s side in reproach for risking belittling a Deathworlder for a laugh.  The only reason he allows himself to be amused is because he’s almost certain Purple doesn’t have that good of a nose.  They haven’t reacted negatively yet, and in the pod, before, they didn’t show any indication of noticing that Hizashi had stopped carrying their smell.

Shouta's bumping Hizashi's brow when Purple steps out, the front of their clothes slightly wet.  They shake their paw at Hizashi and look at Shouta right as his lips twitch to show a glimpse of teeth at his partner’s trick.  The Human glances at Hizashi for a split click, before their own lips turn up, their teeth in full view for a moment before their face returns to its original form.  Shouta has to remind himself of Hizashi's warning about the significance of human teeth baring, even if he experienced it earlier.

They really enjoy mimicking.  Shouta wonders what happened during Humans’ evolution for them to keep that trait over others.

They head to the med bay, Hizashi helping Purple lay down and get into a good position for their scanner while Shouta sets up a new profile for them.  He only gets interrupted by Engine, who he has to pick up before she runs into the Human without warning.

When his partner gives him the go ahead, Shouta activates the scanner.  The Human stays still at Hizashi’s instructions.  They're holding their breath.

The line of light passes over them two times before results start showing up.  He frowns at the screen while Hizashi lets out a thoughtful chirp.  There isn’t enough storage in their encrypted server to store daily full body scans.  They could do it if they uploaded it on the machine, on a normal account, but that would mean praying for this quadrant’s crawler and surveillance AI to not pick up on the very human scans.

“If we focus on their head and torso and do a full-body every fifth human cycle, it’ll give us enough time to get more storage.”

None of them really knows how to read the med scan.  Usually, the machine does the work for them by comparing Shouta or Hizashi’s base profile and doing its best to return them to their healthiest state, but since Purple doesn’t have one, they’re going to have to try their best by monitoring changes manually and hopefully catch anything that goes on with Purple quickly.

The machine stops.  Purple sits up when Hizashi gestures at them, squinting at the screen where their information is displayed.  They can’t interpret it either, not that Shouta held much hope.  Not that they try very hard.  Purple immediately zones onto Engine.  They don’t blink, for longer than Shouta is comfortable, and their mouth parts with a soft exhale.

“Okay, all done!”  Hizashi places himself in between them, stretching and rubbing at his bandages.  Small clouds of feather dust cascades down the floor every time he gestures—more of his plumage is coming in, tiny feathers lining his face and the inside of his wings.

Shouta has to clean the trails Hizashi left behind.  There’s also their cot to wash, the entire inside covered with feather sheaths that got rubbed off during their rest.  He’ll wait another one or two cycles more before he starts, at least until Hizashi stops shedding as much.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi sighs and gets up from the couch.  The ship is silent but for the low thrum and occasional creak.

The silence would have once been oppressing if it wasn’t needed respite from everything, a small pause where he can sit and just breathe.  He missed talking to people, but being in the same room with four other aliens that actually interacted with him had been a lot more overwhelming than he imagined.

Even now, Shinsou feels like there’s too much happening.  There’s so much to see here—even after looking through each room, he always finds something new he didn’t notice—something scribbled on the side of a panel, what looked like Lamp or Engine’s toy shoved and forgotten behind a shelf to gather dust, or small knick-knacks tied to the various storage bins and equipment strapped to the walls and ceiling.  It’s fun, it’s exciting, and not even in a bad, dangerous way.

He’s already mapped out the ship the first two times, with its odd twists and turns that lead to wide open rooms, tip-toeing throughout and poking his head inside the rooms unknown to him, taking note of where they lead and where they’re connected.  He skirts nervously around the aliens’ bedroom, remembering Hizashi’s spouse's warning.

His feet lead him to the kitchen.  He looks at the floor before he passes by the windows he knows lines this hallway.  He would have stayed in the room with the sandbox until Hizashi woke up—he missed the sun, the warm light heating his skin and turning the inside of his eyelids red, and he yearns for even a mimicry of it—but he doesn’t know how to open the lights and he doesn’t dare touch any the buttons near the door, unwilling to accidentally set the ship on fire.  He had been explicitly told he’s free to roam the ship and go in every room, as long as the rooms open for him when he hovers his hand over each door panel.  From his understanding, he’s been barred from the pilot area, the medical scanner and another room that holds motors or whatever from what he understood.

He’s almost sure he could force the doors open, but Hitoshi doesn’t plan on losing his newfound freedom any time soon.

He’s curious though, and he’s always been good at not getting caught.  He stays clear of the futuristic looking machines lining the walls, but the cupboards are fair game.  Probably.

There are placards with bright embossed symbols Hitoshi can’t decipher stuck to each door.  He hadn’t dared touch them before, but in the moment, emboldened by the ship’s stillness and the thing gnawing at his stomach, he goes to feel the raised symbols and almost screams when it vibrates under his fingers, snatching his hand away like he just touched a burning stove.

It stops vibrating as suddenly as it started.  With his heart still pounding in his chest, Hitoshi, who’s been told times and times again that he’s too dumb for a lesson to stick, reaches out and touches the symbol again.  There’s a pattern to it, two quick buzzes and a slower one afterward.

Do the other ones do the same thing?  Hitoshi presses another symbol, legs bent like springs to jump away if something happens.  The pattern is different, and so is every other placard.

Hitoshi furtively looks around.  He can’t hear anyone—not that that means anything—and unless they have hidden cameras, nobody will know if he places everything back in its place.  A look at the weird watch he’s been given tells him he still has a good hour before Hizashi and his spouse wake up.

Besides, this isn’t the pilot area.  He saw Hizashi’s husband open one of the cupboards to take out food.

Even if he gets caught, what are they going to do?

With that in mind, Hitoshi undoes the magnetic latch holding the cabinet door closed and swings it open, prepared for tubes filled with coloured liquids or weird creatures encapsulated in glass jars.

It’s nothing like that.  Racks of pouches line the inside shelves, all stacked by colour.  There’s more symbols, similar to the meal bags on the escape shuttle.

Encouraged by the discovery, Hitoshi opens the other cabinets.  It’s all food he can’t recognize but is familiar enough to try and classify into grain, fruit, or various sized foil bags.  Hitoshi is kind of hungry, but he can’t see anything that looks like the meal bags he can hold on until Hizashi wakes up, and even if he did, taking one without Hizashi’s or his husband’s approval, having them find the discarded foil, it makes him break into anxious sweat.

Even then, with everything screaming at him about the risk, he eyes the pouch cabinet.  There’re so many, no one will notice if he only takes one, right?

(Hitoshi knows Hizashi would give him something to eat if he asked, but he’s moving on instinct and learned experiences, and those urged him to take and apologize later, because asking would just make Hizashi suspicious about missing food afterward.)

The pouch flops in his hand, something sloshing inside.  Juice, then.  Juice is good.  No one cares about juice unless it’s the healthy, fancy kind.  He slides the pouch under his clothes, where it’s held by the makeshift belt, pulling the bandage tight so the juice pouch doesn’t accidentally fall.

He wants another bath.  The water had felt so nice, and he had been so warm and clean afterward.  He doesn’t know if he’s allowed though.  What if he uses all of the water?  They’re in the middle of space, where do they even get it from?

He has to put the juice back.  But no matter how much it stresses him out, his hands move by themselves to tighten the makeshift belt.  He’s stronger than anyone here, and besides, Hizashi told him they were heroes.  They wouldn't hurt him for something so trivial.  They wouldn’t, Hitoshi has to believe that.  Heroes don’t do that.

Heroes put killers behind bars.

He closes the cabinet door a bit too hard, jumping when it clangs.  Hitoshi hurries toward the living room, picking the corner of his band-aid until it barely sticks to his skin.  Plopping himself on the backless couch, Hitoshi forces himself to take deep breaths, smoothing out the bandage so it lays flat on his neck.

Hitoshi isn’t a killer.  Well, he killed, but he isn’t a killer killer.  He’s almost certain he can’t be completely held responsible for that, not when he was forced to end fights and put people out of their misery.  Will they recognize that?  His hands are covered in blood, intentions be damned.  He doesn’t want to be locked up again.

There are some aliens that haunt his dreams—all his victims do, but some reappear more often than others—that he could have saved if he had tried harder.  If he had resisted more, if he had actually fought against his captors—he’d been so stupid, the lightning stick is nothing compared to what he’s experiencing right now—would he have been able to save more people?

(He resolutely ignores the inconsistency and the shady way everything has been handled.  Shouldn’t he be handed over to, he doesn’t know, the space police so he can give a report?  Hitoshi knows enough not to air his suspicions, not when he’s in the middle of nowhere with no way out.  He’s treated well enough, and that’s all that matters.)

Hitoshi hunches over, pressing his hands hard against his eyes.  It’s fine.  Everything is fine.  He’ll ask to be dropped at the nearest—the nearest planet, or something, and he’ll find a way to… deal with all of this.  That’s all.  No use thinking about it now.

He drags his hands down, pulling at the skin until his face hurts a little, before standing back up.  Splashing his face helps him gain back control over himself.  The embroidered image of Lamp and Engine stares back at him where a mirror would usually hang.

He wishes he could play with them to take his mind off his fights, but Hizashi’s spouse took Lamp and Engine with him, giving him a warning look before heading to bed.  Forty-five minutes left until they wake up.

Hitoshi takes the opportunity to use the toilet, if it can even be called that, with a slight grimace.  He has to crouch weirdly and when it flushes, it startles him even if he expects it.  The noise is so loud and sudden that he can hear it over his broken ears, and even the floor vibrates slightly.

Hitoshi heads back to the living room.  There’s stuff Hizashi left so he can entertain himself, but he doesn’t want to waste the thrill of discovery when he already got to greed the ship, so he lays on his side and waits for the others to wake.

Shinsou greets them with a wave of his upper limb.  His front is slightly damp, with two hand prints wetting his clothes side.

Hizashi preens when Shinsou notices his new—albeit ruffled—feathers, the way he’s almost completely covered by them and his jewelry.  He shakes his limbs lightly, to show off how his bracelets shine and glint under the lights.

Shouta stretches at his side, mouth wide open with his tongue curling at the tip.  Surprisingly, Shinsou yawns in response, flashing his own teeth and scrunching up his face.  Hizashi shares a look with his bondmate; contagious yawning usually happens in social species.  Humans really do have packs then.  It’s not that he’s still in denial about it, not when he has a live example of a Human, Shinsou, in a pack, him, but a small part of him thought it was a Shinsou-only phenomenon.  Perhaps an anomaly or an atypical presentation.  The contagious yawning proves revolutions of evolutionary development.

Shinsou takes his place on Hizashi’s side when he finds that none of the mèos have followed them out of their resting quarters.  Hizashi’s flanked on both sides when he starts heading for the scullery, his mate and Shinsou following him closely.  Warm skin slithers along his back, sneaking under his wing until he’s held against Shouta’s side by his scarf.  None of them are in the mood to actually cook something—Shinsou more out of incapacity than anything—so Hizashi inputs a familiar first meal for himself and Shouta.  He shows Shinsou how to scroll through the meals slowly so his friend can choose what he wants to eat, skipping over dishes that taste like those Iodahc he’eècs he disliked.

The Human points at what he wants with the tip of one of his digits.  Hizashi whistles in amusement at his mate’s still squinted eyes, inputting Shinsou’s meal with a wing while he pushes Shouta’s fur out of his face.  Shouta had been planning on checking the cams when they wake, but his plan had quickly been forgotten when he had been confronted with the reality of having to leave a warm nest, sleep clinging to his fur.  Hizashi turns toward Shinsou since he’s the only other person capable of conversation right now.  “You didn’t get too bored?”

Shinsou shakes his head from side to side.  “I walk.  I look around.”  He pauses, and when all Hizashi does is warble encouragingly, he adds, “You have a nice ship.”

Hizashi whistles a thanks-grateful-happy at the compliment.  Their ship is heavily modded, the result of revolutions of cumulative effort.  It isn’t the brightest nor newest model, but his ship got them out of many sticky situations and is very reliable.

They eat, Shinsou scarfing down the soup he chose and washing it down with water.  He stares at Hizashi and Shouta’s own meals unblinking, tongue passing over his teeth, but when Hizashi offers to make him something else, he denies being hungry.

When they’ve put their plates in the washer and their teeth have been brushed, Hizashi brings Shinsou to the pilot area, sitting him down on an ill-fitting jump seat.

“Okay, so first lesson is how to suit up.”  Hizashi pulls out a harness, holding it up to Shinsou’s torso, before discarding it and picking out another.  “Me and Shouta have personalized ones”—he showcases his, placing the case over his sternum and putting in his bionics.  Straps shoot out, wrapping around his waist, wings and back limbs, clicking into place—“but you’re going to have to learn how to put one yourself until you get one of these.”

Instead of paying attention, Shinsou stares at the automatic harness in wonder while Hizashi shows him how to pull the straps and place the pieces of reinforced nets.  “Usually, you put that over an actual space suit, but it’s easier to learn how to do this part without the whole thing getting in the way.  Plus, we don’t have one for you right now, which isn’t that great, but we’re going to pass by a trading center soon to fix that.”

Hizashi’s old flight instructors would have had an aneurysm if they knew he let Shinsou onto a spaceship before he even got a fitted suit, but it’s not like they got a choice.

Once Hizashi’s pretty sure the harness won’t accidentally kill Shinsou instead of keeping him in his seat in the event of an accident and Shouta double checks his work, Hizashi clips the nets into position and starts taking it off Shinsou.  “Try to put it on yourself.  You don’t have to go fast, just try to get it right.”

While Hizashi coaches Shinsou through how to avoid getting tangled with little success, Shouta plans their route.  They’re going to stay idle for a few cycles—their own cycle, not Shinsou’s cycle—and then it’s off to the stars.  Toshinori will protest their decision, but it’s never a good idea to stay in the same place for too long, even less when the ISC from this region is going to be on high alert because of the fight ring.

When Shinsou manages to put on the harness three times in a row adequately without any help, Hizashi shows him how to attach himself to the jump seat.  He goes to explain how the hydraulic restraints work, their safeguards, and why Shinsou won’t get propelled everywhere even if the entire ship, the backup generator and the backup’s backup generator fails, but Shinsou’s weak grasp on the language prevents him from appreciating any of the security features built into the ship.

Shouta’s finishes planning their route as Hizashi is making Shinsou try to suit up and tie himself to the chair as fast as possible, brushing their tails together while his mate helps him adjust the jump seat.  There’s now a bigger back rest, with sides where Shinsou’s head will be kept in position to protect his neck.

When Shinsou starts slowing down and making mistakes, Hizashi calls for a break, making him keep the harness on.  It’s better he gets used to it now, although Hizashi thinks he’ll have an easier time since he already has garments.  He took off his own harness a while ago; he’s done his time, and while he can endure it for cycles on end, he’s rather not make himself uncomfortable for no reason.  Shouta helps him move his feathers back from where they’ve been displaced while Shinsou sits on the modded chair.

Shinsou’s relaxed pose doesn’t last.  Before long, one of his lower limbs starts shaking up and down, and he starts tugging at his garments, smoothing out the bunched up textile around the straps.  It’s when one upper limb starts creeping toward the back of his neck that Hizashi decides to intervene.

“What’s it like, on your planet?”

And okay, maybe his question isn’t entirely selfless and out of the goodness of his heart. It's not everyday Hizashi gets to interact with a non-hostile Human in a non-life-threatening scenario.  Every report he’s pirated has been so blacked out that all he can get out of them is that Humans exist, and a lot of what he knows from rumours have turned out to be false or a warped version of the truth.  And when they were captive, Hizashi spent more time worrying that he was going to get killed as soon as Shinsou died to ask questions about whether Humans really lived in caves. 

Shinsou takes a moment to think over his answer.  Hizashi catches himself leaning in anticipation.  What kind of tales will he spin?  The fledgling part of him imagines battles with monstrous beasts, last second reversals, escaping death’s reach by the tip of his primaries.  Oh, the stories Shinsou could weave!  Even Shouta’s interested, ears perked up.

Hizashi holds his breath when Shinsou finally moves, lifting both of his shoulders to hide his neck.  “I don’t know.  A little boring.”

Hizashi stares incredulously at him.  “What do you mean boring?  What about the ferocious animals that can kill in a single bite?  The plants that burn anyone who touches them?  The huge water walls that raze everything in their path?”

He ignores the amused churr behind him.  Shouta is curious too, he has no right to make fun of Hizashi.

“Oh.  Fe-ro-ci-ous animals do not live where I live.  Sorry.  But I have water walls!” Hitoshi quickly adds when Hizashi’s feathers drop in disappointment.  “The ground shake a lot, because the ground under the ground move, and then the water makes a big—” Hitoshi says a word in his language, upper limbs held wide to emphasize the size of the water wall.  “It’s called a—“ he says another human word, sounding it slowly.  “I never see one, but when I am little, a water wall happen near me.”

Hizashi can’t believe the casual way Shinsou says it, like it’s nothing, an every cycle occurrence.  Hizashi wonders how the water walls and the ground shaking affects Humans.

When he asks him if he moved a lot because of it, Shinsou’s previously enthusiastic expression—Hizashi should get him to talk about his home more often, getting him to talk about his planet’s weather made him relax—shuts down.  Hizashi doesn’t know what he said, but he obviously stumbled onto a sore point.  He doesn’t step back when he’s nudged behind by a worried Shouta, but he changes the subject.

“If you can put on the harness and clip yourself to the seat in less than”—Hizashi does a quick calculation—“two ‘minutes’, I’ll show you some stuff from the front.”

Shinsou isn’t as animated as before, but he goes through the motions without that closed off expression.  Hizashi congratulates him with a thrill and a shoulder bump, discreetly motioning to Shouta to reset the timer so Shinsou doesn’t see that he went a few clicks over the time limit.

Hizashi and his mate show Shinsou how to engage the autopilot.  It’s supposed to be easy, but Shinsou constantly gets distracted by the occasional flashing lights and Engine’s clicking.  Hizashi doesn’t understand how he managed to get the escape pod going under pressure and half dazed.

His bondmate takes over Hizashi when he starts struggling to explain the honestly very simple steps.  Shinsou and Shouta are awkward and wary, but his bondmate quickly falls into a teacher mindset, and as Shouta keeps his gestures steady even as Shinsou messes up, he starts relaxing, dedicating his effort to the task at hand instead of watching Shouta’s every move.

Shouta’s stern but not overly harsh tone makes Hizashi want to croon.  If his bondmate had made teaching his career, Hizashi would have been in class all the time.  Whether he would have actually listened to the class material or spent entire tones admiring his mate on that front podium doesn’t matter, he wouldn’t have a single absence under his name.

(There’s a slight bitterness to it all.  The moment Shouta chose to follow after Hizashi, he left any chance of him becoming a pilot instructor.  His mate’s textbooks were left on the corner of their table when they ran away, one tome still open to where Shouta had been reading at the time.  Hizashi sometimes wonders what they did with all of their stuff.)

When they’re done, they go take a break in the sunroom.  Shinsou studies him intensely the entire time, almost breaking all the progress he made with Shouta until Hizashi realizes after a bit of prodding that his friend wants to use the room when they’re asleep but is too shy to ask.  And isn't that surprising?  A Deathworlder, shy.

Hizashi accepts of course.  Shinsou saved his life, the least he can do is give him access to his sunroom.

He’s gently woken up for meal time, centuries of companionship recognizing Shouta’s low rumble keeping him from instinctively lashing out.  Warm skin rubs circles around his beak, making him croon at the touch.

“Shinsou is hungry.”

He almost knocks Shouta’s face with his own when he sits up.  “He told you?”

Hizashi has known Shinsou for longer and his friend doesn't tell him stuff like that.  Shouta lets his head fall forward until their brows touch.  “No.  I heard his stomach growling.”

Hizashi laughs, the whistle attracting Shinsou’s attention.  That’s a good sign for his hearing.  His healing is faster than usual; maybe Humans’ really are accelerated.

“What were you both up to when I was out?”

Shinsou holds up his open palm, showing a small clicker.  “Shouta show me words in Standard.”

Carefully, Shinsou repeats what he signed in Standard, slowly clicking and rolling the wheel to produce a faster tapping sound, the light underneath flashing in tandem.  He beams when Shouta confirms he did well, turning to Hizashi and missing his bondmate’s scarf pleased undulation.

“That’s great, listener!”  Hizashi pats his upper limb, repressing a laugh at the way Shinsou is trying to keep his happiness contained.  Hizashi bares his teeth to share his friend’s delight and is rewarded by a quick sliver of teeth from Shinsou.

Shouta doesn’t even tense.  He still picks up Engine—Lamp’s still hiding from the ship newcomer—when Shinsou comes too close to her though.  Small steps.

Eating together is very enjoyable now that they’re all awake and not about to jump at each other’s throat.  An actually cooked meal would be an improvement, but the replicated food is wingspans better than that bland gritty stuff they were served during their imprisonment so he doesn’t complain.

Even when he tries to prevent it, Shouta manages to sneak ripe pieces of fruit and tender cuts of meat into his plate.  It takes Hizashi longer to realize what his bondmate is doing because the amount of food on his plate remains the same, until he catches him stealing a lesser piece and exchanging it for a better one when he thinks Hizashi is distracted.  

Shinsou follows their interaction, tugged between the need to show his teeth or avert his eyes.  His friend’s plate has barely been touched, and Hizashi would have commented on it if he knew offering other food would have worked.  As far as he knows, Shinsou will refuse anything in favour of finishing his meal, even if he dislikes it.

Hizashi and Shouta are done before Shinsou’s even started on his second half, still painstakingly chewing.

“I’m going to check on the engines,” Shouta says suddenly.  He stiffly walks away, signing behind Shinsou’s back, “I’m not in pack.  He’ll eat easier.”

Hizashi flares his feathers gratefully.  He doesn’t kid himself in pretending Shouta isn’t going to stay in the room over, padd in hand so he can check on them, but he appreciates the gesture all the same.  At this point, Hizashi isn’t sure if the clinginess of his mate is because of Shinsou’s presence or if it’s because of his capture.  Even in their nest, Hizashi is held close, his bondmate’s scarf a constant point of contact.

Shinsou looks at the kept-open door.  “You are not going with him?”

Hizashi hesitates.  Even after all those cycles spent with him, it’s difficult to read Shinsou.  There are no feathers to examine, nor tail that flick in discontentment.  Only weird grimaces that he can barely tell apart, and that’s when he remembers to look at Shinsou’s face.

He doesn’t know what answer will put Shinsou more at ease, which forces him to ask directly, “Do you want me to stay?”

Shinsou’s eyes go all squinty, which could either mean he’s pissed off or he’s thinking of his answer.  “Go with Shouta.  I eat alone.”

Hizashi’s pretty sure that’s a dismissal if he ever heard one.  He gets up, stretch to give Shinsou time to rethink his decision.  Shinsou doesn’t say anything, curling over his plate.

“Tap this button if there’s an emergency, okay?”

Shinsou takes the small comm device, examining it carefully before shaking his head.

Perhaps Humans don’t actually eat together then.  What they had, Hizashi and him, were the results of extenuating conditions.  He’ll give it two cycles or three, just in case it’s a cultural thing where he’s actually supposed to insist or Shinsou is simply not in the mood for company right now.

Shouta doesn’t even try to hide that he’s looking at the surveillance cameras.  Hizashi hides the screen with his head, tilting up so he can look at his bondame.  “You really have no shame.”

“Hmm.”  Hizashi squawks when Shouta pushes him out of the way, but he settles down when he’s moved until his bondmate can rest his chin over his head.  “He stole one of my jelly pouches.”

“Huh.  Do you think Humans have food hoards?  If he’s taken a liking to your jelly pouches, I should give it all to him. ”  He laughs when a small hiss starts up behind him, the sound reverberating through his back.  “Hey, that tickles!”

“It was my favourite flavour.”

Hizashi pats his bondmate’s head in response to his pouting while he messages the others about their departure.  He doesn’t give any specifics; it’s too risky to share any coords, and Hizashi doesn’t even tell them the exact date they’re going to warp.  The danger of someone intercepting their communication far outweighs the cons of keeping his friends in the dark.

Hizashi isn’t used to this much downtime.  They have Shinsou to teach, but even then, most of Hizashi’s cycle is spent sleeping or eating.

He’d talked to Shinsou about the stolen jelly pouch, even if Shouta had wanted to confront him himself.  Learning and helping with boundaries, that’s the type of stuff pack is for, right?  At least, that had been Hizashi’s flock’s role.  He remembers how ashamed he had been as a fledgling when he’d been reprimanded by an outsider.

When he’d broached the subject, as casually as he could, Shinsou had tensed up anyway, upper limbs coming up to cross across his chest.  Hizashi had quickly offered other snacks Shinsou was welcome to take, food that didn’t belong to Shouta or him.

Shinsou had looked downright confused when Hizashi had explained that while they would never discourage any of his human needs or cultural practices, it’s best to talk about it with one of them so they can accommodate him without infringing on each other’s territories.  He’s pretty certain he had overexplained the concept, since he’d been uncertain if Shinsou, with his revolutions of living on a Deathworld, could understandd that stealing is unnecessary, and if it weren’t for Shinsou being super apologetic about it—the only way Hizashi had gotten him to stop was by shoving a quarter bag filled with various non-perishable that could be eaten straight out of their packaging into his grasp, and he’s pretty sure it was the shock more than anything that shut him up—Hizashi would have been unsure about whether or not he had gotten his point across.

Disregarding that, it’s been a smooth sail since.  Shinsou can now strap himself in under the required amount of click, could probably engage autopilot in his sleep and he knows the procedure for various small emergencies.  It’s enough for Hizashi and Shouta to risk disengaging out of idle to start their route.

Hizashi can’t help the loud whistling laugh when Shinsou grips the side of his seat in alarm when the ship starts accelerating, the heart squeezing moment when it reaches its peak and their body feel like they’ll never unstick from their seat before everything seems to drop down into a fast nauseous swoop, the entire ship finally stops rumbling around them to mark the successful start of a warp.

He swallows down while unclipping out of his seat, the rush unpleasantly making him want to shake his wings.  Despite experiencing drops and flips when he flies, not having any control or any external cues when it happens in a warp makes the experience unenjoyable.  “What did you think of that?”

Shinsou shakily wipes drool off the side of his mouth.  When he stands, he wobbles and shakes his head as if to rearrange his brain.  “It is different from the holovid you show me,” he signs accusingly, yet there’s his teeth-baring human smile stretching his face.  “Similar to something on Dirt.”

Shouta stops fiddling with the controls, his ears tilting toward Shinsou.  Humans aren’t supposed to have achieved space warp yet, that’s the one thing they’re certain about Humans.  After stumbling upon the fact that Shinsou apparently used to reside in a territory with millions of Humans, which necessitates a higher degree of cooperation and technical advancement than what was previously thought possible.  They aren’t even all packbonded, and according to Shinsou, his living situation is common.   Hizashi has stopped looking for any information pertaining to his friend that isn’t coming directly out of Shinsou.

If they can already build warp drives, the ISC have to be warned so they can make an intergalactic announcement and send several representatives to establish alliances.  Shinsou will be able to return to his planet.

Shouta checks on his mèos, freeing them from their holding cage.  As soon as she’s out of her small harness, Lamp quickly darts away, Engine on her tail.  Hizashi watches them go enviously.  Lucky bastards, with their genetically manipulated ability to withstand warps and jumps.  “What do you mean ‘similar’?”

Shinsou reaches for Hizashi’s padd, drawing a big squiggly shape, almost like sand dunes, if sand dunes had a loop in the middle.  There’s a small rectangle illustrated in the beginning of one end, with what Shinsou had called branch Humans behind it.  “It is a big machine, and you go in small seats with harness, and then it goes fast.”

“What is its purpose?”  Shouta’s glaring at the picture like he’ll be able to intimidate more information out of the drawing.  It’s very much undermined by the fact that he still looks woozy from the jump.

“Uh.  Amusement?”

“For fun?  Humans do this for fun?”  Hizashi stares at the drawing.  “Are you sure it’s not a hidden training facility?  To send people up in space?”

“I… no?”

Shouta mutters something in his language, too high-pitched for Hizashi to catch.  He then signs, “At least we know we can charge Humans for warps if the whole”—Hizashi tenses, prepared for his lie to be exposed, but his bondmate only makes his scarf gestures at the entire cabin—“doesn’t work out.”

After Hizashi and his bondmate checks that the ship didn't get damaged by entering the warp, taking the time to explain to Shinsou what they’re doing—Hizashi’s mind is still reeling from the newfound knowledge that Humans voluntarily subject themselves to anything akin to a warp—they go prepare their meal.  Hizashi has the time and energy to actually make something this cycle.  He starts cutting some roots from a planet in the next quadrant from his own, Shouta helping him out on the side by starting out the sauce.  He makes Shinsou hydrate packaged meat so he can practice using the rehydrator.

“It’s one of my flock members’ recipes, way better than the replicated one.  When Shouta got added, they changed it just for him since he can’t eat some of the spices you would traditionally find in here.”

The underside of Shouta’s scarf flushed slightly at the reminder, even now.

“But…”  Shinsou hesitates, looking between Hizashi or Shouta, “you replicate a lot of the ingredients?”

“So the replicated dish should taste the same, right?” Hizashi finishes Shinsou’s thought.  “That would totally be the logical conclusion, but it really does taste different, I swear!  The replicated spices don’t taste the same as the homegrown one, and you have to use rehydrated meat for this, the texture plays a really important role, and it doesn’t seem to hold the sauce as well as when it’s freshly cooked, which helps not overwhelm your taste buds.  It’s also ‘cuz it’s always the same when it’s replicated, ya know? Like maybe you would get more char on a cut of meat in some places, a bite more flavourful than the other, but with replicated meals, it’s always too well mixed up.”

“There are several mods that allow for a more randomized element, but at that point, might as well cook it yourself,” Shouta adds.  “Good for morale too.”

Shinsou turns the new information over while he tries to pull the nozzle off.  By then, Hizashi has finished cutting the various roots and stems, and tossed it all together.  Thankfully, Shinsou seems to be eating easier for this meal.  Hizashi and Shouta had to leave the room a few times during the last cycles.

It’s an easy meal, and Shinsou even does his hacking laugh at one of Shouta’s comments.

They wave goodnight at each other, and when the door closes, Hizashi flops into his nest with his wings spread out, letting out a lilting chirp to tease his bondmate when Shouta takes too long.  Shouta huffs, but he lowers to the ground, tail slowly wagging behind, his scarf commanded under stillness.  Hizashi braces his lower limbs, and when his mate pounces on him, he keeps the momentum and continues the roll, ending up on top before a loop of scarf pulls him down again.

They wrestle like they’re fledglings again, rolling and nipping, until they’re both out of breath.  Hizashi’s pretty sure Shouta is more gentle than usual, but that just means he’ll get an easy victory.

“I win,” Shouta declares.

“What?”  Hizashi pats his side with a laugh to remind him of who’s on top.  “In what world?”

A sly quirk of the lips, a flash of teeth.  “You're pinning me, so I win.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep.”  Hizashi lets himself fall on Shouta, nuzzling him before settling down in between fur and bands of scarf.  He bats at his bondmate’s scarf end, until Shouta sends it out to dim the lights.  “You’re such a sap.”

They settle into their cot, the inside toasty from the internal heat mat.  No one speaks for long clicks, content to lay silent.  Hizashi checks to see if Shouta’s awake.  Two red eyes slowly blink back at him.  “Tomorrow, with you?”

It brings forward the intended reaction.  Shouta’s scarf tightens around him until he’s pressed against a rumbling chest.  Hizashi feels his mate reply under his purr’s vibration

When Hizashi is woken up from another nightmare, he doesn’t tell Shouta that he dreamt of his bondmate’s teeth closing around his throat.

Hizashi gets up to head to the washroom, briefly closing his eyes when pitter-pattering steps quickly follow after him, whatever Shinsou had been doing dropped in favour of sticking close to him.

Is this a pack bond thing?  No flock member does this, apart from hatchlings, but even they aren’t this persistent.  It’s starting to grate on Shouta’s nerves too, but Hizashi’s bondmate is a hypocrite because he’s also following Hizashi from room to room.

Thankfully, they're about to touch down on a trading outpost, where they’ll all hopefully get some fresh air and space to stretch their wings.

They don’t need a shipsitter and no one in their three people crew is willing to stay behind, so they pack all their valuables and sentimentals into Hizashi’s resting quarters; that part of the ship is detachable, and in the advent of a thief getting away with their ship without the codes, the room will isolate and detach from the rest of the ship, which will self-destruct—useful but non-intended result of having a center room disappear in the middle of takeoff.

Shinsou loses some of his colour when Hizashi explains why they’re moving some supplies, looking in Hizashi’s nest’s direction as if it will suddenly fly away if he takes his eyes off it.  He doesn’t look reassured when Hizashi tells him no one will want to steal their ship when there are shinier ones all around—he doesn’t mention the small logo printed on the underside, well hidden when traveling, but unmissable when docked and grounded, spelling death and more to anyone daring enough to touch what’s theirs.

Maybe he should have.  Shinsou has to find out that they aren’t particularly loved by the law at some point.  It might have prevented him from packing everything he owns in his food bag and deciding to keep it on him for the trip outside.

A sudden hacking laugh erupts from Shinsou.  Hizashi turns to see Shouta, decked out in his usual outfit when they touch ground; a yellow H-straps bag holding his comm, water, food amongst other necessities, with two attachments clipped on the side, where Lamp and Engine are sitting, held from jumping out by their harnesses.

“You are sure they are not your youngs?”  The tension in Shinsou’s shoulders ease slightly when Shouta hisses at him lightheartedly.

“It’s practical.”  Shouta takes in Shinsou’s disguise.  “Nice costume.”

Shinsou pulls down the cloth tied around his face to show a pulled-out tongue.  Shouta’s fur only bristles for a click before he huffs in annoyance.  He’s transferring credits into several burner cards, handing them out so they can all hide the cards around their body.

“Everyone ready?”  Shouta twists their tails together in response while Shinsou shakes his head, nervously making sure his disguise is in place.  With the cloth hiding the lower half of his face, the goggles, and the cloak pulled up to hide his head fur, no one will suspect he’s a Human.  “Alright, here we go!”

The transition chamber hisses, light streaming in and blinding Hizashi for a few clicks.  The ramp finishes lowering, the light flashing with a small beeping sound to indicate it’s safe.  Hizashi chirps excitedly, accidentally pulling on Shouta’s tail when he runs down the ramp faster than his bondmate expects.  It’s been so long since he’s been outside a ship.  The small breeze rustling through his feathers, the massive spacecrafts crowding the open sky, the noise, he’s missed it all.

Shinsou’s looking around with barely contained amazement, although he stays close, unwilling to stray farther than a few steps away from Hizashi.  With the way Shouta keeps their tails intertwined, Hizashi is starting to realize that he’ll get even less wing room than on their ship.  He resigns himself to the fact that the trip will be spent boxed in between Shouta and Shinsou.

It’s a good time to be at this trading post.  It isn’t too crowded, with enough people milling around for the outpost to give it some life.  Open stalls greet them, with their huge flashing signs marketing their low sales and tasty snacks.

With the way Shouta and Shinsou are sticking close to Hizashi, there’s no way any of them are getting separated.  Hizashi buys some spices from a nice enough trader who sends him some personal recipes, before proceeding toward an electronics stall to buy a memory stick, straying by a small stall so Shouta can pick up enrichment for his mèos, and ending up at a stall so they can buy Shinsou a space suit.

It’s not hard to throw together a relatively safe suit made with different parts for Shinsou.  Whether any ISC patrol would find it up to code is frankly irrelevant.

Shinsou ends up carrying most of the bags, easily lifting all their purchases.  Hizashi finishes haggling with a particularly persistent vendor for a really shiny bracelet that joins the others on his ankle, clinking every time he moves.  When he finishes admiring how the light reflects on all his jewelry, he notices how the vendor’s antennas are lit up in disapproval.  “Tell your companions to calm down.  They’re making everyone nervous.”

Shinsou is hunched over under the cloak with the ends pulled tight.  Shouta doesn’t look better.  His fur is in disarray, ears twitching wildly and his mèos have read his mood because they're both clicking aggressively at anyone that steps too close.

Shouta won’t settle until they’re off this outpost, away from any perceived danger, so Hizashi only flattens the fur on his shoulder and turns his attention toward Shinsou.  “You alright there?”

Shinsou holds his belonging bags close.  “Everyone is looking at me.”

He isn’t entirely wrong.  Hizashi is used to people whispering in his and his bondmate’s wake, unused to seeing their kind this far from their respective home planets.  They’re even more curious now, with the way Shinsou doesn’t look like any particular species from this quadrant.

“Don’t worry about it.  It’s cuz they’re trying to figure out what you are.”  Shinsou steps closer to put distance between him and someone who’s pretending to browse through the neighbouring stall.  He doesn’t relax, not even when Hizashi rubs his back.  “Maybe it’s time to cut this short.  We got everything?”

Shouta’s middle limbs bring his mèos closer when he notices the nosy alien, until they’re almost hidden underneath him.

“Okay, got it, we got everything important, let’s go back now.”

The way to their ship is hurried, both Shouta and Shinsou breathing in relief when the hatch closes off and Shouta sniffs the air for any intruders.  Their nervousness is contagious, to the point Hizashi has to consciously unclench his beak until they’ve launched out of this outpost's artificial gravity.

Chapter Text

On the eight cycle of their second warp, Hizashi finally gathers the courage to try gliding again.

It’s early in the cycle.  Shinsou is sleeping in the room over, Shouta is busy grooming himself with closed eyes, and so there’s no one to ask why Hizashi’s climbing on top of a shelf and standing on the edge with his wings wide open for several long feeps.

He’s been putting off flying and finding excuses even though he knows his flight feathers have been ready for cycles now, unnecessarily worried that he somehow forgot how to hold his body in the air, catch drafts and ride hot winds.

Hizashi nervously peers down.  The ground isn’t too far.  If he falls, only his pride will be bruised.

Shouta’s ears twitch when Hizashi starts humming a courage inspiring song, but he doesn’t do anything more than that.  Hizashi ruffles his feathers, flaring them until he’s certain they’re all aligned.  He isn’t a newly minted fledgling.  There’s nothing to fear.

Shouta tenses when Hizashi crouches low, backing up to get more momentum before jumping off the shelf.  He falls for a terrifying half-a-click until muscle memory takes over.  His wings snap open with no difficulty, his back limbs tuck themselves under his stomach, and the feathers trailing on the back of his tail flare to control his movements.  Performing a sharp turn when he reaches the other side of the room is as easy as breathing.  He swoops low, his abdomen feathers trailing the ground just because he can, letting out a loud overjoyed thrill before landing on his bondmate’s shoulders.  Shouta grunts under the impact, his scarf going up and creating a wall around Hizashi, who flaps his wings to gain his balance back so his abrupt stop doesn’t send him careening into his bondmate’s limb.

Hizashi lays down, draping himself all over Shouta’s back.  He keeps himself from thrilling again, because Shouta’s sensitive ears are right there, so he squirms and rubs the side of his beak aggressively over his bondmate’s head to expel the energy trying to burst out of his chest.  When he feels like he won’t blow Shouta’s eardrums, he pulls back, a whistling laugh bursting out of his chest when he sees his bondmate’s mussed fur.

He cards his sheathed talons through the black fur in apology.  Some of the shorter tuffs refuse to go back into place, but Shouta won’t be able to see how they stand out of place.

“Were you trying to shred me into pieces?” Shouta asks, amused.

Hizashi pecks his ear in mock affront.  “You taking me for an amateur?  I’ll have you know that if I wanted to murder you, I’d leave no blood behind.”

To mark his words, he hums, low enough to make Shouta’s teeth clatter and to rattle the storage containers against the wall, but not enough to actually rupture his inside.  He ignores the baleful glare Lamp sends him to focus on the completely besotted way his bondmate signs, “I know.”

Shouta told him once that this particular frequency almost sounds like the rumble he does when pleased and comfortable, only louder.  Hizashi had thought that his bondmate was joking, because it absolutely doesn’t come close to his purr, but he’s discovered that after a certain point, Shouta can’t differentiate any of the sounds Hizashi produces.  Lower than 50 frequency units, he only knows Hizashi is emitting anything when people start dropping unconscious or dead, which is a bummer because that’s where most speaking sounds are situated in his dialect.  There are so many intricacies and jokes and meanings that Shouta misses out on, cycles full of stories he’ll only know in the form of a crude summary.

He’s distracted from his thoughts when his mate’s scarf comes up to caress the sides of his face, the end holding Shouta’s brush not even wavering as he resumes grooming himself.

It’s an old brush, with long bristles and an ergonomic handle with a design they could only find within their home quadrant.  They’d bought several, stocking on them when there was a sale so they wouldn’t need to come back to their quadrant or settle for one with an uncomfortable grip when Shouta inevitably breaks his brush beyond use, which is more likely than one might think with how hard Hizashi’s bondmate tugs when he comes across a string of particularly stubborn knots.

The bulk buying had offered an advantage they couldn’t have possibly foreseen.  Hizashi had been able to give Shinsou a grooming brush six cycles ago, which is great because people with fur shed constantly, and Shinsou is no different.

He doesn’t know if it’s because he has gotten so used to Shouta’s black fur that it doesn’t register to his mind anymore, but he can’t stop finding purple strands everywhere.   For someone with so little fur, Hizashi feels like Shinsou sheds as much as Shouta.  The grooming brush has helped greatly, but Hizashi has resigned himself to pulling out clumps of fur from the sweepers more often.

Shouta had grumbled about having scented his brushes recently and his mark having not faded away, but the sink’s drain getting clogged again has quelled his complaints, although it doesn't stop his bondmate from being twitchy the first few cycles, often doing double-takes when Shinsou gets too close, at least until his scent mark faded enough to become undetectable for his weak-for-an-Eer’ahseer sense of smell.

He’s helping his bondmate rearrange the fur around his ears when Shouta suddenly stands up with bristled fur, almost sending Hizashi tumbling down.  Heart leaping up his throat, he jumps off Shouta and rights himself up, flicking the protective sheaths off his talons behind him.  

His feathers catch a crazy amount of vibration coming from outside the room, just as fleshy fingers start prying the doors open, the metal groaning as the dented part is forced through the wall’s guiding rail.  Hizashi stares horrified as Shinsou stumbles into their quarters, fur wilder than usual.  His eyes dart around, chest rising fast, upper limbs held tight.  It’s familiar, sends alarm lights flashing through Hizashi’s brain, and he finds himself looking around for the glint of Feczoit armour, flaring his feathers out to expose their red underside and startle anyone about to attack.

Shouta’s scarf billows, rapidly getting expelled until enough length has been pulled out for the inner slit to flatten over Hizashi, as if to hide him, while the rest hangs free.  His tired stance has been washed away and replaced with coiled muscles and a hint of teeth.  “What are you doing?”

Shinsou goes to take a step forward, blind to Shouta’s question.  It isn’t until Hizashi’s bondmate hisses loudly that Shinsou stops to look at him, face pale and slightly damp near his fur line.  “I heard—Hizashi is—”

Hizashi’s death rattle stutters, slowly comes to a stop when he realizes the absence of any threat.

There’s scratches added to the floor, joining old ones from when he hadn’t been careful enough to not damage the metal.  He swallows down his panic, willing his skittering heart to stop trying to escape.  “Oh shit, I’m really sorry Shinsou, I didn’t mean to wake you up like that.  Nothing bad’s happening, I just got excited and made too much noise.”

Shinsou stares incomprehensibly at him.  He looks around, tense and prepared for someone to jump out from their hiding place but nothing happens.  Like he’s in slow motion, he tilts until his weight is mostly held up by the door frame, his breathing evening out.  Before Hizashi or Shouta can say anything, he backs away.  He signs tersely, “Sorry.”

“No, wait—”  The doors close with much too much gentleness for the way they were pried open, Shinsou already looking away.

Hizashi covers his eyes for a few clicks.  “Fuck.”  The accomplishment he had felt from successfully gliding has left place for bitter guilt.  He shakes his limbs, picking up his talon sheaths from where they’ve been flung all around the room.  Somehow, one ended up in the mèos’ empty cot.  At one point, they had taken refuge in Shouta and his beddings, forming two lumps against the sunken walls.

He goes to find Shinsou, but Shouta stops him.  “Let him have some personal space to collect himself.  You’ll overwhelm him”

It’s probably for the best, but it doesn’t mean Hizashi has to like it.  “Does he sound alright?”

His bondmate’s ears prick up.  “I can’t hear anything.”

Hizashi can’t feel anything either; they’d dampened the floor when his feathers had grown out enough for him to be disturbed when Shinsou moves in his sleeping quarters, and he moves a lot.   They could probably look at the camera feed, but Hizashi dislikes the idea of watching his friend in a moment of vulnerability.  By the stiffness of his scarf, Shouta is also uncomfortable at the thought of breaching Shinsou’s privacy now that cycles have passed without any incident and it’s apparent he didn’t hold any ill intent when he barged into their quarters.  While Shouta had been able to justify spying on Shinsou during the first few cycles, he’d disabled the feed from his resting quarters when it had been deemed unnecessary and Hizashi had called him a creep.  Hizashi has the niggling suspicion he still checks on the sharerooms from time to time to supervise Shinsou though, but he does the same with Engine when he doesn’t see her for longer than half a cycle.

He dejectedly goes through his routine, adding the feathers that fell during his sleep into a neat pile around his cot, rearranging the nest of beddings, and choosing talon sheaths that match his bracelets.  They clink together softly, reflecting light on their polished surface.

A warm weight settles on his back, slithers around his waist.  He can feel the muscles tremble.  “It’s going to be fine.  It was bound to happen.”

Hizashi pats Shouta’s scarf, blindly reaching out behind him until his tail makes contact with one of his bondmate’s many limbs to curl around it to steady him.

“I’ve been thinking about introducing Shinsou to the flock.”  The scarf stops for a click before resuming its rippling.  “They won’t say anything, as long as Shinsou doesn’t pose a danger— which he doesn’t—and the healers might help.”

Shouta lays on him.  It’s heavy, but he keeps most of his weight on his limbs so as to not crush Hizashi.  

It’s sometimes like this after scares; Shouta keeps him close to his stomach, where he’s easily defendable and his bondmate knows his position even with his eyes closed.

Hizashi doesn’t mind it, since he isn’t much better.  On some occasions, the only way to deal with the fear gripping at his throat is to have Shouta half buried in his sand, feathers and trinkets braided into his fur, covered by Hizashi’s spread-open wings.

“What about the others?”

His flock lives in a cluster, and Shouta knows that they don’t meddle into each other’s businesses, had witnessed it when they’d return with a ‘Wanted’ status, but it’s difficult for his bondmate to fully grasp the concept that See’krtshes truly don’t care about what happens as long as it doesn’t affect their flock—and the ones that do move away from Hizashi’s hatch region or they take work in space.  He’s lucky his flock isn’t the type to cast out members.  “Problems occurring outside of the flock remains—“

“—outside of the flock, yes, but—“

“No buts.  Well, except for when we can get a young out of it, but that doesn’t really apply here.  Legally,” he tacks on, because they don’t really do it the traditional way anymore, for obvious reasons.  At Shouta’s unimpressed look, Hizashi throws his wings in the air in exasperation, “Mostly legally, fine!  But those five nestlings don’t count, we got the papers eventually. It was only a little bit sketchy, and no one in their flock noticed until second sundown, so really, it balances out.”

Everyone knows you always count youngs before, during, and after interflock visits.

Hizashi shakes his feathers.  He’s gotten off topic.  “So don’t even worry about it, yeah?”

It’s only then that Hizashi notices how Shouta’s pupils have expanded sometime during the conversation, huge circles instead of the vertical slits they usually are, so much so that only a ringlet of yellow is visible.  There's no stopping him from laying the underside of his jaw on Hizashi’s head, and despite being completely gone, his mate is careful not to bend his crest.  Shouta shifts so his front limbs frame the sides of his face and neck without touching.

Hizashi has been trying to get rid of the electric panic everytime something brushes his throat.  It’s better now that his feathers are acting as a thin barrier against the world, and time has sanded the edges of the pained memories the collar brought.  He’s at a point where neither his own touch or nor cloth resting on his nape unearth any of the uncontrollable anxiety, but he knows anything more than that is a no-go.  It doesn’t deter him from thinking about the fuzzy feeling that’s always brought up when Shouta nuzzles him, before the Feczoits came in between him and his bondmate’s affection, his cold nose a pleasant contrast to his warm breaths.

It’s truly a relief.  He’s hoping the healers will share ways to speed up the process, but even if they don’t have advice to give, there’s enough progress for Hizashi to be confident he won’t be stuck like this forever.

Shouta rumbles over him.  He nudged Hizashi’s tail until it’s folded to his side instead of hanging out in the open.  Talking like this is basically impossible, so Hizashi prepares himself to wait for Shouta to regain control.  It’s comfortable here, encased in fur.  It’s warm too.

Engine and Lamp peek out from under their beddings, twin tongues flicking out to investigate if it’s safe to come out.  As soon as they’re within Shouta’s reach, they’re scooped to be tucked away, hidden in between skin and fur.

Eventually, Shouta moves and Hizashi can extricate himself from under him without sending his bondmate into a panic.  He shakes himself until his feathers fall back into place.  

Lamp flicks her tongue at Shouta, grinding her teeth when he pets her with his scarf, at least until she deems he’s done enough, and then it’s like a switch being flicked as she squirms and clicks indignantly at the treatment until she’s let down, as if she hadn’t been head butting Shouta to get his attention when he had been rubbing his chin over Engine just moments ago.

Shouta cradles the back of Hizashi’s head with his scarf, pulling him forward until their brows knock together.  “Are we stopping by another trading center?”

“If he’s coming with us, then yeah, he‘ll need a few things.  It’s not like we can leave him on the ship when we land on my planet.”

Shouta does a poor attempt at the ‘I’m-innocent’ hum the nestlings back home have mastered.  “I heard DP-04’s moons are a beautiful place to visit right now.”

For suggesting to drop Shinsou on a DP-04 moon of all things, he squishes Shouta’s face together until his ears pin down in annoyance, whistling laugh a little more Present Mic than Hizashi.  He knows Shouta’s only joking to lighten up his mood, and although it’s a little too early and he knows the simmering guilt won’t disappear soon, Hizashi plays along.  “My favourite listener,” he starts, “the lilt you added at the end of that hum implies you have gastrointestinal problems.”

It’s a complete and utter lie, but Shouta falls for it and a small scuffle breaks out.

Hizashi almost always loses if Shouta doesn’t let him win, so it’s not a surprise when his bondmate pins him down, butting their brows together.  It’s not that Hizashi’s weaker than Shouta, but rather that most of his fighting methods can’t be brought down to a level where they aren’t lethal or injury inducing, and making his mate’s brain leak out of his ears is not something Hizashi strives to do.

Hizashi’s guilt returns in greater force when Shouta breaks away to go check on Engine and Lamp.  Here he is, playing around, while Shinsou is alone.  Enough time should have gone by for him to be able to go see Shinsou, right?

He signals to Shouta that he’s going to talk with his friend.  His mate isn’t happy to let him out of his sight, but he doesn’t move to follow and he reassures Hizashi that it’s going to be fine, to which he sends a grateful chirp.

Hizashi goes to the hallway hatch, bouncing a little to get rid of his jitteriness.  He just has to check on Shinsou, apologize for scaring him, ask him if he has more triggers that he knows of, and tentatively bring up the subject of his health and therapy.

Do Humans even know about that type of health? Shinsou having no concept of it might actually be one of the best case scenarios.  If it’s as stigmatized as it is in Shouta’s culture, this might not turn out well.

Hizashi ruffles his feathers.  He’ll get there when he gets there.  For now, all he has to do is get Shinsou to open his hatch.

Before he can wuss out, he flicks the door light a few times.  And waits.  And waits some more.

He fully expects Shinsou to ignore him when several feeps have passed, but right as he’s turning away dejectedly, the doors open.

Shinsou’s garment are all wrinkled and the lower fabric has been rolled up to his thighs.  The front of his lower limbs, where bone rests right under skin, is bruised at the bend.  Before Hizashi can comment on it, Shinsou signs, solemn, “I am very sorry.  I thought—”

“It’s fine, listener,” Hizashi cuts him off.  “Everything’s… cool…”

He warbles in alarm when he sees reddish-brown on Shinsou’s fingers, grasping Shinsou’s forelimbs to inspect the damage before he can hide them behind his back.  “What happened?”

It’s a question to which he already knows the answer.  The dried blood is flaky under his chipped talons, and on second glance, the bleeding doesn’t stem from there.  He lets go when Shinsou tugs his hands away so as to not hurt him.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for that.  Let’s go to the med bay, yeah?”  He doesn’t let Shinsou answer, already pulling him by his garments.

Shinsou’s wearing his ratty-but-clean human garments.  Hizashi thought he had thrown them since he only ever sees him in one of the Afs’A outfits, but it turns out he’d been using them as sleepwear, which is a slight relief.  Hizashi hasn’t been given the hoodie back—not that he needs it—so he hadn’t been sure what it meant for his position in the pack, but it would have been a shame for Shinsou to have gotten rid of it when Hizashi would have gladly taken it to add in his side of the nest as bedding, or sold it for a small fortune.

Shinsou remains standing while Hizashi takes out topical cream and a roll of extra adherent bandages.

“It is okay.  I am not hurt.  It is a waste.”

Hizashi ignores the statement, pushing him until he sits.  Hizashi doesn’t know if it’s a cultural human norm, or if someone taught his friend to view care as useless when it comes to him, but it’s troubling all the same.  Trying to convince Shinsou that ressources poured into his well-being isn’t a waste only makes him double-down on it, and it reminds Hizashi of Toshinori in more ways than one.  He slathers the cream on the front of his lower limbs, taking the opportunity to put some on the odd bruise here and there Shinsou somehow managed to collect.

Shinsou tries to keep his hands behind his back, but at Hizashi’s heatless rattle, he quickly holds them out.

“Do they hurt?” Hizashi asks while pressing on his friend’s talons.  They’re chipped, lines running through them.  Shinsou’s hands don't twitch or make a move to retract from pain, so Hizashi believes him when he denial-shakes his head.  “Good.  Okay, come down please.”

Shinsou leans back further away when Hizashi tries to reach for his head.  “I’m not gonna hurt you.  We’re pack, right?  I just wanna help.”

A long pause between them, and then Shinsou’s bending his head to expose the back of his neck.  Vulnerable, a show of trust.  It adds to Hizashi’s guilt, especially when he sees the amount of red bloodying his skin.  Swallowing, Hizashi softens the crusted clumps of fur and blood so it doesn’t hurt when he peels them away.

He inhales sharply when he finally gets a glimpse of what the extent of Shinsou’s injury is.

The skin’s been picked at, shallow gouges pitting the surface despite Shinsou having recently filed his talons blunt. The first outer layer of skin has been pulled away at some point, and small pieces hang where Shinsou hasn’t ripped them off.  Some of the wounds restart bleeding sluggishly, bright red trails sliding down to stain Shinsou’s garment when Hizashi isn’t fast enough to wipe them away.  Hizashi’s heart drops further when he sees more scabbed over wounds, all at different stages of healing.

Hizashi croons when his friend hunches into himself, pets his fur upward, partly so it stays out of the way when he sprays an antibiotic on it, partly to comfort him.  Shinsou jolts a little when the mist hits the back of his neck, despite Hizashi warning him about the cold. 

Shinsou tries to straighten up when Shouta walks in, but stops when Hizashi coos protect-safety-relax at him.  He even goes limp when Hizashi scrapes his scalp lightly with his sheathed talons, making it easier for Hizashi to flap his other wing over the drying antibiotic.

His bondmate winces at the sight of Shinsou’s wounds.  He opens a storage cabinet and takes out a roll of wider bandage, glancing at Shinsou’s neck before cutting a piece out, big enough to cover the area that’s been picked at entirely.

Shinsou’s made to lie down on his stomach so the medrepair can heal the wounds on his neck.  Hopefully, the smooth skin will give less incentive for him to pick at it.  Afterwards, Hizashi takes the bandage from his mate’s scarf to stick it on Shinsou’s neck, careful to avoid trapping any strands of fur.  He smooths out the edges, pressing them firmly so they don’t come unstuck and hopefully deters Shinsou from going at his skin again.

Shinsou doesn’t move from his position, breaths deeper than before, and Hizashi doesn’t stop petting his fur, scratching when his friend unconsciously pushes against his talons.

Shinsou’s fur has grown so much softer.  It’s free of grime, with new shiny growth nearest his scalp now that he’s finally getting enough nutrients.  A few strands at the base have started to curl.

Really, everything about Shinsou is softer now.  The frequent meals have filled him out, blurring the harsh shadows that used to be cast by jutting bones, and the sunroom has replaced his almost translucent skin with a healthier pink.

The obvious improvements don’t come with only benefits though.  They’ve made Hizashi complacent, have pushed him to spread out the full body medical scans to once every tenth of Shinsou’s cycles instead of every fifth.  He hadn’t been sure how exposing Shinsou to the scan so often would affect his body and he couldn’t read any of the data collected anyway, so Hizashi had thought it was a sound decision.  Even if he still thinks it’s the right decision, it shouldn’t have stopped him from noticing Shinsou’s habit of scratching at his skin, and there’s no excuse for Hizashi missing whatever has been going on with his friend.  He isn’t quite sure whether he’s an adequate packmember, but if Shinsou had been flock, Hizashi would have failed his duties.

He’ll have to be better.  Hizashi has Shouta and his flock, but Shinsou only has him, the rest of his pack out of reach.  Hizashi’s ashamed to admit that he hasn’t been as tactile with Shinsou as when they were in the cell, more inclined to turns his ministrations toward his bondmate than a Human.  He didn’t pay it any until now—or, more likely, Hizashi didn’t want to see it—but Shinsou always leans into his casual touches.  As if Hizashi isn’t feeling bad enough, the image of Shinsou wrapping his upper limbs around his torso when he thought himself in the privacy of his resting quarters pops into his mind.

He shouldn’t use his own species and culture as reference, but it’s difficult to not compare Shinsou to skin-starved younglings—the ones who are left on their own too often and whose flocks are too overwhelmed to notice their health’s decline—when he has similar quirks.  Usually, even when they are taken away to be brought back to his flock and shown appropriate care, they’ll default to curling into a tight ball, wings pressed around themselves to mimic a brood nest instead of asking for comfort from a flockmate.

Shinsou isn’t going to wither away and die, Hizashi has to remind himself of that.  Even if his friend was a See’krtsh, adults are sturdier and more resistant to skin starvation.  Still, he places his other wing on Shinsou’s cheek, just in case.

Shinsou jolts up at the touch, and to Hizashi’s discontentment, he shies away from him with an embarrassed flush rising up his face.  Hizashi takes advantage of Shinsou flusteredly hopping off the med cot to shake away the purple fur that’s entangled on his talons and feathers.

Shinsou resolutely avoids looking at any of them, even when Engine climbs on Hizashi to sit on the base of his tail so she doesn’t have to wobble all the way to her food dish, although she’s quick to runs off when they make a small detour to the washing room so Shinsou can scrub the blood crusted under his talons away.

Hizashi makes a shooing gesture at Shouta.  After a few protests, Shouta reluctantly goes to feed his mèos and leaves Hizashi alone with Shinsou.

Shinsou looks at Shouta’s departure with his furred brows lowering in confusion.

“Let’s go to the shareroom for a moment, yeah?”

Shinsou follows him, steps silent behind him.  He makes Shinsou sit next to him on the high cushions.

They stay in a comfortable silence, the same way they used to do back in the cell when there was only enough energy left to exist, but instead of being tightly coiled in the farthest corner from the cell door as possible, they’re slumped on the high cushions, pillows sinking under their weight and carpet muffling the thrum of the ship.  They aren’t fearing for their lives, their stomachs are filled, and there’s no chill to chase away.

While Hizashi wishes he didn’t have to interrupt the moment, he should have broached the subject a long time ago.  He doesn’t want to put it off, not when Hitoshi’s in a relatively better mood, Shouta is waiting in the scullery and won’t interrupt, and they’re in a comfortable setting where Shinsou can retreat to his resting quarters if he wants at any point in the conversation.

“It’s been a long time since it’s just been the two of us, hasn’t it?”  When Shinsou agreement-shakes in confusion, Hizashi continues, “It’s kinda weird.  One moment, I’m spending every cycle with you, and the next, we’re on the ship, Shouta and the mèos are there, and there’s so much to do.  It’s a little overwhelming, you know?”

Shinsou shakes his head more confidently.  “A lot of place to walk.  A lot of food types.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Hizashi says, despite not personally experiencing any of that.  He makes a note on slowing down the introduction of new foods.  “I thought I would stop being so scared once I’m here, but I can’t stop thinking something bad is going to happen.”

Shinsou leans forward, so they’re closer.  He reaches out, slow enough for Hizashi to avoid his hand, and pats his wing two times.  “It is okay.  It is scary, but we are away from the Feczoits now.”

While the sentiment is sweet, that’s not what Hizashi was aiming for.  “Yeah, we’ve got each other, right?”  When Shinsou agreement-shakes his head, Hizashi continues, “I’m not going to be a bother if I talk to you when it’s too much?”

And Shinsou goes all earnest and wide eyed.  “Never.  Never a bother.”

Hizashi ignores his discomfort and pretends he’s thinking it over.  “Isn’t it unfair though?  For me to dump my problems on you?”  Before Shinsou can say anything, Hizashi makes a noise of realization.  “What about this: I talk to you about what’s been troubling me, and you do the same with me?  That’s fair, right?”

At Shinsou’s unsure expression, Hizashi goes further.  “Or else, I’ll feel too bad about it, and I don’t think I can bring myself to drop everything on you while you have to keep your worries to yourself.  Like this, it’s an exchange.  What do you say?”

Shinsou scrunches his face up.  “You tell me about your problems, and I tell you about my problems?”

“Exactly!”

For some reason, Shinsou’s face screws up even more, his mouth twisting in a way Hizashi has never seen.  

“This is because of what happen before,” Shinsou signs accusingly.

“I mean,” Hizashi splutters, not expecting Shinsou to make the connection even if he really should have, “not entirely.”

And Shinsou...Shinsou looks angry.  Hizashi tries to convince himself that that’s his friend, that the Human will never hurt him, but it’s difficult to stomp on the nervous chirp when Shinsou stands up and towers over him.

“I tell you already, it will not happen again.  I was stupid, heard you and thought you—“  Shinsou inhales through his mouth.  “I am safe , so you do not need to—“

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re not stupid for reacting like that.  It’s completely normal to be on edge after what you experienced.  There's a few healers I know we could visit, so if the ones on my home planet don’t work out, we can stop by quadrant KIP, I have a few favours I can pull—“

Shinsou stomps out of reach and makes a long noise of frustration.  He whirls around to face Hizashi, holding up one hand with all fingers closed, except from the middle one.  Even without the cultural context, Hizashi knows he’s being insulted. 

“Maybe we should calm down, yeah?” Hizashi cuts him off while he hedges closer, a flicker of irritation amongst the fear.  He grasps it and fans it bigger, until he doesn’t feel like his heart is going to beat out of his chest and fall right out of his chest.  He’s just trying to help, he doesn’t understand why Shinsou is acting like this.

As soon as the words fly out, he knows they’re the wrong thing to say.  Shinsou’s eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to tell him something in his human dialect.

He doesn’t get the chance; the hatch opens and Shouta comes in, purposely putting himself in between Hizashi and Shinsou.  His friend’s face changes, the outer corner of his furbrows pull down and his eyes widen, before they go back to being narrowed.

Shouta’s making himself big, standing up with his back bent until the front part of his body is lifted up.  He doesn’t hiss, but the skin of his mouth is tense, almost pulled back to show his teeth.  “Back off.”

It only upsets Shinsou more, the display aggravating the situation.  Someone’s going to get hurt if they don’t defuse the situation.

Too late.  Shinsou moves his hands fast, causing Shouta to jump back to avoid the blow, pushing Hizashi away in the process.  Only, instead of going for either of them, Shinsou brings his hands to his head, grabs a chunk of fur, and pulls hard.

Hizashi warbles in alarm, but the fur stays attached to his scalp, the force distributed between every strand.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”  Shinsou’s breathing hard, eyes shiny.  His gestures are poorly controlled, thrown wide instead of his usual carefulness.  “I do not hurt anyone, so stop—”  He lets out a long yell, turning his back to them and walking to the wall to scream at it.

Hizashi stands frozen, his body locked up in place in a way he thought he had overcome a long time ago.  Shinsou is frightening, all wild animal and spitting anger, Hizashi’s fear compounded by the way it recalls vague impression from when he was half out of it and dragged by the wings, and the confusion and deep instinctual terror from before is mixing everything into a big mess he can’t parse through.

He almost flies out and seals the Deathworlder in the room, but he’s pulled back when Shouta says something sharp and reprimanding in his language when Shinsou goes to pull at more of his fur.

Immediately, Shinsou’s upper limbs drop.  All the fight drains out of him, and his face goes so pale, Hizashi thinks he’s going to fall unconscious.  The skin around his mouth wobbles, his shoulders go up to his ears, and he grabs his upper limbs to hold himself, but the shaking shows through.

Shouta is as thrown off as he is.  The quick outburst quickly followed by this, Shinsou making himself small , is giving Hizashi whiplash, but the absurdity of Shinsou being the one who’s scared helps him take control of himself.  He’s cladded in shiny trinkets, he’s covered in Shouta’s fur, the shareroom’s walls are painted cream, he’s safe.

Shouta lets out a long drawn out breath.  He pulls out a collapsible dish from somewhere, pops it open, and pours water in.  “Drink this.”

Hizashi obeys, choking down the water while he tries to convince himself everything is fine.

Shouta throws a half crumbled snack at Shinsou’s feet.  “Eat.”

Shinsou closes his eyes tight until the skin around them wrinkle.  He lowers himself to the ground, keeping his limbs tight together, and he drops his head in the bend of his upper limb to hide his face away.  The wrapper crinkles when Shinsou’s fingers close around it.  He opens it with shaky hands and takes a small bite.

Shouta doesn’t say anything, only moves to stroke Hizashi’s crest down.

The water helps.  Hizashi gets to focus on breathing around each gulp, and his body untenses by itself, conditioned to associate drinking with being out of danger.

Shouta looks at him, and when he’s sure Hizashi is stable, he makes his way to Shinsou.

His steps make more noise than usual, and he lowers himself to put his face at the same level as Shinsou’s.

Shinsou turns his head enough for one of his eyes to peek through his limb.  The skin around his eye is pink from laying on it.  “I am not dangerous.”

Shouta doesn’t voice his disagreement.  Shinsou waits, and when he’s not refuted, he continues, “I can stay here.  You cannot leave me.  I am not dangerous, so I stay here.”

“Alright,” Shouta signs easily.  “You can stay on the ship.”

Shinsou’s brows crinkle, but when he accidentally catches Hizashi’s gaze, he shies away, retreating back into the safety of his upper limbs.

Hizashi resolutely reminds himself of little modeling compound figures and gentle hands petting Engine.  Of the back of a neck, fragile spine bared to his talons.  “Is that why you were upset?”

When Shinsou doesn’t say anything, Hizashi goes against all of his instincts and grabs his hands.  He’s proud to say his tremor doesn’t show.  “It’ll be rotations before we can even let you drive a ship,” he says.  “Seasons, revolutions even, before you’ll be able to strike out on your own.  And even then, you’ll get a clipper, so many rations, and enough credits to buy yourself your own home.  So don’t worry about it, yeah?  You can barely heat up your food right now.  We have all the time in the world.”

Shinsou somehow sinks even more into himself.  A few stray crumbs stick to his garments.

“Don’t you want to explore space?  Find other people you can bond with?  Me and Shouta, we’ll only weigh you down, you’ll never be able to go at your own pace, do what you want.”

It’s not that he’s waiting for the moment he can kick Shinsou out, scary outburst and all, but they all have their own lives.  Hizashi will have to socialize him with more people so he’ll hopefully grow a bigger pack, show him places where he can settle down if he doesn’t wish for a crew.  Hizashi latches on to the idea.  Everything to not think about his skipping heart and the heavy dread that grows every click he stays within grabbing distance.

“Because of what you do.  Being heroes.”

Hizashi almost falls back into his blind panic.  He can’t believe he almost forgot the lie he told Hitoshi.  Beside him, Shouta shifts on his hind limbs.  “Yeah, you’re a civilian, you know?  We can’t just drag you around when we go on missions, not when you aren’t properly trained.  It would be unprofessional of us.”

With how Shinsou’s insistent about not posing any danger, Hizashi doesn’t think he’ll fit UA.  Half of it is maintaining a reputation that puts fear in their enemies so they’ll think twice before starting something in their proximity.  It would be unfair to Shinsou if they didn’t give him the opportunity to find his place first.  Hizashi doesn’t want him to be forced to a lifetime of piracy because he doesn’t know anything or anyone else, especially when he isn’t aware that this would be his outcome.

Disregarding his initial reasons for lying, this is for Shinsou’s benefit.  The less he knows, the better his chances are of having an ordinary life after this.

It’s difficult to not feel like he’s the scum of this quadrant when Hitoshi finds Hizashi’s eyes and holds his gaze without saying anything.  Hizashi isn’t quite sure what’s going on, but he keeps still and doesn’t waver, even when his tail wants to flick in discomfort and his feathers twitch to flare.  Eventually, Hitoshi has mercy on Hizashi’s heart and turns away, breaking the tension that’s been building up.  He signs, the shaking falling away, “Okay.”

Hizashi wants to offer more reassurances, explain that he’s here if Shinsou ever wants to talk about it and that there are—albeit limited—ressources for what he’s going through, but he doesn’t want to accidentally set Shinsou off again.

“Come on, are you hungry?  We’ll cook something you like.  What do you say about the meal we did a few cycles ago, the one with the boiled circle leaves?”

Shinsou agreement-shakes.  Hizashi stays by Shinsou’s side and for once, Shouta doesn’t try to walk in between them, although Hizashi wishes he did for once.  He reproaches himself for the thought; Shinsou hasn’t even hurt them.  All he did was yell and wave his limbs around.

They set up everything they need to prepare their meal.  A lot of the tasks he gives Shinsou keep him further apart, but he tells himself it’s coincidence.  He’s only making him do the easier tasks, he’s not actively trying to put some distance between them.

Cooking helps.  The sizzle and bubbling, the repetitive gestures, Shouta’s calming presence, Hizashi can turn all of his attention to making food.  Shinsou is quieter, but the tense hold of his shoulders loosen as time goes by, especially when the mèos comes out of nowhere when Shouta not so accidentally drops an offcut of meat and Lamp immediately shoots out of her hiding place, darting around their limbs to grab the treat she has claimed hers and scampers off before Hizashi even has the time to react.  When he tells Shouta off for dirtying the floor, his mate has the audacity to drop another offcut, although this time, Engine is the one who goes for it, running up in her weave-like way and running off a little less gracefully to eat the meat in the shareroom.  

When it’s time to eat, Shinsou folds into himself and he keeps his eyes rooted on the spot in front of him, mechanically shoving his food in his mouth and barely chewing before he swallows.  He doesn’t try to interact except for when he’s asked a direct question, and even then, his answers are short and closed off.

“Are you sure you don’t want more?”  Hizashi pushes one of the side dishes Shinsou seems to enjoy, the assumption only supported by the time he takes to chew and savour this dish compared to others.  “There’s a lot left.”

Shinsou declines the offer and Hizashi almost resents the rejection.  Shinsou refusing to take the plate is preventing him from absolving himself partly from the guilt of being scared of his friend, which makes him feel even worse because he shouldn’t be feeling like this, much less hold resentment.

He reminds himself that Shinsou refusing second servings isn't anything new.  Apart from the stolen snacks, seldom does he take a lot of food when it comes to actual meals, to the point where Hizashi has had to preemptively fill Shinsou’s plate for him instead of letting him serve himself from the panoply of food.

They clean their teeth while Shinsou guards the door, because apparently, Humans only brush them two times a cycle.  A warp ago, Shinsou had also stated—with confidence Hizashi would have thought to be true if it had not been for the nervous twitch of his fingers—that he would do his teeth washing after them.  He’d been confused when Hizashi and Shouta had agreed easily without having to hear any of his reasons, but why wouldn’t they?  It’s a step toward Shinsou’s independence, they want to encourage him to establish boundaries.  It’s good that he initiated a moment in which he’d be separated from Hizashi, although Hizashi finds that if he hums or makes some noise now and then while he guards the washingroom door, Hitoshi has an easier time.

The hold on Hizashi’s stomach lessens when he hums for Shinsou.  He’s useful, he’s repaying being saved with more than blind fear, but it doesn’t last long, Shinsou rushing through his cleaning and looking like he’s going to head to his resting quarters by the time he comes out.  Before he can escape to his quarters, Hizashi grabs him—suppresses the flinch when beady eyes stare him down—and turns him toward his sunroom.  He doesn’t want Shinsou to stew in his thoughts alone, and he selfishly needs to offer comfort.

Shouta takes the sunscreen bottle from Shinsou’s grasp to squeeze a ridiculously large amount in his palm.  Shinsou gapes and shoots Shouta an unimpressed glare, before he starts the task of using it all up when Hizashi’s mate doesn’t pay him any attention to him.

Irritation is better than the morosity Shinsou has been carrying, and Shouta’s teasing assures that Shinsou will actually put the necessary amount even if he half-heartedly slaps it on, if only because the only other way to get rid of the mount of sunscreen is to wipe it off on his garments or the surrounding furniture.  Hizashi can’t help the sliver of amusement that almost puffs his feathers when Shinsou pushes the lower skin of his mouth out, in the same exact way Shouta does when he’s pouting.  He turns away to pretend he’s adjusting dials and fixing the temperature so he appears busy and doesn’t rush Shinsou.

When they aren’t too sticky anymore, Hizashi ushers them inside, butting Shouta’s forehead before he calls Shinsou to follow him out of the shaded area.

Shinsou’s feet shuffle along the floor, dragging each step out.  Hizashi doesn’t pay his reluctance any mind.  Shinsou gets a certain way when they’re here and doesn’t think anyone’s looking.  Occasionally, if Hizashi peers through his third eyelids at the right moment and keeps his breathing steady, he’ll see Shinsou idly drawing meaningless patterns in the sand with half-lidded eyes, jaws unclenched and hands steady, all lazy with unrushed gestures.  It reveals just how much leftover tension Shinsou is constantly subjected to, even now that they’re safe on the ship and far away from that fighting ring.

Hizashi sits down in the finer part of his sand, beating his wings and shaking his tail until a comfortable divot appears beneath him, deep enough so they would have been invisible had anyone been looking at them from the horizon.  He pats the space beside him. 

Shinsou steps down into the sand pit to walk carefully toward Hizashi.  He lays on his back hesitantly, limbs straight and unmoving, leaving a quarter tail between them.  To close the space, Hizashi shuffles until their sides touch firmly and uses his tail to push some sand over their lower limbs, until only hints of scales and skin can be seen.  If he can’t will the fear away, he’ll just have to pretend until it becomes reality.

Shinsou keeps glancing in Shouta’s direction, his mouth pressed thin, the slight head movement causing the walls of sand to crumble slightly.  Partly motivated to keep the walls from collapsing further, partly because Shinsou isn’t relaxing, Hizashi brushes his fur always from his face, using the gesture to pass his wing over his friend’s eyes and break his line of sight.  Even when his mind is urging him to move away, he has to refrain from crooning when it barely takes five passes through his head-coat for Shinsou to melt under his touch and his hands start burying themselves into the sand, searching for the cooler underlayer relief.  Everytime his wing lifts to pet the fur, Shinsou’s eyelids droop more and more, until his eyes are slits and his pupils are barely visible.

It’s nice.  He hopes it’s as comforting for Shinsou as it is for him.

Usually, there would be a deeper-digged hole holding more people, all layered one on top of each other until the more vulnerable ones are in the middle, surrounded on all sides by feathers and scales.  He misses it, the slow rise and fall of a mass breathing in unison, the press of scales that aren’t his own, nestlings learning how to crawl in between bodies to tuck themselves under the biggest wing.  Although since he’s brought Shouta back home, the youngs have learned that he runs warm even when hidden in the shade, and the bravest snuggle in between loops of scarf, or ask to be held while they nap.

Small puffs of air tickle his primaries where they’re laid over Shinsou’s nose.

Shouta grumbles all the way to the washing room.

Hizashi grabs his bondmate’s head, pulling it down to rub their cheeks together in slight exasperation.  “If you knew you wouldn’t enjoy it, why did you join us?”

He laughs at Shouta pouts when he slithers his scarf out to wrap it around Hizashi’s waist only for sand to trickle onto the floor.  His bondmate rests the underside of his jaw on the back of his shoulders with a chirrup.  “Wanted to be next to you.”

Hizashi squirms in place with a giddy flutter, for a moment thrown back into his younger self, tripping over the way he held his padd or settled into a nap, and dreaming about sleek glossy fur and sharp canines.  He’d been so smitten, he still wonders how he didn’t immediately combust when Shouta had inadvertently used terms usually reserved for more intimate settings when they weren’t bonded yet.

Shouta rubs their cheeks together, his fur slightly gritty.  He leans more of his weight when Hizashi tries to escape Shouta’s affection, laughing when he topples over from his bondmate’s insistent nuzzling.

“Shouta, you’re putting sand all over me,” he complains.  “I thought you wanted to clean?”

Just to be annoying, Shouta shakes himself right over Hizashi, sending sand all over the floor.  He then signs, as if he hadn’t been the one hurrying to the washroom, “There.  Clean.”

Hizashi rolls his eyes, something he picked up from Shinsou.  While Shouta goes to start the washingroom sweeper, Hizashi drops his bracelets into a bowl resting on the side of the sink, dipping one talon to test the water.  Satisfied, he lowers himself into the tub, fluffing his feathers as he’s submerged.  He doesn’t take too long since he doesn’t actually need to clean, and he’s already sluggish from the nap.  While falling asleep in the warm water becomes more and more appealing, Shouta doesn’t move to go clean himself, staying by his side despite Hizashi’s insistence that he should go wash, and Shinsou is guarding the door outside, having already cleaned himself.  He’d claimed he’d use the sonic washer instead of the tub with as much bravado such a decision should elicit.

Hizashi resists the urge to splash Shouta when he’s done.  His bondmate finally heads to the sonic washer when Hizashi starts emptying the tub.  

He dries himself and redirects the sweepers to prioritize a path between the sonic washer and the door so Shouta doesn’t end up with wet—courtesy of Hizashi accidentally shaking his feathers outside of the tub—sand caked all over his paws.  

When his mate comes out after a short moment, he flicks his scarf in appreciation.  Hizashi lets himself be cradled in the scarf for a few clicks to chase the chill away, before he opens the door, just enough to slip through while Shouta’s grooming his fur.  The only reason Shouta doesn’t follow him out is because he leaves the door cracked open with his tail still inside the washingroom.  

Shinsou’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall.  He turns to wave his hand at Hizashi, using the other to push his wet hair away from his eyes. “I learn more about piloting?”

 If Hizashi hadn’t been there, he would have never guessed Shinsou had a breakdown.  Humans bounce back fast, but it doesn’t mean Shinsou doesn’t have any lingering feelings.

Hizashi hums, an idea forming in his mind.  Shinsou deserves to do something enjoyable, and what’s more fun than watching them struggle with a subject instead of the other way around?  Hizashi doesn’t know if he can read Shinsou’s grimaces better, or maybe there’s simply more space for it in the safety of the ship, but Shinsou gets frustrated when it takes him too long or too much effort to express what he wants.

“How about you teach us Humanish?”

“Human...ish?”

“Yeah!  I have my feathers back, so I can hear a lot better.”

Shinsou thinks it over, brows lowering in concentration while his pupils look to the side.  It’s an interesting phenomenon Hizashi noticed once he got over the ‘looking someone directly in the eyes for a prolonged period of time’ thing.  It’s as if Shinsou is unconsciously searching for the answer, or watching his own thoughts projected out into the real world.  “I do not know many words in -------, but I know the easy words, if it is okay?.”

Hizashi attempts to repeat the human word.  It doesn’t have the same base sounds as Shinsou’s dialect.  “What do you mean?  You know plenty, I’ve seen you speak fluently.”

“That is not -------,” he signs.  “I speak in ------------“.

“Oh.  Did I overstep?  You’re not allowed to teach me, uh, ------------?”  Some places were like that.  One dialect for outsiders, another for the planet-born.

Shinsou blinks a few times, faster than normal.  “No?  But it is more… uhm… bigger amount of…”  He exhales, annoyed, and when he can’t seem to find what signs he’s looking for, he gives up on grammar and sentence structure in favour of throwing out words in the hopes that Hizashi will understand him.  “The more percentage of chance you can speak with another Human if you meet?”

Hizashi thankfully picks up what Shinsou’s trying to communicate.  “More Humans speak that other dialect, so if I see another Human, I’ll have a higher chance of being able to communicate with them?  Is that it?“

Shinsou agreement-shakes his head, the lines of frustration smoothing out to give way for relief.  He fixes Hizashi with dark eyes.  “Yes.  More useful.”

Forcing his body to be in proximity of Shinsou until it realizes his friend isn’t a threat worked, because instead of being unnerved like he would have been a few tones ago, Hizashi just feels sad.  “I think you misunderstood my intention,” Hizashi signs softly.  “I want to learn your home dialect so I can speak with you easier.  I don’t particularly care about learning a dialect you don’t speak, even if that means I won’t be able to understand the next Human I find.”

Shinsou’s mouth parts lightly, eyes wide before looking away, brows lowered while he ponders Hizashi’s words.

While Shinsou’s rendered speechless, Shouta joins them after he realizes they aren’t having a deep and emotional private conversation, only the front of his fur groomed.

They move to the shareroom and Shinsou starts the lesson.  “This is how you say ‘My name is’.”  He makes them repeat it a few times, sometimes slipping into a bemused expression every so often as he watches how much effort they’re putting into learning.

It’s harder than Hizashi expects.  He can get the cadence right, but any sound that involves the soft skin around the mouth is really difficult for him and he can’t feel some of the sounds well enough to recreate them,  although Shouta is having a harder time.  There’s none of the high pitched sounds his own language uses, and Shinsou’s dialect is located in a range that’s lower than Shouta’s.

After Shinsou’s satisfied with their efforts, he asks, slightly embarrassed, “Hizashi, you say before that you have another name?  You say it after, like this.”  Shinsou enunciate the introduction sentence slowly.

“My name is Hizashi Yamada,” he repeats as best as he can.  Before he can ask whether the order matters, Shinsou smiles with his teeth hidden, shows him a closed fist with only the thumb sticking out and pointing to the ceiling, and turns to Shouta.  “What is the name only for you?”

“What does that mean?  I only have one name.”

Shinsou blinks.  “Only one?”  When Shouta confirms, Shinsou asks, “You do not have a flock name?”

Hizashi can see why Shinsou would think that, but, “Eer’ahseers don’t have flock.  I was part of a temporary family unit,” Shouta explains.  Hizashi files away the fact that Shinsou does the gesture for ‘same’ and how he shakes his head in understanding, and notes that his bondmate seems to do the same.  Pack is probably formed after Humans leave the nest then.  “If it helps, I’m technically in Hizashi’s.”

“How do you know who is”—Shinsou gestures vaguely—“you know?”  Hizashi looks over at his bondmate with a questioning sound. Neither of them ‘know’.

Shinsou scratches at his cheek idly while he thinks.  His talons don’t bite into his skin, so Hizashi doesn’t stop him, but he pays close attention, prepared to distract him the moment they do.  “If there is a young, how do you know who is taking care of them?  Who carry the young inside?”

Shouta parses through his words, ears tilting forward in confusion.  “Why would we need a name for that?  The kits smell like their caretaker, as long as they get marked.  And for genetic lines, we have similar scents, so we can easily recognize each other.”

Shinsou looks taken aback, signing the word ‘smell’ with a pensive expression.  Suddenly, he seems to realize something.  “Ah, sorry, I call you by—“ he shakes his hands to dismiss what he was about to say.  “You can say ‘My name is Hizashi Shouta’, because you are in his flock.”

Hizashi nudges Shinsou’s knee to get his attention with a small laugh to dispel any tension his question might cause.  “Is using our individual name bad?  Because Yamada is my flock’s name, not Hizashi.”

Shinsou flounders with the new information, mouth opening and closing repeatedly, although no sound is produced.

Hizashi laughs a little at his expression.  “Are we only supposed to use the flock’s name?  Because I have a lot of flockmates, so it’ll be confusing if you call us all Yamada.”

“It is… weird?  Impolite?  It is only for close people, with permission.”

Hizashi whistles again, this time slightly more nervous.  “Well, we're pack, aren’t we?  And we lived in the same room for a long time, so we’re close enough, I would say.  Besides, how would it even work in See’krtshish?  You’ve been using my bestowed name until now.”

“Bes-tow-ed?”  Shinsou pokes his tongue out when he recreates the word, staring at his gestures to make sure he’s doing them well.

“It’s, ah, complicated?  I have a true name, a bestowed name, and I guess you would count my flock’s name?  There’s also the name I used to introduce myself to you.  See’krtshes don’t usually have that last one, unless they have to go off-planet and register their identity with the ISC, who somehow still doesn’t accept names that make no sounds or can’t be written without exceeding two extremely small lines, which is so dumb, and then they think they can somehow translate my bestowed name in a language as dry as Standard, or cut up my true name like it’ll still make sense with more than half of it missing—”  At Shinsou’s overwhelmed look, Hizashi cuts his rant off.  He smoothes out his feathers, which have flared out without his notice, and buries his frustration deep under sand.  “You can use the name I gave you.  Just use my bestowed name like you’ve been doing and it’s all fine.”

Shinsou agreement-shakes, and hesitantly asks, “I do not use your true name?”

He laughs.  “You don’t need to.  It’s mostly used during special occasions, because it’s really long.  Well, it’s short compared to other true names, but it’s long for most people,” he explains.  Without thinking how much it sounds like a challenge, he adds, “You probably can’t pronounce most of it.”

And Shinsou straightens up at his words, ‘try me’ written all over his body language.  He doesn’t ask Hizashi outright, but Hizashi can tell even through the interspecies barrier.  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He inhales to fill his lungs as much as possible, before he starts singing his true name.  The vibrations coming from his upper chest expand out to share for anyone able to feel them the story behind it, the path his soul took, death and rebirth time and time again until it landed in this body.

When he’s done, Shinsou’s staring at his hands like they don’t belong to him, despite Hizashi almost being certain he couldn’t hear half the sound Hizashi just emitted.  Worry starts to trickle in his mouth when Shinsou doesn’t say anything.  “Are you alright?”

“You make my bone move.”  Before Hizashi can apologize for not warning him, he looks at him straight in the eyes, apologetic and awed, “I do not think I can say your true name.”  He turns to Shouta wide eyed, hands still held up in front of him, all anticipation. 

Shouta shakes his limbs when he realizes what Shinsou’s waiting for.  “I only have ‘Shouta’.  My bestowed name, the one you use, isn’t my legal name.”

The way Shinsou’s face just goes back to its original shape in absolute disappointment is hilarious, and Shouta’s bristling fur is enough to send Hizashi into a fit of laughter.  Everytime he regains his composure, just the thought of it sends him back, until his ribs hurt and his whistles turn into silent wheezes.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s—”he bites down on the laugh that tries to escape him—“alright, I’m good, for real this time.”  To continue the conversation so Hizashi doesn’t get to linger on Shinsou’s disappointed expression, he asks, “What about you, listener?  Do you have another name you prefer?  I remember you introduced yourself with more than ‘Shinsou’.”

Shinsou’s face changes, for half a click, too fast and too foreign for Hizashi to read it.  “If I call you with your not flock name, you can call me ‘Hitoshi’.”

Hizashi’s head quirks to the side.  He can’t help but repeat Hitoshi’s name more than necessary.  “Hi-to-shi.  Hitoshiii.  Hitoshi.  I like it.”

It’s an understatement; not only does it resemble his standardized name, which he composed with most of his favourite sounds—because there was absolutely no way he was going to be assigned a random set of clicks and trills—it also matches Shouta’s, whose name is composed of the rest of his favourite sounds.  He can’t help but repeat it another time, signing his bestowed name, ‘Purple’, simultaneously.  At his side, Shouta is repeating Hitoshi’s name under his breath to remember it.

Hitoshi’s mouth pulls to the side and up, his shoulders drawing back.  If he had feathers, Hizashi thinks he would be puffing them right now.

Shouta grunts to get their attention, looking bored.  “What else should I know in Humanish?”

Hitoshi proceeds to teach them more words he deems important, answering Hizashi’s questions about anything and everything to the best of his abilities.  Toward the end, when Hizashi proposes a review, Shouta excuses himself to feed the mèos.  He lingers in the doorway, before disappearing behind the closing hatches.

Hizashi does pretty well, if he says so himself.  He forgets a few things, messes up some sentences, but overall, Hizashi is now one of the only non-human person in the entire Universe to know a human dialect, which makes him want to jump around and dive through clouds until he’s airsick.

Hitoshi’s gestures are animated, and his face doesn’t hold any of that blankness from before.  There’s no trembling or tucked tight limbs.  Instead, he bares his teeth and crinkles his eyes when Hizashi doesn’t get the sounds out quite right, and Hizashi heart barely stutters to give out when he sees it.  The expression suits Hitoshi.

Falling back into their usual selves is easier than he would have thought.  There are awkward moments, sure, but surprisingly, Shouta is the one who breaks them by dropping food onto them or starting a seemingly randomly chosen lesson right then and there.

In a turn of events Hizashi could have never predicted, Shouta lets go of a lot of his distrust for Hitoshi.  He doesn't even twitch when Hitoshi invades his personal space to look over his shoulder so he can observe what Shouta's doing with the control panels.

It takes Hizashi a while to notice it, even longer before he realizes Shouta is acting similarly to when he approaches spooked animals, all steady and slow gestures, and exuding nothing but calm.

Hizashi can now proudly announce that he can carry a very basic conversation in Hitoshi's home dialect.  He, of course, mastered one of the most important concepts first: cursing.

He was right about the center finger being an insult, but he unfortunately lacks the coordination to bend his talons independently from each other.  Hitoshi taught him how to tell someone they’re dead by drawing a line over his throat, although his friend admits he only ever saw it used in the human equivalent of an entertainment holovid.  It resembles an eer’ahseer gesture, where they mimic clawing over one’s eyes to wish early retina degeneration on someone.

Even if he hadn’t been absolutely fascinated by the human dialect—there’s so many songs to discover, although Hitoshi has only been able to hum a few of them, too shy to do more even when he’d been away from Shouta’s prying ears—the way Hitoshi perks up when Hizashi uses a word or two outside of their little lessons is worth it.

The Humanish lessons also allows Hitoshi an easy segue to delve into human life.  He talks about means of transportations, food, and animals, elaborates on anything that would pique Hizashi’s interest.

(Humans have governments.   Hizashi can’t shake the feeling Hitoshi’s playing a trick on him, especially since he has difficulties describing them and barely goes into any details.)

For all that he’s willing to answer questions and satisfy their curiosity, he seldom shares anything pertaining to his personal life, although things slip through when Hitoshi isn’t careful with his words.  Hizashi has a mental list of facts from his life on Dirt—Hitoshi used to sleep next to other people, he’s shorter than his peers, and he isn’t well-liked.

Shouta says he might have been a runt who never reached his genetic potential; his friend enjoys eating plant matter cooked over raw, he schools his expressions to be unreadable when he’s sarcastic, and he likes small animals an inconsiderable amount no matter how dangerous—Hizashi isn’t sure if Hitoshi likes the dangerous aspect or if he’s just so out of their league that they only register as cute and cuddly—or how much they’re considered as pest, especially if they have huge eyes and a big head with filled cheeks.

It’s the last fact that allows Hizashi to keep a modicum of composure when he wakes up to an empty mèo cot.  It takes him longer than he wants to admit to remember that he forgot to close their corridor door, Shouta’s going to kill him.

He hurries out of the nest, shoving any sheaths he can find on his talons, resulting in a mismatched of colours and patterns.  Thankfully, Shouta doesn’t wake in the process, so Hizashi has a chance to find Engine and Lamp and bring them back in the quarters without his mate ever suspecting a thing.

It’s not like Hitoshi hasn’t interacted with them before, but it always ended up under supervision, whether it be his or Shouta’s.  When his friend ends up alone with them, it’s for brief moments because the mèos run off to bat at Shouta’s scarf or Hitoshi inevitably follows Hizashi when he realizes he isn’t in the same room.  Hizashi doesn’t even know how long the mèos sneaked out of their resting quarters.

One last look behind him to make sure Shouta is still resting before he goes to find Hitoshi.  He pokes his head in Hitoshi's resting quarters, the washing room, and the scullery, but he doesn’t stay long to investigate; he has an idea as to where Hitoshi is.

Hizashi slows as he nears the shareroom, stopping right before he opens the hatch.  Hitoshi is jumpy, some days jolting at the slightest sound even when Hizashi and Shouta give plenty of warning.  He doesn’t want to run the risk of spooking Hitoshi while he’s holding one of the mèos.

Quickly taking out his padd, Hizashi flicks through the cameras until he falls onto the shareroom ones, and breathes in relief when he sees Engine and Lamp are safe, and immediately berating himself for thinking they are not.

Hitoshi is currently holding one end of his hoodie and carefully dragging circles around himself, fast enough that it stays away from Lamp, but slow enough that it isn’t frustrating for her.  He occasionally pauses to let her catch up and drag her teeth on the fabric, before pulling the hoodie away to start the chase again.

Engine is curled up in the crook of his upper limb, bruxing her teeth away.  Hitoshi mutters at them with lips curled upwards, cooing softly when Engine flicks her tongue or when Lamp does a particularly high leap, the one that always allows her to pounce successfully on foreign insects that somehow get past the decontamination chamber.

When she’s tired of playing, Hitoshi lets Lamp burrow into his hoodie.  He picks the bundle up and holds it against his chest, and he looks so pleased, it might be the happiest and most content he’s ever seen Hitoshi be.

Lamp wiggles to poke her head out, tongue slithering out one time, twice, and before Hizashi has the time to process what’s going to happen and intervene, her nubby teeth sink into Hitoshi’s upper limb.

Hitoshi jolts, a small sound that’s more exhale than anything escaping his mouth.  Hizashi almost keels over and dies when Hitoshi brings her to his mouth, but he only presses his mouth to the top of Lamp’s head briefly, before bringing her away from his face, holding her up to look at her with a fond tilt of the head.  He does the same to a sleepy Engine, the skin around his mouth stretched out until his teeth are fully visible.

Now that Hizashi’s certain none of their well-being is in danger, he can admit that this is one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen.  Hitoshi is cradling both of them, occasionally pressing them imperceptibly to his chest and touching his mouth to their brow, all slow movements and adoring petting.  It’s like watching a mountain of an alien hold their tiny youngs gently.

Hizashi’s brain stutters at the thought.  It dawns on him that the way Hitoshi's interacting with them, making Lamp practice how to hunt and holding Engine just because she wants to be held, is done with ease and familiarity, attest to Hitoshi doing this exact thing many times before.  He keeps talking to them in the same tone Hizashi does when he speaks with nestlings, and he drapes them in his garments, as if to hold them out of the cold.  Hizashi hopes, desperately, that the reason Hitoshi doesn’t talk about his life on his home planet isn’t because he’s been teared away from his youngs, that his refusal to fight in the arena wasn't because his opponent reminded him of people for whom he had to care for.

Just the thought of human younglings searching and crying out for their caretaker, only to be answered by silence, or worse, makes Hizashi’s throat close up.  His only comfort is that Hitoshi lived in a big human settlement, where the chances of his youngs being taken in by his own pack or another are high.

Hizashi ruffles his feathers.  He’s working himself into a frantic panic when he doesn’t have any proof other than vague feelings and impressions.  He can’t do anything about it either, as reuniting Hitoshi with his potential youngs is practically impossible, and while a flockmate wouldn’t have hesitated to confide in him and accepted support, Hizashi is aware that not everyone works like the flocks of his hatch region.  Hitoshi’s behaviour until now has aligned more to the likes of Shouta’s culture, where family units are small and their more-than-often temporary state doesn't lend itself to sharing burdens as easily.  Hizashi doesn’t want to insist and accidentally set Hitoshi off again.  As far as he knows, Hitoshi’s youngs could already be out of the nest and aren’t the source of any heartache.

Hitoshi must miss his packmates though.  He clearly enjoys being around other people if the way he trails after Hizashi is anything to go by. 

Enough dawdling.  When the mèos jump out of Hitoshi’s arm, he flicks the door lights, keeping an eye on the video feed while he does so, before entering the room.

Hitoshi is staring at him, frozen still, even when Engine pulls on his hoodie and tries to take off with it.

“Aww, that’s so unfair, it took so long for Lamp to let me play with her.”  His words work to sand some of the tension away.  Hitoshi’s cheeks regain a bit of their pink, and he does an impressive artistic rendition of a deflating weather balloon.

Hitoshi recovers quickly when Hizashi doesn’t show any indication of being upset and does his smug human posture, head tilted back slightly, accompanied with the corner of his mouth pulled up.  “She likes me more.”

“Yeah, yeah, more like she enjoys biting you.”  Lamp had looked so offended the first time she tried to sink her teeth into Hizashi’s tail.  Sometimes, he thinks she still holds a grudge against him for that.  “If you don’t stop her now, she’ll continue doing it and you’ll end up all chewed up.”

Hitoshi sticks out his tongue at him in a human insult.  This one, Hizashi can make, and it startles a hacking laugh out of Hitoshi.  “You are jealous,” he signs, gesture all singsong and mocking.  “I taste good and you do not.”

The absurd comment makes Hizashi choke on his saliva.  He coughs in between whistles, thumping his sternum to free his airways.

“It is because Lamp thinks I am cute.”  Hitoshi beckons her by doing a repeating call that has a lot of ‘p’ and s’ sounds.  When she comes over, he picks her up, hands supporting her behind her hind limbs and under her front in a loose grip.  He stares at her straight in the eyes, and in a serious tone, signs, “You are very cute also, I want to bite and eat you too.”

Hizashi gapes.  “That’s a… that’s a human saying, right?  You don’t want to actually eat her, right?”

Hitoshi lowers her to the ground, gently releasing her when he’s certain she’ll hold herself up.  “Humans will squeeze cute things and bite them.”

Hizashi is pretty sure Hitoshi is joking right now, but he did just see him put his mouth on the mèos.  It’s only when Hitoshi laughs that Hizashi relaxes.

“I do not hurt them,” Hitoshi reassures, mouth twitching.  “Even if I want to squeeze.”

Okay, so Hitoshi was not joking about that part.  At Hizashi’s expression, regret immediately wipes off Hitoshi’s mirth.  “It is normal, but no one do it.  I can still play with the mèos?”

“I don’t—“  Hitoshi’s face droops down.  “Sure!  Sure, I’m sure it’s fine, listener!”

Hitoshi doesn’t look convinced.  He glances at Hizashi when he goes to pet Engine, and when he doesn’t meet any protest, his shoulders drop slightly.

Shouta chooses that moment to wake up.  He comes walking down the hallway, ears flicking around in search of them.  To Hizashi’s surprise, he doesn’t seem bothered by the sight of Hitoshi holding up Lamp.

His fur isn’t groomed yet, and he’s warm from sleep.  Engine abandons Hitoshi to run to him, crashing into his limbs.  She finally deigns to give Hizashi some attention once Shouta rubs his scarf over her and discretely checks her out for any injuries, flicking her tongue at his face, but takes off as quickly after Lamp when she manages to run off with the hoodie, both clicking excitedly at their new toy.

Hizashi eyes Hitoshi, but he doesn’t mind them stealing his garment.  Actually, he looks amused, eyes squinted lightly.

Did he packbond with them?  Can Humans packbond with pets, or is it the same way the mèos are half part of Hizashi’s flock?  Lamp and Engine offer him nothing, unlike Hizashi, but he must have to have let them play with his hoodie.

“They’re going to hide it somewhere.”  Shouta’s signing slurs at the end of his sentence, and he drops the underside of his jaw to rest on Hizashi’s head.  His hearts are slowed down, thumping peacefully against Hizashi’s back.  “You should go find it.”

Hitoshi glances at Hizashi, but doesn’t move.  “I will find later.”

His friend can usually part with Hizashi for short periods of time, but he often gets into these types of moods, where he has to keep the door to the washingroom cracked open and he has to stand as close as possible to Hizashi.

By the way Hitoshi’s leaning toward him and has managed to move half a tail closer sometime during their conversation, this cycle is going to be a particularly clingy one.

Chapter Text

Shouta shifts so his fur falls over his face and obscures his eyes before he opens them.

Hitoshi is finally sleeping, after long tones of restless moving and turning.  At one point, he even started walking around his resting quarter, although he thankfully didn’t cross the hatch between their dens.

Unfortunately, this is a torture of Shouta’s own making.  After realizing that they would have to sleep in the same den while visiting the flock, Shouta had suggested leaving the doors between their rooms open so he could get used to Hitoshi’s presence before then.

It isn’t as bad as he feared.  Hitoshi moves a lot in his sleep and wakes just as often, but he’s silent, and once Shouta learns to ignore the fifth set of breathing and the soft pacing that interrupts the quiet, he knows he’ll sleep as soundly as an Eer’ahseer can with a new sleeping companion.  He hasn’t woken up to the Human standing menacingly over their cots yet, and the smell between their rooms has already started to reach an equilibrium, so Shouta estimates he’ll need two cycles more before he can withstand laying Hitoshi’s cot next to theirs.  It’s a slower process than when they did it with Nemuri and Tensei—and Oboro, on whom Shouta fell asleep without even having to habituate himself, and the sharp barely-dulled grief at the thought of him makes Shouta curl further into Hizashi’s wings and tail—but Shouta is certain they’ll be ready by then.

Truthfully, repairing the door had been the most difficult part of this.  Hitoshi had a hard time calling on his extraordinary strength to pop the dent back into place.  Shouta has a theory it has to do with the absence of any threat; the surge of adrenaline must play a part, an evolutionary response that allows higher muscle contractility in short-timed bursts so Humans can fight danger, but not have to maintain the high metabolism such strength would require when doing small tasks.

Shouta can admit he misjudged Hitoshi.  He thought it would only be a matter of time before the Human snapped and injured them, accidentally or not, but after Hitoshi’s emotional outburst, Shouta realizes he’s been worrying about the wrong people.  He’s been right in thinking Hitoshi will turn to violence before talking it out when he's upset, but he got the target wrong.  Instead of harming Shouta, or Hizashi, or even his mèos, Hitoshi takes his frustration onto himself.

It’s worrying.  They already fill his schedule as much as they can to keep him occupied.  It isn’t hard, not when Hitoshi needs to start from zero in almost everything, but it does take over the time Hizashi and Shouta usually use to track down ships and their leisure moments.

Turning his head away from the open door, Shouta rubs his cheeks over Hizashi’s until he smells even more like him, their scent potent and permeating the cot’s cloth.  His partner cheeps in his sleep, pulling on their twined tails lightly, before he settles back into a deep rest.

Shouta can’t fall back asleep, but he finds he doesn’t mind.  There’s only a tone or two left before Hizashi wakes, and he can easily spend it admiring his partner’s feathers and the curve of his beak.  The cot is toasty, almost overly so, and if it were anyone but Hizashi beside him, Shouta would have crawled out of the cot a long time ago.  Instead, he gets to press against his partner, who stays comfortably lukewarm.

His chest rumbles lightly when Hizashi tries to move closer to him in his sleep.  Hitoshi’s soft, even breathing indicates his rest is peaceful and devoid of any nightmares.  Shouta’s glad.

Time passes in short bursts as he blinks, slow and tender, at Hizashi.  Sometimes, he opens his eyes after keeping them closed for such a long time that he isn’t sure if he fell asleep in between, but he barely gives it a thought before letting his lids fall again.  At one point, when Shouta’s resting his eyes, Hizashi starts to shift, feathers puffing out and flaring as he approaches consciousness.   

He doesn’t move to open his eyes, not until claws run down his shoulders lightly.

“Slept well, lovely?”

Shouta makes a sound in the back of his throat that neither denies nor confirms his question.  He casts a look at Hitoshi, whose tuft of fur is the only visible part of himself, the rest wrapped tight in his cot, the edges pulled under himself.  The Human isn’t awake.

Hizashi sleepily grooms the top of his head, the spot behind his ears, and the fur that trails on the underside of his jaws and down to his stomach.  He returns the favour by smoothing out Hizashi’s crest, drawing circles on the side of his face, where the feathers are thin and more alike fur.  His partner’s wings and torso are next, to mimic the way bonded See’krtsh preen each other.  It always pleases Hizashi, who croons and looks on the edge of falling back to sleep, and while it’s not quite what an Eer’ahseer would do, Shouta likes to touch his partner and he’ll take advantage of every occasion to scent him thoroughly.

When Hizashi’s finishes ‘preening’ him, he clumsily knocks their heads together and goes to continue the rest of his routine, making a deliberate effort to be quieter than usual.  Shouta follows him out of the cot, letting his paws sink in the bedding around him while he stretches with a yawn, tongue curling slightly as he tenses every muscle before relaxing with a satisfied huff.  Hizashi goes through his routine, oiling his feathers, pulling the ones that are old or bent, and then oiling them again with a different product he swears makes his plumage appear more lustrous.  Metal clinks against metal as Hizashi goes through his jewelry boxes.  His partner brandishes his bonding bracelet with an exaggerated flourish that pulls an exasperated smile out of Shouta, before he moves to inspecting his beak and himself in the mirror kept hidden in a cabinet—Shouta had once woken up and tackled Hizashi when he caught movement in the den before he realized he only saw his own reflection.

Shouta’s routine isn’t as elaborate as Hizashi’s, and he certainly doesn’t spend tones strutting and admiring his reflection, but it still takes as much time to groom all of his fur.

When they’re both done, they move out of the den to go through the usual checks to assure everything is up and running, and that nothing has broken down while they were sleeping.  They’re a well oiled machine, not needing to talk as they circle each other to get to a screen or a pipe.  It would probably take less time if they were more than two, but experience and habit makes the ship inspection as quick and efficient as if they had a slightly bigger crew.

He could accomplish the task of cleaning the panel buttons and switches faster, but Shouta leaves it to Hitoshi.  His furless hands allow him to hold the cleaning putty without the fear of it ripping out fur or feathers, which inevitably happens even with every precaution taken.  Shouta also noticed he enjoy playing with the putty when he walks from panel to panel, stretching it and poking it with his fingers so it makes popping noises.

Hitoshi definitely isn't the worst shipmate.  He tries to help where he can, even if it isn’t much right now.  They give him harmless tasks that are difficult to mess up to keep him occupied and make him feel useful.  It’s akin to the observational learning events, where, instead of students straight out of the academy following pilots or engineers or health officers around and being assigned trivial tasks to get a feel of the job, Shouta gets to teach the basics of space faring to an illiterate Deathworlder.  It’s admittedly enjoyable to finally apply what he learned in those Education classes, and Hitoshi is a lot more tolerable than those rich underclassmates he used to tutor back at the Academy.

When everything’s been inspected and nothing’s about to blow up, Shouta and Hizashi go to the scullery, the clicking mèos hot on their tails as they demand to be fed.  

They prepare a quick meal, something easy to eat and easier even to sneak into Hizashi’s plate.  It’s almost a game at this point; how much food can Shouta switch before Hizashi pecks his scarf in annoyance?

This cycle, he isn’t the only player.  He doesn’t know how Hizashi does it, but half of what he tries to sneak into his partner’s plate ends up back on his own.  Hizashi only flares his crest mockingly when Shouta glares at the slice of fruit he’s been trying to give Hizashi since the beginning of the meal.

The time they usually take to board smuggling ships and getting ready for raids on the Interplanetary Safety Commission—just to keep them on their toes and perhaps steal back an artefact the ISC shouldn’t have in their paws—has been occupied with showing Hitoshi everything he needs to know to function independently, although they’ve put the piloting lessons aside in favour of preparing him for the Yamada flock visit.  It’s a welcome change of routine; with the added Humanish lessons to break up the monotony of teaching, it’s almost similar to a vacation.

It doesn’t mean Shouta isn’t waiting in anticipation for the alone time he gets to spend with his partner.  He’s been afforded more, as either Hitoshi’s been sleeping better with the doors between their dens open, or the time spent doing everything other than sleeping are finally catching up to him.  No matter the reason, it results in Hitoshi sleeping in.

This cycle, Hitoshi comes out almost two entire tones later, rubbing his eyes with the tip of his fingers.  He greets them while he coos and pets Lamp, who’s dozing off on top of her sister.

Letting Hitoshi play with Lamp and Engine has the unintentional result of making him smell more like the ship.  It’s not strong enough to be off putting, but it’s enough that Shouta unconsciously doesn’t see him as an intruder anymore.  He has to rub his scarf over his mèos more often since they won’t stop wiping his smell off on Hitoshi’s garments, but he doesn’t mind scooping them up midrun to scent them back to his liking.

“Come here, listener,” Hizashi calls out, patting the spot beside him.  Hitoshi has been hesitant to come close to any of them since the incident, which has led to a lot of insisting reassurances from Hizashi's part.  Hitoshi yielded a few cycles ago, right before Hizashi verged on the edge of pushy, for which Shouta is glad, as it was a pitiful sight to witness his partner try to lure Hitoshi back to the table everytime they ate.

Hitoshi looks at the assortment of food they’ve replicated with clear curiosity as he rounds the table.  Hizashi enthusiastically pushes the small dishes around Hitoshi, small twitters escaping him as he nudges the samples he wants Hitoshi to taste first, which seems to be every one of them.

“Just put a little in your mouth and we’ll wait five ‘minutes’ in between each.”  Shouta slides a bucket at Hitoshi’s feet and pushes a few sample plates away so the water dish is within his reach.  He waves the portable medrepair he’s holding.  “Tell us immediately if you start getting itchy or anything.”

Hitoshi pokes cut up ondeeves as Hizashi chatters about the most common ways it’s prepared in his flock.  Shouta keeps his eyes on him, feeling slightly uncomfortable at how much he’s staring, but Hitoshi doesn’t show any indication he minds.  They’ve mostly stuck with ingredients the vast majority of mammals could eat until now, so Shouta is careful to watch for any adverse reactions Hizashi’s home plane’s foods might cause.  The completely exposed skin, while puzzling in terms of protection, offers Shouta an unrestricted view to any coloured blotches or swelling that might appear.

Hitoshi sniffs a piece as he squishes it slightly to inspect the texture, before plopping it in his mouth.  “It tastes like ----- on Dirt.  But green.  And more sweet.”

Hizashi asks more questions about his non-green human version of ondeeves to pass the time.  Shouta’s more interested in Hitoshi’s ability to taste sweetness.  He assumed Hitoshi’s palate was similar to his, as they’re both mammals, but Hitoshi’s perceivable range of flavours is more similar to Hizashi’s.

When the five ‘minutes’ pass and Hitoshi looks fine, they make him try another ingredient.  It goes on for almost three tones in total, not counting the break they take in the middle to eat an actual meal, and by then, all of them are bored out of their minds.  Even Hizashi’s chatter about anything tangentially related to the sample Hitoshi’s eating is losing its steam after Hitoshi isn’t more impressed by the fried food or the sweets Hizashi and his flock rave about.  Apparently, he has something similar on his planet.

“We’ll continue next cycle, but tell us immediately if you feel nauseous or itchy, or you start having trouble breathing,” Hizashi reminds him.

“Yes, yes, I tell you,” Hitoshi waves him off, immediately getting up and stretching out, articulations giving sickening little pops.  Hizashi’s lucky he doesn’t have to be subjected to those.

They go strap down for the end of the warp and the beginning of the next one.  Hitoshi does as well as he can to put into practice everything they’ve taught him, strapping himself into his seat as fast as Shouta expects and rattling the entire warp procedure checklist for a standard vessel, even if he has no idea how to even read the fuel gauge yet.  They’re working on building good piloting habits.  Shouta isn’t going to let Hitoshi be one of those pilots that explode docking areas because they forgot to verify the state of their lift-off thrusters.

They enter their fourth warp without a hitch, putting them closer to Hizashi’s home planet.

The rest of their cycle goes as usual; they rest, leaving Hitoshi with unrestricted access to modeling compound and other objects to pass the time such as small puzzles and single player games Hizashi has been teaching him how to play.  Shouta also printed out easy reading material and practice sheets he can scribble on.

After, when Shouta and Hizashi wake, they show Hitoshi how to cook cheap and easy meals for himself, prepare Hitoshi for the rapidly approaching flock visit, take care of chores, run ship maintenance, fit a Humanish lesson in between, and then they all go rest.

(He’s been wracking his mind about the way they’ll introduce writing systems to Hitoshi for nothing, as Hitoshi’s home region has both a logographic and a phonemic writing system for some reason.  Even if it’s slightly overkill, it makes Shouta’s job easier, and once he spotted what the early signs of frustration and boredom for Humans are—bouncing lowerlimbs and blank stares that last over twenty clicks—he found that Hitoshi is a better student than expected.  Even if Hitoshi doesn’t like to admit when he doesn’t remember a symbol, he at least tried, which is already s’phars better than the rich underclassmates he used to tutor back when he was at the Academy, who seemed to think they could throw credits at the slightest problem.

Although it’s annoying that Hitoshi keeps silent instead of asking for help, his pupils are so visible that it’s easy to see the quick way he looks from Shouta to the sheet he’s reading from and back to Shouta again when he gets confused.  It hadn't been more work than when he had to learn how to read Engine and Lamp’s sounds and body language.  He also responded well to positive reinforcement and treats, which only served to reinforce the similarities between him and Shouta’s mèos. 

(It’s easier to deal with the whole Deathworlder aspect if he approaches Hitoshi the same way he would any injured and frightened animal they rescue from smuggling ships, whose bite stems from fear and not cruelty; slow, steady, and by projecting every intention.)

Their lessons usually took place when Hizashi got sunwarmed and Hitoshi didn't feel like joining him or when Hizashi holovid his flock.)

They’re making good time with the ship.  The see’krtsh kits’ colours haven’t come in yet, and while Hizashi tells him they have time to arrive, his partner still spends his cycles holocalling his flock, just in case.  Shouta thinks that if he misses another naming ceremony, he’ll personally track down every involved in his capture, revive them, and kill them himself.

Fortunately for the Feczoits, they arrive right as the new kits’ scales start whiting, announcing the beginning of their first shed.  When they enter Hizashi’s planet’s orbit, a weight is relieved from his partner’s body, instead replaced with giddy anticipation.  His partner's joy is contagious, and Shouta finds Hitoshi baring his teeth a few times when Hizashi goes on about his home planet’s life while he threads beads and charms and feathers into Shouta’s fur. 

One of the advantage of Hitoshi’s presence is that Hizashi’s fretting is now divided between both of them instead of falling solely on Shouta.  He gets to apply the sunscreen on his own while Hitoshi has to submit himself to Hizashi telling him immediately when a single atom of skin isn’t covered in sun protection quick enough for his partner’s taste.  He has the time to slip a few bracelets on and to put his bonding necklace before Hizashi realizes he isn’t giving enough attention to Shouta and starts fussing over the placement of his braids.

They previously touched down to buy gifts, feet wear—the sole ones who fitted the Human only came in sets of three and Hitoshi loathes them, face skin pulled in all types of direction every time he looks at them—and a large rectangle of thin cloth a stall vendor showed Hitoshi how to turn into multiple garments with a few brooches and belts, similar to what Nemuri has to wear when she visits Hizashi’s flock.  Hitoshi’s other garments are far too heavy for the sweltering heat, more prone to cause heat strokes than to give purchase from the sun.  They chose one that’s big enough to cover his entire body, in parts to hide his identity as a human, but mostly so Hitoshi doesn’t lose all of his water from his exposed skin.  Hitoshi’s fur peeks out from under the large hood, but his human nature isn’t recognizable from that feature alone so they let it be.

While Hitoshi tries to convince Hizashi he has enough layers of sunscreen to last the whole season, Shouta pulls on his own white and yellow garment with a grimace.  They purchased it a long time ago, specially tailored out of the lightest textile available at the time, thin and breathable, but Shouta always needs a few tones to get used to it.  He has his own set of boots on, the ones with a thicker sole to protect the underside of his paws from the burning ground.

Hitoshi doesn’t look convinced about the eye protection until Shouta tells him about the risk of his eyes drying out and getting scratched by the particles of sands that gusts of winds throw against their faces at the most inconvenient moment.  He’s quick to put them on, although he stares enviously at Hizashi’s third eyelids.

When Hizashi makes sure they’re all well dressed, he moves on to wetting face coverings, wringing them out over the tub so they don’t drip everywhere.  He packs a few in a hydroproof bag so they won’t need to constantly wet them as they walk around.  Hizashi’s home atmosphere is perfectly breathable, but it’s a lot drier than what Shouta is used to.  Hitoshi tells them it’s fine, that his planet has deserts too, but he needs to hide his face whether he can withstand dry atmospheres or not, so he’ll have to endure having a damp cloth over his lower face, even if he thinks it’s redundant.

As time crawls by, Shouta’s ability to withstand the ship’s dry atmosphere has steadily declined, until his eyes and nose—especially after he scared that acid-spitting kit—now constantly itch and dry out if he doesn’t keep up with the regiment of nasal sprays and eye drops they stock up on.  He knows Hizashi wishes they could raise the ship’s humidity levels, and Shouta won’t lie and say it isn’t inconvenient to constantly have to use the sprays and drops, but his partner’s health is more important; after a few cycles, Hizashi’s breaths get labored and wheezy, and his lungs get more prone to infections.  Hizashi not putting up too much of a fight when Shouta sets the dehumidifier on high is a testament to how much it’s painful for his partner.

Shouta is aware that both their threshold to environmental changes are going to decrease further as time goes on, until they might not even be able to breathe the same air, but Shouta has made peace with that reality.  If it comes to it, he’ll wear those ugly environnement-controlled suits so he can stay in the same space as Hizashi.

(Part of himself scoffs for even entertaining the idea that they’ll survive long enough for age to catch up to their bodies.  Their careers aren’t known to lend itself to long lived lives.

Another side of him, softer and more alike Hizashi, dreams of growing gray and ashy with his beloved.)

By chance, Humans being sturdy and able to adapt to a wide range of climates is one of the only rumors that is turning out to be true.  Hitoshi hasn’t shown any of the usual signs the dry ship’s atmosphere usually brings Shouta, and Hitoshi had seemed to breathe fine for someone who spent so much time in those feczoit cells, where the humidity had thankfully been at the limit of what Hizashi’s lungs are capable of enduring.  If Hitoshi had needed to use Shouta’s dwindling supplies—he’s barely more than halfway through, which, in space, means he should have gone to restock half a season ago, they’re going to have to drop by Chiyo’s soon after this—they would have run out.

Shouta harnesses his mèos in preparation for their exit, placing them in their carrier pouches and clipping them in place.  Hitoshi slings a carrying bag over his shoulder, another purchase, that Hizashi filled with water and some snacks, alongside a whole bottle of sunscreen.

When they step out into the private docking area, the dry air immediately sucks all of the humidity in the ship.  Shouta sags, his energy sapped away by the sweltering heat.  He can’t see Hitoshi’s face, but his head is twisting around to look at their surroundings.  With a quick touch, he makes sure the pouches carrying Lamp and Engine are still cool enough to counteract the temperature.

Sector 9 of this particular port isn't the closest docking area from Hizashi’s flock’s settlement, but the custom officers here are as bribable as ever, giving them free passage in exchange for a combination of credits, a few shiny trinkets Hizashi collected for this specific occasion, and his partner’s charming personality.

It’s mostly open rooms, with the occasional resting spot or perching furniture pushed against the walls.  They go through security far easier than they should.  Hitoshi and Shouta are barely given a second glance, and no one comes flying to arrest them, though they did take off the symbol on the underside of their ship.

Shouta is always a little caught off guard even if he knows that many aliens pass through here, all covered similarly as him and Hitoshi.  It’s not uncommon to encounter people without ISC registration even now.  Despite being set up a few decades ago, the practice has only gained popularity until the edges of ISC centrals, where their prominent governing bodies have an easier time controlling and manipulating the trade and traveling by geographical proximity alone.  Here, tucked away from the ISC’s reach, those registrations are barely used, and the systems that scan them haven’t even been installed in the operating boots.  People come and go without much trouble, as long as they don’t advertise obvious ill-intentions and are willing to part with a few hundred credits.

Hizashi gets caught talking with one of the custom officer, whose flockmate’s broodmate’s young bonded into Hizashi’s flock a decade and a half ago.  Shouta has to discreetly nudge him so they stop holding up the line.

When they arrive to the meet-up terminal, the air starts to vibrate.  Hitoshi puts his hands over his chest, taken aback despite being told about what he should expect.  Hizashi pauses, before he lights up in recognition and immediately takes off in the sky.  He flies loops over them, the vibrations growing more intense until a cloud of beating wings and enthusiastic whistling and thrumming swarms his partner.  The two stars’ light flickers behind the shadows cast by Hizashi’s flock, and Shouta has to stop looking up from the strobe light effect.

A body detaches itself from the swarm overhead, freefalling until wings snap open to catch them.  Blue scales, paler yellow feathers, a chirp that sounds lower than his partner’s.  His second oldest littermate, Playful.  “Shou, Hizashi’s bonded!  Ya remember me, don't ya?”

“I could never forget,” he answers, deadpan.

Playful laughs, slapping his front limb with her wing.  “Good, good, and you, stranger, ya remember me?”

Hitoshi pauses as he deciphers what was said.  She signs quickly, in a way that’s unfamiliar enough to give Hitoshi pause, but they’ve practiced with another of Hizashi’s littermates over holocall.  “Give it time, and we’ll see if we met before,” he recites, sagging in relief when Playful tilts his head forward in approval.  “You can call me—” he hesitantly signs the name sign for ‘Purple’.  Hitoshi had only blinked when Hizashi had explained the meaning of it with a sheepish flutter of his wings.

She pushes him playfully, signing his name and making the sound for ‘stranger’ at the same time, before giving out her own name.  Turning to Shouta, she says, “Hizashi’s bringing in another member to the flock?  He like them warmblooded, doesn’t he?”

She times it intentionally so that Hizashi sees her when he swoops down.  He lands fast, talons sinking into the sand and sliding a little from the momentum.

“It’s not like that!”  Hizashi signs, scandalized.  “I owe my friend Hitoshi a life debt.  He’s got nowhere to go right now, so he’s staying with us.”

Playful falls silent, her wings twitching out before being brought back to her torso.  Even if they already know why Hitoshi’s here, the flock doesn’t like reminders of the risks Hizashi’s job poses.  “Listen, you’re cooped up all the time in that ship of yours,” she says suddenly, demeanor entirely shifted to the side so fast, Hizashi looks dizzy from the change.  “Bet ya can’t duo with me.”

She immediately darts away, her mocking laugh snapping Hizashi into movement.  Hizashi joins her in a flurry of feathers, all semblance of grace tossed aside in the name of speed.  Shouta follows his partner’s quick dips and loops, at first a split of a click late compared to Playful, but Hizashi quickly gains his rhythm and starts predicting her moves, until they both fly at the exact same time and Shouta can’t discern who’s copying who.  More bodies follow after them, joining in on their game until Hizashi disappears after a dive, melting into the mass of whirling colours, and Shouta loses sight of him.

A long chirp brings his attention back to the ground.  A few elders wave at him from the tame yellow shuttle they use to transport him to their homes.  It glides leisurely through the sanded-over magnetic roads, its occupants going at a slower pace than those who chose to fly.  A few lose patience and launch themselves from the roof windows and side sills to go greet Hizashi, but most are content to stay in the climate controlled space and rest their old bones on soft mats.

When the shuttle comes within reasonable distance to them, Shouta leads Hitoshi to it, clambering inside and sighting in relief when cooler air greets him.  He pushes the goggles up on his forehead and unties his garment for the time being, letting his scarf uncoil.

He greets the elders, supervising Hitoshi’s introduction.  He does well, although Shouta can sense his nervousness through his shifting weight.  They’re all used to Shouta’s less socially inclined behaviour, which gives him some time to get used to the amount of people around him as they leave him be to talk with each other, only occasionally giving Hitoshi a curious look.  Hitoshi seems equally overwhelmed, and a short moment of understanding passes between them.

Hitoshi startles at the sound of a body landing on the shuttle.  Shouta curls the tip of his tail when he sees that his partner has come by to knock on the transparent ceiling.  He’s glowing from joy, the sun right behind him illuminating his silhouette and giving him an ethereal glow.  His feathers are almost gold against the blue backdrop, and the intricate pattern of his talon sheaths seem to move and sway, taking a life of their own and ready to strike any threat down.  He’s smiling with his feathers all puffed out, and his crest is wind blown to the right.

Shouta blinks slowly at him, his chest warm from fondness when Hizashi signs, “Hello pretty stranger, are you partnered already?”

Shouta’s about to play along, but the moment is broken when two shapes come down to knock Hizashi over with taunting calls that rattles the shuttle.  Hizashi gets roped back into the race (or the flight dance or whatever game they're playing).  He twirls to face Shouta while he freefalls to sign ‘follow you in every lives’, the see’krtsh equivalent of ‘tomorrow, with you’.  His wings snap open to catch himself right before he slams into the ground, and he goes to chase after his flock.

Shouta almost hisses when he sees Hitoshi staring intently at him.  He discovers the reason for the staring when the Human turns to the elders and signs, “Yes, his eyes are very big.”

The elders cackle, whistling breathy from age.  One of them pipes up, “I told ya!  It happens even when his partner isn't present.  If he has blown pupils, chances are that he’s thinking of his partner.”

At that, they all laugh at Shouta’s embarrassment.  He lowers his nose into his scarf when even Hitoshi joins them.  Should have left him at the trading center the first time around.

The elders take Hitoshi’s amusement as a signal that they’ve been left alone long enough.  They immediately try to interact with them, elder Chatty gesturing at Hitoshi to come closer so they can strike a conversation.  He’s awkward at first, and Shouta takes care to help smooth everything out, but quickly, Hitoshi’s finds his footing when the elders ignore his stuttering and grammatically incorrect sentences.  By the time they arrive, Hitoshi’s been fed embarrassing stories about Hizashi and somehow managed to gain the promise of elder Chatty showing him how to make an easy baked good.

Even if he goes along with the elders, Hitoshi sticks to Shouta’s side as soon as they leave the relative silence of the shuttle and step into the cacophonic outside.  Shouta doesn’t say anything about being used as an inadequate shield, and thankfully, most of Hizashi’s flock is crowding Shouta’s partner while the rest are taking see’krtsh kits somewhere out of view.

A few See’krtshes come greet them and his mèos left in the shuttle they’ve programmed to be a cooler temperature, but they mostly aim their conversation at Shouta, probably thinking Hitoshi doesn’t know See’krtshish.  If it bothers the Human, he doesn’t show any indication of it.

“Let’s go,” he says, after it’s apparent Hizashi won’t be free for the rest of the cycle.  He turns to walk away without looking back to see if Hitoshi will follow.

The Human jogs to catch up, head twisting to look back.  “Hizashi?”

And Shouta gets the sentiment, he wants to stay and keep his eyes on his partner too, but it’s getting really hot outside and Hizashi is surrounded by at least twenty other See’krtshes.  He deserves some time with his flock without having to worry about Hitoshi.  “He’s fine.”

Shouta can feel the dubiousness through the layers of cloth, but he treks on.  The share center comes into view, the brightly coloured walls and ramp carved from a rock greeting them.  “This is one of the only places with conditioned air, so if you start getting uncomfortable with the temperature, come here.”

The double hatches open to let them in, the fresher air immediately soothing him.  It’s not as cold as it is on the ship, but it’s s’phars better than the outside heat.

A few people are here to find relief from the beating suns, chittering with each other, but the one who gets Shouta’s attention is none other than elder Mellow.  “If it isn’t Hizashi’s bondmate, finally coming to visit me.”  She huff when one of the flock’s Ss’lhs slithers closer to her and coils around her ankle.  She frowns, but still pats its head.  “Tell me, where’s my scoundrel?”

Before Shouta can answer her, she notices Hitoshi.  “Another outsider?”

Shouta represses his wince.  There’s no way she didn’t know about Hitoshi, not with how much Hizashi has been talking about him over the holocalls.  “Hizashi owes him a life-debt,” he signs quickly, hoping that reminding her of the reasons for the ‘outsider’s’ presence will settle her hostility.

It doesn’t.  She flares what’s left of their feathers out in a scowl.  “Always getting in trouble, always risking his life, that one.”  She rattles her beak in disapproval.  “Listen here, you were supposed to mellow him out, not get dragged into whatever whimsy he wants.  He’s such a good singer, he could have been part of the Choir, but instead, he’s flying around and doing whatever catches his eye.  Such talent, wasted.”

Shouta tunes out the usual speech.  He knows she’s only worried about Hizashi, but he already knows what she’ll say.  He’s subjected to it everytime he visits her.  Shouta always had difficulties understanding the Yamada flock dynamic, but this is something that’s closer to what his species’ is familiar with.  Her ire is only natural; she’s not only Hizashi’s old singing instructor, but also Hizashi’s egg bearer’s egg bearer.  It must be disappointing to have spent so much time cultivating Hizahsi’s voice, only for him to never try for the Choir.

Unfortunately, she senses his inattention and instead of going on like she usually does, she turns her attention to Hitoshi.  “You.  Come here.”

Hitoshi’s head turns toward Shouta, silently begging for help.  Shouta pushes him forward and ignores the small noise the Human makes at his betrayal.

Hitoshi stays deadly still while she inspects him, upper limbs instantly going limp when she lifts them with a frown.  The Ss’lh bumps against Hitoshi’s feet wear and starts trying to climb his lower limb.  She scolds it while detaching it from Hitoshi, but the effect is dampened by the gentleness of her touch when she brings it close to her front and pets it.  

She tilts her head the same way Hizashi does when he inspects something.  Hitoshi straightens, prepared to give out his introduction, but she interrupts it by pulling him down to sit next to her.  He goes down even if Shouta knows he could easily resist her pull.

She scoffs at the garment’s fabric when she feels it between her talons, and squints at Hitoshi’s gloved hands.  Hitoshi sends him what Shouta interprets as a helpless look.  Finally, her verdict falls.  “You should feed him more.”

Shouta lets out a long breath, both in relief and in preparation for the incoming lecture on how to take care of someone to whom a life debt is owed.  This is going to be long.

Hizashi is home, his flock within reach and the sandy dunes bordering his sides.

He croons at little Gabby and littler Sundown Red, his hatchmate’s mate’s sibling’s first and third clutch nestlings respectively.  They’re both tucked under his wings, feathers all fluffed up to keep warm, their tails intertwined together.  There are more youngs to his right, sandwiched between his cuddle neighbours.  He didn’t catch who they were, the juveniles having slithered away too quickly for him to see them properly.

Shouta and Hitoshi are staying in one of the share building, where it’s cooler.  The unnamed nestlings aren’t out of the healing center yet, so only the elders have been allowed to visit.  Preparing for the ceremony when they haven’t finished their shed isn’t traditional by any means, but it’s been a while since a young’s death has befallen them.

The unnamed nestlings’ nesters—a trio composed of Whistle, Rakish, and someone from a northern flock—have kept their beaks shut about their youngs’ progress, not wanting to jinx anything.  It builds the nervous energy around the flock, but no news is good news.

The new youngs are strong.  They pecked their egg in less than a cycle, and came out slightly over the average weight.  The chances of them not surviving are low, even without taking into account the technological advancements time and desperation has brought.

The tail his head is laid on shakes him lightly.  “You think too loud.  Listen, they’re nearing the end of their molt, so stop overthinking.  They’re all Whistle’s clutch and they’ve never lost a hatchling before.”

Hizashi lets out a low thrum of acknowledgement-thankful-reassured even though he doesn’t quite feel it.  Zip is younger, was born almost a decade after the boon of youngs the new hatching procedures have brought.  It’s easy to trace the line between who grew Before and After it.  There's excitement and trips to trading centers for those who are After, while uneasiness keeps those from Before from celebrating too soon, held breaths as they await a long mournful cry to pierce the sky.

(He has memories of hatchlings wandering around their settlement and being carried by flockmembers.  He longs for those times when he could cuddle hatchlings and watch them sing their first song and coo at their little twitters, but he’ll take the strict monitoring and the controlled coming-and-goings at the healer’s building over mourning for another little soul.

He’d been to more funerals than ceremonies, although the number of naming ceremonies are quickly catching up to the losses, and so he lets himself hope.  It’s a dangerous thing.)

Zip’s tail is smooth under his head.  He hasn’t been able to see the new nestlings in person yet.  The healers only allow off-world visitors after three cycles of confirmed health and a myriad of check-ups, to which Hizashi is going to subject himself next cycle.

He settles around Gabby and Sundown Red, pushing his tail over where theirs is buried in the sand.  He’s careful to keep his wings over their head, to shade their eyes and keep them in comforting darkness.

They’re soft under his beak.  He preens the back of their heads, down to their shoulders, leaving the discarded feathers in a pile on the side.  In between, he rubs circles over their brows and the side of their heads, scratching lightly when they lean into his touch.

It barely feels like a feep has passed when a few flock members start to shift, and before he knows it, half the pile has woken up.

He reluctantly let go of the youngs, who immediately get pulled under another wing.  He’s going to help with the preparation and see how Shouta and Hitoshi are faring.

The platform is new.

It stands high, metal rods holding it off the ground.  The top is covered in wooden planks, glossy from varnish.  Stylized See’krtshes running and flying after each other have been carved onto the panels.

They’re decorating.  Hizashi’s tying ribbons and garlands while Shouta’s cleaning perches and tables.  To his right, a group of the older fledglings are teaching nestlings how to weave twigs into baskets to keep them away from everyone’s wings while making them feel like they’re contributing to the festivities.  Squeaky peeps and crows sometimes erupt from their corner, announcing to everyone the completion of a slightly wonky basket that’ll soon be carrying treats and small gifts.

Hizashi shakes his wing at Hitoshi when he stops by to catch his breath.  The others have discovered Hitoshi could lift heavy loads easily, so he’s helping there, carrying crates upon crates to sculleries and back, basically running errands.  From time to time, he’ll place whatever he’s carrying down and bend in the middle to rest his hands on the middle of his hind limbs, the movement making the small ornament bells weaved into his fur jingle.  Mellow has apparently taken offense to the lack of colour or decorative adornment, and took it upon herself to cover Hitoshi in bracelets and bright strings, which compelled a few others to add jewelry on his friend.  Hizashi has been keeping track; he’ll have to have a talk with all of them, just to make sure they aren’t trying to ‘help’ him pay his debt.

The ‘hello’ he gets back is half-hearted, but Hizashi isn’t deterred.  “Drink, listener!” he reminds Hitoshi.  The heat is making him more sluggishly than usual, and still, Hizashi has only seen him drink when asked to.  “Are you tired?  I can bring you to the share building if you need to take a break.”

Hitoshi is already stubbornly shaking his head from side to side, although he thankfully listens to Hizashi’s request to stay hydrated, even if it’s by pointedly taking exaggerated sips from his water container by slipping the nozzle under his face covering.  Hizashi thought Hitoshi would spent the visit in the share buildings, but he balked at the idea of not helping, although Hizashi has the suspicion Hitoshi didn’t want to be separated from them.  He’s been taking routes that pass by Hizashi and Shouta too much for it to be mere coincidence.

Hitoshi picks the crate back up—this time filled with dishes and talon sheaths—and goes on his way.  Hizashi waits a few click and isn’t disappointed when fledglings come out of their hiding spots to follow after Hitoshi, chirps and cheeps falling out their beak every time Hitoshi turns to look at them, although his friend has started to ignore them when he keeps being brought back to his task by any See’krtsh near him.  It has been going on for a while, and the fledglings aren’t deterred even when they keep being shooed away as soon as Hitoshi’s back is turned.  To Hizashi’s amusement and light exasperation, they keep coming back with childish bets daring each other to touch the hem of the outsider’s garments, persistent in satisfying their curiosity, but the flock is even more persistent in keeping any young away.  Despite Hitoshi being owed a life debt and having Hizashi as his pack mate, Hitoshi isn’t flock.

Eventually, an elder pulls the gaggle of fledglings to the side.  They wilt visibly as the elder scolds them, and when they’re dismissed, they all look contrite, feathers puffed up.  Hizashi winces, remembering the particularly effective scoldings he’s faced with this elder. 

Chatty drops by to tell them Engine and Lamp are doing well in the shuttle.  Shouta flicks his ear gratefully.  If it weren’t for the mèo update brought every tone or the cameras set up around the shuttle Shouta occasionally looks through, Hizashi’s mate would be spending his time in the shuttle, glaring at the temperature meter.

A few excited juveniles come up to them to yell about Lamp and Engine, still wrapped in cloth from their visit in the shuttle, before food is brought out right before second sundown.

Long tables have been set up under awnings, in close proximity to each other to celebrate Hizashi’s and Shouta’s safe return.  While Hizashi tries to stem the flow of food being piled on his and Shouta’s plate while also serving his flockmates, his bondmate is directing Hitoshi toward food they’ve deemed safe.

Some of Hizashi’s flockmates are piled on top of each other in their enthusiasm to be close to them, their excited whistling songs gaining in volume in an attempt to be heard over the cacophony.

Hizashi’s complimenting Chatty’s bondmate on his new stew recipe when he catches a few of his clutchmates swooping down.  Before he can tell them to give Hitoshi space, they grab his hands and slip more bracelets on his wrists, unnoticing the way Shouta and Hizashi tenses or the way Hitoshi freezes under their sudden touch.

“Hey, hey, hey, let’s not crowd my friend, yeah?”  He throws a wing between them and Hitoshi, a little irked at their forwardness.  He warned his flock to take it easy with Hitoshi, spending every holocalls to remind them to keep a wing’s distance between themselves and his friend.  Hitoshi discreetly moves a step behind Hizashi.

“You alright?” he signs to Hitoshi after he manages to get his clutchmates to move farther down the table.  Surprisingly, Mellow is the one to call them away.  “We can head back to the shuttle and eat there if it’s too much for you.”

“I am fine,” Hitoshi responds.  He grabs a piece of Sh’il covered Am’ff off his plate and sneaks it under his face cloth as if to emphasize his point.  Under Hizashi’s doubtful feather ruffle, he squirms on his seat and gestures at his wrists, leaning forward to hide his signing.  “What do I do with this?”

“Don’t worry about it.  Have you tried this?”  When Hitoshi shakes his head in negative, Hizashi puts the sweet clumped grain in his dish.

The rest of their meal goes on the same way; Hizashi and Shouta run interference for Hitoshi, while Hitoshi tries new dishes.  They retire earlier than they usually would, mostly to Hitoshi’s benefit, who has grown silent and whose feet Hizashi keeps accidentally stepping on from how close his friend is standing.

The path to the shuttle seems a lot farther out.  Shouta’s middle limbs drag on the ground, head drooped low and social battery depleted.  The worst is Hitoshi, who stumbles every few often on invisible dunes, forced to pause midway to catch his breath lest he falls too far back.  They’re going to have to implement an exercise regimen for Hitoshi once they’re back on the ship.

Shouta wraps his scarf around Hizashi’s shoulders when they enter the cooled down shuttle, to help him fight the shivers the difference of temperature always brings.  As soon as every entry is closed off, Hitoshi rips off his goggles and face covering, letting them fall to the ground unceremoniously with an exaggerated exhale, fanning his face with his hands.  A red imprint is left around his eyes where the goggles rested, and his face is pink from heat.  He pulls his cloth away from his upper limbs to expose them.  His fur stays flattened on top of his skull, where it’s glossy from his damp brow.

“Hitoshi?”

“Hmm?”  He wipes the water that collected under his nose while looking down at the garments crumpled around his feet, his brow fur tilting down.  “I need to put back?”

“No, no, don’t worry, I just…”  Hizashi’s at a loss for words.  He doesn’t know how to express how weird it is that Hitoshi’s face is damp without offending him.  Has he been leaking water all day?  He’s never done this before.

Shouta’s playing with Lamp and is of no help.  Hizashi decides it’s better to offend than to risk Hitoshi’s health.  “Why are you leaking water from your scalp?”

“Leaking…?”  He touches his head and squints at his hand.  “It is only, uhm, when it is hot.  Water come out so it is less hot.  It is normal for Humans.  You don’t have the leaking water?”

“No?”  Hizashi doesn’t leak water when it’s too warm, he lives in a desert.   He turns to Shouta, slightly hysterical.  “Do you leak?”

Why does Shouta need to take a moment to think about it?  Hizashi’s crest rises the longer it takes for his mate to answer.  “I don’t think there’s a word for it in See’krtshish, but we call it --------“.  He lifts a paw up to show its pads.  “I only ----- a little bit here though, and it doesn’t help much.  Spreading my scarf out does a better job cooling me down.”  He pauses to look at Hizashi, ears pinned back.  “How have you never noticed?”

“I don’t know, your paws are never wet when I look at them!” he signs, a little hysterical.  He’s lived with Shouta for more than half his life, how has he never noticed?  “I just thought you washed them or dipped them in water to cool them off, or you stepped on a puddle or something, not that you leaked water.”

Shouta rubs the space between his eyes.  “First, it’s not ‘leaking water’.  It’s just glands secreting water and salt amongst other things.  Second,”—he shakes his head in disbelief, tail lashing out—“why would I ever dip any part of my body in water?”

“For fun?  It was kind of weird, but I didn’t want to question it.”

Shouta signs something about Hizashi’s observational skills, or lack thereof, with the low exasperation that comes with living with someone.

What a dangerous thermoregulation method.  Hizashi has been waiting for a benefit for the whole fleshy deal, but all he’s witnessed is a bigger amount of bruises from the lack of any protective layer and this—this water leakage.

The mèos interrupt Hizashi’s further questioning by running at him.  Engine barrels into his side, her leap failing half-way through when she overextends, resulting in her flopping sadly on her back with a slightly confused flick of her tongue, while Lamp gracefully sits on the base of his tail with a haughty look, demanding some attention and scorning it at the same time.  He scratches Engine’s head, unwilling to upset Lamp and risk getting clicked at and scraped by her teeth.

Hitoshi has no qualms about that, calling her to him.  When Lamp struts to him, he lifts her up without any hesitation nor fear for his exposed upper limbs.  Of course, Lamp only flicks her tongue smugly and buries herself further into his hold.  If Hizashi ever dared do that, she would have fought like he was torturing her.

The shuttle’s washing room is tiny, in a way that’s reminiscent of the cell even with the warm light and clean walls.  Hitoshi seems to think the same, leaving the hatch ajar a few clicks after shutting it with shaky hands.  Hizashi keeps his gaze away to let Hitoshi have the pretense of privacy.

He laughs before shutting his beak when he sees the tangled mess of strings and bells in Hitoshi’s fur when his friend steps out.  Shouta doesn’t even try to hide his amusement.  “Listener, you need help there?”

Hitoshi sits down next to him with a sullen expression and Hizashi has to hold another laugh back.  He’ll have to braid them back in the morning, so Mellow doesn’t scold him.

He’s careful not to yank when he cards his talons through Hitoshi’s fur.  The ribbons are easy to pull out, but a few strands are stuck through the bells.  Shouta has to step in to untangle those, his scarf giving him more precise handling than Hizashi’s talons or beak.

“Maybe you need to pull more?”

Hizashi strokes Hitoshi’s freed fur to settle his impatience.  “There’s only a few bits left, there’s no need for that, listener.”

Hitoshi grumbles but stops squirming.  His eyelids have come down, to the point where he looks like he’s glaring, but Hizashi knows he’s falling asleep.  He’s already changed into his sleeping garments, so when Hizashi drops the last bell Shouta hands him in a jewelry dish, he immediately rolls into his cot, dragging the edges over himself.  “Thank you.”

Shouta flicks his ears to acknowledge Hitoshi’s words as he crawls into their cot.  Hizashi joins him once he places his own bracelets next to Hitoshi’s, burrowing into his bondmate’s warmth with a pleased chirp.  He closes his eyes, waiting for the main lights to shut off, but Shouta doesn’t move.  He cracks his eyes open to see what Shouta’s waiting for, following his mate’s gaze to see what the object of his concentration is.

Instead of going to rest, Engine has climbed onto Hitoshi to lay on his shoulder.  In the cot, Shouta’s tail, which was questioningly flicking against Hizashi’s hind limbs, stills when Lamp starts clicking at Hitoshi’s face until he pets her behind her ears.  “Do you feel unwell?”

Now that he’s looking for it, he notices Hitoshi’s weird expression, half longing, half something else.  The muscles around his eyes are tense, like he’s glaring but isn’t, and the skin around his mouth is pressed tightly together.

Hizashi wants to slap himself for not understanding the scene before him sooner.  Mèos are bred for sensing distress, and bringing comfort is one of the intrinsic instincts they barely need training for, alongside hunting pests and making those alarming screaming sounds when there’s an accumulation of carbon monoxide.

“Hey, what’s wrong?  Was this cycle too much?  You can stay here next cycle, everyone will understand.”

Hitoshi shake his head from side to side.  He bumps his mouth against Lamp and pulls the cot tighter around himself, careful not to dislodge Engine.  He signs, quiet and unsure and vulnerable, “I miss Dirt.”

“Oh.”

Hitoshi’s mouth does an odd thing, before he turns his head into the pillow, rubbing the skin of his face in the fabric.  When he lifts his head back up, his skin is pink from friction.  “Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”  Hizashi warbles sadly.  “If we could bring you back to your home planet, we would.  It’s just that it’s so far away, and even with the best ship, we don’t have the resources to sneak past and outfly the ISC perimeter or the poachers, let alone find a way to drop you down without being noticed by any Humans.”

Hitoshi’s upper limbs tighten around the cover of his cot, his next breaths shudder and shake, and he shuts his eyes until his skin wrinkle at the edges.  “It is fine.  I know already that I cannot go back.”

Hizashi reaches outside the warmth of his nest to hook his talons into the edge of Hitoshi’s cot.  He pulls lightly, until Hitoshi gets the message and scoots closer.  He feels Hitoshi jolt when he throws his wing over him, but he’s quick to relax, curling into himself.

There are very few cases where Hizashi and Shouta couldn’t return someone back to their home planet or colony, and there has never been a case where there was absolutely nowhere for them to go.

The small noise Shouta makes is intended for their mèos, but Hitoshi tilts his head slightly in attention.  Shouta makes a gesture, one that doesn’t mean anything to anyone but Engine and Lamp, accompanied with an eer’ahseerish word too high pitched for Hizashi to sense.  The mèos immediately follow his command, Engine climbing down in the crook of Hitoshi’s neck and draping herself on his head while Lamp squirms into the cot to lay against his chest.  They’ll move back to their sleeping area right before Hitoshi falls asleep.

Shouta sits up slightly, waving his scarf to catch Hitoshi’s attention.  “The homesickness won’t go away, not completely,” he starts slowly.  Hizashi aches for them both.  He’s unbelievably lucky to be able to return to his flock.  “But while Dirt will always be where you come from, you’ll find yourself calling another place home.”

Shouta’s scarf is flushed, and he deliberately doesn’t look at Hizashi when he dims the lights.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi had been a fidgety mess since the beginning of the elders’ opening stories, staring at the fledglings’ choreographed flying and the non-flying kits singing slightly off-key alongside the elders.

They finish with a flourish, the fledglings landing in formation.  Some of them stagger and others keep flaring their feathers and touching the colourful marks dusted over their bodies, but most hold their position with proud chests.

Around him, the Yamada flock erupts in cheers, whistling and cawing.  Hizashi is particularly obnoxious about it, climbing on top of Shouta to stand over the crowd so his loud hum rings over everyone else.

There’s a moment when he worries Hitoshi will bolt from the noise; he’s holding his protective ear gear tight over his head, hunched over himself, but Hizashi manages to deescalate the situation by resting his wing on Hitoshi’s head fur and grooming it, each pass of his claws slowly unwinding Hitoshi.

“Do you need to go back to the shuttle?” Hizashi asks once Hitoshi doesn’t seem as likely to lose himself in a panic.

“No, I was just surprised.”  Hitoshi stands straighter as if to prove his words, but Shouta catches the quivering in his hands.  “I am fine now.”

Before he can do anything about it, the flock starts yelling in excitement, giving Hitoshi an excuse to look anywhere but in Shouta or Hizashi’s direction.  Shouta hesitates to leave it be, but he settles on trusting Hitoshi.  He brings his attention back to the stage, where the new kits are propped up on a table, tiny claws gripping long carved sticks to let them act on their perching reflex.  Their parents stand behind them, a wing holding their sides so they don’t try to crawl away and topple off the stage.

The oldest elder come forward, their creaking joints carrying them slow and steady. They make a show of inspecting the new kits’ tail—Hizashi once told him the true names were already decided by the elders who mastered the name registry before the ceremony—before proclaiming, loud and clear, their true names.  Hizashi translates as quick as he can alongside the elder’s singing, but the long silences betray the loss in translation, the crude description of their scale placement awkward and non-musical.

While the elder pauses their speech to let some cry in deception and others rejoice for their reborn partner-parent-kit, Hizashi discreetly tells him a few of the people whose souls they shared.  Apparently, the late elder Sneak and the kit on the left are soul bound.

Eventually, when the crowd has calmed enough to pay attention, the elder asks them to greet the returning souls.  The uncoordinated chattering quiets to leave place for the traditional ceremonial song.

It starts with all of them saying the new kits’ true names, which everyone seems to already know.  Shouta is always impressed with the see’krtsh ability to store and remember information, centuries of history bent into rhyming songs youngs learn before their first fledge.

Although Hizashi sings Shouta’s greeting at the same time as his own—their two toned names overlaid in a way that always makes Hizashi titter and puff up whenever Shouta asks him about it—Shouta still mutters along in his own language, crudely translating the new kits’ true names as best as he can.  A difficult feat when they’re basically long drawn descriptions of their appearances, the gaps in Eer’ahseerish very apparent when it comes to the myriad of words for colours and see’krtsh-exclusive anatomy that overflows Hizashi’s language.

Hitoshi falls still, breath halted halfway through an exhale, paw clutching at his damp head and torso equipment he’s been given.  Shouta can’t reproach his reaction; he’s been as still as a statue the first time he’d assisted a naming ceremony.  Holovids do not do the moment justice, can’t capture the way air becomes tangible, the harmonious discordance that suddenly comes into existence when everyone finishes welcoming the new kits’ in unissions and begins singing their own true names.  The way vibrations pull them in different directions all at once and how, every once in a while, black spots and shadowy figures dance when someone hits a certain frequency, is impossible to describe in simple words.

The low hum of voices can barely be heard, oftentimes completely disappearing out of Shouta’s hearing range, but the silence is too heavy to think for even one click that there isn’t something happening.  He’s assisted several of these, but it always makes his fur stand on its ends.

The platform shifts and sways under the combined power of their voices, the tilting sky giving the illusion of flying.  Hitoshi makes a startled sound that uncannily resembles Hizashi’s squawking.

The vibrations drop in intensity as Names come to an end.  Shouta waits for the long inhale that marks the place where he can participate, the words they use within his talking and signing range.  Hitoshi keeps still and silent, having been coached to not engage in the ceremony as he’s only a visitor.

The suns set in front of them, twin halos around the new kits heads.

“—welcomes you back to the flock.”

The next cycle is as busy as the previous one.  There’s food stalls and trinket stands cluttering the roads and attracting excited younglings that hold up their baskets for a treat or a small gift.  Off to the side, the nesters of the cycle are showing off pictures of their youngs when they were still white tailed.  The newly named nestlings are paraded around in sleys alternatively pulled by members of the flock, covered in an outrageous amount of gifted jewelry.  They chirp inquisitively at shiny bracelets, puffing up everytime the light bounces off the metal and polished stones.  Hizashi gifts them with small stained glass art they can hang around streaming sunlight, their delighted caws when he holds them up so colourful lights dance on their sleigh the most precious thing he’s ever heard.  He cards his talons in their down a few times, to show them he’s flock, before giving his place to the next Yamada. 

Occasionally, their distressed cries when they get startled by a too-quick gesture or a too-loud sound is easily soothed by the closest See’krtsh covering them under their wings to calm them with the dark, but they’re otherwise perfectly content letting the flock coo and admire their tails.  Eventually, when their eyes start drooping, they’re brought to the nearest home to rest, the younger nestlings joining them for a nap.

The fledglings fly after drones, under the supervision of their bored watchers, filling the sky with joyous laughter and their ceremonial colours unwashed.  Some older youngs keep on the side, chatting amongst each other and sharing gossip about the neighbouring flocks.  When he goes to compliment them on their flight form during the ceremony dance, he’s amused to see them try to keep a cool demeanor, all mature twittering and demure thanks.  As soon as he’s walking away though, he catches them huddling together and flapping their wings excitingly.  Oh, to be young again.

He makes his way to where his bonded mate has been kept busy.

Fledglings, whose flight feathers are brand new and for whom gliding from their home’s rooftop is still too frightening, use him as a perch.  They clamber on Hizashi’s bondmate, nervously keeping away from the edges while they crow about being the best at flying.  Shouta tastefully doesn’t comment on how what they’re doing can barely be considered gliding, all clumsy and unsteady flapping.  Instead, he inserts an innocuous comment that fuels competition amongst the boasters and encourages the more skittish, scarf ready to catch a falling young.  Soon enough, they’re throwing themselves off without a care, thrilling when they surpass their previous airborne time and whistling when they fail the landing, which happens more often than not.

He signs at Shouta that he’s going to supervise Hitoshi.  His mate answers with the flick of his scarf, the young currently wrapped in it letting out a surprised thrum at the movement.

Hitoshi next to one of the food tables, where Hizashi left him to see the new youngs.  He’s amused to see that Hitoshi has an inclination for dishes usually favored by Yamada elders, currently holding a cup of yellow podl soup and in the midst of a conversation with Chatty. 

He's relaxed enough that Hizashi makes a detour to snag some crinkly oil-cooked naubs and talk to Rakish, who’s inexplicably tucked in between two buildings, off to the side instead of in the center of attention.

“Hey, what’s got you so down?”

Rakish welcomes him with a low regret-shame-bittersweet hum. “Whistle isn’t doing well.  I think they feel guilty that the nestlings don’t have more clutch mates.”

Hizashi smoothes the feathers on the top of his head in silent support.

“Having to keep them in the incubator didn’t help either.  I know it’s to help them, but the incubator was so big for just the two of them.  They looked so lonely.”  Rakish closes his beak with a quiet snap.   “Let’s hope integrating them in the flock will help.”

They chat some more, the less heavy subjects allowing Hizashi’s attention to wander over to Hitoshi.  He keeps an eye out, in case he needs to pull him out, but he’s fairing well, despite the awkwardness Hizashi can feel all the way over here

People come strike a conversation with him, probably drawn by the novelty of his presence.  Hizashi is amused to see that the more uptight members of his flock are put off by the way Hitoshi keeps turning his head to look for him, emphasizing their ‘listen’s and ‘listener’s until they give up and let someone more easy-going take their place. 

He says his goodbyes and joins Hitoshi, who’s in the middle of stiltedly talking about the food.  Hitoshi physically deflates in relief when Hizashi picks up the faltering end of his sentence and put in more enthusiasm in the interaction.  His friend looks content to hang a step behind him and listen passively instead of actively participating.  His flock and Hizashi’s familiar to Shouta’s social fatigue so they don’t mind when Hizashi only brings Hitoshi back into the conversation with easy questions so he’ll still be included.

Excited chatter suddenly erupts from a rowdy bunch of fledglings (most of the perpetrators Chatty’s young’s youngs) when Melody brings out her vluk.  She idly plucks the strings, calm and steadfast in the face of the growing crowd gathering around her.  A few times, Melody starts stringing a few notes that sends the flock’s juveniles in a frenzy, only to stop and go back to tuning her vluk with an amused hum when the youngs squawk in indignated impatience.  Whistles can be felt when a particularly displeased young, Slither and Crawler’s nestling, petulantly buries himself in the sand to sulk.

Older members of the flock know to wait for Melody’s clutchmates to show up with their own instruments before hoping for anything to happen.  They tidy up the last preparations, dropping dry pressed petals or small nuggets of metal in any bright-eyed youngs’ basket.

The first notes of ‘Finding Flock’ finally start playing.  Immediately, juvenile See’krtshes get into position.  The edgier fledglings dance as the clever aos’tih or the emo efoa, antagonists that are reformed later on, but most play as the lost protagonist, flying circles and dropping from the skies before snapping their wings out to catch themselves.

The story is at its peak, the main See’krtsh struggling to escape the flock that took them in—this time, it’s because the flock’s planning to sell the young’s feathers, which hits Hizashi a little too close to home—when they band with the now-reformed antagonists to fly away together. They cheer when they get to the part where they successfully escape, adult members of his flock pretending to be too tired to catch up to them.

Melody and the rest of the band pause to let the panting youngs catch their breaths, before starting another story.  Hizashi participates in this one, playing the snarky bounty hunter whose plans keep getting foiled by various members of the tale’s flock.  Shouta, standing near Hitoshi, huffs in amusement when he pitches his voice darker and flares his crest dramatically.

They go through a few more stories until most of the nestlings are tired out enough to find the closest person and rest under their wings.

The real party starts when all the youngs have gone to sleep and the stuffier elders have joined them.  The music changes to a lower pitch, thumping and rhythmic.  Bondmates take off, tracing elaborate patterns only they can predict, often ending up with a chase that leads to their homes, where curtains are pulled and passion runs high.  They come out completely disheveled, with a swagger in their steps and satisfied croons marking their words.  There are a few teasing quips thrown here and there they either dismiss or fuel, but most easily ignore the ruffled feathers.

Hizashi leaves Hitoshi with Shouta to go dance with his flockmates, taking to the skies more often than he spends on the ground.  When their song comes up though, he rejoins Shouta without hesitation, pulling him to a bigger space when Hitoshi tells them to go, that’s he’s fine on the side with his filled plate.  It’s easy to find a good spot when most are high up.  “Come on, come on, dance with me!”

Shouta’s tail whip in exasperation, but he doesn’t resist Hizashi’s eager demand, stretching out as he follows at a much slower pace, steps progressively falling into the hypnotizing rhythm.  They circle each other, right until the bass drops; Shouta leaps, reaching heights he knows leaves Hizashi swooning at the same time as Hizashi takes off.  His mate twists his body midair, arching his back to barely avoid Hizashi when he swoops low, landing with barely a vibration before running after Hizashi, jumping and swerving around him.  He’s showing off, knows it gets Hizashi all hot and bothered when he whips his scarf just like that and does that thing where he brushes the very tips of Hizashi’s wings before twirling away with that pleased curved tail of his.

It goes on for what seems like several tones, the steady beat of drums and plucked strings lighting his blood on fire, keeps him from stumbling even when his muscles start to ache and he can’t tear his gaze from Shouta’s glow.  The song ends with them panting and posed, Shouta balanced on his two hind limbs and Hizashi with his wings spread out, like they’re paused right before they’re about to take off again.

The flockmates who’ve stayed grounded whistle and cheer raucously, inhibition lowered from their fermented drinks.  Hizashi puts a possessive wing around Shouta, turning his bondmate’s head away from his flockmates.  They cackle when he signs, “Go find an Eer’ahseer of your own.”

His nester’s clutchmate’s young comes forward, holding cups and a herb filled dish, “Here, Zip gifted us some of her brew.  We even got some of that eer’ahseer herbs for your bonded.”

“Thanks, but we shouldn’t.  Hitoshi can’t eat any.”  They didn’t want to risk testing that one.  Compared to all the other foods, it’s a dangerous neurotoxin to many mammals, and while Hitoshi seems to know what his badly acted staggering and slurring means, Hizashi isn’t going to risk fiddling with doses, even with Humans’ notorious ability to ingest poisons without any consequences.

Hizashi thinks the subject is over, but his flockmates start calling Hitoshi over.  “Hey, ya mind if they drink this?”

He goes to reassess his point, mildly irritated by their insistence, when Hitoshi comes over, gestures stilted.  “Don’t care.  You drink what you want.”

“If you’re sure?”  Hitoshi agreement-shakes his head.

“Come on, your outsider’s a grown person, he says you can have you fun, so have fun!”

Hizashi hesitates but takes a cup.  He plans to only drink a little, but he’ll admit he fills his glass a few more times than necessary.  He asks Shouta for another dance, and another, and another until all they can manage is circle each other, both too unsteady to do any leaps or swoops without hitting the other inadvertently.

A few pieces of dried eer’ahseer herbs are stuck to his bondmate’s face from when he got too enthusiastic and rubbed his face into the dish.  Hizashi plucks them out with a cackle that’s on that side of too loud, voice unrestrained by the brew.

“Hizashi?”

“Yeah?”  The world tilts to the side until Shouta rights him up, mumbling something indecipherable in Eer’ahseerish while tugging him toward the shuttle.

It takes his brain a few false starts.  Oh!  His mate wants to go rest.  He fondly preens Shouta’s ears before calling out a goodbye, giggling when Shouta’s middle limbs go floppy and leave drag marks on the sand.

They only make it a few steps out when he remembers Hitoshi, the flicker of guilt easily drowned out by the brew warming his inside.  He gestures at him to come, reaching out to pat his lower extremities.  It takes him a few misses to admit defeat, so he signs instead, “Yur a good frien’ Hito-Hitoshi.  Thanks fo’ gettin’ us out of that cursed cell.”

Hitoshi doesn't answer.  Hizashi squints, but his friend doesn't unblur.  The distance between them doesn’t help and something about it is off, but Hizashi waves it off in favour of maintaining his attention on the very difficult task of walking.

He blinks and he’s inside the shuttle, where he lets himself flop into his cot.  Shouta joins him, nuzzling his chest and trapping him between loops of scarf.  Hizashi strokes his mate’s paws, which have been thrown over his chest, giving into his urge to coo.  Shouta alway gets so cuddly after his herbs.

A cold nose nuzzles against the side of his neck, making the warm feeling fall.  Before he can catch himself, he snaps his beak, the beginning of a rattle rising in warning.  Shouta immediately moves his head away, his scarf stroking his crest down.  The slurred apology in Hizashi’s back, in between his wings, is enough to settle him back into the pleasant haziness.

It’s only when Hizashi’s jostled awake that he realizes he let his eyes close.  A purple blob dances in front of him until he manages to focus his eyes.  “Heyyy!  Hitoshi, sorry about forge-forgeter-forgeth—”  Shouta’s tightening grip around him doesn’t help his slurring gestures.  “You shoul’ go sleep.  Tired.”

It’s so warm and comfortable and soft, Shouta’s previous misstep easily forgiven.  His feathers puff out in contentment and Hizashi languidly moves his tail from side to side to feel his cot’s material.  The nest isn’t as big as the one on their ship, but he doesn’t mind, not when Shouta is curled around him and the low purr is all he can feel.

He’s shaken awake again.  A container is pushed into his wings.  Beside him, Shouta makes a complaining sound as the same is done for him.  “Drink the water,” Hitoshi commands.  

Hizashi almost knocks the water dish over when he tries to joke about the accidental flirting attempt, but a quick hand comes to stabilize it.  The first sip makes him realize he’s absolutely quenched.  One sip turns to thirty, until the dish is completely empty.  Hitoshi takes the two dishes away from them.  Hizashi would have fallen asleep if it weren’t for the light touch on his head.

He opens bleary eyes to yet again see the blurry shape of Hitoshi’s.  Hizashi tries to tell him to stop disturbing him with the small persistent nudges when he’s trying to sleep.  He eventually does, but not until Hizashi’s laying on his side, and the same is done with Shouta, who hisses in annoyance.

The cot is folded back and tucked around them, keeping him warm and comfortably squished.  He falls asleep before he can tell Hitoshi to stop hovering over them.

Shouta loses a drowsy three gestures game against Hizashi—which they discover is also a human game, played with gestures representing stones, leaves and double knives—and so he finds himself crouched on the side of the shuttle with double layered face covering to keep the worst of the smell out.  He’s seldom had to empty the waste tank before as they don’t usually sleep in the shuttle, but the resting quarters they usually share with some elders—and a few kits who can’t withstand the chillier nights without whining—are unsuitable with Hitoshi in tow.

He unlatches the tank where all the used water from the sink and bath is stored.  The holding container is not see through, but the pipe he had to attach to it unfortunately is.  When he twists it into place and starts draining the used water to get treated at the water center, Shouta only watches the first few clicks of water streaming into the pipe.  When he’s certain nothing is leaking out, he rests his eyes on a scratch on the shuttle’s hull so he can avoid watching the cloudy waste.

The roads are empty but for kits running and flying around to trade the candies they were gifted, curtains pulled shut as people recover from last cycle’s festivities.  The kits land on a low roof and start hopping around each other, jumping on their playmates and darting away.  Shouta envies Hizashi, who gets to rest in their body-warmed cot.  Even Hitoshi’s staying in, drifting in and out of sleep when Shouta had trudged out of the comfort of the shuttle with a dry mouth and mused fur. 

A startled beak snap makes him look back to see one of the kits dangerously close to the edge.  He lets out a short yell, as low as he can manage to get their attention.  When five pairs of eyes are on him, he signs a stern warning to be more careful.  Satisfied by their repentant feathers, he returns to his task, ears turned toward them.

If he’d been put in that situation back when he first met the Yamada flock, he would have been reluctant to intervene, as Eer’ahseers don’t take well to people scolding or ‘raising’ their kits, and eer’ahseer youngs themselves aren’t keen on adults ordering them around if they aren’t established authority figures.  It took him a while before he dared interact with the flock’s juveniles, even longer before he grew comfortable with performing roles that are traditionally reserved for parents back on his home planet.  He’d been apologetic the first time he accidentally witnessed a young’s first flight instead of their parents, but his guilt had been laughingly waved away.  “That’s what flock is for,” he’d been told.

It’s rewarding to know that he played a part in raising the flock’s kits, however small it may be.  Back before he knew Hizashi, he’d rarely thought about rearing his own kits.  What a mind shocking surprise to learn he could call any of the Yamada’s youngs his the moment he and Hizashi were made partner.

He hasn’t had the courage to refer to them as such yet, eer’ahseer customs ingrained too deeply.  Sometime in the future, maybe.

He’s taken out of his musing when he realizes he doesn’t hear more sloshing.  Forced to look at the repulsive left-over waste the pipe hasn’t been able to reach for the next step, he tilts the container so the foam can get sucked out.  The urge to gag is difficult to resist when he sees the residual dental paste foam, coloured slightly reddish-brown from the worrying amount of those bright berries Hizashi probably ate when Shouta had been distracted with other matters.  Shouta makes himself a mental note to give Hizashi some water before they brush their teeth, so his partner will at least rinse his mouth before subjecting Shouta to hosing the tank.

Maybe he’ll do it in front of everyone too, just to fluster Hizashi.  Petty revenge for winning the right to sleep in.

People are starting to wake, life slowly flowing back into the settlement.  They greet him from afar, which Shouta appreciates greatly.  He’s not the best conversationalist during early sun-up.  For the rare few who look too eagerly in his direction, he pulls out his padd and looks through his encrypted messages.  Nemuri is safe, Tensei too.  Good.

When the tank is fully emptied, he places the pipe back in its holding place and heads back inside.  Hizashi is already up, having gotten ready while Shouta was outside.

He squawks silently when Shouta comes behind him to scent him before melting into his touch with a soft croon.  Shouta is glad his thoughtless action isn’t affecting his partner.  He’d forgotten Hizashi’s newly set boundary and habit had made him seek Hizashi’s neck instinctively.

He doesn’t share his guilt with Hizashi; they’ve spent enough time together for this to have happened several times already, their youthful inexperience causing them to stumble onto accidental triggers often enough that Shouta knows stewing in his mistake will do more harm than good.

He presses their brows together, longer than usual.  Hizashi softens when he blinks slow and affectionate, returning his blinks with a tender stroke over his ears.  They part, Shouta’s hearts lighter.

While Shouta takes care of his mèos’ food and water, Hizashi chirps at Hitoshi, who wakes with a startled jerk despite Hizashi’s gentleness.  Hizashi tells him they’re going out for a while and is acknowledged with a bleary agreement-shake.  As soon as that’s done, Hitoshi tucks his face back in the cot’s cover.  His bag somehow found itself squeezed between Hitoshi’s upper limbs, the strap loosely resting in his palm.

Shouta and Hizashi help clean up last cycle’s festivities, dismantling the wooden stage to be put away for storage and bringing empty dishes to be washed.  The next cycles will still be spent celebrating the new kits, but in a tamer setting.

Most of the neighbouring flocks come by to offer well wishes and gifts when Hitoshi’s still sleeping, which is extremely convenient as Shouta doesn't have to watch See’krtshes pretend to be uninterested in the new unknown alien while playing word games to inquire about Hitoshi.  He almost has fun playing dumb with some of the more obnoxious See’krtshes, ignoring the real meaning behind their words to answer as bluntly and as literally as he can.  At his side, Hizashi gives no indication he isn’t paying full attention to the blue-gray See’krtsh other than the discrete amused fluff of his feathers.

He’s rescued from any more conversation by a Yamada elder that calls him over to the community scullery and places a bowl of thick spiked leaves he needs to peel.  He’s fairly certain Hizashi would argue the neighbouring See’krtshes are the ones being rescued from him.

By the time Hizashi comes to join him, he’s gone through several bowls and only pricked himself two times.  There’s only one flock left that will come visit later in the cycle.  It’s the grating one too, the one that keeps acting so careless about their kits.  Hizashi told him they used to have a huge feud about a millennium ago because the Yamada flock kept taking their nestlings.

“Hitoshi should be waking up now.  I’ll bring him to the Health Office.”  When Hizashi rubs their cheeks together, Shouta hides his face away in his scarf, acutely aware of the several elders in the room.  “Can you help count the youngs?”

Shouta hums, knocking their brows together before they split up, Hizashi toward the shuttle and him toward the loud squawking  kits.

Mind healer Stripes thrills apologetically.  “I'm sorry, but I don’t think I can take your outsider.”

Hizashi squawks in confusion.  “Why not?”

Stripes signs patiently, like she’s talking to a fledgling, “I don’t know anything about him, much less his species’ cultural practices.  Making him see me can bring him much more harm than good.”  She snaps her beak when Hizashi goes to protest.  “He could be responding within the limits of his culture’s level of acceptability, and trying to interfere in that process may well be damaging.  Our methods aren’t universal.”

“You’ve helped Shouta though…” he signs, frustrated as well as confused.

“That’s because I consulted multiple eer’ahseer mind healers beforehand and was able to integrate their practices to mine.”  She shakes her feathers out, before continuing, “Furthermore, I was confident Shouta would be able to establish clear boundaries and speak out when he’s uncomfortable.  You just told me one of your outsider’s issues is keeping his matters close to his heart.”

Hizashi understands her reticence, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.  He scratches at the wood grain.  “Can’t you try?  Meet him first and then decide?”

“Bringing your outsider to his own species’ mind healer would be the best option.  I won’t be able to identify any culture-bound symptoms or issues he could bring up.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Does he have a flock?  Does he have people he can lean on?  Other than you and Shouta.”

Hizashi scratches at a spot on the floor.  There’s already a groove guiding his talons, from countless other patients running their talons along the wood grain.  “He doesn’t have access to his old pack anymore.”

Stripes trills sympathy-mournful.  Her feathers ripple at the thought of such a small support system.

“I can try my best while he’s here, but I’m not a miracle worker, Hizashi.  From what you told me, his wounds are severe.”  She turns a decorative carved Ss’lh so it faces toward Hizashi, whips her tail when Hizashi coos hopefully because that isn’t a ‘no’.  He knows he won when he’s fixed with a stern flare of her crest.  “I’ll meet him.  For now, let’s put this aside and focus on you.”

Hizashi comes out feeling a little raw.  A few of his flockmates immediately come chat with him once he’s out of the building, preening and pitching their voices into a comforting rumble.

He chats with them, catching up on everything he missed while on his UA missions and spinning tales of his own, sanitized for his flock’s sake.  Some of his attention keeps wondering about how Hitoshi’s faring and he notes the message being passed through the flock that the last visiting flock is about to depart, but Hizashi is a great multitasker no matter what Shouta may spout, and so when one of the youngest young in his flock shows him how low they can sing, an adorable thrum that barely goes below 37 units, he bobs his head accordingly and whistles impressively.

He’s in the middle of listening to how his hatcher’s clutchmate’s fledgling face planted into a dune on their first flight when Hitoshi steps out.  He apologizes before joining Hitoshi, barely able to contain himself.  “How did it go?”

Hitoshi briefly lifts his shoulders up before letting them fall back down into a resting position.  Not as enthusiastic as Hizashi hoped for, but not as bad as he feared.

“That’s alright.  Shouta told me it was weird for him at first.”

Before he can go on, a series of chirps to get his attention.  Hizashi throws his wings out to greet Whistle, who’s secondary coverts look overpreened.  “Hey!  You have an appointment too?”

Whistle cards their talons through his crest, Hizashi eagerly returning the favour.  “Yeah, my bonded mates will join me later.” 

Their voice must be a tad too loud, because Hitoshi tenses up, shuffling his feet until they’re buried in sand.

He doesn’t want to keep Hitoshi here when he’s so uncomfortable, but Whistle looks like they want to catch up.  He eyes Hitoshi’s discomfort, the way he arranges and rearranges his bag, and makes a split decision.  “Do you think you can find your way to Shouta?  He’s right behind the golden yellow building with the white highlights.”

He’s met with what he assumes is one of those blank expressions Hitoshi sometimes gets when he gets bored and his mind wanders off.  Whistle tilts their head in confusion.  He ignores their questioning chirp to touch Hitoshi’s more firmly.  He repeats himself when Hitoshi unfreezes, body falling back into motion.

Hitoshi affirmation-shakes his head, pulling out a half-filled water pouch.  “Okay.  Later?”

“Yeah, it won’t be too long.  I’ll join you when I’m done!”

Hitoshi hums in understanding.  He takes a swig from the water pouch, his face covering barely hiding the lower part of his face for a click, before walking away.  The last visiting flock is on the edge of the settlement, where they won’t encounter Hitoshi, and Hizashi trusts his flock to help his friend out if he gets lost.

“Congrats on the youngs!  Their scales are so pretty.”

Whistle tilts their head right-left-right.  “Thanks, they’re settling well.”  They let out a not-quite-happy-but-definitively-relieved chirp.  “They’re sleeping with some of Crawler’s newest clutch.”

“How cute!”  Whistle, while still under the weather, seems to be doing better than Hizashi expected.  He isn’t as close to them as some other members of his flock, so he doesn’t push further.  Whistle takes the out and starts updating Hizashi on the budding romance between one of their clutchmate’s young and a neighbouring’s See’krtsh, excited whistles occasionally falling out their beak.

They’re gossiping like they’re still juveniles when Stripes calls Whistle in.  They separate with a parting laugh—Hizashi cannot believe one of the outside flock tried to claim Sundown Red for themselves because they claimed the nestling’s tail was almost the same shade as a famous Singer they lost several decades ago—before Hizashi flies away.

He finds his mate playing with some of the nestlings, his scarf looped around four of them and making them ‘fly’ around.  Their little wings are spread to feel the air passing through their feathers, chirps ringing out and bringing up endeared chatter from passersby.

“Hizashi.  Help me.”  Despite his words, he doesn’t stop moving the nestlings around.  Muffled whistles come up from under Shouta’s garment when he shakes his back. A flash of disgust briefly taints the scene when the most adventurous nestlings crawling under the cloth look unsettlingly like that parasite the flock settlements on the other side of the planet are plagued with.  His mate’s serious flat tone dispels the sickening image of small bumps moving under skin.  The heads poking out of Shouta’s collar to look at Hizashi helps break the illusion too.  “There’s too many.”

Shouta’s bored posture is immediately replaced with tension when Hizashi takes a step back, playfully whipping his tail back and forth.  He waits until Shouta brings the nestlings up and away, a warning on the tip of his scarf, but before he can say anything, Hizashi launches himself at him, taking measures to avoid any of the giggling lumps and the two younger nestlings dozing in Shouta’s middle limbs.  He nips Shouta’s ears, sending the nestlings into shrieking battle cries.  They beat their wings in Hizashi or Shouta’s face, depending on whose side they’re on, but nestlings will be nestlings and quickly, they turn against each other, tripping over each others’ tail to jump on their previous teammates.  Before long, they’ve climbed down Shouta to run away in a spontaneous game of no-fly chase, the two previously resting nestlings drowsily following behind the gaggle of running youngs, disappearing behind a building under Shouta’s watchful gaze.  They’re followed by Zip, who tells them all the youngs are accounted for.  She’ll probably herd them into a scullery or a resting house when the other flock finally take their leave.  They’re still going through goodbyes.  Hizashi loves talking with people but he’s grateful he can be part of the small group who gets to skip on seeing them off.  That particular flock somehow always manages to prolong their departure more than it needs.  He’s almost certain it’s their way to punish Hizashi’s flock for all the youngs they took in.

Hizashi lets himself flop over his bond mate.  Shouta’s a wonderful place to rest: his garment is both sun-warmed and Shouta-warmed, and like this, laying on top of his mate, he’s perfectly positioned to catch the suns’ rays with his back and wings.  Hizashi stretches them out, releasing their tightness with a relieved crow, before letting them fall back against Shouta’s flanks.

He cracks his eyes open when Shouta’s scarf taps the tip of his crest to get his attention.  “How did the visit go?”

Any plans of napping flies out of his mind.  His mate immediately picks up on worry, bending down to roll Hizashi off.  “Hizashi?”

While the skies are occasionally streaked by a Yamada, only Shouta and he are ground level.  It’s too early for panic—it’s very possible he went directly to the shuttle—but the rather open area they’re in leaves no places to hide.  Still, he looks around, searching for any signs of a Human.

“Have you seen Hitoshi?”

Chapter Text

Hitoshi stumbles on yet another sand dune.  He glares at it with more vitriol than it deserves, moving back onto the path he strayed from in his inattention.

If he was overwhelmed by meeting Hizashi’s two friends back when they escaped, this is ten times worse.  The chicken-lizards are absolutely everywhere.  As soon as he gets out of one conversation, he gets pulled into another one or he has to stand there while everyone just looks at him, and after that meeting with the alien that kept asking him questions he didn’t understand or couldn’t answer he’s all jittery.  The back of his neck tingles in a way he knows will only lessen if he digs his nails in the old scars.

He thinks he did well with the alien in their office.  He didn’t allude to anything related to Hizashi’s work at all, feigned ignorance more times than he can count.  He's good at that—aside from when it really matters— and had plenty of practice back Before.  He admits it’s easier here; they all think he’s dumb.

He really was going to go stay by Shouta’s side like Hizashi asked him to, but the other had little chicken-lizard kids hanging around him and Hitoshi didn’t want to force Shouta to abandon them to hang out with him.  He’d been planning on staying out of sight, but the heat was quickly turning his wait into a sweaty mess, especially with his poncho-cape and his constantly-fogging goggles, his eyes were burning from fatigue, and his chest was pinching.

(He knows when he isn’t wanted.)

The trek to the hover van isn’t too far.  The privacy offered by the high tech blinds would be nice too.  Plus, he’d get to play with the small furry aliens.

He sighs, pausing to stretch his legs and alleviate the discomfort present in his knees.  Almost there.  Only a few meters left, turn to the right and he should—

He stops in his tracks.  There’s no hover van.

Hitoshi walks further, circles the building, searches for any familiar sights, but doesn’t find any trace of the vehicle.

He kicks a pebble in frustration, sending it skidding down the path.  It rolls in a dip in the sand his foot left.

Sweat beads on his back and forehead.  He dabs it off with the hood of his poncho-cape.  He must have remembered the hover van’s position wrong.  Or maybe he was supposed to turn right instead of left after the pink awning?

He doesn’t want to return to Shouta or Hizashi right now.  His mind keeps returning him to last night.  He thought taking care of them would make him feel better, would give him back some purpose, and it did fill the void somewhat.  Only, instead of being soothed down from his restlessness, he’s overfilled with discomfort, familiar, yes, but… unpleasant.

Hizashi's stumbling steps had sent Hitoshi's heart speeding and he found himself holding his breath every time he caught a whiff of alcohol.  For some inane reason, his chest feels tight and raw when he thinks too much about it.

It’s an unwanted revelation.  He’s always told himself he’d rather take care of his parents than stay in the care home, that he enjoys being useful.  After all, throwing their stained shirts in the laundry and getting up from time to time to check if they’re still breathing is barely any work.  People do more difficult stuff all the time!  He didn’t even have to constantly move furniture like the neighbour’s kid, who broke her foot when she dropped a bench.

His teacher hadn’t thought so when she found out.  He used to hate her for it, but he can now admit to himself that his situation would have been worrying for someone who doesn’t know how responsible he is.  His classmates sure as hell wouldn’t be mature enough.

It’s been about five years since he last saw them.  Maybe even six.  He doesn’t know how much time he’s spent in space.  He’ll never see them again, but even if he were back in that building, he doesn’t think it would have changed much.  They’re supposed to attend parenting classes and go through detox before getting custody back, which Hitoshi knows can take time, but he’s overheard some of the caretakers talk.  They’ve declined taking up any of the visits they were allocated.

(Again.  Hitoshi knows when he isn’t wanted.)

He breathes in deep and slow, one hand on his chest.  There’s no use thinking about it.  Balling everything up, he aggressively shoves all the hurt and anger into a small box and throws it in some forgotten part of his mind.

Nodding to himself, he picks a direction and, with fake confidence, walks.  And walks.  And walks.  Until he can no longer feel the odd vibrating in the air he hasn’t noticed until it has completely faded away.  Hitoshi idly remarks that it’s like walking on clouds.

He’s jostled out of the sensation when his foot catches on a dip in the ground.  He tugs at the shoes despite knowing it won’t magically make them stop pinching his toes and the back of his heels that, for a moment, had stopped hurting.

The alien square granola bars’ wrappers crinkle reassuringly when he presses the palm of his hand against his sling bag.  He takes a few more steps before he gives in the urge to check on them.

He counts and recounts his two bars and five pouches.  None of them have fallen out.  He places them back in the bottom of the bag and closes it with a relieved sigh.

Anxiety tugs at him to go find Hizashi, but he’s decided he'll take a break to reorder himself.  Besides, Hizashi’s probably tired of having someone clinging on him all the time.  It’s not like Hitoshi hasn’t always been alone.  He just has to get used to it again.

Nodding to himself, Hitoshi takes a moment to take in his surroundings. He’s in a deserted area that looks like a leafless park with low twiggy plants and small cabins with roofs and no walls to give shade he’s never seen before.

He’s lost.

Everything’s fine.  The granola bars and pouches are still safe in his bag.  All he has to do is follow the noise back to the center of this town, look stupid while asking for help, and find Hizashi.  Simple.

He wanders for a while.  Locating the noise is harder than Hitoshi expects.  He has to tilt his head and turn around on himself often to figure out what direction the chattering is coming from.

He knows he’s getting close when he gets goosebumps and the hair on his neck raises.  He walks closer to the chirps and caws, and prepares himself for the amount of people that can make this much noise when he rounds the corner. 

Almost immediately, he backtracks and hides.  That’s a lot more people than he anticipated.  There are chicken-lizards he doesn’t recognize either, the feathers on their heads forming a sort of crown instead of one bending peak.  Looking around the corner feels silly, but he does it anyway.

Yeah, a lot of them are definitely different.  He hasn’t seen half of them during the happy birthday singing, and Hizashi told him everyone from his family was there.  They must be one of the families that came to give their congratulations.

The crown feathered aliens are all grouped together on one side while Hizashi’s family is staying on the other.  He’s gathering his courage when he accidentally makes eye contact with one of the strangers.  Freezing in place, he can’t help but stare back until he remembers he isn’t supposed to look them in the eyes.  He quickly averts his gaze with a drumming heart, keeping them in his periphery.

They tilt their head to the side, but don’t flinch away.  Oh.  Right.  His goggles.

He looks back at them.  When they tilt their head the other way, he mirrors them, amused to see their feathers go up.

The people around them aren’t paying them attention.  He shouldn’t be interacting with them, they’re clearly a kid, about the size of his arm, but they look so weird, Hitoshi can’t help but be curious. 

They’re blue and black, the colors split right in the middle as if someone took two chickens and glued them together.  Their lizard part isn't split as neatly, but it’s an odd pattern of white and yellow square patches.

They turn toward a bigger alien to their right, pecking their tail to get their attention.  Hitoshi’s about to hide again, internally berating himself for his thoughtlessness after being so careful to avoid the children that were playing with Shouta, but the bigger alien doesn’t even look at the split chicken-lizard before pushing them away.

They stumble back, the longer feathers on their head folding down on their head.  To Hitoshi’s indignation, no one says anything.  Hizashi’s family either doesn’t notice or they don’t care.

His indignation quickly turns into panic when they start making their way toward him.  Hitoshi tries to shoo them, waving his arm so they stay away, but it only spurs them forward, their wings flapping to mimic him.  Soon enough, they’re sitting at his feet, looking up at him.

“Go back,” he signs, pointing toward the gathering.  “Go.”

They start moving, but instead of following his command, they hook their claws in the lower part of his tunic and, before he can react, start climbing his clothes, dipping under his cape-poncho.  Hitoshi almost falls over in his surprise, arms coming up to cradle the baby so they stop clawing at his chest.  He hopes they didn’t pierce the fabric. 

He tries to pull them off him, but their claws are sinked in the strap of his bag and he doesn’t dare tug too hard in case he accidentally hurts them.  They peep when he attempts to pat them down, curls their tail around themself and closes their eyes.  Hitoshi stares incredulously at their sleeping form.

He could get them off now.  They probably won’t wake up in time if Hitoshi shakes them off and makes a run for it.

Hitoshi pauses.  Is that something he really wants to do?  They might think Hitoshi dislikes them.  What if they think he’s disgusted by them?

Hitoshi paces while he bounces them gently.  The other aliens haven’t noticed the baby’s absence yet.  He looks down at them, their face barely visible under his cape-poncho.  They look so sweet.

One eye slowly opens before quickly closing when they see he’s watching them.  Hitoshi rolls his eyes.  No wonder they fell ‘asleep’ so fast. 

He looks back at the gathering.  They’re talking and don’t seem to be running out of steam soon.  He can’t show up with them in his arms.  It might have not been something Hizashi warned him about, but it’s not hard to notice that not being allowed near babies is one of those hidden rules.  If he’s seen carrying them like this, everyone will be scared or angry.

Sighing, he slips his arms inside the cape-poncho and firmly starts setting himself free of their grip.  They wiggle around until Hitoshi can turn them around to hold them like a cat; one hand on their front and the other supporting their back legs.  He keeps his arms away from his body so they can’t catch his clothes again.

Only when they go all loose-jointed does Hitoshi places them down.

“You go back.  No more.  Finish.”  They try to climb him again, but he’s prepared this time.  Hitoshi jumps back, signing sternly at them to stay while he walks backward.  They watch him while lifting one foot, but Hitoshi signs for them to go.

He waits until they start making their way back to their family, head bowed in disappointment and feathers all droopy, before turning his back on them.

It’s only after about five minutes of nonstop walking and over-the-shoulder glances to check on any tiny stalker when he remembers his initial goal.

His gloved hands make a muffled fwomp when they make contact with his face.  His face burns when he’s forced to retrace his steps.  Thankfully, no one has witnessed his blunder.  Hitoshi takes a slightly different route all the same.

In a twist of luck, Hitoshi sees two aliens by the base of a building.  They have the crown feathers instead of the peak ones, but Hitoshi’s ready to take his chance with them.  He’s been dreading being crowded by aliens without Hizashi or his spouse.  He half-walks, half-jogs toward them in a stuttery slow-fast rhythm.

They both turn toward him at the same time, interrupting their conversation.  He nervously touches his face to make sure his face is well-hidden.  “Hello, my name is—“he says his name in Japanese.  His voice is scratchy.  “You can call me Purple.  I’m Hizashi’s friend.  Do you know where he is?”

They both look at each other before looking back at him.  The one with blue feathers whistles, before humming low.  The hair on his neck rises and the air leaves goosebumps all over his arms.  Hitoshi doesn’t know that word.  “Sorry.  I only speak like this.”

They look at him with a tilt of the head before softly speaking to the coral red one.  Hitoshi tries to parse through their chirps and snaps.  One particular long whistle preceded by a series of staccato clicks is particularly familiar.  He asked the meaning of it after noticing multiple people use that word when talking about him.  Hizashi told him his family uses it to remind everyone Hitoshi doesn’t know about his species’ rules, so they won’t be mad if he messes up.

It’s the only word he understands.  The rest is said too fast or too low.  Hitoshi self-consciously tugs at his hood in the meantime to reign in his impatience.  He can wait.

He’s considering finding someone else when the one on the right signs while watching his gloved hands, “You can climb, right?”  When Hitoshi nods, they chirp happily.  “If you help us, we’ll bring you to Hizashi.”

Hitoshi frowns at the way they speak, all slow and exaggerated gestures, but can’t be too mad about it, especially since he does have some trouble understanding when people use words he hasn’t learned yet.  “I help how?”

“Follow us.”

He dutifully does.  They take long elaborate twisting paths that Hitoshi has no hopes of remembering.  He hopes it doesn’t take long.  They keep glancing at him.

They join another alien, who’s playing with a kid, grey feathers patchworked with softer red.  Hitoshi hesitates to come closer, but he’s beckoned over by the two he met earlier.  And promptly ignore.  Right.  Hitoshi looks away to give them some privacy while they speak with each other, pushing the sand with his feet.

The pile of sand he had been building comes to his midshin when they finally stop talking.  He kicks it down when he sees them looking at it.  His cheeks burn when the blue one says something to the one holding the baby.  Probably laughing at him.

“We’re making a -----.”  The coral one gestures toward a futuristic device, pointed at the top of a building.  The end of it looks like a lens, and with the way one of them looks through the other end, Hitoshi guesses it’s a camera of some sort.  “We need you to climb on this ---- with them.  We hurt our wings so we can’t do it.  They want to learn how to fly, isn’t that right, ------- ---?”

Hitoshi searches for any hint of injury.  He thought they were moving pretty well.  He’s brought out of his thoughts when the blue one tugs him down so they can place the kid alien in his arms.  Hitoshi grabs them before he can fully process what’s going on.  They’re really small, barely the size of his arm.  The baby alien chirps inquisitively, inspecting him and his clothes.

“You are sure?” he questions.  He’s surprised they’re asking for his help when a kid is involved.  The baby wiggles until they’re burrowed in his arms, a satisfied sigh escaping them.  The calculating look in the coral red one makes him shift uneasily 

“Yeah, yeah, they’ve been ------ us about flying for the whole day.  We trust you.  Go on, we’re ready!”

Something about this doesn’t feel quite right.  He looks around, tries to find someone familiar, but there’s absolutely no one.  Now that he pays attention to his surroundings, he notices they’re on the edge of the town.

The tiny peep snaps his attention back down to his charge.  The baby chicken-lizard’s feathers are so soft he can barely feel them under his fingers.  They look nothing like Hizashi’s feathers.

The way the bigger aliens look at each other like they know something he doesn’t is deeply familiar.  When he blinks, he sees older teens whispering and snickering, a glint in their eyes that promises he’ll get into trouble.  He blinks again and the illusion disappears.  The feeling does not.

“Okay.”  He hoists the kid up, supporting their tail in the crook of his elbow and their body held more securely.  “I climb.”

Despite the fact they don’t react to it, he’s certain they can feel his heart try to beat out of his chest.  Somehow, the loud thump thump, thump thump doesn't betray him and he’s allowed to go toward the building they pointed him toward.  He forces himself to walk at a normal pace.

There are grooves in the building’s facade that could help him climb to the top, that side of the building angled in a way that slightly obscures Hitoshi from the three other’s view.  

Is he supposed to… throw them off a building?  He furtively tries to ask them if it’s normal, but the baby doesn’t understand.

Hitoshi doesn’t feel good about this.  He’s seen how Hizashi and his spouse are gentle when they play with little kids.  Maybe the baby’s parents are more lenient about this?

None of the three other aliens look like the baby.  Furthermore, their feathers don’t form the usual small spike on their head like Hizashi’s family does.  What are they even doing with a Yamada kid?

When he gets out of their line of vision, he holds the baby out, his hands supporting their chest.  Thinking back on how Shouta played with a few kids, he pretends to drop them, keeping his hands underneath them but letting them have a split second of air time.  Any doubt he held evaporates.  The baby doesn't even open their wings, only puffs up and looks at him like he’s out of his mind.

After making sure he truly is hidden, Hitoshi runs.

He out-of-breath shushes the chirp the baby lets out in surprise, petting their head lightly so they won’t alert the feather-crowned aliens.  He doesn’t dare try to call out for help, in case the three others hear him, nor does he enter a building where he can be cornered.

The wet bandana keeps sticking to his mouth and nose, cutting off his flow of air until he exhales forcefully to push it away from his face.

He ducks behind a building, under a piece of wall that juts out slightly, regret immediately slamming him to a halt.  What if he’s overacting?  For all he knows, the kid can fly and he just ran off with them for absolutely no reason.  If he goes back now, they won’t even notice he was gone.

Hitoshi pets the baby’s head when they thrill shakingly while carefully peering out from under the wall.  The skies are clear.  There’s no indication he’s being followed, so why won’t his hands stop shaking?

He moves the baby to his left arm and holds his right hand between the bandana and his face.  The relief is immediate.  He gulps down the fresh air that immediately flows through.  It smoothes out the overwhelming sense of panic that managed to build up without Hitoshi noticing into a more manageable size.

His body can’t quite relax, but he isn’t pulled taunt like a bowstring.  Hitoshi prepares to retrace his steps, scanning for any hint of blue or coral red feathers.

A tiny chirp rings beside him.

Hitoshi lets out a strangled scream.  He almost kicks whoever startled him out of reflex, only stopped because his head hits the overhanging wall.

Pain explodes in the back of his head.  He backs away quickly to get some distance between whoever sneaked up on him and himself, to give himself time to recover.

Through squinting eyes and the specks of alien plaster that dots his goggles, Hitoshi sees the split alien from earlier.  He stares dumbfounded as they tilt their head to the side, beating their wings twice.  It sends sand flying all over their back.

Clutching the baby in his arms, who’s gone all puffy, he bends over in relief, closing his eyes at his own reaction, free hand palming the bag.  Two bars, five pouches.

His head throbs, but the incoming headache has more to do with the split alien’s presence than with the fear of being trailed.  They must have tried to follow him and couldn’t quite keep up with him.  He should have made sure they actually joined their family instead of trusting them.

Hitoshi heaves a huge sigh, forcing himself to ignore the part that keeps waiting for a fight.  He’s definitely overacting.  There’s no grand plot to hurt the red patched baby and he almost killed a kid because of his stupidity.  The other aliens are probably telling Hizashi about how he ran off with a baby for no reason.

Hizashi will be disappointed or scared or angry, and at best, Hitoshi won’t be allowed to go out anymore.

(At worst…

He doesn’t think about the type of punishment they could inflict.  The squirrel aliens are proof there are many ways to circumvent their fragility.  A syringe full of that clear liquid and he’s down for the day.)

A small flash catches the corner of his eye.

It could have been anything.  His imagination playing a trick on him.  The sun reflecting on someone’s jewelry.

Light bouncing on armour and an electric baton.

The split alien squeaks when he scoops them up, tense for a second before claws scramble to latch onto his arms.  Noise grows in volume behind him, but Hitoshi doesn’t slow down to discover if it’s the wind whistling in his ears or people calling out his position.

His muscles burn from the sudden burst of motion, the overwhelming sense of being in danger pushing him past his limits.  It spurs him to go faster, streaking the buildings and small dots of foliage into smears of colours.  He cradles the kid aliens against him— gentle, gentle— while he ducks under something in his way.  He’s certain they’re behind him.  He’s too terrified to look, but he knows they’re right behind him, silently stalking him.  His lungs burn from the strain of his breaths.

The bandana keeps plastering itself to his face, molding itself around his mouth and nostrils, holding him air hostage so he’ll be more pliant, only letting him get mouthfuls of oxygen before denying him, as if it’ll make him more desperate than cutting it off completely, as if he’ll start flopping around like a gaping-mouth fish.

His hands are full and he doesn’t dare slow down to pull the bandana off.  Hitoshi blindly runs, trying his best to not go in a straight line to keep his movements unpredictable.  It’s a gamble, because he’s gotten cut off by a dead end once, but he takes the risk anyway.  He always gets caught faster when he doesn’t take random turns.  It’s unlikely he’ll end up in a dead end here too, the area open and devoid of twisting corridors.

He traded confusing hallways for too soft sand; his feet keep slipping and breaking his momentum, and worse, he can’t hear any footsteps over the blood in his ears.  While taking a turn too sharply he almost kisses the ground, but the almost-fall makes him discover that when he tilts his head down, the angle keeps the bandana from completely covering his airways.

He doesn’t know how much distance he’s covered, if he’s looped back on himself and brought himself right to the three aliens.  He doesn’t know how long he can continue running.  Already, he can feel himself faltering, his eyes unfocusing every so often.  In between last second swerves and precarious stumbling, Hitoshi somehow finds his way back to the hover van.  For once, Hitoshi’s luck is turning around and he thanks anyone who can hear him for leading him back to the van, before immediately cursing them out when he realizes he doesn’t know how to open it.

Thinking quickly, Hitoshi dives under the vehicle.  It’s a tight fit, especially with the two aliens he has to make sure he doesn’t crush, but once he’s in there, the sand he pushes back in the opening almost completely hides him away.

The split kid coils themself on the back on Hitoshi’s neck, where they’re more safely hidden by the hood.  They stay silent and still, but the other one starts thrilling nervously.  Hitoshi frantically strokes their head to calm them, but it only serves to make them cry louder.

“Don’t cry,” Hitoshi whispers.  His throat is so tight, he can barely speak.  There isn’t enough space to sign.  “Please don’t cry.”

They thrill even louder.  Hitoshi flinches when a shadow falls over the opening.  He keeps a firm hold on the crying baby when they start squirming around, right hand ready to strike at whoever will try to reach in his hiding space.

A sing song whistle breaks through the blood pumping through his ears.  His eyes finally adjust to the darkness.  Yellow feathers, red undersides, colourful anklets—

“Hizashi?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”  His accent is horrible and his pronunciation almost makes his Japanese incomprehensible, but Hitoshi welcomes the familiar sounds.  Hizashi pushes the sand away to let in more light, enough to be able to sign.  “Everything’s alright, --------.  Why don’t you come out?”

“The squirrels aliens.”  Hitoshi realizes he sounds insane, he didn’t even see anything, but he can’t put the conviction they’re in danger aside, and what else would make him feel this way if not the aliens that used him as nothing more than a glorified fight dog?  “They found us.”

Hizashi stills.  He speaks to someone Hitoshi can’t see for a while, before turning his attention back to him.  “They aren’t here, I -------.  They wouldn’t be able to ----- here without anyone noticing.”

Hitoshi latches onto the other’s calm composure.  Hizashi’s taking his claim seriously.  He has no reason to lie to Hitoshi; Hizashi has as much to lose as Hitoshi.  His feathers only just grew in.  “You are sure?”

“Yes,” Hizashi promises.  He opens his wings, like he’s shielding Hitoshi.  “Come out, it has to be uncomfortable in there.”

Crawling out is difficult.  The bottom of the hover van scrapes his back, and when he breathes in, his chest can’t expand all the way.  It’s a vulnerable position to be in, down on his stomach with his head in the perfect position for a good kick and no way to retreat quickly.  When he notices the amount of people around the van, he has to stamp down on the urge to push himself back into the hiding space, only refrained by Hizashi veering Hitoshi’s attention back to him. 

The soft lulling chirping makes Hitoshi lose his grip on the crying baby.  He can’t catch them before they immediately run toward Hizashi in an uncoordinated gait, thrilling and shrieking ear piercingly.  Hizashi covers them with his wings and coos until they calm down.

Hitoshi holds his breath when someone from the crowd steps forward, but they only approach Hizashi to take the baby away.  There isn’t any trace of squirrel aliens, but it’s hard to see anything amongst the fluttering feathers and shiny scales that have started to fly off.

A short whistle brings his gaze back to Hizashi.  “It’s okay, they were only scared.  Come out, we can go in the hover van and you can tell me what happened.”

Gathering his courage, Hitoshi pulls himself all the way out.  It’s only when he has to stand up that he realizes how much his entire body aches.  His chest burns, his legs hurt, and everytime he shifts his weight, sharp pain shoots from his feet.  Now that he isn’t seized by terror, he’s definitely going to throw up.  It’s been a long time since he’s felt this out of breath.  Even fighting never made him feel like this, only jittery and tired from the adrenaline rushes.

Saliva pools inside his mouth, and he has to use all of his willpower to not rip the bandana tied around his face and spit the saliva out.  Instead, he gasps, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees.  The change in position helps somewhat.

Something on his neck moves.  Hitoshi automatically puts a hand up to support the split kid, reminded of their presence.

“Who’s that?”  Hizashi’s question sends the people who stayed in a small frenzy.  They crane their neck to try and get a look at the split baby.  Oh, this isn’t good.  He’s almost certain the red patched alien is a Yamada, but this one’s just some random kid.

Hitoshi goes to take a step back, but bumps into the van.  “I found them,” he blurts out.  How is he getting himself out of accidentally kidnapping a child?  “They are alone, lost.  I help bring back to your family.”

He allows himself a small grimace behind the bandana.  He’s usually better at this, but this should be credible enough, especially since it’s technically the truth.  It’s not lying if they make the wrong assumptions.

Thankfully, Hizashi doesn’t press him on the subject.  He gestures at Hitoshi to give them to him.  “That was really nice of you.  Thank you for protecting them.”  Hitoshi isn’t sure Hizashi’s sincere, and that lessens the guilt of his not-lying.  “We’ll take care of them now, you can give them to me.”

Hitoshi hesitates.  The kid got pushed by an older alien.  If they were a little bigger, it wouldn’t bother Hitoshi as much, but they’re so small.  He can’t help but fear they’ll be handled roughly.  Hitoshi turns slightly away and signs apprehensively, “They look weird.”

They’re clingy, sure, but no more than all the other children he’s seen.  Their appearance is one of the few reasons that could explain the disgust he felt from the crow-feathered aliens.  He carefully monitors Hizashi’s reaction when he pulls them out from his hood.

Surprised squawking fills the air when he reveals the split bird-lizard, but Hizashi maintains his composure.  He repeats firmly, with sharp gestures, “Hitoshi, give them to me.”

Hitoshi is frozen.  Hizashi looks angry.

When he slowly reaches out and plucks them out of his hands, Hitoshi doesn’t protest.  He watches Hizashi coo at them the same way he did the other one, holding them like they’re something precious.  The nausea somewhat abates.

It comes back when Hizashi passes the kid to another alien, but before he can do anything, he’s framed on both sides by Shouta—who seems to have come out of nowhere—and Hizashi.  He’s too wobbly to resist their pull toward the van.  Absentmindedly, he notes how they open it.

When the shutters close, Hizashi silently unties his bandana and pulls off his poncho-cloak for him.  His touch grates on Hitoshi’s skin despite it being gentle, but Hitoshi doesn’t push the claws away.  Not when Hizashi’s showing him care, insincere as it may be.

Being out of the sun is heaven on his sweaty body.  Laying on the floor is even better, the heat leeching off into the metal.  Lightbulb (at least, that's what he thinks the pet is called; Hizashi had simply pointed at a light fixture and Hitoshi is now too embarrassed to ask, even if he thinks Lightbulb and Motor is a stupid name) pitter patters closer to make herself comfortable on his stomach.  It makes it awkward to sit up when Hizashi pushes a water filled bowl in his hands.  He’s bafflingly gentle then too, handing him the bowl and waiting for Hitoshi to have a good grasp on it before letting go of it.

Shouta comes back with armfuls of blue bags.  Hitoshi jolts when the first one comes into contact with him, but he allows himself to slowly relax as the bags’ coolness seeps into his skin.  It’s not his action that irritated them then.  It must have been a stressful time for them.  Celebrations always are.

Hizashi spreads the blue bags on his neck, under his armpits and around his thighs with frazzled gestures.  It feels good enough that he doesn’t tell them all of this is unnecessary.  “Thank you.”

No one’s asked him about why he was running around with the babies yet.  He expected them to interrogate him as soon as they were in the hover van.  The fact that they’re doing this instead is destabilizing.  Add to that Hizashi’s odd behaviour, Hitoshi’s unsettled.  Unable to wait any longer, Hitoshi spills out, sentences disjointed in his rush to defend himself, “I see three people with feathers like this”—he mimes a crown on his own head—”and they tell me to throw the child from a very big building.  I think, ‘How? The child is so small, how they fly?’  It is so suspicious, so I go find you.  And then, the other black and blue child is in the way all alone, I take them also.”

Hizashi’s head feathers open and go up in one blink of the eye.  For a second, dread pools low in Hitoshi’s stomach, until Hizashi signs, distressed, “That’s…  Their flight feathers haven’t come in yet!”  At those words, Shouta’s tail lashes out, hitting the wall.  Hitoshi jumps when Hizashi grabs his hands and shakes them.  “Can you describe the people you saw again?”

He pulls his hands out of Hizashi’s hold and proceeds to do that to the best of his abilities.  He’s upset when he can’t remember their tails’ appearance nor their scale shapes (he didn’t even know there were so many options) but when Hizashi pats his ankle and tells him he did a good job nonetheless, Hitoshi has to kiss Lightbulb’s forehead to hide his relieved smile.

Hizashi goes to speak with someone outside the van.  Hitoshi’s torn between following him and not disturbing Lightbulb, who’s laying spread out on his chest and lazily pawing at one of the cool bags.  His hesitation lasts long enough for Hizashi to already be outside with the door shut.  It helps that Shouta stayed and that he can see Hizashi’s silhouette through the shut shutters.

He startles when Shouta points the scan gun at his head.  Fortunately, he’s looking at his tablet and saves Hitoshi from embarrassment.  After humming, Shouta takes off half of the cool bags.  “Did you get lost?”

Hitoshi looks away.  “Yes.  Sorry.”

“You did well to try and find us.”

Hitoshi isn’t sure how to respond.  They’re the ones who found him.  He isn’t going to contradict him though.  “Thank you.”

Shouta grunts in acknowledgment.  And then, for some reason Hitoshi can’t puzzle out, Shouta’s worm thing taps his forehead three times.  He holds himself stiffly while Shouta does it, going almost crossed-eyes to follow the worm’s movement.

It’s surprisingly not slimy.  Rather, it feels exactly like skin and if Hitoshi didn’t know better, he’d think someone was tapping him with the less bony part of their forearm.

Shouta retracts his skin worm thing without saying a word.  Unsure as to what just transpired, Hitoshi follows the most logical route and proceeds to pretend nothing happened.  They stay in awkward silence until Hizashi comes back.  Hitoshi asks, “The two children are well?”

“The kids are going to be okay.  We’ll take care of them well.”  Hitoshi nods in between gulping down the water.  Hizashi continues, more adamant.  “They belong here, so you don’t have to worry about them.”

Maybe he wants an actual response?  It’s odd that they’re keeping the split one, but Hitoshi suspects Hizashi only saying that because it’s easier than explaining how they’ll give the split kid back.  He wants to ask more questions, push for something to be done, but he can’t without exposing he knows the split kid isn’t from Hizashi’s family.

It’s not like he can do anything about it anyways.  They probably won’t even care about the kid being pushed.  “I am glad they are okay.  The two will stay here?”

“Yeah.  There’ll be an investigation because of what the other family tried to do, but you won’t be involved, so you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

Hizashi keeps looking at him, like he’s waiting for something.  Hitoshi’s starting to get nervous.  Does he know Hitoshi lied?  There’s no way.  “I am glad for them.  Your family is nice.”

It’s finally the right thing to say because Hizashi deflates like all his nervousness fled his body.  He squeezes Hitoshi’s hands a few times before stealing Motor out of Shouta’s worm and giving her to him.  “It’s going to be alright.”

Hitoshi nods, confused but glad the matter has been laid to rest.

He pulls the sleeping bag around his ears to muffle the loud squawking.

“They are loud, yes?” he signs.  It’s easier—or rather, less painful—than speaking Japanese nowadays.  He must have clenched his jaw at some point yesterday because his front teeth hurt more than usual.  The constant iron aftertaste in the back of his throat is stronger too.

(Hitoshi doesn’t think of bright overhead lights and steady buzzing in his mouth, of waking up with chalk on tongue and realizing—)

Lightbulb clicks in agreement from where she snaked between the bag and his front, bumping her head against his chin.  He rubs her velvet soft ear in between his fingers.  Motor runs laps around him, doing her best to jump over his legs and oftentimes failing when her legs don’t lift as much as she expects. 

Hitoshi had to act surprised when Hizashi ‘revealed’ the truth about the split kid’s background.  It wasn’t too hard to fake, not when Hitoshi fully expected Hizashi and Shouta to not care about giving him updates and pretend the split kid never existed.

They’re actually adopting them.  It’s shocking, but the kid is young and rather cute, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility.  Hitoshi knows it’s not a lie; he can hear them doing their alien birthday song at this very moment.

He was relieved when Hizashi suggested he stay in the hover van to recuperate.  He’s exhausted and sore all over, his feet still hurt, and he’s absolutely humiliated by his freak out from yesterday.  The squirrel aliens being here, how dumb can he be?  Passing time laying in the sleeping bag with Motor and Lightbulb is leagues better than having to stand there while everyone talks behind his back.

It hadn’t even been a dig at his declining stamina from Hizashi’s part.  The alien is disproportionately worried despite Hitoshi reassuring him he’s fine.  He’d still be waving the scanning gun at him and asking him to describe his feelings if it weren’t for Shouta pulling him out to join everyone. 

Hitoshi plays with the space pets until he tires himself out.  He’s already fed them for today, so he doesn't resist when his eyelids grow heavy.  Shouta and Hizashi trusting him to feed Lightbulb and Motor settles the worry he’d been holding.

The space pets continue running after each other, their clicks and the pitter patter of their paws relaxingly adding life in the hover van.  At one point, he senses them joining him, one of them letting herself fall over his arm while the other crawls in the sleeping bag.  His eyelids are too heavy for him to see which one’s Lightbulb and which one’s Motor, but he can’t make himself care in his half asleep state.  He pulls the one on his arms closer to blindly kiss her.

“Oh, listen, I wanted to ask you for a favour, dear brother mine.”

At least, that’s what Hitoshi guesses he signs.  The chicken-lizard has dark scales, almost purple, so he can see the resemblance, but he’s pretty sure someone else with a shimmery blue tail used that same sound-gesture to refer to Hizashi, so he isn’t quite sure.

Hizashi chirps while cocking his head to the side.

“There’s been talk of a spaceship that’s been ------- us for days now.  The local ----------- aren’t doing anything about it.  Can you go check it out?”

Do they think Hizashi is part of the space police?  Hitoshi squints at them.  They’re saying it really casually.

“Ah, don’t you worry, me and Shouta are going to take care of it.  We’ll take a look.”

Hizashi and Shouta start making their way toward the hover van.

Hitoshi can read in between the lines.  ‘Taking care’ of someone who bothered Hizashi’s family isn’t good news for their prospective health.  “I go with you?”  Hitoshi means to make it a statement, but he accidentally kicks his feet and turns into a question.

Hitoshi’s heart falls a little when Hizashi signs, bewildered, “Yeah, of course!.”

He should have known that he would have to pay for his stay on the ship in some way.  He doesn’t have money or any valuables apart from what Hizashi’s family gave him, and he doesn’t possess any other skills that can be used in space.  All he’s good at is fighting.

He should go without whining and show he’s grateful by doing what he’s told.  The least he can do is help Hizashi and Shouta, make their lives easier after all that they’ve done for him.  It’s not like that other place.  He knows he’ll get healed afterwards.  

But Hitoshi is tired of fighting, has been way before he even knew aliens were a possibility.  Just the thought of being in the heat of battle makes him nauseous.

Hizashi picks up on his hesitation even through his clothes and face being covered.  He stops, tilts his head to the side just like a bird would.  “Why do you ask?”

Hitoshi becomes acutely aware of the dozens of eyes following their gestures.  They all think Hizashi’s acting within the law.  Hitoshi swallows around his nervousness.

“I am allowed to go with you when you do hero work?”

Hizashi freezes, eyes twitching.  He makes sure to keep his stance relaxed so none of Hizashi’s family members suspect anything.  Really, he isn’t being a coward.  He’s just helping maintain Hizashi’s cover story.  He doubts he wants his family to know he's a criminal.

Somewhere on a roof, someone whistles loudly and breaks the silence that befell them.  “My hero work, yes!”  He chirps nervously, smoothing the feathers on his head.  He ruffles his wings to gain his composure back.  Both him and Shouta take a more serious expression.  “Well, even if it’s against regulations, we were planning on leaving right after, so you have to come with us.”

Hitoshi blanches at the hidden warning.  He knew they were supposed to leave, but he didn’t think it was now.  He racks his brain, going through every interaction he’s had yesterday and today, but he can’t remember being told they were going back to the spaceship now.  It’s destabilizing, it always is when changes come down on him suddenly and without warning, but people don’t usually care to warn him only for his comfort.  He doesn’t need to pack; all his belongings are on the hover van or the spaceship, so there’s no use telling him.

Quickly gaining back his bearings, he stumbles over himself to smooth over the conversation.  “Okay, I understand.  Sorry.”

Hizashi pats his ankles approvingly.

Chapter Text

The culprits are from the last visiting flock.  Hizashi fumes.

They could have injured Sundown Red, and for what?  The opportunity to gain custody of the nestling?  There’s a difference between bringing a young back home in good faith and purposely framing someone by putting a nestling in danger.

They’re lucky Hitoshi ran into them and didn’t fall for their tricks.  He suspects they were going to blame Sundown Red’s wounds on Hitoshi.  He can hear the complaint already.  ‘The Yamada flock brought a dangerous outsider into their settlement and put every nestling in danger.  How can we trust them to take care of their nestlings?’

This was a premeditated plan too.  Looking back, their flock has been stretching out the goodbyes over several events so as to not awaken any suspicions when they were going to enact their ploy.

On the bright side…  This entire awful event will ease taking custody of the little double-soul.  It must undeniably be fate.  How could anyone explain the circumstances that brought them to his flock?  What are the chances of Hitoshi stumbling onto them and bringing them to Hizashi?

Their right side looks exactly like a recently passed member of the flock and their left, Mellow’s hatcher.  (Hizashi isn’t supposed to know, but rumours and speculations travel fast in the flock.)  The Spirits have given the newly named nestlings a sibling.  Two naming ceremonies happening so close to each other is truly an auspicious sign.

It’s not like the other flock will miss them.  They’ve been uncharacteristically silent since their hurried leave.  No loud requests to take the double-soul back.

Not that they’ll ever return the nestling.  That flock is old fashioned and follows the belief that double-souls are unnatural.  Their prejudice can be felt through the nestling’s discomfort at being preened and given attention.

The stage is hastily reconstructed to welcome the new flock member.  They haven’t gotten confirmation from the council yet, but the little double-soul is theirs.  If the neighbouring flock tries to take her, Hizashi’s flock has more than enough tricks and debts to be collected up their sleeves.

This naming celebration isn’t as big, but the flock easily finds as much jewelry to gift them.  They preens and keeps running their talons over the bracelets and jewels, keeps letting surprised squawks when people give them affection during the entire parade.  They take well to their new younger namemates and haven't asked for Hitoshi yet.

Hizashi’s friend’s been resting in the shuttle for the entire time.  Hizashi’s relieved Hitoshi isn’t suffering from overheat.  The panting, general weakness, and slight disorientation had been alarming, but Hitoshi’s quick recovery and body temperature points the diagnostic more toward a mix of overexertion and trauma memory than overheating.

Hizashi doesn’t believe he’d hurt them, even in the midst of a haze.  The proof stares him in the face, the two nestlings uninjured despite Hitoshi’s panicked state.  He’s told Hitoshi as much, when he was preening his head fur in an attempt to ground him more firmly in the present.  Even Shouta had helped with a few stiff head pats—which Hitoshi accepted with the most uncomfortable expression—until he’d deemed the process too arduous and placed their mèos in Hitoshi’s upper limbs.

He’s glad Hitoshi declined attending the naming ceremony.  Despite how much Hitoshi has acted nonchalantly, Hizashi’s worried he won’t be able to leave without the double-soul nestling, especially with the protective display Hizashi had been able to break through.  He’s the one who found them and any See’krtsh from these parts would consider this enough justification to make them a member of their flock.  With Hitoshi having such a small pack, how could he resist the appeal of expanding it with a basically flockless nestling?

The only thing that might have prevented Hitoshi from latching onto them was his belief they belonged to Hizashi’s flock, but the Naming ceremony dispelled that thought.  Hizashi fears Hitoshi will be heartbroken once they’re back on the ship.  He’s hoping time with Engine and Lamp will soothe the worse of his empty nest sickness.

When he shares his worry to Shouta, his bondmate answers skeptically, “Are you sure?  Has Hitoshi told you about this?”

“Not really?  But you’ve seen how he holds Engine and Lamp!”

Shouta doesn’t look convinced by Hizashi’s very valid argument.  “You’re worried about Hitoshi reacting poorly because of his hypothetical kits.”

“Well, when you say it like that,” mumbles Hizashi.

Shouta nudges Hizashi’s face with his cheek.  The fur there is mused from rubbing cheeks with Sundown Red—who’s going to be under strict supervision for the next seasons, what was she thinking sneaking out like that?—and the double-soul.  The look of absolute bafflement on the double-soul nestling had been a sight Hizashi will never forget.  “ If he had kits, he didn’t die from being taken away from them.  He’ll be fine with youngs he barely knows.”

Shouta’s right.  Hizashi’s projecting his worry onto Hitoshi because he can’t help his flock deal with the neighbouring flock in a way that won’t fall back on his flock.

Speaking of his flock…

They keep hanging around the shuttle in the hopes Hitoshi will come out so they can braid beads into his fur or slide bracelets on his limbs.  Hizashi tries to chase them away, but let it not be said that his flock isn’t unrelentless when it comes to repaying debts, even when Hizashi told them repeatedly that he doesn’t need help with the life debt he owes.  He only manages to make them fly away when he promises to give them to Hitoshi in their place.  

Hizashi wished he had more time with the double-soul and his newly named nestlings, and that Hitoshi could get another meeting with mind healer Stripes, but unfortunately, the sudden attention means they have to leave earlier than they planned.  While the region’s council is usually lenient, Hizashi doesn’t want to risk it.  Hitoshi’s in a precarious position, and discovery of his human nature could put Hizashi’s entire flock in danger.

Hizashi cries a little when he says his goodbyes.  He follows his flock for one last flight dance, occasionally letting out low caws that are echoed by his entire flock.  They cling to Hizashi and Shouta all the way to Sector 9, the nagging thought that this might be the last time they see each other until a rebirth weighing down on all of them.  Hitoshi stands further away with his head turned to the side to give them some privacy.  He’s wearing as much jewelry as he can manage and the beads in his fur rattle on each step.

Eventually, they have to let go.  They receive wishes of safe travel and are made to promise to take care of themselves, as well as update the flock frequently.

They go through the same decontaminating procedure as when they landed.  The custom officers are given another token of their gratitude in the form of 2000 credits each.  The ship's sudden drop of temperature makes him shiver.

Shouta bumps their side together, wrapping his scarf around Hizashi to keep him warm.  It always takes him some time before he accustomed himself to their colder and emptier ship.  

“Your flock is nice.  Loud, like you.”

Hizashi chirps happily at Hitoshi’s teasing tone.  He thought Shouta had been mistaken when Hitoshi tried to stay behind, but it turned out to be easy to deal with.  It’s Hizashi’s fault anyways; he should have prepared Hitoshi more for their departure instead of taking for granted Hitoshi’s easy affirmation-shaking when he told him they were leaving.

Even though Hitoshi could still have a delayed reaction, Hizashi’s more at ease when he supervises Hitoshi putting his harness on and clipping himself in.  He’ll try to distract Hitoshi more in the next few cycles, take his mind off the nestling.

Shouta and he inspect their ship before turning on automatic lift-off when they get permission from central.

They sit back while the heavy weight that presses them in their seats grows stronger and stronger, before it alleviates until they’re almost floating in their seats.  Hizashi checks and double checks the engines, the hull’s and the stabilizers’ integrity, while Shouta switches the ship from take-off to idle, the artificial gravity bringing them back to their seats.  They work with a practiced ease that’s almost instinctual, mostly muscle memory, going through protocols swiftly.  He would usually have taken the occasion to use this as a teaching opportunity for Hitoshi, as this has several different steps from escaping a trading post’s gravity, but they’re all tired now.  There will be more occasions.

It barely takes them thirty clicks to be done.  Shouta puts the ship on low thrust and taps in the coords Hizashi’s hatchmate gave them, before he stretches his back, slipping a treat to Engine and Lamp.  They impatiently click to be let out, barely appeased by Shouta’s pets.

“Alright, so we’re going to go check the ship out and then we’re out of here.”

“What do I do when we see the ship?”  Hitoshi struggles a little at unclipping his harness from the jump seat, the cycles of no practice sending his previous progress to a backslide.

Hizashi laughs.  “Well, first we’ll look for any identifier on the hull, follow it around.  If we can, we’ll hack into it to look at its previous travel logs, and if necessary, we’ll have a nice discussion with them to clear any misunderstanding.”  The nice discussion might or might not involve some threats, depending on what information they’ve collected.  Hitoshi agreement-shakes, his brows slightly scrunched up.  “You’ll stay here until we come back.  You should stay clipped in, actually.  We’ll be flying in manual, until we’re further away from my planet.”

Hitoshi stares at him.  Hizashi hasn’t really gotten a good handle on the whole point of human eye-contact yet, as the gesture has been used in very versatile situations, but he holds Hitoshi’s gaze to reciprocate.

Hizashi breathes out when Hitoshi looks away first.  That was a bit intense.

They’re cruising at a good pace; they should have sights on the problem ship in under a cycle.  In the meantime, Hizashi makes some small talk with Shouta, bringing up new gift ideas for the next time they’ll visit.  When he switches the communal screen from their logs to message his flock, he sees there’s an encrypted message from Tensei.  He takes the time to tell his flock they’ve taken off safely, crooning when he receives pictures of the double-soul sleeping with the other nestlings, before opening Tensei’s message.  It’s layered more heavily than usual and the file is bigger than a text message should be.  Toshinori’s in charge of extracting information, but Tensei has apparently been sifting through what Toshinori has been able to decrypt while they were on planet.

Found add info about DW. Thread carefully

Under it is a video file, the preview too blurry to parse.  They simultaneously turn toward Hitoshi.  He’s fallen asleep, face comically squished against the side cushion they put up for his neck.  His mouth is slightly parted, a line of drool drying on his chin.  During their time with the flock, Hitoshi has started sleeping at the same time as them, napping when it’s mid human cycle instead of playing with the mèos or doing the work Shouta assigned him.

Hizashi silently closes the message from the communal screen, moving it down to their padds.  Without a word, Shouta puts on his earpieces and they both dim their screens to privacy mode.

It starts shaky.  The person holding the camera points it toward two Qeow’Fiu.  They wave their tentacles at the camera, friendly insults toward the person behind the camera.  Despite suspecting where it’s going, Hizashi’s stomach drops when it pans toward an arena.

Oxidized blood stains the floor and reinforced walls.  The haptics in his pads tells him the announcer has started speaking, but the crowd is too loud for him to parse through what they’re saying.

Soon enough, a E’Ehs is pushed in the arena, the door closing behind them.  They bang on it, their terror showcased on big screens to the delight of the crowd.

The camera turns toward the Qeow’Fius again.  They mimic the E’Ehs, recreating their moon eyed look and their frightened pleas before falling into snickers.

When Hizashi looks up, he sees Shouta staring impassively at his padd, his upset showed through pinned back ears and the tense muscles of his scarf.

The video continues.  The announcer makes a big speech Hizashi skips by increments.  It ends with them gesturing toward the spotlights where another fighter comes out, hair sticking wildly up, blood crusted on their fingers.  They snarl at the bright light shining in their face, their features distorted by rage and a sticky substance that drips across their cheek and down their neck.

There’s no mistaking their identity with the bright light.  It’s Hitoshi, wild and feral.

The E’Ehs screeches, a horrible sound picked up by the microphones installed around the arena and broadcasted over the crowd’s yells.  Blindly, it runs head first toward their opponent, flaring their defensive spikes out.

The video starts shaking when the camera jumps up and down at the inevitable bloodshed that’s about to happen.  Hizashi can’t help but squawk when the E’Ehs is picked up like they’re nothing, their spikes bending under Hitoshi’s grip.  He glances toward Hitoshi, afraid he’ll wake him up and somehow turn into a bloodthirsty monster.

Hitoshi’s sleeping peacefully, his blank skin and smooth expression barely a reassurance.

Hizashi barely took his gaze off the screen for a second, which makes it even more shocking when he looks back and finds that there’s only Hitoshi on screen, a new spray of blood tarnishing his face.  In his grip is an unrecognizable purple mass of sinew and meat.  There hasn’t even been enough time for the E’Ehs to scream.

His padd falls with a clatter.  The video pauses to a close up of the big screen showing Hitoshi’s face, the E’Ehs’ remains out of view.  His mouth is slightly agape in shock, mouth skin parted to show teeth.  The external parts of his brow fur are tilted down and his eyes are pulled wide open, glossy in the bright light.  He looks devastated.

Hizashi blindly closes it with a trembling wing.  He’s seen enough.

Reigning his breathing back in control is hard.  He brought Hitoshi to this flock.  He let him roam with barely any supervision, he put his flock in danger.

“Hizashi.”

Shouta frames his head with his scarf.  His fur is bristling, but he’s calmer than Hizashi expects.  His crest is flattened and he’s held in a firm embrace by the scarf.  There’s no judgment.  Shouta waits patiently for Hizashi to corral his thoughts while he strokes Hizashi’s face, steadfast.

Now that the shock violence is wearing off, the panic dampens enough for him to get his thoughts straight.  Hitoshi is as much a victim as the E’Ehs.  Hizashi will not blame him for what he did to survive.  He replaces the image of Hitoshi, plastered with blood and insides, with him cradling Engine the same way he would hold a human nestling.  It’s a more accurate depiction of his friend.  A truer one.

“We already knew about this,” Hizashi signs after a long stretch of silence.  Shouta hums at his words.  He doesn’t call him out on how Hizashi sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than stating a fact.  “This doesn’t change anything.”

“It doesn’t,” his mate confirms.  He’s warm against Hizashi.  “You didn’t wrong the flock.”

He holds Shouta’s scarf and rubs his beak onto the soft skin.  His heart swells at the reassurance.  “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Shouta huffs fondly.  His scarf settles over Hizashi’s heart.  “It’s a shame we couldn’t stay longer.  Stripes would have given him more help.”

Hizashi shoves down the recurring shame that always follows when he doubts Hitoshi’s character despite his friend having only ever tried to help.  There’s no use dwelling on his own feelings.  Hizashi will do better.  They’ll have to tell Tensei to send over more useful information next time.  He pushes his head into his mate’s scarf.  “I knew you liked him.”

Shouta shoves him.  It’s gentle, without any real annoyance.  “Keep your eyes on the path.”

Hizashi cackles when the ship they’ve been trailing tries to grapple the back of their ship.  The shot narrowly misses them.

Shouta’s teeth are bared.  Hizashi’s mate is enjoying himself, taking pleasure in the fact the thieves have fallen for their ploy.

The thieves have been stealing wares from jewelry smiths being exported and imported, and it’s only because they’ve not injured anyone yet that Hizashi doesn’t board their ship and give them a piece of his mind.

They’re currently playing a game of chase, cruising fast enough that they won’t be caught, but slow enough the thieves won’t lose interest and go back to Hizashi’s planet.

The pursuit lasts long enough for Hitoshi to thankfully relax and finish the reading assignment Shouta gave him.  He’d been agitated when they found the thieves’ ship and no reassurance from Hizashi had settled his restlessness.  Hizashi moves Hitoshi’s exercise regimen up his priority list; Hitoshi must be feeling really cooped up if he insists on boarding the ship.

When they near the local non-ISC patrol—there’s a singular ISC post in Hizashi’s galaxy, but he trusts the locally set up system they’ve had with the neighbouring planets infinitely more—Shouta overheats their thrusters until they explode, while Hizashi works on destabilizing their core generators.

“Almost done—”

The ship suddenly jolts.  The harness straps hold steady, keeping them all in place, but they hadn’t accounted for the vertical positioning of Hitoshi’s neck, for the way it doesn't have as much muscles or support in the front.

His head snaps forward, the whiplash only lessened by the side cushions and the fact their ship wasn’t hit straight on by the grapple.  He’s almost thrown off his chair, prevented from smacking the control panels by a third of a tail.

The steady vrrr of defense mode drowns out every noise for a few clicks, Shouta having immediately put it up.  It slows them down, but with the other ship’s thrusters and generators down, Hizashi and Shouta hold the advantage.

“Fuck, Hitoshi, are you okay?”

Hitoshi grips the chair’s sides like he’s about to get up.

“No, don’t move, don’t move, don’t move,” Hizashi signs.  Hitoshi thankfully stops twisting around, laying still.  He shows Hizashi his fist, with his stubbiest digit held out toward the ceiling.  His extremities can move, fine movement possible, no tremor, eyes open and symmetric.  Open expression, alert, no signs of stargazing.  Hizashi glances down quickly.  No incontinence.

“I’m flying us away,” Shouta warns.  His scarf flies over the control panels.  His gaze flickers toward Engine and Lamp, a breath of relief when their carrier stops scanning and the small screen indicates they’re in good health.  “Already pinged the nearby patrol.”

Hizashi waits anxiously for them to be far enough to sail on automatic safely, asking Hitoshi questions in the meantime.  He’s not taking this seriously; he answers like he’s only saying what Hizashi wants to hear.  It barely takes them five feeps, but it stretches out for so long that he has the time to think of every way Hitoshi can die.  As soon as they’re taken off manual, he jumps out of his seat and rushes toward Hitoshi.

He runs his talons over the back of Hitoshi’s neck to feel for any break or bone displacement.  “Does it hurt when I press down?”

Hitoshi goes to shake his head from side to side, but Hizashi holds his head in place.  “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry.”

Guilt makes itself known when Hitoshi’s shoulders go up at his sharp admonishment.  He needs to keep Hitoshi calm, and he can’t do that when he’s panicking.  He smooths out Hitoshi’s head fur.  “Just, don’t move, okay listener?”

Hizashi doesn’t manage to stop Hitoshi from rubbing his face with an unhappy expression.  He doesn’t move his neck though, so Hizashi leaves him be while he searches for any sign of pain.

“I am fine,” Hitoshi says petulantly.  He sniffs.  The skin around his nose wrinkles when he does it.  “Not even dizzy.  The other ship—”

“—is not going anywhere,” Hizashi completes rapidly while he palps Hitoshi’s upper spine.  Although the back of Hitoshi’s neck has dipped scars, it’s free from any new scratch marks.  Good.  “We’re safe here and we have nowhere pressing to go.  Let me worry.”

Hitoshi hums reluctantly.  He sniffles again.  This time, he brings his digits to his face and his fur brows scrunches down in an almost confused expression.  For some reason, he tilts his head forward slightly despite Hizashi warning him not to move.

When Hitoshi pulls his hand away, the scolding he wants to sign dies at the tip of his wings.  Any irritation he felt due to Hitoshi's inability to stand still is smothered out and replaced with helpless horror.

Hitoshi’s fingertips come back stained bright red. 

Chapter Text

Hizashi can only stare, petrified and heart thumping over any sound waves, as Hitoshi brings his hand up, quickly wiping off the blood.  It doesn’t accomplish anything other than drag it all over his cheek as more follows, carving a line over his mouth and down his chin.  He pauses with his brow fur tilted down, staring at his bloodied fingers in bafflement while the front of his garment gets stained red.

It’s only when Hitoshi mutters a human curse, tilting his head down and pinching his nose to stop the stream, that Hizashi snaps out of his shock.

“Shouta!”  He starts cawing urgently, as high pitched as he can so his mate will hear him.  “Shouta!”

“It is okay,” Hitoshi lies, pupils darting toward the hatch.  He bares his teeth in an attempt to reassure Hizashi.  His gums are red from the blood that managed to get in his mouth.  Or maybe his upper palate’s cracked open, leaking blood and brain out in the open.  “I go clean up in the washing room.”

Shouta runs back with the portable medrepair right as Hitoshi gets up, hand cupped under his nose to keep the blood from staining the floor, as if that's what he should be concerned about.

Protests fill the room as they try to sit him back down to get a better look at his injury, but Hitoshi walks past them with a determined stride.  Hizashi doesn’t dare hold onto Hitoshi too hard, not when his friend’s already jostling whatever injury he sustained, but he can’t let him hide out in the washing room.

“Hitoshi, please listener,” Hizashi begs when he manages to block his path.  There’s so much blood; it overflows and seeps between Hitoshi’s fingers, leaving a trail behind him.  “Come to the med bay.”

Shouta’s pushing Hitoshi the right way, nudging him with his scarf and grabbing his shoulders to turn him.  He’s pointing the portable medrepair at Hitoshi, but the latter is moving too much.

Hitoshi exhales loudly while twisting to avoid the medrepair, much to Hizashi’s dismay.  “This is only a blood nose.  It is normal.”

“You’ve bled like this before?” Shouta asks, faltering in his steps.  His nose is tucked in the inner loops of his scarf to keep the smell at bay.

“No, but—”

Hizashi cuts him off, tugging on his friend’s garments.  “Then we should check it out.”  When Hitoshi hesitates, Hizashi pleads, “For me?”

Hitoshi caves with a huge exhale.  They all shuffle to the med bay, where Hizashi urges Hitoshi to lay down on the cot while Shouta preps the scanner and the beam.  Hitoshi’s base profile leaves to be desired, but it should be enough for this, because if it isn’t, Hizashi doesn’t know what other option they have other than holding the closest coven of healers hostage until they help Hitoshi. 

Hitoshi has to let go of his nose for the scan.  Blood spurts out onto the cot, spreading around Hitoshi’s head.  Hizashi holds his breath as the scanner passes over Hitoshi’s upper body, stopping under his ribcage before scanning back up—

—and loosens in relief when it shows that, apart from a few strained muscles, all bones are intact and that, more importantly, the blood is coming from a small burst vessel and not from his brain.

Hizashi’s so relieved, he can’t help but skip back to Hitoshi’s side to card his talons through his fur with reassured chirps.  He takes the occasion to glance in Hitoshi’s ears for any trace of cerebrospinal fluid.  It’s not that he doesn’t trust the med scanner, but better safe than sorry.

(Empty nest sickness is hard on the soul, but that’s something that can be recovered from.  A scrambled brain?  Not so much.)

“Told you I am fine,” Hitoshi grumbles, before scrunching his furbrows when he realizes he can’t talk without letting go of his nose.  Hizashi lifts the upper part of the cot so Hitoshi isn't laying down when he notices him display signs of discomfort.

He moves away—not before squeezing Hitoshi’s upper limbs in reassurance—to gather gauze and disinfectant while the beam does its work.  As the spurting blood trickles to a slow stop, he takes the opportunity to wipe the blood that managed to get on him.  It doesn’t take much time at all; only his talons and the base of his primary coverts are flecked with browning blood, and he only needs to pop his talon sheaths off and replace them with clean ones.

Hitoshi’s a whole other story; he’s covered in a worrying amount of red.  It’s smeared everywhere, making it difficult to estimate the amount he lost.  He probably isn’t going to go into hypovolemic shock, right?  He’s breathing well and his fingers aren’t cold when Hizashi brushes his wings over them.

“Sorry, listener.  I was just worried.”  He gives Hitoshi some wet gauze and takes Hitoshi’s left hand to help wipe him down faster.  “I really thought you were hurt.”

Hitoshi breathes out loudly, but accepts the apology.  He looks away, pinching the clean gauze with the tip of his talons.  “I go wash.  I do not need this.”

“You don’t have to worry about wasting supplies, you know?”  Hizashi knows he guessed the source of his friend’s reluctance when Hitoshi’s shoulders lift around the side of his neck.  “They’re there to be used.”

Hitoshi’s lower lip juts out as he pouts at the ceiling.  It’s such an odd image, what with the bloody mess, that Hizashi’s feathers automatically flare out at the weird sight.

When Hitoshi doesn’t move to wipe his face, Hizashi reluctantly adds, only to erase the guilty face his friend is making, “They’re reusable.  We’ll just throw them in the sterilizing tumbler and they’ll be good as new.”

Hitoshi gives the gauze one last considering look before he finally starts cleaning his face.  Hizashi ignores the visceral wrongness when he bares his teeth to show Hitoshi he’s pleased with him.  He is rewarded with tilted lips in return.

“Do you know why you started bleeding?  The shearing force couldn’t have been the only factor; otherwise, you’d have cerebral bleeding too.”

Hizashi winces at Shouta’s blunt words, but they don’t bother Hitoshi.  His friend balls up the dirtied gauze, humming as he thinks about it.  “I think it is too hot?  It is very dry on your planet.  Sorry.”

Dry?  His blood vessel broke because it was dry?

“There’s no reason to apologize, listener!”  Alright, so Humans being able to withstand any temperature was, while not a lie, perhaps an exaggeration.  He mentally changes their trajectory to get to healer Chiyo faster; Hitoshi could benefit from Shouta’s nasal sprays if they visit a dry place again.  “Is the ship’s temperature still alright?”

“Yes.”  Under Hizashi’s stern look, Hitoshi adds, aggravated, “I promise, it is alright.”

“Good,” Hizashi says, patting Hitoshi’s elbow.  He holds up a waste basket so Hitoshi can throw his wads of bloodied gauze.  “Let’s just do another scan, okay?”

The initial panic has abated, but Hizashi’s heart’s still beating a little too fast and some part of him keeps waiting for Hitoshi to drop dead any click now.  Hizashi had not expected his friend’s fleshiness to make his instincts recoil so sharply, his primal brain so certain he’s dealing with an injured hatchling still lacking their protective plumage.  He starts up a full body scan while he rereads the previous scan’s reading, in case the machine missed something.

The first scan hasn’t picked up any bruising or lesions on Hitoshi’s brain, and there isn’t any sign of internal bleeding.  He tilts his head when he sees there’s some inflammation around Hitoshi’s gums.  Going through the previous readings show there has always been some fluctuating small amount of swelling there, but it’s more marked now.

A small flashing light alongside a repeated vibration indicates the full body scan is done.  He pins his observation before opening the new reading, eyes skimming through to search for any life threatening injuries.  When he doesn’t find any, he goes through it again more carefully.  Shouta’s doing the same, his head hovering above Hizashi’s shoulders.

Hizashi caws in surprise when he sees the small line fractures on the human equivalent of metatarsals, right at the second and third.  “Hitoshi, how are you even walking?”

Hitoshi, having sat back up, stops kicking his lower limbs idly.  “What do you mean?”

“Your feet!” Hizashi exclaims, gesturing at Hitoshi wildly. “You’ve got broken bones, listener.”

Hitoshi squints at him in disbelief.  He not so discreetly presses his feet against each other and blinks in surprise.  “Oh.”

“Yeah ‘oh’.”  Hizashi’s feathers are ruffled into a mess.  “How did this even happen?”

“Don’t know,” Hitoshi mumbles.

Hizashi refrains from shaking Hitoshi for more answers.  Healing first, questions later.  He doesn’t know how long Hitoshi has been in constant pain for, but it can't have been fun for him.  “Lie back down, let’s get you fixed up.  Can you take them off or will it hurt too much?”

Hitoshi’s face scrunches up in what Hizashi suspects is an impressive scowl.  Taking Hizashi’s question for the challenge it isn’t, he tugs the feet wear off before Hizashi can tell him to be gentle.

They don’t look too bad.  They aren’t deformed more than they already are, and there are only a few reddened parts where Hitoshi’s scaleless skin rubbed on the feet wear material.

A suspicion pops its head.  “Is it because of the feet wear?  Were they too tight?”  Guilt trickles down the back of his throat.  He knew they weren’t exactly the most comfortable, but he didn’t think they were enough to break bones.  Hitoshi’s hands are a little damp when he grabs them.  “I’m so sorry, we’ll find better feet wear next time we —”

“No,” Hitoshi interrupts, shaking Hizashi off.  He’s holding the feet wear in a possessive grip.  “I like them a lot, thank you.”

Hizashi wants to ask more questions, but his friend is tense and twitchy, and more importantly, he’s been in constant pain for who knows how long.  “Let’s get you all healed up.”

Hizashi goes to start the med repair, a bit frazzled and fraying at the ends, when he notices Shouta hasn’t moved away from the reading screen.  His mate’s scarf is writhing in agitation, his tail swishing left-right, left-right.

“Shouta?”

Instead of answering, Shouta walks up to Hitoshi.  He gestures to his lower limbs.  “Can you lift your garments?”

Hitoshi hesitates before doing so.  Hizashi squawks, taken aback by the sight.  His skin is covered in red dots, alongside uneven bruising blotches over his thighs.  The red dots are situated at the base of curly fur, some of them bumpy looking.

“What is that?”  Hizashi goes to touch, but stops himself right before he makes contact.  His wings hover over the hurt skin.  “When did this happen?”

Hitoshi pulls his garment back down, squirming on the cot.  “It is fine, it does not hurt.”

“Hitoshi, this isn’t normal.”  It looks painful.  Hizashi hopes Hitoshi’s not downplaying it; otherwise, the fabric from Hitoshi’s garments would have been torture.  He asks, uncertain and suddenly overwhelmed by how much they don’t know about Humans, “Unless it is?”

The tiny speck of hope he was holding onto is crushed when Hitoshi doesn’t answer immediately.  He doesn’t give his friend time to elaborate a reassuring lie.  “Do you know why it happened?”

“I don’t know.  It just happens.”

“Did you bump any object?  What about your feet?”  Shouta pauses, his tail swishing once in discomfort, and then his gestures go soft and gentle.  It’s Eraserhead that asks, “Did something happen back at the flock?”

Hizashi can’t help the slight, impercible to anyone but his closest people, twitch.  The only people they’ve been in close contact with, other than his mate and himself, is his flock.  While he doesn’t think they’d ever do something like this, Hizashi knows it’s important to question the source of Hitoshi’s injuries.

(No matter what Hitoshi says, there’s no good answer.  Either Hitoshi’s been hurt by someone Hizashi knows or he’s taken by an unknown sickness.)

“You can tell me,” he croons reassuringly when Hitoshi’s eyes dart toward him to assess his reaction.  He looks uneasy.  Almost scared.

It makes Hizashi angry thinking about it.  Hitoshi’s sturdy; it’d have to be a Singer, someone who can make organic tissue vibrate at just the right frequency to break them.  Did it happen when Hitoshi was running away from the other flock?  Hizashi wouldn’t put it past them; they had no qualms trying to injure a nestling after all.  A stranger is easy compared to that .

He grabs Hitoshi’s hands.  They’re lukewarm to the touch, twitching slightly at the first contact before going slack.  “Whoever hurt you was wrong to do so.”

“No!”  Hizashi jolts at Hitoshi’s brusque gesture, but settles back into his open expression, wings held loosely to his side, head tilted to the right to show he’s ready to listen.  After a few clicks where Hizashi doesn’t react, Hitoshi signs more calmly, although his mouth is thin and white, “No one did this.  My feet hurt before.”  His eyes are squinted at Hizashi, like he’s daring him to contradict his statement.  “And the red appears like this a little bit at a time, some cycles before we go visit your flock.  I thought it will disappear if I wait.”

Hitoshi at least has the decency to be sheepish when he says it, but Hizashi still wants to scream.  At this rate, all of his feathers are going to fall off from the stress and he only just regrew them.   And sure, it’s great that no one was responsible for these injuries, not his flock nor the other one, but it means Hitoshi’s sick.  Any heartache he’s been spared from is instead replaced by bubbling worry.

Hizashi looks towards Shouta.  a small twitch of the ear, eyes darting toward Hitoshi, feathers flaring lightly; they both agree that seeing healer Chiyo is now a priority.

“Document it before we heal it.”  Shouta passes Hizashi his padd.

Hitoshi looks highly uncomfortable, but he agrees to stay still while Hizashi takes pictures of his lower limbs.  They look for more of the worrying dots and find a few under Hitoshi’s collarbones and on his stomach, but most are contained to his calves and thighs.

The exercise program will wait.  Hizashi doesn’t want Hitoshi to physically exert himself, and they’ll quiz him more on the life conditions on his home planet.  They should have been more careful, shouldn’t have put as much trust in Humans’ reputed durability.  They can’t go through every protocole usually employed for new space faring species, but there are a few that Hizashi is ashamed to say they’ve ignored, simply because of Hitoshi’s Deathworlder status.  It’s a mistake he plans to rectify.

In the meantime, they’ll make meals Hitoshi enjoys best.  He’ll need to eat more, to replenish the blood loss and gain more energy for a better recovery.

At least, Hitoshi isn’t in any critical condition, or else the med scan would have caught it.  He isn’t going to die suddenly.  Hizashi reassures himself with that fact, and he manages to push the concern down into a more manageable size.

Of course, that’s when the med repair beam flashes red and powers down.

“What’s happening?”  While the ones around his thighs have mostly healed, the other red lesions are still there.  And if those haven’t been healed, Hizashi can’t imagine that the broken bones have magically repaired themselves.  Shouta’s already tapping at the panel to find what the malfunction is about.  Hizashi pulls the panel closer to him, but he can’t read the flittering words fast enough.  “Is the medrepair broken?”

His bondmate’s tail flick in confusion.

“Nothing’s wrong with it.  Hitoshi’s body doesn’t have enough resources in reserve to heal everything.”  Shouta touches Hitoshi’s upper limb gently.  “Do you have any idea why?  Are you not eating enough?”

“I eat fine.”  Even through the defensiveness, Hizashi can sense the first undercurrent of his friend’s worry.  Which is not reassuring.  At all.

It’s probably not the amount he’s eating.  Although Hitoshi’s features are still Deathworlder sharp, he’s been gaining weight at a steady pace, Hizashi and Shouta made sure of it.

“Do you think it’s connected to your bleeding nose?” Hizashi asks, wings fretting over Hitoshi.  His vessels didn’t break like this before, even when they were both thrown on the wall back with the—the Feczoits.  “Not enough material could have weakened your vessels and bones.  It could be why all of this is happening.”

It’s a possibility Hizashi doesn’t want to be true.  The smaller vessels don't carry enough blood to be life threatening when treated quickly, but if a bigger vessel breaks…

He doesn’t even want to think about what would happen if Hitoshi’s skin’s integrity is weakened enough to split open.  All of his internal organs could just fall out. 

“Sorry.”  Hitoshi picks at the brooch holding his belt nervously.  His pupils are fixed on a spot on the cot.  “I do not know why my lower limbs are like that.”

“We’re going to find out what’s wrong,” Hizashi promises, injecting as much conviction as he can into his words.  “We’re going to see a healer soon.  You’ll be all right.”

Hitoshi agreement-shakes his head, before he swings his hind limbs off the cot and signs, “Okay, I will go wash now.”

“Ah, wait!”  Hizashi searches through a storage drawer, crowing when he finds their old hover stretcher.  “Sit on this.”

He brushes away some of the dust that somehow managed to escape their very expensive ventilation system.  When he looks up, Hitoshi’s face has gone white.

Hitoshi’s unknown sickness is on the forefront of his mind, which is why he doesn’t think before reaching quickly toward Hitoshi, too caught in the belief an aorta just burst and his friend’s currently bleeding out internally.

He realizes his mistake when Shouta warns him, but it’s too late.  Hitoshi flinches back, wide eyed and his teeth almost bared into a snarl, so very different from his almost-shy-pleased teeth-showing.

Hitoshi quickly closes his mouth, but the deep set fear hasn’t abated.  He’s breathing faster, short pants that showcase the stress he’s under.  Hizashi slows his gestures down to a crawl, while he thinks of anything that might have provoked such a reaction.  It’s his turn to go into mission mode.  “Hey, you’re okay.  Everything is alright, there’s no danger here.”

When Hitoshi’s pupils latch onto him, Hizashi asks, “Are you in pain?”

Hitoshi’s head does a half-aborted gesture.  He closes his mouth for a brief moment, letting it fall back slightly open after a click.  He shakes a little when he signs, “No.”

Shouta waves his scarf to get Hitoshi’s attention.  When he gets it, Hitoshi barely flinching at the movement, Hizashi’s mate places a jelly pack on the cot near Hitoshi’s thigh.  “Here, eat this.  It’s good.”

Hitoshi looks a little baffled when he picks it up, even if he’s been subject to Shouta’s odd comfort before.  He’s breathing more normally, which Hizashi knows Shouta will take as further confirmation his method of calming people works; he’s read somewhere that eating tricks the brain into relaxing and has taken to giving out snacks to agitated people when he can, but Hizashi’s pretty sure his bondmate’s successes are mostly due to people being snapped out of their spiralling panic because of their confusion.

“Do not want to go on that,” Hitoshi signs with the tip of the jelly pack in his mouth.  He’s got a death grip on it, so much so that a bit of the jelly spills out the side of the nozzle.  He repeats, more firmly, “No.”

“Okay,” Hizashi signs carefully.  “What about the stretcher bothers you?”

He adds quickly when Hitoshi’s shoulders go up, “We aren’t going to force you on it.  I just want to know so I don’t hurt you again.”

Hitoshi leans slightly away from Hizashi and Shouta.  His brow fur is scrunched up as he thinks it over.  After a few clicks of tension, he deflates a little.  “That.  I do not like.”

He’s gesturing toward the straps meant to prevent the injured person on the stretcher from falling off it. 

“Because your feet are injured and we can’t heal them, we really don’t want you to aggravate your injury.”  Hitoshi looks like he wants to protest, but Hizashi continues when his friend doesn’t actually sign anything.  “If I take the straps off, do you think you’d be okay with the stretcher?  We can find another solution if not.”

“...okay,” Hitoshi signs hesitantly.  He tenses when Hizashi’s talons touch the straps.  It breaks Hizashi’s heart into tiny pieces to see his friend like this, holding his breath and so afraid.  On a whim, he cuts through the straps.  The unusable scraps go in the disassembly bin, for the material to either be reused or discarded at a later date.

Shouta comes back with thick blankets, having exited the room without Hizashi taking notice.  He places them over the thin stretcher’s cot, folding them under so they don’t slip off.

They help Hitoshi on it after he gives his assent.  Hizashi’s pleased when Hitoshi doesn’t react negatively.  His face does go pink in embarrassment when he realizes he has to be pulled by Shouta until they find a way for him to move around by himself.  Humans having only two walking limbs, Hizashi finds, doesn’t offer much spare room for injuries.

They head to the wash room with one of Hitoshi’s spare garments, the Afs’A’s ones they found back on the clipper, careful to avoid the sticky red-brown blood dotting the floor.  When they get there, Shouta places the garments in a corner.

Hizashi pulls out a mat he places in the sonic washer so Hitoshi can sit down.  He shows his friend how to change the stretcher’s height and helps him down on the mat.

Hitoshi insists he doesn’t need the help, but he presses into Hizashi’s wings and doesn’t try to move by himself, so Hizashi knows he doesn’t really mind the fretting.  He deserves to be cared for, especially when he’s injured.

Hizashi and Shouta are about to give Hitoshi some privacy—Hizashi will stay near to, of course, guard Hitoshi, but also because his friend has been spurting out blood from his nose not even a few feeps ago , there’s no way he’ll leave Hitoshi completely alone for the next cycles— when Hitoshi signs, “I will clean the floor.”

“We have sweepers for a reason,” Shouta signs flatly.  “Clean up.  You smell.”

Without leaving Hitoshi a chance to reply, Shouta shuts the hatch in his face.

“Shouta!”

His mate huffs as he starts up the sweepers, sending one toward the pilot area and the other toward the medbay.  “He’s fine.”

Hizashi swats his mate’s tail, who responds in kind by whipping his tail and not-so-accidentally making Hizashi eat fur.  Hizashi’s given no assistance other than mocking bared teeth as he spits out long strands of fur.  It’s an attempt at levity.  It works, mostly.

The strong burst of vibration through the wall tells Hizashi Hitoshi has started the sonic washer.  Shouta signs.  “I’ve only heard of bleeding noses in the context of traumatic incidents.  Or when kits somehow get small sharp objects up their nose.  Although Hitoshi’s nose is shaped oddly,” he muses.  “There could be more air flow and turbulence, which would make his mucous membrane more vulnerable to irritation.”

Hizashi twists the idea around.  While he wants to latch onto it, it doesn’t explain his other wounds.  He’s grateful Humans have a fast coagulation time.

The sonic washer turns off.  Hizashi tap-tap-taps on the hatch and is satisfied when an echoed tap-tap-tap answers him back.

“Can’t you feel him moving?” Shouta asks.  His scarf touches Hizashi’ front, worrying at his feathers with a concerned tilt of his head.  “Are you having trouble hearing?”

One of the sweepers—the one from the pilot area— comes back, its almost-silent hum through the floor announcing its presence.  It rolls toward its docking station, disappearing behind the sliding door at the base of the wall.

Hizashi strokes Shouta’s limb to soothe his mate’s worry.  “I’m all good.  It’s to let him know I’m here.”

Shouta softens and leans down to nuzzle the side of his face.  He rumbles against Hizashi’s temple when Hizashi pushes his ears to watch them flick back into position a few times.  His mate’s vibrations soothes some of his dread.

The hatch opens and out steps Hitoshi, unbloodied and very much alive, with the now relatively clean rectangle cloth draped over his upper limb.  His shoulders are down and his features are soft.  “I can help with the blood on the ground now.”

He’s pulling the stretcher instead of sitting on it.  Hizashi rectifies the error with a lot of squawking and a scolding.

He’s interrupted when the other sweeper comes back at that moment.  Hitoshi stares at it, unblinking as he tracks its path.  Hizashi’s mind conjures the image of Lamp stalking pest.

Hizashi takes Hitoshi’s hand and pulls lightly, breaking the staring spell.   “Come on, let’s go to the share room.  I want to teach you a new game!”

Hitoshi looks back at the clean floor where the sweeper stops rolling as it senses Hitoshi’s stretcher in the way, scanning to calculate its new route.  Hizashi’s pretty certain Hitoshi has seen them before.  It’s the main reason why he doesn’t think Hizashi will launch himself at the sweeper to destroy it.  And then, in a twist Hizashi couldn’t have predicted, Hitoshi blinks a few times as he uses the wall to push himself away.  He signs at the sweeper, “Sorry.”

When it goes back to its docking station, Hizashi manages to shake enough of his bewilderment to string words in a sentence.  He asks, glancing toward Shouta for an answer, who seems as clueless as Hizashi, “You know the sweepers aren’t sentient, right?  They’re machines.”

Hitoshi fixes him with a puzzled expression, as if he isn’t the one who talked to a sweeper.   “Yes, I know.”  While Hizashi tries to derive meaning from that answer, Hitoshi asks, “You teach me the new game or…?”

“I—yes, yeah, of course.”

Hizashi brings out the game, introduced to him by Toshinori back when they didn’t trust him to immediately report back to the Commision.  He had been under a probation period and it had been Hizashi’s turn to try and gleam as much information out of him as possible under the guise of friendly conversation.

Shouta sits to Hitoshi’s right.  He’s blinking lazily, but his eyes track Hitoshi’s nose and his gaze is sharp when he asks, “Why did you apologize to the sweeper if you know it isn’t sentient?”

“I was in the way.”

Hizashi and his mate wait for the rest of the explanation before realizing Hitoshi has already moved on to inspect the playing chips.

Does Hizashi have to worry about Hitoshi packbonding with the sweepers?

He ruffles his feathers.  Unless Hitoshi bonding with the sweepers is a sign that he has a brain injury, Hizashi has more important things to worry about.  “Do know why you have your injuries?”

Hitoshi looks up with an annoyed squint.  “No.  I am fine.”

“But are you sure?”

Hitoshi puts the chips he was inspecting down loudly.  His eyes go wide at his own abrupt gesture, before frustration floods back.  “I’m not a liar.”

Silence follows his statement, lengthening when Hizashi has to take the time to rule in his irritation.  He’s not being unreasonable for worrying about a literal blood vessel exploding for no reason.  Who can blame him for pushing for a more concrete answer?  It’s not like Hitoshi has been very forthcoming about his previous injuries, anyone would be doubtful about his answers.

The tension is broken by the mèos, who run into the room side by side.  Lamp bumps Engine back into a straight trajectory when she wobbles to the side.  They jump around, hopping over Shouta’s tail and sliding under Hizashi’s wings.  Hizashi takes the opportunity to settle his feathers back down and reign his temper.

Hitoshi gathers the chips in a pile, shooting Hizashi and Shouta an apologetic glance from under his eyelid fur.  Traces of Hizashi’s irritation cling stubbornly, but he doesn’t feel like shaking Hitoshi until some sense enters his body anymore.

Thinking back to Hitoshi’s expression, when he first saw the stretcher, makes any irritation go up in smoke.  He whistles a few notes to indicate that he’s sorry, that he won’t push Hitoshi for the rest of this cycle, at the very least.  

A furred tail twins around his own.  Hizashi turns some of his talon sheaths around.  He might get more answers next cycle, after they’re more rested and Hitoshi isn’t coping with the aftermath of his scare.  Hitoshi’s small outbursts aren’t frequent, but they’ve happened enough in the cycles leading to his flock’s meeting that Hizashi isn’t unfamiliar with them.

Hizashi is starting to suspect Hitoshi being in constant pain might have played a role in that.

The longer Hizashi doesn’t say anything, the more Hitoshi’s shoulders creep up.  Hizashi closes his eyes briefly, smothering the guilt rising yet again, before launching into explaining the rules for the chip game.

Chapter Text

All they can do is return to their usual routine, slightly modified to prevent Hitoshi’s condition from worsening: Hitoshi is not to move around too much or partake in any strenuous activities, and he is to be scanned after every meal.  The chores that have steadily become his have been redistributed back amongst Shouta and Hizashi, much to Hitoshi’s dismay.

(“I can still help clean,” Hitoshi repeats, a little too frantic for Hizashi’s liking.  He’s supposed to stay calm and relaxed, keep his blood pressure low.

“You have broken bones.”  Hizashi’s feathers are flared out in aggravation.  They’ve put them in hardened casts, but even with those and being in the hover stretcher, it doesn’t seem to slow Hitoshi down.

Hitoshi lifts his hands, but before he can protest, two wiggling masses of fur are placed in his upper limbs.  Lamp settles in the crook of Hitoshi’s elbow while Engine tumbles onto his crossed lower limbs where she lays, stretched out.  He stares at them for a click, before his head whips—way too fast!—toward Shouta, whose scarf is rippling smugly.  His ears are perked up, as if to dare Hitoshi to move the mèos now that they’re comfortable.

Hitoshi reluctantly settles down.)

Despite the measures they take and the information crawlers they’ve sent out to collect anything concerning Humans, Hitoshi bleeds again, two cycles in, while Hizashi’s showing the beak piece he wears to play some of the wind instruments in his collection.

This time around, Hizashi’s proud to say he doesn’t outwardly show as much of his panic.  He sends Shouta a message as he herds Hitoshi toward the medbay.

Shouta runs in, takes in the situation in the blink of an eye and immediately shuts the mèos out of the room.  While Hizashi lowers Hitoshi on the cot and preps the medrepair up, Shouta takes out clean gauze so Hitoshi can stem the flow.

“What happened?  Did you fall on something?”  Shouta looks through the scan as the beam whirs.

“No, we were just talking.  He started bleeding, no warning sign.”  Hizashi searches through his memory for a trigger, but finds nothing that would have provoked this—they were literally sitting calmly when it happened!  They’re back on the ship, the humidity’s within acceptable living conditions for Hitoshi—or so he says—which means the dry atmosphere theory is thrown right out of the airlock.  Hitoshi is taken by a human sickness and the idea hadn’t been a result of their paranoia.  “Are you in pain?  Do you feel dizzy?”

“It just does this sometimes,” Hitoshi grumbles as he leans away from Hizashi.  “You are worried for nothing.”

This scan report is similar to the previous one, attributing the bleeding to a burst vessel.  No bones are poking out nor are there any foreign objects lodged in there.

Hizashi helps his friend sit up, handing him a cold pack to press on his face, while Shouta places a cloth over Hitoshi’s knees to catch any blood.  They’ve decided to use the med repair only if the bleeding doesn’t slow, to preserve whatever’s left of Hitoshi’s healing power in case of an emergency.

“Is it done?” Hizashi asks after what feels like forever.

Hitoshi takes the pressure off for a click.  Immediately, buildup blood pours out.

Hizashi shuffles toward the med repair panel.  “Maybe we should—”

“No need, almost done.”  Hitoshi grabs him and pulls him away.  His shoulder aches a little from his friend’s grip.

Hitoshi doesn’t notice, too preoccupied by the small blood stain he left on Hizashi’s feathers.  He wipes it off quickly before it congeals together, a grimace of worry and something else when there’s still blood clinging to the barbs of his feathers.

The expression slides away when Hizashi bats Hitoshi away with a soft whistle, using some stray gauze to clean himself off.

All the while, Shouta’s looking at Hitoshi’s lower limbs.  They haven’t improved, but they haven’t worsened either.  “We’ll give it three more ‘minutes’ and if it doesn’t stop, we’re healing you.”

As always when they use humanish words, the corner’s of Hitoshi’s mouth tilts upward, although this time, Hizashi’s pretty sure it’s because Shouta’s pronunciation is atrocious.

Three ‘minutes’ pass and fortunately, Hitoshi’s nose stops bleeding.  Hizashi makes him press a cold bag on his face so his vessels stay constricted.

Hitoshi’s a lot less bloodied this time around, only having a few drops on the front of his garments.  They decide to leave it until after they have their meals.

While they prep it, Hitoshi keeps glancing over at Hizashi and Shouta, as if waiting for them to change their mind and suddenly ask him to stand up to help cut some meat, a task so important Hizashi would make a sick friend walk around on broken bones.

Shouta had the good idea to mix some dehydrated stew into their home cooked soup to hopefully add more nutrients into Hitoshi’s diet.  Hitoshi signs a small ‘thank you’ when Shouta places a steaming bowl in front of him.  He eats slowly, sipping water often in between bites.

It isn’t until they’re almost done with their meal and Hitoshi puts his hand over his mouth, blinking rapidly, that Hizashi realizes something’s wrong. 

“Hitoshi?  Listener?”  To his side, Shouta stands up, body poised to run to the medrepair.  “Hey, talk to me.  Are you having trouble breathing?  Does your mouth burn?”

It shouldn’t.  The meal is supposed to be safe for human consumption, Hitoshi has eaten everything in the stew before without any adverse reaction.  He almost misses when Hitoshi spit something out, too caught up looking his friend’s skin over, until he opens his fist to show a jagged yellowish shard, wet from spit and pieces of half chewed food.

Hitoshi stares at it with a blank expression.  His face doesn’t start getting all blotchy and he isn’t clawing at his throat, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of Hizashi’s questions.

“Hitoshi?”  Hizashi shakes his hand gently.  He whistles to get his attention, short staccato bursts that almost turn into panicky thrills.  “Hitoshi?  You alright there?”

Shouta grabs Hitoshi’s upper limb to get a better look at the thing in his hand.  “Is that a tooth?”

The frozen spell finally breaks.  Hitoshi’s hand is brought to his mouth so fast he almost smacks himself in the face, fingers finding the other half, still rooted in his gums.  He jolts when he makes contact with it, eyes going wide and then narrow, as his shoulders go up.

Hizashi feels himself slump back, a shaky whistling laugh escaping him when he realizes Hitoshi isn’t actively dying.  It’s unlucky it didn’t come clean off, but with Hitoshi’s normally faster healing factor, the new one should pop out in no time.

“You can put it here, we can throw it away afterwards.”  Hizashi turns back to his dish.  It’s gone a little cold; he’s been trying to match Hitoshi’s eating pace so his friend won’t feel pressured during their meals.  He’s on his third bite when he notices Hitoshi hasn’t touched his bowl.  He nudges Hitoshi’s upper limb.  “What’s wrong?  I can heat up your food if it’s not hot enough.”

Hitoshi swallows with a pinched face and shiny eyes, his hand holding his tooth protectively near his chest.  When Hizashi watches closer, he realizes Hitoshi’s shaking a little.

He’s missing something.  Do Humans keep their old teeth?  “Sorry listener, I didn’t mean to say you have to throw it.  I can find a nice box for you.”

“I can help you pull the broken part out if that’s what you’re worried about,” Shouta adds reassuringly.  “I do it to myself all the time.”

It has the totally opposite effect than what Shouta intended.  Hitoshi’s eyes widen and he slaps a hand over his mouth, shaking his head from side to side.  He pushes himself away from the table when Shouta’s ears perk up in confusion.

Shouta coaxes Hitoshi into opening the fist holding his tooth.  Something’s definitely wrong when Shouta utters an eer’ahseer curse.  He signs words Hizashi does not want to see right now.  “There’s blood.”

Hizashi comes closer to look at Hitoshi’s hand in disbelief and indeed, there’s blood: red speckles the chewed up meat Hitoshi spat out alongside his tooth.

The second trip to the med bay this cycle holds a lot more frenzied energy.  Hitoshi follows along without a single objection, which is alarming and only urges Hizashi to pull Hitoshi toward the med bay more forcefully.

Shouta shines a light into Hitoshi’s mouth, the light reflecting out by his wet sharp teeth, Hizashi’s mate’s better eyesight more suited to do a visual inspection.  Hizashi prepares a cup of water so Hitoshi can rinse his mouth, pulls out an adhesive dressing specifically made for mucous tissue, and powers up every instrument in the room in case they need them.  He feels restless and so very useless.

He’s rubbing his front, phantom static crawling out from his throat and only kept contained by the feeling of his feathers under his wings, when Shouta finally pulls away from Hitoshi’s open mouth.  The swishing of his agitated tail does not bode well.

“Your gums are swollen.”  Shouta touches the underside of Hitoshi’s chin to make him tip his face up.  The skin there is free of any marks.  “There’s small cuts on your tongue and cheeks too, but I think the blood is coming from your gums.  It’s stopped now.”

Hizashi suddenly remembers the inflammation he noted.  He curses himself for forgetting and pulls out Hitoshi’s records while Hitoshi’s being scanned for a second time this cycle.  The results from earlier are worse than previous readings.  He should have seen that before, but he was too focused on the bleeding nose.

Worse, the med scanner didn’t pick up on the cuts in Hitoshi’s mouth.  Or, more accurately, it did, but didn’t deem them significant enough for an alert, the information buried deep alongside unimportant measurements, either because the cuts were too small or because Hitoshi has had them ever since the first scan, back when they came back from the Feczoits.  The scan hasn’t flagged Hitoshi’s broken bones until they were the width of his old shoulder injury.

“Can you heal?” Hizashi jerks away when Hitoshi thrusts his broken off tooth in his face.  Hitoshi’s eyes are wide and shiny, chest rising and falling faster.  He repeats more insistently, “Can you heal?”

“Does it take a long time before it grows back?”  Something is wrong; Hitoshi hasn’t asked to be healed even once, not even for his broken bones.  A single tooth shouldn’t have changed his behaviour this much.

Hitoshi’s face scrunches up into an expression he can’t quite read, a little bit between confusion and offense.  “Wh—no!  I have no more youngling tooths.  You can heal, yes?”

“I’m sorry, listener, I don’t understand.”  Hizashi flutters his wings over Hitoshi’s elbows when his friend starts pulling a patch of fur at the base of his neck.  “Hey, hey, stop that please.  I just want to understand.  What do you mean by youngling teeth?”

Hitoshi stops pulling, but his hand stays fisted around his fur for a few clicks, before he lets go to sign, “Last teeth.  I have no more after, this is my last one.”

Hizashi’s feathers flare out in shock.  Even Shouta puffs up twice his size at Hitoshi’s statement.

“You’re not going to regrow a tooth?”  The concept is baffling.  Hizashi has trouble wrapping his mind around it.  “It’s… gone?”  

“No redos, no grow backs.  Please heal.”

Oh, this is bad.  This is very, very, very bad.

Shouta grabs the med repair, his scarf grabbing a stray padd so he can search for a way to heal teeth.   Hizashi’s left to reassure Hitoshi, or at least calm him down enough so he won’t start pulling his fur out or scratch himself until he breaks skin.  He grabs Hitoshi’s hands, squeezing them a few times to give himself some time to regain his composure.  “We’ll try to heal you, alright listener?  If it doesn’t work, we’ll find someone who can make a prosthesis for you.”  When Hitoshi’s face crumples, Hizashi is quick to add, “Listener, listener, look at me.  It’s okay, alright?  No matter what happens, we’ll help you through this.  You’re going to be alright, understand?”

Hitoshi agreement-shakes shakily, sniffing a few times.  He blinks rapidly, taking his hand out of Hizashi’s grasp to rub at his eyes, before quickly grabbing onto Hizashi again after signing, “Okay.”

Hizashi preens some of the fur around Hitoshi’s face when he lies down to get med repaired.  He holds his tooth in place, trembling in anticipation.

When the scan stops, Hitoshi takes a deep breath and moves his tooth.

It detaches completely, not even slightly held in place.

Hitoshi’s eyes promptly start leaking when he sits back up, liquid spilling out down his cheeks and dripping all over his thighs.  His shoulders shake and he makes a choked noise that sounds like he’s dying, before falling back silent.

“What the fuck,” Shouta signs, ears pinned back in alarm.  Oh right.  Shouta doesn’t know.  “What the fuck.”

Hizashi takes a few clicks to discreetly sign ‘This is normal for Humans, tell you later’ before climbing onto the med cot, ignoring the way his wing knocks into the beam and sends it tilting downward.  He pets the top of Hitoshi’s shoulders, the side of his face, flopping his tail near Hitoshi’s hind limbs.  He can’t sign anything, Hitoshi having covered his eyes with one of his hands.

He croons, low, reassuring, and apologetic, and hopes that it soothes Hitoshi.

Limited teeth.  It’s a horrible concept, one Hizashi can barely wrap his mind around.  It must be a death sentence, or akin to it on his planet; even with the technological advancements and surprising societal structures, Hitoshi still lives on a Deathworld.  He’ll realize it’s not the same here, that he doesn’t need sharp teeth to survive, even less thrive, but for now, Hitoshi’s distress doesn’t wane.

Shouta still looks freaked out by the liquid dripping down Hitoshi’s eyes.  He’s shocked into inaction, wincing everytime Hitoshi rubs his eyes.

Eventually, Hitoshi stops shaking as much.  He uses his garment to wipe away his eye liquid, leaving wet stains on the cloth.  The skin is pink and Hizashi catches Shouta covertly touching around his own eyes, as if to check if they’ve suddenly started leaking.

After numerous feeps where Hitoshi takes deep shuddering inhales, he lets Shouta look at his broken tooth with a wary waver.  Shouta tilts his head back and forth, nudging Hitoshi’s head around to get a better angle.  He keeps his touch light, but Hitoshi doesn’t lose any of his nervousness.  Hizashi isn’t sure if Hitoshi’s getting paler or if it’s a trick of the light.

“Does it hurt?”  There’s something guarded about the way Shouta asks it.  His scarf is unnaturally still, none of the slight swaying to be seen when he pulls the skin around Hitoshi’s mouth to see his gums.

Instead of answering, Hitoshi shakes his head.  It looks like the gesture for ‘no’, except Hizashi has the feeling it’s not quite the same, the movement more vehement and less controlled.  Hitoshi pushes Shouta’s scarf away from his face, his hands coming up in front of his mouth for a quick moment, like he’s guarding it.  He’s definitely paler.  “... a little bit.”

Shouta rummages through a few drawers.  He pulls out some hardening gel, the type that’s usually used for mucous tissue and is made of a stable material.  He places some on a soft pad and starts applying the gel on what Hizashi realizes is most probably an exposed nerve, one that surprisingly has nociceptors by the way Hitoshi flinches with a pained grunt at the contact.  To his confusion, Shouta places some on the front teeth too.  He spritz it with the fixer; it’ll stay in place until they spray the hardened gel with its remover.

Hizashi prepares some of the adhesive dressing into the right size—because what else is there to do? —so Shouta can place them on the cuts in the inside of Hitoshi’s cheeks.  They can’t do anything about the ones on his tongue.

Hitoshi closes his mouth gingerly, until his bottom and upper teeth touch each other.  He lets out a surprised sound, fingers feeling his teeth, apprehensive at first and then with a firmer touch.  His shoulders suddenly slump, like he’s been carrying a huge weight, and the muscles in his face and neck loosens dramatically.  It makes the corner of his eyes smoothe out, the edges of his mouth lose their downturn, and more strikingly, his cheek seems to fill out, softening his entire face.

“Did I get them all?” Shouta asks.  His tail and ears are in a deceiving resting position, but the tightly coiled scarf betrays the roiling anger.

Hitoshi doesn’t see it, for all that he’s usually perceptive about these types of things.  He’s too relieved by the absence of pain—or more accurately, the lesser amount, considering his gums are still red—to be as attentive of his surroundings.  “Yes.  I thank you!”

Shouta looks pained.  “No need to thank me.  I’m sorry we didn’t notice sooner.”

Hitoshi ignores the second part of the statement with an uncomfortable tilt of his brows.

And Hizashi can read in between the lines, can interpret what hasn’t been said outright.  He’d found it strange when he noticed the slight unevenness in Hitoshi’s teeth, the way they were pointed sharp yet the bottom and top row misaligned, but he’d foolishly attributed it to human oddness.  The idea that someone had tampered with them hadn’t even crossed his mind, not when filing any other species’ teeth would have only lasted until the next row of teeth grew in, would have only been a temporary inconvenience.

Which will never happen to Hitoshi.  He’ll have to deal with the ones he has now, the ones that apparently can feel pain.

A horrifying thought crosses his mind: are Hitoshi’s teeth the equivalent of Hizashi’s feathers, evolved to function as sensory organs?  He raises his wings to his beak in horror, suddenly understanding Hitoshi’s strong reaction.  His assumptions caused Hitoshi to suffer this entire time.  He calls himself Hitoshi’s friend when he didn’t even notice Hitoshi was hurting.

The fury he reserves for the Feczoit rears its ugly head.  Was Hitoshi not frightening enough to his captors?  Was being a Deathworlder not sufficient?

He reels in the angry rattle that threatens to spill out.  Now is not the time, not when Hitoshi’s the priority.

After some debate, the broken tooth end goes in a stasis liquid, in case healer Chiyo can stick it back on.  Hitoshi keeps touching his teeth, like he’s scared the relief will suddenly wear off.  His expression wavers everytime his finger or tongue passes over the new empty space, but he perks up almost instantly after when he remembers the lack of pain.  Witnessing that feels like having his feathers pulled out, except it’s somehow worse.

He notices how Hitoshi keeps throwing wary glances at them.  He hopes Hitoshi doesn’t think his anger is directed at him.

“I’m not going to ask or force you to tell us what happened,” Hizashi signs.  He knows he can be pushy sometimes, but the visit to the flock has reminded him of younger times, when he’d get into fights with Shouta.  Only numerous discussions with Stripes had helped him learn how to back off.  “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’ll always be there, you know?  Same for Shouta.”

Hitoshi relaxes, shaking his head in agreement.  Hizashi human-smiles to reassure Hitoshi and thinks about how he’d love to bite into a Feczoit’s throat.

Hizashi places the dish in front of Hitoshi.  His friend morosely picks it up.

The novelty of half of his mouth no longer hurting has worn off and he keeps worrying at the new gap in his set of teeth.

Even with the gel in place, they only serve soft foods now.  Hizashi is thankful he has so many recipes for that; he’s boiled vegetables for a few feeps longer, shredded meat laddered in sauce, and has left out seeds and other harder ingredients.

Hitoshi had grimaced when Hizashi tried to serve him meat grinded into a fine paste, and Hizashi has no idea how he mistook what he now knows is a pained wince for disgust.  This whole time, Hitoshi was hurting, and all Hizashi did was be amused because he thought Hitoshi disliked the taste of their cleaning paste.  Hizashi’s a horrible person.

They’ve given one of their mèos’ toothbrushes to Hitoshi, a spare one that hasn’t been used yet.  The bristles are a lot softer than the usual toothbrushes.  It seems to help.  Hizashi desperately wants it to help and selfishly hopes it will chase some of the acidic guilt away.

(It doesn’t.)

Shouta has spent their entire resting time and most of a human cycle searching through the Feczoits’ records that have finally fully been decrypted.  By some Spirit’s will, they’ve received the file from Tensei right after Hitoshi’s tooth broke; in the almost century the Feczoits have been operating, there have only been two other Humans before Hitoshi.  They’ve died long before Hitoshi, and, hidden in the private comms between a few Feczoits, Shouta has found that both deaths were preceded by the same symptoms; diminished performances, easy bruising, odd bleeding.  

Teeth, strewn all over their cell’s floors, with blood in empty bowls.

They immediately send a message to healer Chiyo.  They should have done it cycles ago, but they didn’t think they’d be so over their head, which is another mistake on Hizashi’s part.  The message they sent is being pinged around to disguise their trail, each time sending bait messages out.  It should arrive in two cycles, and it’ll take another two before they get a response from her.

Hizashi wanted to send it straight out, but they can’t risk getting attacked when Hitoshi’s in such a fragile—or fragile for a Deathworlder—state, nor can he put healer Chiyo in danger by making their affiliation known.  She’s escaped the ISC’s recruitment pitch, despite being a Saleev•H•Eel and living at the edge of one of the galaxies under their control.  She’s a powerful ally to UA and Hizashi can’t risk losing her services, especially since they don’t even know if she can help with Hitoshi.

(They’ve also found, in more official documents, the procedures Hitoshi was subject to.  There’s the optimal drug measurements to sedate him, the appropriate voltage to keep him docile, prototypes of collars upon collars upon collars until the idea was discarded for pricing issues.

Worse, so much worse, is what they did to his teeth.  They found the footage, sent to Overhaul’s now destroyed facilities.  He shouldn’t have watched it, not when he is pretty sure Hitoshi wouldn’t have wanted him to; now, he pays for it in nightmares of drills and files coldly reshaping Hitoshi’s mouth, his muffled whimpers ignored as he’s pumped with muscle paralysant.  Toward the end, the drug’s effect had waned, and instead of giving him more, Hitoshi had been strapped down to the table that horrifyingly resembles their stretcher.  The restraints only lasted for two more teeth, but the damage had been done; fourteen teeth, filed into a point.

Hitoshi’s mind seems to have wandered to the same place, because when he had woken up, slightly breathless, his friend had been sitting up, curled around his stomach, with his hands held in front of his mouth.  Even with his abysmal night vision, he’d been able to see the shiny light reflection in the white of his eyes, staring straight at the hatches, waiting in the dark for his nightmare to come bursting through.

Hizashi hadn’t moved.  Something told him Hitoshi wouldn’t appreciate him witnessing him in this state, and Shouta was, for once, sleeping.  He waited until Hitoshi’s silhouette unfurled to settle back down and his breaths to even out, before closing his eyes.

Hizashi suspects they found his height lacking.  The other two Humans were almost twice Hitoshi’s height and they weren’t subjected to the same mutilation.

If Hizashi could, his eyes would have leaked too.  Instead, he waits until he finds a moment for himself in a seldom visited storage room to warble until the shelves rattle.)

Hizashi keeps the grief at bay.  Hitoshi isn’t dead gone yet.  They should get to healer Chiyo’s station soon and her answer, if she sent one as soon as she received their message, should arrive even sooner.  Only one and a half human cycles left, three for Hizashi and Shouta, for a response.  Not that either of them will much restful sleep much when Hitoshi could just die.

Hizashi nudges the water dish toward Hitoshi.  It’ll help dislodge food stuck in his teeth and ease the teeth cleaning process.  The less Hitoshi’s teeth are touched, the better it is.  Their structural integrity is already weakened, not even speaking about Hitoshi’s sickness.

Hitoshi takes a few sips.  He’s overly careful now, cautious to avoid any contact with his teeth.  No more has fallen out or broken off yet.  The gel is probably helping with that.

They’re close, so close to healer Chiyo.  Hitoshi has to make it.

Chapter Text

Hizashi goes through Hitoshi’s scanning results a third time, but the same conclusion offers itself.

Hitoshi’s bones are growing.  He watches the way Hitoshi’s lower limbs kick out in an alternative rhythm as he waits for him to say something.  Hizashi has taken to raise the med cot up when they don’t need to access him, so Hitoshi doesn’t have to fold his lower limbs up to his stomach when he’s sitting on the edge.  It’s a tick higher than when Hizashi first started that practice.

Hizashi skims through the results again a fourth time, just to be sure, before signing, a little apprehensive, “Do you need to molt?”

Even after he asks, Hizashi knows that’s not it.  Despite that, Hizashi can’t think of any other reason Hitoshi would be changing shapes.

Hitoshi blinks, taken aback by the question.  “What?”

“Your bones are longer than when you first got scanned.”

The way Hitoshi’s brow fur lower wakes all of Hizashi’s worries, not that they were far away to begin with.  Thankfully, they shoot back up a click later.  Hitoshi lets out a sound of realization, teeth—sharp and mutilated and sore—showing in delight.  He jumps off the table—ignoring Hizashi’s alarmed cawing—to stand straight and tall beside it without a visible hint of pain, whole body almost unfurling from his usually slouched posture.  “How much taller I am?”

He looks excited, which is good?  It’s better than the pale desperation that had lined Hitoshi’s body when he was begging for them to heal his tooth.

Hizashi’s snapped out of the train of thought by Hitoshi’s big hopeful eyes.  Hizashi decides to admonish Hitoshi for being on his feet after he answers Hitoshi’s question; Hitoshi hasn’t shown this much energy ever since he’s broken his tooth.

Hizashi tilts his head to observe his friend.  Without Hitoshi’s perpetual slouch, Hizashi has to crane his head back way more.  If he takes away the height added by the feet cast and ignores his longer fur, he’d say Hitoshi has gained three or four talon widths.  When he tells Hitoshi so, his friend puffs out his chest, obvious pride radiating from the answer.

Something about this feels wrong, but Hizashi can’t pinpoint it down.  The way Hitoshi’s acting reminds him of someone.  Several someones.

The memory insistently scratches at the back of his brain.  He shakes his head and gestures at Hitoshi to sit down.  He attributes the growing dread to the fact that right now is absolutely not the moment to go through the huge nutrient consuming process that is a molt.  Because surely that’s what’s happening.  A simple molt.  “Do you need special arrangements?”

Maybe the molt is more akin to Oeginrs’, who grow bigger for a season or two while their body renews itself when they get injured, only to return to their initial size until the next renewal.  Hitoshi didn’t go into molt after his shoulder was injured though.

Hizashi leans over.  Despite this not being the right time for it, curiosity manages to bubble up.  He might be the first to see a Human complete a shed.  If someone else witnessed it before Hizashi, they didn’t find it interesting enough to share the experience.  

“Special arrangements?” asks Hitoshi.  “I do not need that.”

“Like, you know, warm baths or scrubbing sand?”  The incredulous look he's sent makes him hesitate.  The scratching behind his brain becomes red flashing lights.  “Or maybe a dark room?”

His friend looks at him with a bewildered expression, before he opens his mouth and that spastic sound Hitoshi calls a laugh tickles Hizashi’s feathers.

“Sorry, sorry, not”—a punched out sound interrupts Hitoshi, before he schools himself—“I am not losing skin like that.  I am growing.”

There’s a moment of blankness, before realization comes crashing right into him, the same way smooth sand becomes sharp needles during storms.

And like all storms, all the warnings were there: rolling clouds, up ticking wind, Hitoshi’s odd height, the lackluster knowledge of his own world.

His body’s numb and his heart is racing, but he’s proud to say he doesn’t shake when he asks, as casually as one can when their worldview has flipped upside down, “I haven’t asked before, but how old are you exactly?”

Hitoshi’s barely looking at him, distracted by the prospect of his newly acquired height.  He’s putting his hand up, palm smushing his hair down and the radial side resting on the wall.  When he turns around, with his hand kept in place against the wall, he bares his teeth.  For the few clicks it takes for him to do that, Hizashi manages to convince himself that his friend has passed the cusp of adulthood, that while Hizashi has fucked up, he hasn’t fucked up that badly.

“Twelve?” Hitoshi signs, uncertain, after he counts on his fingers, still inspecting his hand against the wall.  He has his head tilted on the side.

Hizashi flares his feathers in horror.  Hitoshi, unaware he’s given Hizashi a heart attack, has his fur brow lowered and eyes narrowed as he stares at his hands.

“Probably thirteen now?  It is a long time since…” he mumbles, gestures barely articulated. 

Hizashi almost caw loud enough to burst all of the ship’s occupants eardrums, a gut reaction until he realizes Hitoshi’s using human time measurements and not see’krtsh’s.  Still, he asks, to be sure, to slow his racing heart “Human revolutions?”

Hitoshi agreement-shakes, but his face is making a new expression, one Hizashi can’t quite figure out, almost-scared, almost-shame, but not quite.

And Hizashi could not ask.  Remain in blissful ignorance.

He discards the thought soon as it crosses his mind.  “How long do Humans live?  How many revolutions until a Human’s considered an adult?”

Hitoshi’s pupils stray to the side.  He has big eyes, Hizashi realizes with a startle.  He had noticed, of course, but had taken them as another Deathworlder feature at first, dismissed them as human oddity afterwards.  He knows now, can’t see them as anything other than the almost universal proportions of a youngling.

“Live to a hundred.  Can go for more.”

A hundred.  A hundred human revolutions, about three hundred when converted to see’krtsh measurements.

That’s nothing.  That’s barely older than Hizashi.

Through the not-quite-grief—is this how Shouta feels about all of them?—Hizashi still notices how Hitoshi didn't answer his second question.  He could have forgotten.  It doesn’t mean anything.  Short lived species always grow up faster than Hizashi anticipates.  He asks again, “At what age does a Human become an adult?”

Hitoshi looks away, clearly debating what to tell Hizashi.  “Why you want to know?”

“Hitoshi,” Hizashi signs, feeling like he’s going to rip his feathers out, “please tell me, listener.”

“I can do a lot of things,” he mutters.  “It is not important.”

“It is for me.”

Hitoshi hems and haws, clearly unwilling to share that particular information.  It’s only when Hizashi lets out an audible exhale that he finally answers with, “Ten.”

It’s clearly a lie.  Hitoshi’s holding himself too unnaturally relaxed and he wouldn’t have been stalling this much if the answer was straightforward like that.  His pupils are unmoving as they fix Hizashi down, but Hizashi looks Hitoshi right back in the eyes with an unimpressed tap of his talons, because the only other option is to cry.

“Hitoshi?  Is that the actual answer?”

“Yes.”  Hitoshi narrows his eyes.  Despite the clear warning, Hizashi spots the nervous twitch of his fingers.  “You are calling me a liar?”

“I didn’t say that,” Hizashi signs carefully, maintaining eye contact.  “But we both know ten isn’t the truth.”

Hitoshi holds his gaze for a click, two, three, and then he drops his head, fingers twisting his garment.  He goes to scratch at the nape of his neck, but instead signs, while staring down at the med cot, “Seventeen.  But I am almost fourteen, so I am near being an a-dult.”

Hizashi tilts his head dubiously.  Hitoshi probably hoped Hizashi forgot his initial answer, and remembering the conversion between human cycle and revolutions and see’krtsh’s, twelve is definitively not almost fourteen.  Which means Hizashi shouldn’t take his ‘almost an a-dult’ seriously.  

The archived heights of the other two Humans previously kept by the Feczoits come easily, almost accusingly, to his mind.  Assuming they’re fully mature Humans, Hitoshi’s about half their size.  Far from adulthood.

Hizashi kind of wants to throw up, bundle up Hitoshi in beneath his wings until he’s safe, and hunt down the Feczoits to make sure they don’t get any funeral rites, all at the same time.  Hitoshi’s twelve, maybe thirteen .  Even with the conversion to see’krtsh revolutions, he should be resting in a nest, a wing constantly thrown over him.  Not wandering around in space, let alone be forced to fight in death matches.

Instead of the countless apologies for what he’s put a nestling through—he bursts a youngling’s eardrums, and worse, he took food away from Hitoshi — all he can muster is a lackluster, “Oh.”

Hitoshi takes his answer as a reproach, because of course he does.  He doesn’t know any better.

He squints his eyes at Hizashi, while his fingers stretch and crumples the edges of his garment.  “But you do not need to take care of me,” he signs with his head tilted back to show the underside of his chin.  “Can do things on my own.”

Hizashi believes him.  He has no other choice than to do so, not when Hitoshi has proven how capable he is by necessity, since it isn’t like Hizashi or Shouta were good caregivers.

Hizashi buries his face in his wings.  When they were in the escape pod, he’d been so ashamed when he realized that Hitoshi, a civilian, had had to save him, even more so than when the Feczoits had drugged them both.  He’d comforted himself with the fact that at least, Hitoshi’s a Human; he can withstand a lot more than other species.

There’s none of that comfort now, not when he knows he failed a nestling, placed Hitoshi in a position where he had to take care of him.  Hizashi takes a deep breath to calm himself down, but fails utterly when he remembers that he made Hitoshi give him his water when he should have been the one who had priority.

A light touch on the tip of his wings makes him lift his head.  Hitoshi’s staring at him with a worried gaze.  “Hizashi?”

“I’m sorry,” he warbles.  “I’m so sorry, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi pats his shoulder, face drooping at Hizashi’s words.  “It is fine.  No need.  It is okay.”

“It isn’t okay at all,” Hizashi retorts.  He smooths out the fur on Hitoshi’s brow, cooing a little.  “You never should have gone through all that.”

Hitoshi looks deeply uncomfortable, which isn’t the effect Hizashi was hoping to achieve.  “It is fine.  I do not mind, do not worry.”

And then he imitates the reassuring croon Hizashi usually does, accompanied by soft fluttering around Hizashi’s shoulders and his talons.  Hizashi jerks away without thinking about it, too disturbed by the fact that a nestling would try to comfort him when the roles should be reversed.

Hitoshi’s face crumples, his hands retreating to his chest like he’s been burnt.  Hizashi realizes how easy his gesture could be misinterpreted.  He keeps messing everything up.  

He reaches out immediately to right his wrong, suddenly taken by the irrational fear that Hitoshi will drop dead from skin starvation.  He’s treated Hitoshi the way he does every friend, which means he’s thrown a wing over Hitoshi or petted his shoulders and preened bits of his fur, but it doesn’t feel nearly enough now that he knows.

Hitoshi flinches back slightly, eyes widening, but he doesn’t move away when Hizashi cards his talons through his head fur, untangling the knots he finds with much more care than he did previously.

One of his talons catches on one of the knots and rips through it when Hitoshi moves to the stretcher suddenly.  His brow fur is lowered down, the outward ends higher.  “Stop that!”

“Did—Was it unpleasant?”  It wasn’t that different from previous preening sessions.  Hizashi itches to cover all of Hitoshi with a wing, to shield him away.

“I am not a ----,” he signs sharply.  The human word sounds like ‘bay-bee’ and it’s spit out in an almost hiss.

“It’s the same thing I usually do,” Hizashi signs, distraught and bewildered.  “You normally like that?” 

“It is different before.”  Hitoshi shakes his hands, agitated.  “I thought you…”

Hizashi waits for the rest, but it doesn’t come.  “What did you think?”

Hitoshi bares his teeth and hisses.  When Hizashi will look back, he’ll realize he was never in danger, that Hitoshi was only lashing out the same way some see’krtsh nestling rattle when too upset for words.

In the moment, he does the worst thing possible and startles with a loud trill, taking two steps back.

Hitoshi lifts his head in grim satisfaction.  Hizashi stumbles in his apologies, heart beating fast from the burst of fear, when Shouta bursts through the medbay door, ears swiveling and scarf pulled almost all the way out in preparation for a fight.

The satisfaction is quickly replaced by a wide eye look that only compounds Hitoshi's young appearance.  He sends Hizashi a look that feels pleading and menacing all at the same time.

With no hesitation and quite some trembling, Hizashi blurts out, “Hitoshi’s a nestling.”

There, ripped off like an adhesive bandage.  Shouta visibly stutters in his steps, his scarf and ears going motionless.

“I am not!”  Hitoshi turns to Shouta, gestures too wild and uncontrolled to be convincing.  “I am not!”

Shouta’s mouth falls open, his breaths deeper as he takes in the information.  Hitoshi freezes when, without much warning, Shouta presses his nose to the top of his head, right in the middle of his fur.  His eyes dart toward Hizashi, too stunned to blink or even breathe.  Shouta pulls back with a pained expression.  “You’re just a kit.”

Hizashi thought Shouta’s touch, despite brief, would have shocked Hitoshi into speechlessness, but he’s proven wrong.

“I am not!” Hitoshi repeats, eyes still wide and unblinking, but it’s too late.  They know the truth now.  There’s no going back.

Hitoshi clenches the edge of the cot so hard, it starts creaking worryingly.  He pleads, “I can still do things.  I am not useless.”

“You’re not,” Hizashi agrees vehemently.  He catches himself finding Hitoshi’s caretakers quite lacking.  “I know you’re not.”

It placates Hitoshi somewhat, his shoulders dropping a little.  He looks miserable when he signs, “I can still help.”

“Of course.”  Hitoshi’s head whips toward Shouta.  Hizashi’s mate ignores the distrustful expression.  “You’re always a great help.”

Hitoshi is anxiously squinting in suspicion, visibly deciding whether Shouta’s honest or not.  “...okay.”

“Nothing has to change for now,” Hizashi reassures.  Shouta’s right ear twitches in unsaid disagreement.  Hizashi ignores him.  It’s not quite a lie.  They haven’t given Hitoshi any responsibilities—if cleaning the consoles and cutting the odd food here or there could be considered a responsibility—so it’s not like they have to take away anything.  Hizashi doesn’t think about how, with their dangerous career, they’re not suited for taking care of a youngling.  They don’t know anyone better then they are who’d take a Human in—his flock cannot host Hitoshi while they’re under scrutiny and he honestly doesn’t know if they’d even accept him—so until they find someone, Hitoshi’s staying with them.  For now, the priority is still getting Hitoshi to healer Chiyo.  “So don’t worry about it for the moment, alright?”

Hitoshi stays coiled around himself for a moment, before relaxing, almost looking more relieved than when they were on the escape pod and flying away from the arena ship.  He agreement-shakes so fast, his hair sways in front of his eyes.  Hizashi refrains from holding his head in place.  “Alright.”

“Okay.”  Hizashi takes a long breath.  The urge to cry isn’t as strong now, but it lurks beneath a thin layer of sand.  Hizashi can have his breakdown later, out of Hitoshi’s sight.  Shame and guilt mixes into a nauseous clench in his throat.  “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Hizashi waits for Hitoshi to go wash himself before making his move.

Quickly, he goes to the storage cabinets and pulls out heaps of pillows and covers.  Carrying them all is a struggle, but Shouta helps him out, even though Hizashi can see that his bondmate isn’t convinced by his plan.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Shouta asks.

Hizashi huffingly ignores his bondmate.  He only has a few feeps until Hitoshi comes looking for them in the resting room.

Hitoshi had been twitchy and sullen since they discovered he’s just a nestling.  He refuses to give straight answers to their questions and has escaped further questioning with a thinly veiled excuse to clean up.

Hizashi will not be deterred.  He’s Hitoshi’s pack, and Hitoshi deserves nice things.  Hizashi has pathetically failed him, but he counts on finding every possible opportunity to offer him what every nestling deserves, Human or not.

Starting with a nest.

Of course, he could simply fold the 4 in 1 cot into its nest configuration and call it a day, but the cot is barely big enough for Hitoshi when it’s laying flat; Hitoshi won’t fit if he folds the edges inside out, even with the way he can twists his body to take a smaller space.  

A few pats tells Hizashi the cot isn’t thick enough for a nestling.  Layering a few covers under it will soften the ground and make the whole cot cozier for Hitoshi.  Rearranging the new pillows and covers in his mind, Hizashi lifts the cot, only for something to shift and tumble inside it.

Tail lashing in curiosity, Hizashi opens the cot and lets out a startled caw he silences quickly.

Inside, dozens of snacks crumbling in their crinkly packaging and perishable goods are shoved in the corner, too much to fit in the quarter bag, the one they’ve given Hitoshi so long ago, resting underneath the pile.  Hizashi recognizes familiar snacks, alongside food they haven’t had the opportunity to offer him yet.

“Do you think this is normal human behaviour?” Hizashi asks worryingly.  Hitoshi had never asked for more food to replenish his stash, so Hizashi had completely forgotten about it.

Shouta picks one of the planet-side bars, his scarf curling in thought.  It’s expired, planet-side food perishing much faster than the food prepared for space faring.  It’s not a type of snack common amongst See’krtsh either.  Hitoshi somehow got this during their small trip at the trading center, cycles and cycles ago.  Seeing as he has no credits to his name, he either stole it or found it on the ground.  “He hasn’t eaten any of them.”

They’d know.  Hizashi and Shouta are the ones who take care of the garbage disposal, and they (or rather the mèos) haven’t found any trash tucked away in between furniture.

Hizashi worries a crooked feather.  Without any other point of references, he doesn’t know if it’s simply a habit from Hitoshi’s time on his home planet.  Hizashi hopes it is; otherwise, it’d mean Hitoshi has been scared he’d go hungry this whole time.  At least, he hasn't actually eaten any of the expired food.

(Hizashi hasn’t missed that none of the jewelry his flock gave is among Hitoshi’s small secret stash, but instead stored in the travel bag Hitoshi used on Hizashi’s planet, resting near the cot, in everyone's view.)

The vibration for the sonic washer stops.  Immediately, Hizashi shoves all of his thoughts back inside.  He places the cot on the layers of blanket he already prepared and scatters a few pillows around.

He barely has the time to make a small nest around the cot before Hitoshi enters their resting quarters.

He stills, pupils immediately flicking toward his cot.

“Hey Hitoshi!” Hizashi signs with a little coo.  Hitoshi’s hair sticks in odd directions, almost like the uneven tufts of feathers newly fledged see’krtshes are known for.  He casually pats the lumpy nest’s wall.  “Do you like it?”

Hitoshi’s mouth stiffens.  ”What?”

“It’s a nest, lil’ listener!”  Hizashi pushes his uneasiness aside in favour of giving all of his attention to Hitoshi.  “Doesn’t this look so much more comfortable now?”

Hitoshi walks closer, sending Shouta a furtive look.  His hands smoothe out his cot; if Hizashi hadn’t been looking for it, he’d have missed the way Hitoshi brushes around to find his hidden hoard of food and discreetly places himself so he’s between his cot and Hizashi.  “Why?”

“It’ll feel so cozy and soft.”  Hizashi fluffs his feathers, to emphasize his words.  “Come on, time for you to sleep!”

If there’s an universal fact, it’s that all youngs need more sleep than their adult counterparts.  Hitoshi’s deep undereye bruises are a disturbing marker that seems to indicate his lack of rest.  They’re lighter than when they were with the Feczoits, but they’ve recently gotten darker.

Hizashi nudges Hitoshi toward his cot-turned-nest, but the nestling resists, face instantly turns into a scowly expression.  He points at Hizashi with one finger, gestures slightly agitated.  “You are laughing at me.”  His eyes turn to look at Shouta with that same accusatory squint.  “Not funny.”

Behind Hitoshi, Shouta signs a little, “Told you so.”

“We really aren’t,” Hizashi rushes to reassure with a calming croon.  “Why do you think that?”

Hitoshi crosses his upper limbs on his chest.  “Treating me like a bay-bee.  I am not young young.  I walk to ----- by myself before, I could make food alone when I was on Dirt.”

From the context and the disdain in Hitoshi’s gestures, Hizashi assumes a ‘bay-bee’ is what Humans call their hatchlings.  Hizashi doesn’t ask why his pack’s adults didn’t take care of him when he’s only thirteen and vulnerable.

“Well, nests aren’t exclusively for hatchlings.”  Hizashi gestures toward his own nest, which, to be fair, is a lot bigger and messier than Hitoshi’s makeshift one.  Shouta sometimes kicks the pillows in his sleep.  It’s as endearing as it is annoying.  “I sleep in one, and I’m far from being newly hatched, aren’t I?”

Hitoshi begrudgingly agrees.  Hizashi is happy to note that Hitoshi isn’t holding himself as defensively as before.

“What about you rest in our nest with us?” Hizashi asks hopefully.  Now that he knows that Hitoshi’s a juvenile, he can’t help the deep worry catching his breath.  The way he wraps his limbs around himself, in what Hizashi initially thought was an attempt to protect his soft abdomen now just makes him think of that one touch starved hatchling he found during a festival.  He couldn’t remember the day or the weather or even the building, but he’ll never forget how they had been wrapped in their own wings, all shriveled up, mused feathers and dry stuck shed.  They’d been desperately trying to comfort themselves in a poor imitation of a broodnest, where, instead of dozens of younglings converging to huddle together and tangle their limbs with each other, they’d only had themselves and a ratty cloth to cuddle.  Hizashi can’t even imagine how anyone could survive the cold loneliness of an empty nest, of being so invisible no one notices molting feathers and shedding scales.  He’d spend the first half of his life warmed by the sun and other bodies, and the second in Shouta’s limbs, the constant reassurance of someone next to him a balm against his hurts.

Shouta and Hitoshi have the same bewildered expression at his suggestion.  Hitoshi’s glare tells him what the nestling thinks of the idea.  “No.”

The human nestling is fine , Hizashi reminds himself to keep back his urge to convince Hitoshi and his bondmate.  Hitoshi has been alone for a long time.  He’s not going to drop dead suddenly.  Nonetheless, Hizashi tries to press closer.  Humans might not even need physical contact, not like See’krtshes do; they might not even experience touch hunger, although the way Hitoshi always reciprocates his shows of affections and softens under his wing tells him Hitoshi at least enjoys them.

Hitoshi stiffens at the contact, before exhaling loudly and pressing back a little roughly, almost knocking Hizashi over.  The nestling closes his eyes, shoulders tense.
“Alright, alright, you don’t have to rest with us.”  Hizashi forces his eyelids open and tilts his head to the side.  “Try your new nest at least!  I’ll put everything back the way it was if you don’t like it.”

Hitoshi exhales loudly, but climbs into the center of the pillows.  He lays down with a pointed glare, letting his head fall on one of the pillows forming the nest’s edge.

He startles when Hizashi coos loudly at the way Hitoshi’s face squishes from the pillow.  Hizashi hops closer and ruffles his head fur, unable to help himself.  “You’re so cute!”

An offended expression takes over his face.  “This is very… this is very…?”

Hitoshi turns toward Shouta, who suggests, “Condescending.”

“Yes.”  Hitoshi affirmation-shakes his head.  He squints menacingly at Hizashi, but the soft tinges of pink dusting his cheeks betrays his embarrassment.  “Very con-des-cen-ding.”

When all Hizashi can manage is another coo, Hitoshi brings one of the extra covers over his head with a huff and tucks it under him.  One single hand comes out to sign, “Go sleep now.”

It immediately disappears under the covers.  Hizashi struts over to his own cot, crest smugly lifted in Shouta’s direction.  His bondmate nips one of his wings before jumping down into the sunken nest, stretching out over the pillows with a yawn.

Hizashi joins him with a twitter, snuggling between his mate’s warm limbs.  The scarf slithers from under him, displacing him from his comfortable position.  The lights dim and then the scarf coils back around him, pulling him closer to Shouta’s chest.

In the quiet of shifting covers and soft breathing though the dampened floor, Shouta’s breath flutters around his feathers.  The scarf strokes his crest down, one of Shouta’s ears pushed up by a pillow while the other is folded down.  “You’re getting attached.”

It’s not an accusation, despite the flat tone.  Hizashi rubs his beak against the scarf.  “I was already attached.”

Shouta stays silent for a moment.  Softly, he reminds,  “Humans don’t live long.”

It’s Hizashi’s turn to preen Shouta’s fur.  He pushes it out of his bondmates eyes.  “I know.”

All he can see when he closes his eyes is the small stash of food hidden in Hitoshi’s nest.  He can’t help but believe he contributed to Hitoshi’s need to collect food; he shouldn’t have taken so much of the meals when they were both in the cell, not when Hitoshi clearly needed more nutrients than he did.

He definitely should have left more water for Hitoshi.

His tail is lightly squeezed by Shouta’s.  He throws a wing over Shouta’s shoulders and buries his face in his mate’s fur.  Rumbling and the steady beats of his mate’s hearts lull him to sleep.

Shouta represses a sigh when, once more, Hizashi pushes too fast and Hitoshi visibly shuts him out by turning away and pretending to be occupied by one of the mèos’ toys.

While his partner’s attempts to handle Hitoshi with care are commendable, Shouta’s pretty sure any other kit with less control than Hitoshi would have bitten or clawed at Hizashi’s wing a long time ago.

He squeezes some eyedrops to soothe the light burning that has been accumulating from the artificial padd light.  The cooling relief is immediate.  Shouta blinks a few times to disperse it throughout his eyes.

Shouta watches with half-blurry vision as Hizashi casually hops closer to ask Hitoshi what he’s doing.  Hitoshi of course noticed the low-pitched croon tacked to his name that changed his status from ‘Outsider friend’ to ‘Outsider young’.  Even if he hasn’t been told what the croon means, his face folds in affront every time he hears it.

It’s almost his turn to take over supervising Hitoshi.  He grows bored and starts touching the gel on his teeth at best and picks his neck skin at worst.  They’ve also found out that Hitoshi won’t hesitate to slip out of the room to clean the scullery if they don’t actively keep their attention on him.

(He’s surprisingly sneaky for an injured kit, which Shouta would have encouraged if Hitoshi hadn’t been using the skill to do chores of all things.  He should be whining to be coddled.)

They’re still holding on to the hope that they’ll somehow stumble onto someone’s extensive research paper centered around the care of human juveniles.  Hitoshi tries to help, but the information he gives out is mostly useless since he keeps trying to appear more independent.

Until they find a reliable source to either discount or confirm Hitoshi’s information, they’ll veer on the side of caution and have to resort to trying out different strategies and go with whatever sticks.

It’d already be difficult handling a kit without Hitoshi’s background; with everything he’s gone through, Shouta and Hizashi must be doubly careful.

Shouta huffs when he realizes he has been rereading the same paragraph and still has no idea what it’s about.  He scrolls to the beginning of the report and tries to concentrate, but his mind wanders back to Hitoshi.

The possibilities to mess the kit’s psyche are near endless; does he need to nest, like see’krtsh youngs?  Tumble around with other kits to test out limits, like Eer’ahseers’?  What if hunting is an important developmental game and they’ve already stunted his development beyond repair?

Shouta rubs his eyes to try and alleviate the familiar burn.  And that’s without dealing with the entire Feczoit situation.  At least, Hitoshi seems to have bounced back as well as he could have.  He no longer jumps every time he’s startled and can sleep longer tones.  The lines tensing his face are often absent, enough that the skin folds a lot easier when he emotes with his fur brow and eyes.

Shouta breathes out, slow and steady.  The frantic clawing in his brain drops down to a hissing worry he can tame.

Now isn’t the time to get worked up about the developmental milestones Hitoshi is missing, not when Shouta knows most of his need to install climbing infrastructures so Hitoshi can develop his depth perception and muscles adequately—because with those types of paws, Humans have to be built for climbing—is derived from the lack of control he has over Hitoshi’s illness.

There’s nothing to do but wait.  Fretting and ruminating on the issue when it won’t change a thing is illogical.

Glancing at the time, he closes his padd, knowing he won’t be able to be productive with the time he has left.

His spine aches pleasantly when he stretches out.  He pads toward the den, waving away Hizashi’s questioning head tilt with a casual scarf flick.  The storage containers in their den beeps when Shouta opens them.  There, in the back, is stored his collection of yarn, neatly arranged in rows and ready to be used for not’kqing.

(He may have spent the time allotted to his usual nap on thinking up ways to entertain Hitoshi, in between the self recrimination and the shame of his past behaviour.)

He picks a few frames, alongside the thicker yarn he has.  There’s not a lot of colour variety, since he prefers thinner threads, but they’re too breakable for a beginner; especially a human beginner.

When he goes back to the shareroom, yarn and frame carried by his scarf and middle limbs, Shouta ignores Hizashi’s stunned look.  He doesn't know why his partner is so surprised.  He’s never been one for nonsensical customs such as keeping knowledge within a species, let alone keeping it generational, and he’s certainly not going to start quizzing and testing Hitoshi’s worth to teach him something as mundane as not’kqing.

Hitoshi’s curious stare follows him all the way to the low table.  He has his head tilted to the side, the same way Hizashi does when he’s analyzing something.  While it might have elicited vague amusement and disconcertment before, the gesture now pulls something soft and achy that only surfaces when one of the Yamada hatchlings refer to him with that high-pitched-almost-yowl reserved for the flock’s adults that take care of them.  He buries the feeling under a layer of indifference.

Hitoshi’s youth is obvious now that he looks for it.  The disturbing way Hitoshi copies some of Hizashi’s mannerisms, how he keeps stalking Shouta’s partner; they’re the behaviour of an insecure kit trying to imitate and follow after the first adult they’ve packbonded with since their abduction.  The idea that it’s an elaborate ruse to lower their guards briefly flits through his mind, but is quickly batted away like an annoying pest.

“What is that?” Hitoshi asks.  He aims for suspicious, but can’t quite hide his interest.

“Yarn for a not’kq.”  Shouta lines up the spools by colour and texture.  “Like the one hanging in the den, over Hizashi’s vanity.”

It hangs where a mirror would usually be.  Hizashi told him, during the first cycles of their escapades, when they still had that dingy skipper that was one blast away from falling apart, that he never tires of admiring it.  He’d insisted on bringing it to every move, even when Shouta offered to tie him a better one.  His partner is so sentimental. 

Hitoshi lights up in recognition.  He leans closer, eyes following Shouta’s scarf as it works on a rather tenacious tangle.

“You can write down things you want to remember.  Or knot a poem through it.”  The last tangled ropes give under his careful tugging.  “You want to try?”

Hitoshi’s eyes widen for a split click.  “I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you.  It’ll be fun.”  Hitoshi’s face scrunches up, upper limbs braces on the table to get up.  Time to change strategies.  “You’ll be helping me out.”

Hitoshi freezes.  Caught him.

“Helping?” he asks suspiciously.

“It’s an old art from my culture.  If I don’t pass on the skill, it’ll die out.”  It’s not a lie.  Few Eer’ahseers still use this method to write, even fewer take the effort to turn it into art.  Not’kqing has fallen to the wayside once padds were introduced, gaining in popularity because of their ease of use.  The moment tactile technology was implemented and the text-to-speech function refined, not’kqing was bound to lose its appeal, especially since deafness isn't as prevalent as their species’ early blindness.  The once prevalent skill has been relegated to artists and youngling entertainment.  Still, Shouta enjoys the process and he did successfully court his beloved with a not’kqed piece.

“Oh.”  Hitoshi fiddles with the belt of his garment, nervousness wringing the corner of his mouth.  “I will be bad at it.”

“That’s alright.  You’ve never done this before.  I’m not expecting a masterpiece.”  Shouta sits as close as he can without invading Hitoshi’s space.  He has no idea if he’s part of the kit’s pack yet.  He hasn’t been offered a piece of clothing the way Hizashi described it.  “Here, I’ll help you write your name.”

Hizashi flares his crest smugly.  Multiple revolutions of being partners lets Shouta knows he’s being laughed at.  He shoo his partner away with a pointed gesture toward his padd and the accumulating paperwork.

He pushes the yarn closer to Hitoshi, who takes them with a front of reluctance that can’t quite hide his lean-closer interest.  “If you are sure.”

Shouta forces the corner of his lips to lift and he squints in encouragement.  Having people display human expressions will be good for Hitoshi.  “Usually, we choose colours or textures that stick to a theme.  Does your name mean something in Humanish?”

Hitoshi’s budding enthusiasm falls.  Shouta is quick to continue, feeling like he misstepped, “However, it isn’t necessary.  It’s not uncommon to simply use colours that are pleasing to the eye or preferred textures.  That’s what I do in some of my own works.”

Hitoshi keeps his head down, shoulders lifted to the side of his neck.

Shouta falters at the sudden turn, unsure at the nature of his mistake.  Is it culturally insensitive to ask a name’s meaning?  “I also enjoy using yarns that represent who I am or what I strive to be.”  Silence.  “Which one do you think suits me more?”

Hitoshi shifts before finally lifting his gaze.  “What do they mean?”

Shouta almost lets the relief show, but he keeps a tight grip on his tail and ears.  Hitoshi seems to be able to read them more easily than his scarf.  “This one is intelligence, cunning or fast learner depending on the way it’s tied.”

Hitoshi head-shakes up and down as Shouta explains, fur brow wrinkled in concentration.  Once Shouta finishes speaking, Hitoshi hovers his hand over a few spools, glancing up furtively to look for a reaction.  When Shouta doesn’t give him one, he points towards a spool holding dark green coarse yarn.  Strength, leaning toward intimidation.

Shouta’s slow waving tail stills, an uncomfortable pit sitting in his stomach.  He is intimidating, takes pride, especially when poachers cower at his sight.

It shouldn’t be the first thing a kit thinks of him.  Shouta doesn’t want to be someone who’s considered intimidating to a youngling.  He’s always strived his best to be everything he would have wanted an adult to be in his youth.  Someone comforting, steady, and warm.  Someone reliable.

Instead, he kept a cold distance, didn’t even notice the creeping progression of Hitoshi’s sickness, and never tried to make Hitoshi feel safe.

He pushed to leave Hitoshi in the life shuttle for the sole crime of being a Deathworlder.

Shouta can’t meet Hitoshi’s gaze; for once, it’s not because of the innate wrongness of the act.  He doesn’t deserve to be upset, not when he’s the one who's wronged Hitoshi.

Hitoshi, who now watches him with wary eyes, quickly places the spool back down and picks up the one beside it.  Joyous-excitement.

Hitoshi laughs, the staccato exhales nervous and too light compared to his usual bark-like laugh to be genuine.  “I mean this one.  Matches better.”

Hitoshi keeps his gaze on Shouta’s upper limbs and scarf.  He winds tighter and tighter the longer Shouta takes to respond, until he’s one breath away from fleeing.  Shouta forces a human smile on his face as he swallows around the tight self-recrimination behind his throat.  “No, you were right.  It describes me well.”

He takes the green yarn, ignores Hitoshi’s almost imperceptible flinch that would have horrifyingly reassured him not too long ago.  The spool weighs more than it should.

Uneasiness rolls off Hitoshi in waves.  Hizashi keeps sneaking furtive looks toward them, ready to whisk the kit away the moment he gets too distressed.

“I can show you some basic knots first.”  Shouta needs to wipe off that pinched expression.  He unravels some of the fuzzy blue yarn for Hitoshi, but keeps it in his grip.  “If you don’t want to continue, we can find something else to do.”

Hitoshi’s shoulders go up again.  He rocks to the right, then the left, before signing, “No, this is okay.  I want to do this.”

The apprehensive tightness tells another story, but Shouta doesn’t have the courage to give him back to Hizashi and leave this unstable ground between them.

“Alright.  But if you want to stop, I won’t mind.  I know it’s not for everyone.”

Instead of answering, Hitoshi swipes the blue yarn out of his scarf, all puffed up courage.  Shouta forces his lips to curl up and squints to show approval.  Hitoshi recreates the way Shouta placed his green yarn over the frame.  Shouta doesn’t miss the way he glances back at him frequently when he thinks Shouta isn’t looking.

Choosing to ignore it, Shouta goes through a few demonstrations, at first only giving out advice, progressing to gently nudging Hitoshi’s hands into the right positions.

Hitoshi’s fine dexterity makes him a better student than Hizashi, who kept cutting and fraying the string when he bit them too hard.  It’s impressive, but it also means Shouta has to wonder if his thin bony fingers are a normal human feature or another sign of his sickness.

Shouta puts it aside.  There’s no use dwelling and ruminating on such things when there’s nothing they can do without unknowingly worsening Hitoshi’s condition.

Once Hitoshi is comfortable tying basic knots, Shouta unties Hitoshi’s messy practice-knots and moves onto the next step.  “Do you want to choose what yarn you want to use?”

Hitoshi doesn’t immediately shut down, but he starts to scratch his neck absently.  Shouta refrains from chidding him.

“I think these ones suit you.”  Shouta pushes a fuzzy rope that matches his head fur and a defined ocre.  Compassion-loyalty.  Determination-bravery-resilience.

Hitoshi’s eyes narrow as he recalls their meaning.  Shouta sees the moment he realizes, because a pleased-embarrassed pink rises to his cheeks.  He waves his hand a few times as if chasing away Shouta’s statement.  “No, no, no.”

“You don’t think it matches you?” Shouta teases.

He’s struck down by a half-hearted glare that loses all of its weight because of the pink splattered all over his face and neck.  Hitoshi grumbles something in Humanish Shouta can’t understand, but he pulls the yarns closer to himself with a pleased shift.  “What do I do after?”

After an explanation of what a base string is, Shouta lays a few on a wooden frame so they’re all parallel to each other.  “We tie them all like this to create a canvas.  Now you start with a simple tie, like I showed you.”

Hitoshi follows his instructions.  He gets distracted and forgets easily, but Shouta has seen much worse students.  Shouta loves his partner, but he still hasn’t forgiven him for snapping almost an entire skein of gold thread beyond use.

Shouta has the time to finish a more elaborate not’kq by the time Hitoshi lets out an almost-crow of success.  He holds his not’kq up, almost shaking in excitement.  “Finished!”

It’s crooked on the top, evening out the further down it goes as Hitoshi had been more consistent with his tension.  Shouta runs his scarf over the whole creation and is pleasantly surprised when he finds that it’s actually readable.

He’s taken by the urge to keep it.  He can already imagine it; when he’ll be older and his vision will fail, he’ll have it hanging near the den’s hatch, where he’ll be able to read an uneven ‘Hitoshi’ every time he passes through.

Feet shift against the ground.  Shouta looks up to find Hitoshi staring at him in apprehension, upper limbs crossed over his front with his hands tucked away.

Shouta is suddenly hit by Hitoshi’s actual age.  Hitoshi is a kit.  An actual kit, vulnerable and unsure in ways younglings are, even when masked by his defensive walls and sometimes prickly exterior.  He knew objectively, of course.  Hitoshi acts, smells, and looks—once Shouta sees past his deathworlder features—young.  The emotional implications simply caught up.

(He’d joked about leaving Hitoshi on an abandoned moon.)

“Good job,” Shouta praises, a little softer than he intends.

Hitoshi brightens, before wrestling his mouth and brow fur into a scowl.  The two expressions war until a teeth-baring smile stretches his face out.

“There’s nowhere else to hang it,” Shouta signs, ignoring Hizashi’s smug feathers to straighten the not’kq.

With faux innocence, Hizashi asks, “I thought teaching how to not’kq was supposed to be passed down to your own offsprings.”

“Not’kqing is useful for developing fine motor skills.  I would have chosen anything else if I knew you’d act this way.”

Hizashi singsongs a teasing whistle, bringing a wing over his head to simulate Shouta’s fur.  “You’re getting attached too fast Hizashi my dear, you’ve barely known him my lovely Hizash—AGH!“

His tail smacks directly into his partner’s face, bowling him over, when Shouta turns a little too fast to hold the not’kq up to see if it would look better hanging on the other wall.  Totally by accident, of course.

Somehow, his partner still manages to look smug as he spits out fur out of his beak.

“It was the perfect activity to keep his hands busy so he won’t touch his teeth and it occupied him for tones while providing mental stimulation,” Shouta explains.  Hizashi repeats ‘mental stimulation’ with a baffled expression.  The tip of his tail curls and uncurls every time he looks at Hitoshi’s creation.  “It was a purely logical decision.”

“It was a purely logical decision,” Hizashi mocks, rumbling low to imitate his growl.  “I’m never influenced by my emotions and I’m never illogica—AGH!“

Shouta calibrates their ship for another warp.  He ignores Hitoshi, who’s glaring holes into the console and looks one word away from biting; in short, he looks like a sulking deathworlder kit who’s been told they can't continue their ship flying lessons.

He'd taken the news worse than expected.  They’re so used to Hitoshi being relatively easy going that they hadn’t expected him to protest that much.

It’s good.  Hitoshi’s acting his age.

“You're strapped in well, lil' listener?”  They’ve adjusted the restraints so Hitoshi’s neck is better supported and added two straps that criss-cross across his chest. 

The look Hitoshi sends is chilling.  His partner has not stopped cooing and using that tone reserved for younglings every time he speaks with Hitoshi.  It’s an interesting choice, especially since Hitoshi has noticed the change and does not seem to appreciate it at the best of times.

Shouta has to keep his scarf reeled in to not expose his amusement.

“Alright, alright, just making sure,” Hizashi signs, tilting his head down to appease Hitoshi.

Hitoshi looks away with an annoyed furrow.  “I can fly the ship.”

Here they go again.  Shouta goes through his mental checklist.  The generator is at 500 units and steadily climbing.  The hatches are all secure.  The coolers are at an appropriate temperature.  “No flying ships until you’re older.”

The restraints are clipped in.  The cameras are functioning. 

“I’m res-pon-si-ble.  Not like other youngs.”  And they’re back to bargaining.  “You did not care before.  Did not notice my age.  Because I am mature.  So I can fly a ship.”

“It’s still no.  You already know more than other kits your age.”

In the corner of his eyes, Hitoshi suddenly settles down, his sullen posture fading away.  “Okay.  No more learning.”

It halts Shouta in his tracks.  He leaves his scarf on the console to remind himself of where he was. 

“Okay?  Just like that?” Hizashi signs in bewilderment.  He’s tugging on his own restraints.  Shouta’s partner is done which means he can take care of the conversation.

“Yes.  Too young.”  Hitoshi makes his eyes go up and brings them back down in a semi-circle.  He exhales loudly.  “Fine.”

Shouta realizes Hitoshi’s plan when he catches the kit studying what his scarf is doing, fingers twitching in almost-gestures to encode the information.

Shouta huffs, half amusement, half exasperation.  “Why do you want to know how to fly a ship anyways?”

“From who else I am going to learn?” Hitoshi asks, with a blank unamused expression.  He’s signing slowly, as if speaking with a kit.  “When I leave, I am stuck after?”

“When you leave?” Hizashi asks.

Hitoshi’s brow fur tilts down, wrinkling the skin around his eyes.  “You said, before.  When I finish knowing how to use the dehydrator and fly a ship.  To explore space,” Hitoshi spits out bitterly.

“That was before we knew you were a youngling.”  Hizashi reaches out a wing to brush against his shoulder with a sad squawk.  “Were you worried about that the whole time?”

“No,” Hitoshi denies, but he relaxes marginally.  A pause.  “I stay here?  Really?”

Shouta has to look away.  His scarf strains to coil back into his body at the desperate and so very hopeful shine in Hitoshi’s eyes.

“Of course.”  Hizashi goes all soft when Hitoshi finally leans into his outstretched wing.  His tone turns teasing and mischievous.  “You’re just a little hatchling.”

“Not a hatchling and not little,” huffs Hitoshi between Hizashi’s ministrations.  Despite his words, he melts under Hizashi’s grooming.  Beneath the shy blushing and the squinting, he, for once, looks pleased by the attention he’s receiving.

Shouta’s hearts go fond when Hizashi’s feathers keep puffing up.  He goes over their trajectory for the last time when a ping comes in.

Chiyo.

He opens it in trepidation.  The only reason Hizashi doesn’t throw himself onto the console is because of Hitoshi accidentally pining his wing to his jump seat.

DE CHI.  DEATW’S SX CONCORD MANY DEFIC.  GIV 1 CAPS PO TID.  ETA?  OV.

Shouta feels unnoticed tension leak from his spine.  He didn’t necessarily think Chiyo would turn them away, even if her patient is a Human, but it’s a relief nonetheless.  The replicator recipe that’s attached to the message is copied thrice in different places.  Just in case.

“We’ll synthesize it once we finish the warp,” Shouta announces, once Hizashi finished summarizing the message to Hitoshi.  He itches to go through the file, to see exactly what the cure is.

Shouta finishes his checklist so they can start the warp.  There’s no use sending back a ping; they’ll arrive before any message gets to Chiyo.  The fast acceleration presses them back in their seat, the weightless drop marks the moment they pass through the warp, and then, after several long-stretched clicks, the lights switch back to their usual setting.

As soon as they've gone through the appropriate safety measures, Hizashi jumps out of his seat and runs out of the pilot area.  Shouta isn’t as rushed as his partner, Hitoshi still in the process of unbuckling himself, but he works efficiently to assure his mèos’ safety.  He frees them after scenting them, letting them run after Hizashi.  An annoyed growly noise makes him look over at Hitoshi, who’s struggling with the new restraints and looks one click away from outright ripping the straps off.

“Let me look at that.”

Hitoshi gives up his fight against the harness with a huge exhale and goes so limp, he’d slip right out if it weren’t for the harness keeping him upright.  One of the buckles needs to be squeezed in two different places to release.

It isn’t until Hitoshi lets out a curious sound that Shouta realizes he’s purring, has been doing it the entire time in an attempt to settle Hitoshi down.  On impulse, he messes up Hitoshi’s head fur.

Hitoshi (very gently) bats his scarf away with a glare, but Shouta doesn’t miss the way he had gone wide eyed and momentarily melted into his touch for half a click.  Shouta watches as Hitoshi climbs onto the repurposed gurney and goes to find Hizashi with an annoyed huff, all while trying to groom his fur back into place with his fingers.

He’d previously attributed Hitoshi’s odd reaction to touch to his stint in the Feczoits’ claws or to the human sociocultural context surrounding physical affection.  However, Hitoshi always melts into a puddle once he gets over his surprise, always seems to lean unconsciously toward Hizashi.  When the mèos are in his upper limbs, he holds them as close as he can without hurting them, keeping them pressed on his front.  If he isn’t getting affection from who he considers his pack, he has his arms folded around himself, fingers stroking his own elbows and flanks.

Too many of Hitoshi’s behaviour or remarks had plucked uncomfortably at his brain, even before he knew Hitoshi was a mere kit.

And the way Hitoshi is so recalcitrant to share about his home life is concerning.  There are, of course, species that take the care of juveniles very seriously such as Rii-wa⥀ns, to the point no one has ever seen a rii-wa⥀n kit, but Shouta has a feeling it isn’t the same situation for Humans.

At the very least, they’d manage to deduce that Hitoshi was part of a creche, with a high juvenile to adult ratio, but any additional questions on the subject only leads to Hitoshi’s shamed silence.

“Lil’ listener, take this, yeah?”

Shouta steps into the scullery to see Hizashi give Hitoshi a small pill.  He pops it into his mouth and swallows it before Hizashi has the time to offer him some water mixed with jam, something he's seen his partner do with Yamada kits to ease the taste of medicine.

Hizashi barely falters and gives the sweetened water to Hitoshi even if there’s no use to it now, who takes it with happily bared teeth.  At the very least, Hitoshi’s an easily satisfied kit.

…Maybe they should make sure Hitoshi’s trust isn’t as easy to buy.  Any stranger with an enticing snack could lure Hitoshi away.

Then again, whoever tries to snatch Hitoshi would be in more danger than the kit.  Hitoshi is more than capable of defending himself, and isn’t like Eraserhead and Present Mic are easy opponents.

Shouta glances at Hizashi with a put-upon expression when he notices his partner watching Hitoshi intently, as if waiting for him to spontaneously be healed.  Hitoshi doesn’t notice, attention fixed on his sweetened water.  He brings the glass to his face to take a curious sip, before his posture straightens.  “Very good.  Thank you.”

Shouta has to keep his amusement from showing when Hizashi almost floats from the compliment, as if Hitoshi has just accomplished his first aerial trick and personally dedicated it to Shouta’s partner.

Shouta lays down to watch over his partner and Hitoshi, putting in a reminder for Hitoshi’s drug regimen, despite knowing there would be no chance for them to forget.

Hizashi already seems taken by the idea of being Hitoshi’s guardian; when speaking to Hitoshi, a softer croon had slipped out, one that Shouta usually only hears from parents in the Yamada flock.

Shouta wouldn’t mind.  He has already accepted Hitoshi’s presence long ago and they were already on the track to become, at the very least, friendly acquaintances.  It’s jarring to have their roles destabilized so fast when they were already on unstable terrain, but Shouta has always been adaptable.

The main caveat is that they’re job is far from kit friendly.  If they are to continue caring for Hitoshi, they’d have to step back from UA, like Toshinori.  Or find someone to watch over him while they’re on missions.

They’re getting older.  Maybe it’s time to slow down.

Shouta shakes his head.  Hitoshi’s physical health takes precedence for now.  If the replicated medecine doesn’t work, there’s only one cycle left until they get to Chiyo.

Besides, they’re the most suited guardians for now.  They already have his trust and Hizashi as Hitoshi’s packmate.

Keeping Hitoshi would only be logical.

Chapter Text

Hizashi automatically steadies his wings when the ship rumbles, as Chiyo’s platform latches onto their docking stations.  They unbuckle from their seats, Hitoshi being the last one to unstrap himself; he has almost twice the amount of buckles as Hizashi or Shouta, and his fingers keep shaking.

Hizashi itches to help him, but he knows Hitoshi isn’t likely to appreciate it, especially since it hasn’t even been a feep yet.  Another feep goes by, with the number of straps barely dwindling.  He’s about to step in when Shouta moves in front of him, rubbing his chin all over Hizashi’s crest in an obvious attempt to distract him.  Nevertheless, Hizashi reciprocates his bondmate’s affection, pushing into Shouta’s touch.

Shouta rubs his chin against Hizashi’s brows one last time before he approaches Hitoshi, who is finally free from his seat’s restraints.  Shouta’s scarf hesitantly reaches over, slowly enough for the nestling to back away if he wanted.  He doesn’t, but his eyes are huge, brows tilted as he watches Shouta with barely concealed suspicion.  When Shouta’s scarf ruffles Hitoshi’s fur, the nestling’s face-skin wrinkles until his features scrunches up.  The contact barely lasts a click before Shouta shuffles away, ears stiff.  “It won’t be long.  I’ll give you the all clear.”

Hizashi watches in amusement as Shouta walks away awkwardly, leaving Hitoshi bewildered and with fur sticking out in every direction.  When Hizashi lets out a laugh, Hitoshi starts grumbling, hands coming up to self-preen himself in an attempt to tame his fur.

It only makes the mess worse.  Hizashi lets out another laugh, before tugging Hitoshi onto his repurposed stretcher and leading him toward the resting quarters.  He rummages through Shouta’s storage and pulls out one of his mate’s grooming brushes with a crow.  Hopping closer to Hitoshi, he lifts it silently. 

To Hizashi’s disappointment, Hitoshi takes the brush and starts grooming himself instead of letting Hizashi do it, even though he’s preened Hitoshi countless of times before.

Hitoshi huffs loudly when Hizashi flies onto the stretcher, but he gives him some space by folding his legs.

“Hey, gentle!” Hizashi scolds when Hitoshi rips the brush through a difficult mess of knots.  “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Hizashi didn’t think Hitoshi could surprise him anymore, but as if to prove him wrong, the youngling pulls out his tongue with squinting eyes, before resuming his grooming.

Feeling off balance, Hizashi doesn’t even squawk when Hitoshi rips more of his fur while grooming.

It’s… it’s probably not an aggressive gesture, right?  Hitoshi’s face has settled back into his resting position, and his lower limbs are still folded and relaxed.  A gesture to show his displeasure, maybe?  

Well, nothing like the present to test the theory.  Hizashi, when Hitoshi once again grooms himself too harshly, hesitantly pulls his tongue as far as he can, and squints.  “Be more gentle.”

He stays in that position for a few clicks, before closing his beak.  Hitoshi stares at him blankly, brush held up (long enough for Hizashi to doubt himself), before a loud hacking noise bursts out.  He quickly brings a hand to his mouth, eyes wide in surprise, but his shoulders shake and just as quickly, Hitoshi is bent over, brush forgotten to the side as he holds his abdomen and makes noises that sound like he’s choking on something.

“You—!”  Hitoshi tries to do the gesture again, barely pulls his tongue out, and promptly falls on his side, body wracked with that painful sounding noise.

“Hitoshi!”  Hizashi lowers the stretcher so Hitoshi won’t hurt himself if he falls, hopping toward his head with anxious fluttering wings.  Hitoshi’s face is flushed, eyes shut tight, and for a brief moment of blinding panic, Hizashi thinks he’s convulsing.  Hizashi grabs for his padd, but before he calls for Shouta, the shaking dies down.  Hizashi barely has the time to recover before the youngling’s eyes open to make contact with Hizashi’s, and the noises start up again.

Those awful choking breathless noises, Hizashi realizes, is laughter.

He falls down, limbs too softened by relief.  One wing is pressed on his torso, willing his racing heart to slow, while the other can’t seem to let go of the padd.

Now that he recognizes it for what it is, Hizashi can’t bring himself to do more than lay down and hope that not too many revolutions were shaved off his life.  He’s pretty sure at least ten feathers won’t grow back in the next molt. 

The laughter dies down, transitioning off into more familiar cough-like noises.

An invisible weight settles on him and a shadow looms over Hizashi’s body.  When he opens his eyes, Hitoshi is crouched next to him, his worried face hovering above his.

“Hizashi?”  A hand nudges his talons.  “You are okay?”

“Yeah, lil’ listener.”  Hizashi feels like he just finished looting seven overstaffed ships, but he doesn’t wish to worry Hitoshi, or worse, make him feel self-conscious of his own laugh like he seems to be about his human talons that he keeps shaving off to the quick.  “Just got sleepy.”

Hitoshi’s face scrunches up.  His gaze falls to his feet, a hand nervously picking at the covers.  “Are you—“ he stops, fingers pulling the edge of the covers tighter.  “Was not laughing at you to be mean.”

His hunched shoulders and whitening mouth is a sharp contrast to the flailing worry-free state he was in earlier.

Hizashi immediately croons in reassurance, patting Hitoshi’s hands.  He didn’t mean to bring the mood down.  “Aww, I know.  I was only worried…”

An idea pops in his mind.  He lets his words trail.

“Worried?” Hitoshi leans forward, his fur brow crinkling further together.

Hizashi pushes himself up, his feathers flaring out in exaggerated worry.  He makes a show of looking all around.  Hitoshi follows his gaze, head twisting at the same time as he is.  It’s absolutely adorable.  “It’s not a swear, is it?”

A blank look, and then Hitoshi straight up cackles, high pitched and more than relieved.

“You are not funny!” Hitoshi signs, teeth bared in amusement.  Hizashi squawks when he gets poked slightly too hard. 

“I’m serious!”  Hizashi pokes Hitoshi back.  Even though he has blunted talon sheaths, he curves them so he doesn’t risk scratching the nestling.  Although, on further thought, he probably shouldn’t encourage that behaviour.  His side aches.  “What if someone sees me swear?  What would they think of me then, huh?”

Something about those two sentences makes Hitoshi’s eyes squintier, an aura of amusement almost visible around him.  He cautiously follows Hitoshi’s hands, but he luckily doesn’t repeat the poking gesture. 

“Because heroes don’t swear,” he signs solemnly, barely holding onto the expression before he bares his teeth again.  One of his hands has two digits that flex during the word ‘heroes’.

Before Hizashi can ask about the human gesture—and push through the reminder of his lie—the indicator lights flash in a small pattern; the decompression chamber, now serving as a passageway between their ship and Chiyo’s, has been reopened.  Shouta is back.

The previous mirth is completely absent from Hitoshi’s gestures when he asks, “We go now?”

He unfolds his lower limbs, swinging them over the edge of the stretcher.

“Let’s wait for what Shouta will say, alright?”

Hitoshi’s lower limb gives small repeated kicks while he rests his chin on his hands, his face skin squishing up and emphasizing the puffiness under his eyes.  They’ve only been able to give him two of the pills Chiyo recommended before arriving at her meetup spot, but Hizashi still feels crawling disappointment that nothing seems to have improved in Hitoshi’s health.  He still has those skin lesions all over his lower limbs.

Hitoshi snatches Lamp up to pet her while Hizashi checks the cameras with his padd.  Half a feep later, a hand waves in the corner of his eye.  From the corner of his peripheral vision, he sees how Hitoshi’s lower limbs are tucked against his chest as he nervously strokes her fur.

“You think my teeth can be fixed?”

Hizashi swallows the immediate instinct to agree.  He doesn’t want to lie.

“Well, lil’ listener, I, uh—”

Fortunately, Shouta comes back before Hizashi has to answer.  “She’s ready to see you.”

Hitoshi’s nervousness increases drastically; his back goes stiff as he hunches over Lamp, his eyes narrow and his petting becomes more fervent.  He looks more like he’s going into battle than to a healer’s station.

Hizashi gently knocks his sheathed talons against Hitoshi’s, baring his teeth to smile.  It doesn’t have the intended effect; Hitoshi takes a long look at him and Shouta, before squinting toward the decompression chamber.  He shifts to put himself slightly in front of Hizashi.

Shame rushes through him, creeping through the tip of his wings.  Despite the thick plumage he’s adorning, he feels naked and vulnerable.

Hizashi pretends he doesn’t notice Hitoshi’s attempt to keep him from harm and weaves back to the front with ruffled feathers.

“Doing alright, lil’ listener?”

Hitoshi agreement-shakes his head, doing his eye rolling gesture that means exasperation.  However, his gestures are jerky and his words terse.  “Yes.”

Hizashi puffs out, trying to reassure him. He has to hide a wince when the fast movement pulls at his side, where Hitoshi poked him. “She won’t hurt you.  But if she does, we’ll take care of it, yeah?”

Hitoshi’s dubious expression shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.  Hizashi gives him another human smile and is glad he hasn’t mastered it yet; there’s no way Hitoshi can tell how strained it is.  He ignores how Shouta’s scarf twitches toward his lashing tail.

As soon as they near the decompression chamber, Hizashi rushes to the panel to make sure the connection between their ship is holding firm and the connecting chamber is secure.  With his back turned, he takes the occasion to smooth out the feathers on his front and his wings.

As they head out, Hitoshi straightens as he passes the hatch’s threshold, tilting his head so his neck and the underside of his chin is exposed as if to signal that he’s so confident in his strength, he doesn’t need to protect vulnerable areas.  It’s all fake bravado, but it does make Hitoshi look sharper, even with having to be pushed on the repurposed gurney.  Especially when he narrows his eyes.

The floor vibrates to Chiyo’s particular gait, an unhurried clop, followed by two almost-overlapping tap-clop.  Hitoshi is as tense as one of Hizashi’s string instruments when they’re on the edge of snapping.

It takes an eternity, but when she finally comes into view, Hitoshi visibly stutters, the aggression falling away almost completely.  It’s clear he didn’t expect her to appear so unthreatening.

(Hizashi can’t help but think that, with the fur covering almost all of her body, her smaller size, and the way the face plates lining her eyes make them appear bigger, Hitoshi probably considers her species cute.

He hopes Hitoshi doesn’t start cooing.  Hizashi knows that, while her strength is not comparable to that of a Human, her hooves—especially the prosthetic one—are hard enough that with a particularly strong kick and a lucky angle, she’d be able to break bones.

He eyes Hitoshi’s lowering shoulders and Chiyo’s calm demeanor.  She probably won’t kick a youngling if they offend her by mistake.  Hizashi makes the executive decision to keep quiet.)

“I’m guessing you are Hitoshi?” she asks in Standard.  Her antenna lowers in a friendly greeting, her face plates shifting open to expose her eyes even further.

Hitoshi’s eyes flick from her three walking limbs, lingering on the prosthetic for a click, to the padd she’s holding with her grasping front limb, before turning back to her face again.  Chiyo doesn’t even twitch, meeting Hitoshi’s eyes straight on, although her entirely black eyes hide where her gaze truly rests.  He answers with a hesitant, “Yes?”

“Excellent!  Come now, dear, let’s see what’s troubling you.”  She turns around, leaving her back exposed to Hitoshi and makes her way further into her station.

Hitoshi looks at Hizashi with wide eyes, making a subtle gestures toward his own legs.  Hizashi waves him on with an encouraging whistle, unsure whether Hitoshi is confused by the prosthetic or the fact that Chiyo’s one of the only species to be a triped.  He’ll answer Hitoshi’s questions later.

Hitoshi nods and the grip on his gurney loosens, his fingers slowly gaining their colour back.  His face settles into a hard-to-read expression.  He pushes himself deeper in the station, his tense shoulders and braced legs the only indication he’s uncomfortable with the situation.

Chiyo leads them to her exam room.  She inputs some data in the panel near the door—fixed into the wall at a height that is clearly catered to Chiyo’s species—before opening the door.

Hizashi can’t help flaring his feathers in surprise; the walls of the exam room display a clearing near a forest with swaying colourful flowers peppering the base of the exam cot.  The ceiling is a blue brighter than any sky Hizashi has ever witnessed, stray fluffy clouds floating by, making the usually almost-harsh lighting seem naturally produced by a double-star zenith.

The small exhale Hitoshi lets out betrays his surprise.  He takes in the room, head tilting here and there as he studies the wall displays.  His attention is briefly tugged between Chiyo and the room, but once he transfers onto the exam cot, where a thick folded cover softens the hard metal, he’s fixated on the moving grass and small hints of critter running amongst it.

Chiyo is too much of a professional to look smug.  She approaches Hitoshi from the side, leaving her face plates open.  “I’m Chiyo.  I’m a licensed interspecies healer, specialized in mammals.  Eraserhead has explained some of it to me, but why don’t you tell me what worries you the most?”

She stays exactly out of reach from Hitoshi, strategically placed on the side to leave him a clear path to the exit.  Despite these precautions, Hitoshi’s fingers curl up nervously.

“Teeth are broken,” he says, pointing at them to make his point.  Almost as if it were an insignificant detail—but not quite, with the way he glances at Hizashi before saying it—he adds, “Hurts also.”

Chiyo bobs her antenna in acknowledgment.  “I think I have a solution for that.  We’ll discuss it later.  What else?”

Emboldened, Hitoshi lifts the fabric over his legs.  “This.”

Chiyo peers at the skin lesions, pressing them with her hooveless limb.  She makes a contemplative noise.  “Your legs hurt?”

Hitoshi disagreement-shakes his head.  “Shouta and Hizashi say the bones are broken.”  He tacks on mulishly, “Does not hurt that much.”

Hizashi gapes at him.  “Doesn’t hurt that—“

A stomp interrupts him.  Chiyo’s antenna has perked up in disapproval.  “It’s Hitoshi’s turn to speak.”  When she turns to a spooked Hitoshi, her voice is gentle, “Continue, dearie.”

Hitoshi’s expression wars between satisfaction and wanting to come to Hizashi’s defend.  It settles into an uncomfortable crisped teeth baring.

Shouta’s tail lashes in tandem with Hizashi, but they have no reason to worry; Chiyo shifts her face plates until her white flat beak is exposed, mimicking the shape of a human smile better than Shouta or Hizashi ever could.  

When Hitoshi still doesn’t answer, she asks, “What about your head?  Does it hurt?”

Hizashi puffs up in consternation when Hitoshi answers with, “Not a lot.”

She makes him elaborate, before continuing her questions; is he tired, does his chest hurt, has his hair always been brittle?

On and on it goes, each answer making what little reassurance Hizashi had left wither away. 

Chiyo only hums, but Hizashi’s feathers pick apart the sound until it finds wisps of judgment and amplify them.

She makes a few notes, before closing her padd.  “Can you show me your lower limbs again?”  She takes out some folded covers and places them in Hitoshi’s reach.  “You can use these to cover up.”

The garment is lifted again.  Chiyo pokes and prods, squeezing Hitoshi’s knobby joints and moving them around.

“Can you take off the rest of your garment?”

Hitoshi squirms at the request, repeatedly smoothing and wrinkling the fabric.

“Would you prefer if Hizashi and Shouta weren’t here?” Chiyo suggests.

Hizashi barely takes a step back when Hitoshi’s head snaps up, mouth pulled down in distress.  His upper limb twitches out, as if to grab onto Hizashi.  He’s quick to sign, all nerves, “No thank you.  You can stay here.  If you want.”

Despite his words, his other limb is clutching the edge of his garment down, the vessels around his face vasodilating from embarrassment.

Chiyo’s face plates shift in a pulse pattern as she watches Hitoshi.  She taps on her padd to open a panel in the wall, before pulling out a curtain with small stylized drawings of mainstream pets running through the bottom.

“Would this be better?  They’ll just be on the other side.”

Hitoshi inspects the curtain, before agreement-shaking his head.  The next moment, they’re separated from the nestling by cloth.

Hizashi raps his sheathed talons on the ground, makes meaningless conversation with Shouta while using more noise than he usually does.  He has the impression Hitoshi feels more secure when he’s able to track their position and with his vision of them cut off, Hizashi tries to compensate with noise.

On the other side, Hitoshi alternates between staying absolutely still and shifting in place, the vibrations of his movements differentiated from Chiyo’s by the way they’re muted by the covers.

It feels like forever, or maybe Hizashi’s quick to grow nervous when it involves the nestling, but the curtain is finally drawn back to reveal Hitoshi in one piece and expression unchanged except for the slightly ruffled hair.

“So?” Hizashi asks, impatiently hopping from one limb to another.  “Is Hitoshi going to be alright?  I know you said it was a vitamin deficiency, but is there something more going on?”

Another panel opens with a few taps on a padd.  To Hizashi’s growing dread, unfamiliar equipment and tools are revealed.  “What is all of that?”

Chiyo casually starts laying them on a tray.  “I need to run a few tests.  As I’ve explained to Hitoshi, I’m going to draw some blood with this”—her face skulk shifts toward an instrument with multiple vials inserted along its body and a transparent open tube at one end—“and we’re going to do a spit and urine sample.”

Blood?  Hizashi didn't even know that was still a practice.  He shifts closer to Hitoshi, touching his lower limb with his wing.

He barely refrains from squawking when Chiyo lifts the instrument up and tests the trigger; a retracted needle appears in the transparent tube.

“Isn’t it going to hur—” Shouta‘s tail flick toward Hitoshi as he remembers his presence,“…be uncomfortable?”

Chiyo’s face skulk doesn’t move, but Hizashi can feel how unimpressed she is.  “There will be numbing.”

She lines the needle to Hitoshi’s upper limb.

“Is it really necessary?” Hizashi asks.  He climbs onto the cot so he can preen Hitoshi’s fur as comfort.  “Can’t you scan him, like you do for us?”

Chiyo’s face plates close for a click, obscuring her features, before opening back up.  “I need to have his blood analyzed because the system doesn’t have a database for Humans.  It’s such a small quantity that he won’t even notice.  Besides, it’s no worse than basic inoculation.”

Still, Hizashi can’t help but fret and worry.  Wouldn’t it hurt more, since Hitoshi only has naked skin?  He doesn't have the time to ask the question when the needle sinks into Hitoshi’s limb.  Red blood slowly fills the vials.

As soon as the needle retracts and a steri-film is applied, Hizashi covers Hitoshi’s upper limb with his wing so he won’t see the pin prick mark, a low croon rising up his sternum.

He’s quickly shaken off, Hitoshi’s unamused expression signing exasperatedly, “I am fine.”

The blood analysis takes as long as Hitoshi needs to spit into a vial and go fill another with urine, which he hands over with such a bright red face that Hizashi worries he’ll start bleeding again.  Fortunately, the mottled pink slowly fades away without any incident.

The first sign of trouble comes when Chiyo tells Hitoshi she’s going to look at his teeth.  And for that, she’ll have to dissolve the hardened paste covering them.

She gives him a fast-acting analgesic, before instructing him to swish the dissolving agent in his mouth.  

“Are you sure it’s going to work?” Hizashi asks, pointing at the analgesic’s general direction.  He doesn’t dare let his gaze off Hitoshi, in case he has a bad reaction. 

Chiyo taps the floor with her prosthetic limb.  Hizashi has the feeling that if Hitoshi wasn’t present, she’d have lightly whacked him with it.  “You’re not the only one who can do some research.  Did you think I was sitting and doing nothing since I received that message of yours?”

Hizashi is quick to take note of the molecule and dosage she uses, in case Hitoshi needs some pain relief in the future.  If pulling out his padd gives him a modicum of distance between him and her limbs, that’s an added benefit.

Hitoshi spits everything out, baring his teeth to show them.  The moment his teeth touch each other, he winces, paws brought to his face as his eyes squint in pain.

Chiyo jumps into action and sprays a numbing agent in Hitoshi’s mouth.  His breathing slows, and eventually, Hitoshi’s hands fall away.  He’s more careful when he moves his jaws. 

She makes him rince his teeth with an instrument that shoots out cleaning product—which he has to spit back into a cup so it can be analyzed—directing him from a few tails away when his fingers dig into the exam cot as the sight of the cleaning tool.  She gives him another dose of painkiller before showing him how to turn on the deeper cleaning setting.

“From my knowledge, there seems to be no way to rebuild the dental tissue with our current technology.  I’m going to scan them to form a 3D model, so I can provide you with a prosthesis which will help with the pain, bite, and aesthetic. Then, we’ll put on the same hardening product as earlier.”

Hizashi is disappointed and devastated the Feczoits managed to permanently mark Hitoshi.  At least, Hitoshi isn't too upset about it, laying down without questions and gingerly opening his mouth.  Hizashi is thankful he didn't make false promises.

Hitoshi stays still as Chiyo adjusts the imaging machines, right until they turn on.

Shooting up, Hitoshi brings his hands to his face again, head shaking left to right repeatedly.  He cringes away from them.

“Hitoshi, dear?”  Chiyo subtly changes position, until she’s no longer blocking the exit.  Her face plates open up wider to showcase her eyes.

Hizashi whistles to get his attention.  Hitoshi turns toward him, eyes wide and glossy under the imaging machine’s light.  He glances at the imaging machine, before quickly averting his gaze.  His words are small and shake when he signs in See’krtshish, "It will hurt."

“It wont," Hizashi responds firmly.  "It's something to take images of your teeth.  It won't touch you."

Hitoshi only seems slightly reassured by that, but he still avoids looking at the imaging machine.  His face is pale.

"Why do you think it'll hurt?" Chiyo asks.

There's a small pause, where Hitoshi leans even farther away, muscles tight.  "No."

"You don't have to talk about it," Hizashi signs, worried.  He adds, "Let’s wait a little bit before doing anything, alright lil’ listener?”

Hitoshi gives him a limp agreement-shake.  His eyes follow the grass swaying on the wall.

“What if you don’t lay down for the scan?” Shouta suggests, once Hitoshi’s hands unclench and after Chiyo manages, somehow, to have plants and trees projected onto the imaging machine.  “Would that be better?”

Hitoshi eyes the machine quickly.  The overlay seems to help ease the nestling's fear.

“It’s not going to hurt,” Hizashi promises, once again.

With eyes completely shut and his head bowed enough for his neck to disappear, Hitoshi manages to stay still long enough for the imaging.  He’s scooting away as soon as Chiyo gives him the okay to move.  She's quick to hide the machine away.

It’s thankfully the last test she needs to conduct.  Spraying the hardening product is a more tolerable procedure for Hitoshi, and soon enough, Chiyo ushers them out into a more comfortable sitting area, leaving to do whatever she needs to do.  She gives Hitoshi a sweet, which he immediately hides into his garment sometimes between a blink of the eye and the next.

They barely have to wait for a few feeps.  Chiyo comes back out with another cart, placing it near Hitoshi.

Chiyo waits for them to sit, gives Hitoshi another sweet—which he hides as quickly as the first one—and starts talking about Hitoshi’s health.  Clearly, Hizashi has underestimated the amount of damage that’s been caused.  He wants to sink into the too-plush seat, mind whirling from all the information.

Hitoshi has multiple vitamin deficiencies, one of which is causing the various forms of bleeding, the skin lesions, and has contributed to his swollen gums.  It’s also why he’s been experiencing joint and muscle pains, which Hizashi didn't even know about.

There is so much Hizashi hadn’t known.

Like how Hitoshi’s diet is wholly inadequate, both in quantity and quality.  Or that he’s losing bone mass at an accelerated pace because of the different gravity.

It’s not even consolation to know that the line fractures in Hitoshi’s lower limbs aren’t entirely because of the decreasing bone density, but mostly stems from the high impact and low recovery time environment that the Feczoits forced him through—proved by the multiple healed fractures picked up by Chiyo’s more advanced scanner—and that his panicked run on Hizashi’s planet was probably what had aggravated old injuries enough for their own scanner to pick up.

At the very least, the prolonged exposure to electricity didn’t give him any long-lasting physical repercussions, and he’s not one of the species hypersensitive to radiation.  His levels are more than adequate for now.

“What about the nose bleedings?” Shouta asks.  His tail is lashing in agitation behind him, but when he notices the way Hitoshi leans away from him, he forces it still.

“You said it happened when your ship got hit, after visiting your flock?”  When Shouta flick his scarf in agreement, Chiyo states, “The drastic change of temperature and humidity, combined with the energy released from the impact, could have led to a non-vital blood vessel bursting.  With one of his vitamin deficiency”—here, Chiyo shows a diagram representation of the vitamin on her padd—”the vessel’s healing would have been hindered, which made it more prone to bleeding.”

“Wait.”  Hizashi tilts his head to get a better view of the vitamin’s diagram.  Old concepts from his biology classes come to the forefront of his mind.  “That’s ascorbic acid, isn’t it?  Isn’t it supposed to be produced naturally?”

‘Is there something wrong with Hitoshi’ goes unsaid.  

Chiyo’s antenna bobs.  “That is true for almost all aliens.  However, Hitoshi lacks the necessary enzymes to do so.  It’s easily remedied with supplements and an adequate diet, so whether it’s a mutation or common amongst Humans doesn’t truly matter.”

Hizashi’s talons scratch against the floor at the reminder that they’ve failed to provide Hitoshi with one of the most basic needs: nourishment.  If his flock knew about this…

Hizashi feels sick.  He never wants to tell them and that makes him feel worse.

Without further questions, they step back on their ships with detailed diet and exercise plans, a list of medication schedules, and instructions to stay in the same sector so they can come back for a follow-up and repair Hitoshi’s teeth.  She’ll also look into ways to have Hitoshi safely inoculated for basic diseases.

Until then, they’re not to land or come into contact with anything.  Hizashi’s already planning the ship’s next destination so they can buy more supplies and new equipment to compensate for the lower gravity.

(“You’ve been incredibly lucky Hitoshi hasn’t caught anything,” she had stated.  “Even more so that he hasn’t given you any human disease.”

Hizashi has never felt so ashamed.)

They put the ship on autopilot, inputting a trajectory so that they’ll be circling around Chiyo’s station, a few tones away from her station.

Hitoshi beckons the mèos onto his lap by making a hissing-like noise while holding an outstretched upper limb.  Lamp sniffs him, curious about the new smells, while Engine barrels into Hitoshi in that unique gait of hers.

As soon as every ship’s checks have been made, Shouta leaves to take refuge in one of the storage rooms with the excuse of noting down what Chiyo told them.  His ears are held up and his tail sways lazily, but his middle limbs are tucked tight against his middle.

Hitoshi’s eyes follow Shouta’s abrupt exit, but he’s quick to disregard it to settle his gaze on Hizashi.  His upper limb lifts slightly toward his neck, but Lamp catches his wrist with her paws and starts gnawing on his knuckles.  Engine immediately flops onto his other hand, rubbing her head into his palm while making little bruxing sounds.

If Hizashi wasn’t so distraught and trying his best to not let it show, he’d be impressed that Shouta managed to teach them a new trick without Hizashi knowing about it.

“Hey listener,” Hizashi begins.  “That must have been a lot, huh?”

Hitoshi groans and falls on his side, cushioning the mèos by gathering them to his chest.  His face skin gets smushed against the cot.  Hizashi doesn’t have it in him to coo at how adorable Hitoshi is.  “Tired.”

“Yeah?”  It takes all of Hizashi’s power to not let out a warbly sound.  It takes even more to not have his signs quiver.  He lays down, mimicking Hitoshi’s position.  “Did you have any questions?  There were a lot of new words Chiyo used.”

There’s a slight pause as Hitoshi’s pupils stare at the wall on his right, before he answers, “What is ‘prasetis’?

“Prasetis?”  Suddenly, Hizashi’s heart drops.  He should have asked more questions about this.  He should have made sure Hitoshi understood, and not just assume he was okay with the solution.  “You mean prosthesis?  When she was talking about your teeth?”

Hitoshi agreement-shakes his head.

A weight settles in his stomach.  He does his best to explain, despite his oversensitive feathers.

“So,” Hitoshi starts, his eyes wide, “it is fake?”  He sits up, agitated, ignoring the mèos’ indignant sound when they get dislodged.  “Cannot fix?”

Hizashi doesn’t know what to say, how to twist his words so they’ll land more softly.  “I’m really sorry.”

His face crumples exactly like a ship does when it enters a collision.  In an instant, he’s off the repurposed stretcher and running out of the room.

“Hitoshi, wait!”  Hizashi goes after him, only able to track him down by the vibration transmitted through the floor.  He taps his talons on the closed hatch leading to the old storage room, the one Hitoshi had slept in the beginning.  In Standard, he taps, “Hitoshi, please come out.”

He repeats the words a few times, face and torso right against the hatch to feel out what Hitoshi’s doing.  He’s worried the nestling will scratch himself or pull his fur out again, his distress pulling painfully against his joints.

It’s why he doesn’t expect it when the whole frame shudders as it’s hit from the other side, the impact transmitting almost point blank through his teeth, down his bones. 

He falls back, vision tilting and adding to the momentarily disorientation.

When the world stops turning, he sees the way the edges of the hatch are slightly separated from the frame, a barely noticeable space where the hatch doors should have seamlessly blended with the rest of the ship

Against his will, his heart rate shoots up as a tiny part of himself—that he thought was well buried and tamed—shows itself alongside unbidden terror.  It makes him want to cower away, to hide from toxic purple, beady eyes, and pointed snarled teeth—

The collar around his neck disappears.  He gasps, quiet, so whatever’s lurking out can’t find him.  His side aches.

Trying to regain some composure, he preens the feathers over his sternum, to physically tamp down on the spikes of fear, desperately tries to smooth down his crest and his flared out plumage.  He shouldn’t have thought that.  He shouldn’t be feeling this way.

He almost misses, over his loud heart beat and the louder instinct to get away from the threat, Hitoshi’s harsh, “Go away.  Want alone.”

Unsettled, Hizashi hesitates a few tails away from the hatch, stone still.  When ten feeps pass in silence and his talons stop digging into the floor, he taps on the floor, “If you need me, I’ll be in the lower level storage room.”

He barely waits for an answer.  Like a coward, he flees.

Chapter Text

Shouta stares at his padd for a long time.  He’s already written down everything, classed it twice, and made several backups.

He lowers his head into his scarf.  They were doing their best with the knowledge they had.  There was no way for them to have known otherwise.  Hitoshi himself doesn’t even blame them.

It means nothing when the kit’s anxiety of being left alone has barely subsided; Hitoshi can only stay in a room alone as long as Engine and Lamp are with him and Hizashi (or sometimes Shouta) is within hearing distance.  Even then, Shouta’s fairly sure it’s because he packbonded with the mèos.  How can Shouta accept the kit’s misplaced forgiveness when, even now, in the safety of their ship, he stocks food and still goes hungry?

Shouta glances at the time.  He still has a few feeps left until Hizashi worries.  He should go check on Hitoshi’s food stash, to replace any expired items.

On the way to their den, he feels the slightest rattle through his teeth.  His ears pin down while his scarf slithers in agitation.  He goes toward the sun room instead, knowing he picked the right direction when his fur starts standing on its end from the rumbling. 

“Zashi?”

The vibrations cut short when his partner startles, hiding the padd’s screen against his sternum.  Shouta’s ears swivel forward, to try to catch the sounds coming from it, but it’s on vibrating mode.

“What are you doing?”  He looks around, but Hitoshi is nowhere to be seen.  “Where’s the kit?”

“He is…” Hizashi starts, miserably shaking his limbs out, “I clarified what healer Chiyo said about his teeth, and he didn’t take it well.  He needs some time alone.”

Every few words, Hizashi has to pause to groom his flaring feathers back down.  His eyes keep squinting in distress.

“He’s with the mèos?”

“Yeah.”  His gesture is wobbly.  “In the hold next to our den.”

The padd slips toward.  Shouta catches a glimpse of white and green, before Hizashi hides it again.

“What are you watching?”

“Nothing.”

It’s off putting, to see his partner try to hide something from him.  Shouta knows, logically, that Hizashi doesn’t share all of his secrets, but he’s always been more discreet about it.

Shouta waits for his partner to gather his words.

His patience is rewarded when his partner lets out a pitiful caw.  “I keep being scare—startled.  Startled,” he repeats, as if to convince himself.  “I thought I could get over it if I spent more time with him and coddled him, and it worked for the most part, but some things still catch me off guard.  I don’t know what to do.”

Shouta steps closer.  He’s slow and overprojects his movements.  Hizashi is high strung, as if he’s only just boarded a smuggler ship.

Shouta runs his scarf over his partner’s head, picking at individual feathers and clumsily laying them back in their place. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” Hizashi signs.  “I know he’s a nestling, but sometimes, he’s just…” Hizashi looks around guiltily, “…terrifying.”

Hizashi finally relinquishes his hold on the padd.  Shouta places it down to the side, uncaring of the way sand kicks up onto the screen.  It’s easy to clean and there are more pressing matters.

“I thought I could get it all out now, but it’s not,” Hizashi shuts his eyes, his crest slowly rising as he twists and turns his bonding bracelet, “it’s not working.  I don’t want him to think he’s bad or wrong for being a Human.”

Hizashi lets out a miserable coo, tucking his face under Shouta’s front limb, effectively hiding from any reassurances he might have given.  Shouta scents the top of his head, displacing a few feathers, before repositioning him so his face can rest on his shoulder and his beak no longer press uncomfortably against his ribs.

“It’s only a matter of time.”  Shouta has to do some weird contorting so Hizashi sees what he’s saying without leaving his grip.

Hizashi’s only response is to grab onto Shouta’s limb with his tail to tug him closer.

“All this time, he was hungry.   And all I can think of is how to get over myself.”  Hizashi lets out a tired and self-depreciating caw.  “I should go back and see if he’s okay.”

As he says this, Shouta feels him grow tense.  His feathers are nerve-frazzled.

He takes in his own state of mind.  He’s tired, since it’s almost time to nap, but he won’t be able to sleep anyways.  “Stay here.  Get some light.  I’ll check on him and bring him some food.”

“I can’t just let you do this alone,” Hizashi protests, shaking sand off his feathers.  “I know you’re affected by this too.”

Shouta pushes his partner back into the sand, ignoring his flared feathers.  He swallows around his emotions.  “You took care of me when Oboro—“  His scarf tightens slightly around Hizashi as he hide his face under Hizashi’s wing for a moment, to rebuild his composure.  After a feep, he manages to strain out a lame, “—when Oboro.”

A puffed up wing strokes the side of his face.  Shouta leans into his partner, exposing his neck and the soft skin of it when he hovers almost all of his scarf over Hizashi.  “Rest.”  And Hizashi must see something in Shouta’s expression, because he doesn’t protest.  “I’ll come find you later.”

Hizashi tilts his head to allow Shouta better access when he rubs their cheeks together.  He pushes some sand over his partner, half burying him into the sand pit in an attempt to deter him from getting up.  Hizashi is intrinsically duty and honour-bound to care for kits, even moreso with Hitoshi, with whom he holds a life-debt, but hopefully, knowing Shouta is with the kit will help ease any worries. 

He gives his partner a parting slow blink and makes his way to Hitoshi.

His scarf whips around when he sees the way the hatch, leading to the spare workroom where Hitoshi is hiding, is broken, giving him an idea of what spooked Hizashi.  His ears prick up; all he hears is Engine grinding her teeth, Lamp’s hunting squeaks, and occasionally, Hitoshi’s voice pitched high for the mèos.  He doesn’t seem distressed, so Shouta takes a detour to the scullery.

The restless remorse is tamped down somewhat when he replicates one of the meals approved by Chiyo.  Every supplement Shouta sprinkles and mixes into the food is a step toward repentance.  To Hitoshi, it won’t mean the same as if Hizashi were to be the one to give it, but to Shouta, it helps tame the guilt shaped beast behind his chest.

He documents which pills and supplements he used; most of them are to be served on the same schedule, but there’s a few odd ones that he needs to keep track of.

At the last moment, he takes another flat bowl.  He’s not too hungry, but Chiyo scheduled a full meal for Hitoshi around this time, and he knows the kit enjoys communal eating.  It’ll help strengthen their bonds, and even if Shouta doesn’t deserve it, he can’t help but hope Hitoshi will make him part of his pack.  It’d be more convenient, seeing as Hizashi and he are, as his partner likes to put it, ‘a package deal’.

He goes into the den and tries to open the broken hatch, to no success.  Going the other way around, he knocks lightly on the second hatch, turning the indicator lights on and off a few times.  On the other side of the hatch, Hitoshi’s voice cuts off.

Shouta waits patiently as the kit shuffles around.  The hatch finally opens.

The vessels in the white of his eyes are more apparent, the skin around them pinker than usual.  He’s holding Engine against his chest, her head and front paws resting on his shoulder, occasionally twitching and bumping against the underside of his chin.  Meanwhile, Lamp is running around Hitoshi’s hind limbs, nipping at his feet playfully.

“I have food.”  Shouta lifts the plates.  “Do you want to eat here or in the meal room?”

Hitoshi signs that he wants to continue their routine.  Shouta doesn’t comment on the stretcher’s absence. 

When they reach the table, Hitoshi’s fur brows lower as he looks behind Shouta, completely disregarding the plate he’s placed in front of him.  “Zashi?”

“He’s resting.  He told me we could eat before him.”

Hitoshi’s shoulders go tense.  He waits a moment, pupils darting up a few more times, before starting on his meal.

The amount piled up doesn’t faze Hitoshi in the slightest.  He doesn’t even comment on it and in between mouthfuls, he takes his medication without complaints.  Shouta can’t help but squint at the thought of having to swallow so many pills.  Hopefully, they’ll be able to get rid of some on the next medic visit and supplement with food instead.  He should start researching an adequate replacement for those fruits filled with ascorbic acid Chiyo told him about.  There are no replicator recipes he can download and when he tried placing an order for some naturally made, he’s only found them sold in outrageous amounts for agriculture and electroplating.  Worse case scenario, they’ll simply intercept a merchant route and board a freighter to take a few, but Shouta doesn’t want to do so with a kit on the ship. 

Too soon, Hitoshi is done, having scarfed down his plate.

Shouta isn’t even half-way through his own plate.  Even then, Hitoshi gets to his hind limbs.  “Where is Zashi?”

“He’s resting,” Shouta repeats.  He tries to chew faster.  The kit eats so fast, Shouta has no way to keep up.

“I will not disturb,” Hitoshi replies, offended.  He twists his fingers together as the corner of his mouth pulls down.

There’s a lump in his throat.  Shouta stalls by lapping some water, but the lump doesn’t move.  “He needs a bit of time alone right now.”

Hitoshi stares at him, before sitting down miserably.  His entire frame bows.

“You want to teach me Humanish?” Shouta proposes to lift his mood up.

Unlike previous times, when Hitoshi had been overjoyed, the kit unenthusiastically goes through the motions, repeating himself a few times and glancing every so often around the room to look for Hizashi.

“He’s angry?” Hitoshi signs between poor explanations of nonsensical grammatical rules.

It takes a click for Shouta’s mind to switch tracks, slightly bewildered, yet feeling like he shouldn’t be.  “Of course not.”  Why would Hizashi ever be angry?  Hitoshi being upset is a logical reaction.  “The hatch is easily repairable.  Remember how fast we replaced the other one you broke?”

Hitoshi looks down.  Shouta has the sinking feeling his answer was inadequate, but doesn’t know how.

Hitoshi continues his Humanish lessons without breaching the subject again.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi paces until his legs ache.  Which doesn’t take long.

He’s not going to cry.  He’s not.

Tilting his head back helps keep the tears from falling.  They’re only teeth.

His tongue runs over the pointed ends.  It’s fine.  They don’t even hurt anymore.

Something nudges his ankle.  When he looks down, blurry lumps are staring at him.

“Come here,” he says, while picking the wobbly pet up.  She nuzzles against him, little paws clinging to his tunic.  When she tries to bite the collar of his clothes, he takes the opportunity to wipe his eyes on her soft fur.  She squeaks, bumping her face into his while grinding her teeth.

Lightbulb draws figure-eights around his feet.  She’s picked up and soon, she makes herself comfortable in the crook of his arm.

He doesn’t even know why he’s being such a  baby.  He was fine before he met Hizashi.  But now that he’s here, everything makes him want to cry.  It’s so stupid. 

The floor is hard, but at least it’s clean, which is better than the other place, with its dark stains and forgotten rotting pieces of furred skin.  At least, here, there’s no heavy smell that coats the back of his throat and fouls everything he eats no matter how much he rinses his mouth.

Lightbulb squeaks and attacks his fingers, her blunt teeth giving light nips.  He wiggles his hand, lips twitching when she pounces to wrestle his hand.

“You wanna play?”  She lets out a string of happy sounds, a  few times veering to bite his feet before coming back to chase after his hand.

Motor yawns, before wiggling to rest closer, her front paws and head resting on his shoulder with a  tiny huff.  Her head twitches from time to time, knocking against the underside of his jaw.  The grinding sound grows louder, marking her contentment.

There’s a light knock on the door, before the light embedded on the frame flickers on and off a few times.

Hitoshi grows cold.  It’s probably Hizashi.  He hopes he isn’t too irritated by him running off.  Or by the disrespect he’s shown him.

He shuffles to the door, feet dragging.  His breath hitches when the door whirs loudly as it fails to open.  He shouldn’t have hit it.

“Open other door,” he taps out.

It takes less than a minute for the other door to slide open.  Hitoshi can’t help the disappointment when it isn’t Hizashi, but Shouta holding some food.

He hadn’t realized it was time to eat.  Hitoshi barely tastes his meal.  The only reason he notices the increase of portion is because his plate is almost twice its usual size. 

His nervousness builds the longer he waits for Hizashi, until he can’t help but blurt out, any grasps of the alien language lost, “Hizashi?”

Shouta shuts him down quickly by reminding him of his mistake.  He really shouldn’t have hit that door.  A vice uncomfortably closes around Hitoshi’s throat.  He pushes through it.

He doesn’t see Hizashi until he goes to sleep, and even then, the alien barely ruffles his hair before quickly shimmying under the covers.  Hitoshi stares at the feathery lump, before forcing his gaze at his feet, remembering it makes others uncomfortable.

It isn’t until Shouta makes an annoyed ‘tsk’ sound that Hitoshi realizes he’s been smoothing out his sleeping bag for who knows how long; he signs, off-footed to be the one to say it first, “Good night.”

Only Shouta says it back.  Hizashi’s head is covered by pillows.  The discomfort grows.

Hitoshi steps into his sleeping bag.  When the lights dim, he snatches one of the pillows surrounding him, hugging it tightly.  His feet brush reassuringly against his hidden cache of food.

He’ll apologize tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes.

When he wakes up for the nth time and it’s finally morning, the space where Hizashi usually lays is empty.  Hitoshi grips his covers, the lingering aftertaste of a  nightmare he can’t quite remember leading his thoughts to turn toward the worse scenario.  

“Good morning.”

Shouta’s greeting chases away the urge to frantically search through the spaceship.  He’s laying in the corner of the room, a tablet in hand.  Hitoshi doesn’t dare ask about Hizashi, but he listens carefully to see if he can catch the alien’s claws clink clink clink against the ground. 

It’s only when Hizashi, whole and unhurt, joins them in the middle of breakfast that Hitoshi’s worry is alleviated.

He’s already started eating at Shouta’s insistence.  He wants to speak, but nervousness makes his hand clench his plate and his other arm hover protectively over it.

Hitoshi stares at Hizashi as he eats.  His nerves grow frazzled the longer it takes for him to finish his meal; Hizashi could leave at any moment.

The alien doesn’t look in his direction the entire time, and the moment Hitoshi finishes, Hizashi has to leave, claiming he’s busy, feathers thrown into more disarray than usual.  

“I can help.”  Hitoshi stumbles over his own feet in his haste to follow Hizashi.  He picks up the almost full plate Hizashi left behind. 

“No, it’s alright --- --------.”  Hizashi waves his wings.  “I don't need your help.”

Hitoshi hurries after Hizashi to insist, but Shouta accosts him, blocking his path.  “Hizashi is going to do some paperwork.  You can assist me instead.”

Hitoshi pushes the disappointment down.  He can’t read well yet.  Hizashi doesn’t need him slowing him down.

He morosely follows after Shouta.  It’s boring work.  He’s made to hold instruments or a light while Shouta runs inspection on various machinery.  Ever since he slipped up and revealed he’s not an adult, none of the aliens trust him to do anything.

Hitoshi thumbs a raised scar on the side of his index, scratching it idly.  Hizashi hasn’t eaten much.

He scuffs his feet and tries to listen to Shouta’s explications, but he keeps thinking about Hizashi’s full plate and how Hitoshi’s not with him.  There’s this unbearable voice in his head that’s convinced something bad will happen and he won’t know if Hizashi’s hurt until it’s too late.

When Shouta finally moves on from the reactor or whatever that thing is, Hitoshi absentmindedly follows after him.

Hizashi should know better than to skip a meal.  Hitoshi’s scowl slowly fades away when an unconscious thought enters his mind.  Is Hizashi avoiding him?

He is, isn’t he?  Hitoshi worries the hem of his tunic between his fingers.  Hizashi must have been getting tired of him.  The dented door was the last straw.

It wasn’t on purpose.  He just got so frustrated.

Shouta’s on it too, Hitoshi realizes.  His chest feels tight.

The fabric of his tunic suddenly gives against his tugging.  He stares, dismayed, at the ripped fabric.  When he furtively ascertains that no one has noticed—Shouta is fiddling with some tools—he quickly pat it down.  There goes his last set of untorn clothes.

He could borrow some of Shouta’s string and repair the biggest holes.  He’s never stitched anything up before, but it can’t be that hard.  He’d need to find a needle though…

Hitoshi startles when Shouta nudges his wrists.  He’s surprised to find that they’re in the kitchen.  He hadn’t noticed.

A pouch of those fruit flavored jelly is dropped in hands, alongside a cup of pills.  Hitoshi grimaces, but swallows them without protest.  Despite that, Shouta still ruffles his hair condescendingly.

At least the fruit pouch is good.  It tastes sweet and tangy, with a cucumber after taste.

Once he’s done, Hitoshi throws the empty pouch away.  When Shouta confirms they’re done with the chores, he goes on the hunt for Motor and Lightbulb, annoyed when the alien follows him from so close.  He can almost feel the alien’s breath on his neck.  At one point, Shouta pushes him, using his shoulder and flank to steer him away from the desert room.

Hitoshi bites back on the instinctual hiss.  He steps away, rubbing his arm where Shouta’s fur touched him unexpectedly.  He has to resist the urge to give Shouta the same treatment when they walk next to a hallway and the alien accidentally blocks his way to it.

He’s thankful for his self-control when Shouta’s head turns and his eyes, in the dim light, glow red.

Hitoshi scowls over his racing heart.  He’d forgotten about that.

The alien is silent the entire time Hitoshi searches through the ship.  It’s eerie, especially with the red eyes and skin worm, and so very different from Hizashi’s chatty nature.  There’s less casual bumps and touches, which makes the few ones unexpected and (almost) unwanted.  At the very least, Shouta doesn’t nag him about using the huge hover bed, which has become tiring no matter how cool it was to ride initially.

He still wishes Hizashi were here instead.

Eventually, he manages to find Motor, with Lightbulb not far behind.  He plays with them, ignoring the alien sitting down in the corner, until they run off deeper into the spaceship.

“Are you hungry?”  Shouta puts away his tablet.  His neck worm thing curls and uncurls slowly.

Hitoshi has been asked the question more times than he can count, even more since they’ve seen the alien doctor.  Nonetheless, suspicion never fails to rear its head at the question.

He’s about to deny it, when a loud growl from his stomach betrays him.  Shouta’s ears twitch, and Hitoshi, face hot, nods, acutely aware it’d be more embarrassing to lie blatantly than to have the alien take advantage of his answer.  “Yes.”

Shouta inclines his head forward.  “Hizashi prepared -----------.”

Hitoshi’s head snaps up at the name.  Anticipation and hope mix into an unpleasant pressure in his stomach.

He walks quickly, ignoring the ache in his legs in every stride.  When he enters the dining room to find Hizashi sitting there.  A smile he can’t hope to stop stretches his face.

Hizashi jumps to his feet and, most importantly, smiles back.

He tries to walk calmly, but can’t help but skip for the last few steps, the blooming relief so strong, he can’t make himself care about how uncool he looks.  He sits down with a huff, slightly to the side.  He wants to sit right next to Hizashi, but part of him freezes the edges of his joy and warns him to keep his distance for the moment, to be cautious.  If he doesn’t tamp down on his enthusiasm now, he’ll only be disappointed later. 

But it’s hard when Hizashi is almost acting like normal; he frets about how much Hitoshi’s eating and asks about his day and twitters every time he signs his name.

When they finish eating, Hitoshi lets himself be nudged onto the hoverbed and only protests once when Hizashi won’t let him help pick up the plates.

“Sorry about the door,” he blurts out the moment Shouta exits the room.  The words come all jumbled up, but Hizashi waves him off.

“It’s alright --- --------!  Just be careful next time.”

Hitoshi stares at the alien.  He can’t believe it’s that easy, but he doesn't dare say anything that’d change Hizashi’s mind.  He’ll risk being caught off guard when Hizashi brings the incident up in the future.  For now, he basks under Hizashi’s attention.

Hizashi taps his claws rhythmically as he thinks.  “I’m free for the rest of the day.  What do you want to do?”

Hitoshi’s mind blanks.  He can’t come up with anything.

Sensing this, Hizashi preens the feathers on his head meticulously, before whistling.  “What about we make some -----?”  The sign, where Hizashi shakes his head slowly while holding a closed claw to the side of his beak, is unfamiliar.  The alien hops in place, growing more excited by the prospect.  “We could ---- some in your hair and tie some to your hoverbed!”

Hitoshi nods, hiding his apprehension at the mention of his hair.

“Stay here --- --------!  I’m going to go fetch some supplies, alright?”

Hizashi doesn't wait for an answer.  He whistles and chirps as he nearly barrels into Shouta.  They exchange words, too quick for Hitoshi to catch.  Then, Hizashi climbs onto Shouta, whose ears flatten under the weight, and uses him as a  perch to glide off.

Shouta flattens his messed up fur with his worm thing.  Hitoshi watches him from the corner of his eyes.  He doesn’t seem too annoyed, but Hitoshi doesn’t relax until Hizashi comes back, an overfilled bag of string and yarn held in his beak, and Shouta only nuzzles him.  Hitoshi quickly turns his head, awkwardly uncomfortable at the casual display of affection.

When he hears feathers rustling closer, he finally looks over, relieved to find that Shouta has left.  Hizashi tips out the string and yarn, alongside a huge ornate box he places on the floor more carefully.  He opens it to reveal rows and rows of different sized and coloured beads.

Hizashi pulls Hitoshi closer, claws gently raking through his hair to untangle it.  Hitoshi barely startles when the alien whistles loudly in excitement, but Hizashi still coos apologetically when he notices.

“What colour do you prefer?” he asks.  The beads rattle as Hizashi shakes the box.

“I do not know.”  Hitoshi stares at them, unwilling to touch them.  Half of them seem made of glass.  “Whatever you think is best.”

Hizashi flutters his wings.  He seems way too happy.  It puts Hitoshi on his guard.

“What about I make some ----- for you and you make one for me?”  

There’s no sign of deceit Hitoshi can detect, but the alien’s face is hard to read.  He looks toward the resting crest; it’s not flared out like when he gets startled, but Hitoshi spots light ruffling and rippling.  He doesn’t know what it means though.

Movement makes him look toward his tail.  On a  cat or Shouta, Hitoshi would have backed away or been more wary, but he’s seen Hizashi lash his tail when he’s excited.

It all feels like a trap, especially with how intensely Hizashi is watching him.  Hitoshi nods nonetheless.  When Hizashi smiles, all teeth that would have unsettled Hitoshi if he didn’t know it came from his beak and his unfamiliarity with the expression, Hitoshi tells himself he’ll take whatever the alien makes him undergo if it means he won’t be angry at him anymore.

Hitoshi copies Hizashi’s every move.  Thankfully, the alien talks a lot, explaining the process as he goes.  “Just tell me what length you want and I’ll cut it for you.”  Hizashi’s switches his claw covering and cuts through the yellow yarn and some black string like butter.  Hitoshi smiles nervously.  He had not realized Hizashi’s claw coverings could be this sharp.

When it’s his turn, he chooses the same black string.  It looks the least expensive.

Hizashi shows him how to tie the start so it makes a little loop.  Hitoshi is relieved when the rest isn’t too hard; all he has to do is follow Hizashi’s instructions and insert a bead or two from time to time.  Halfway through his string, Hitoshi doesn’t even need to look at Hizashi, who ups the pace; the alien picks up the beads with his beak lightning fast, sliding them on the string without having to look for the tiny opening. 

It’s like friendship bracelets, Hitoshi realizes.  He falters, until he remembers that Hizashi is also partaking in the girly activity.  It’d make no sense for the alien to disapprove.

Despite the childish activity, Hitoshi finds himself enjoying it.  He even allows himself to pick a cool bead twice instead of taking the smallest, basic ones.

He needs some help to finish tying it off.  Hizashi has somehow managed to produce four more decorated strings, each more complicated looking than the other.  His doesn’t look as good as Hizashi’s, but the alien squawks about how pretty his bracelet is.  Hitoshi’s face heats up.

“Come closer,” Hizashi asks.  When Hitoshi does, Hizashi settles on his side, picks one of his friendship bracelets—which he guesses isn’t a bracelet after all—and starts tying it into his hair.  Once two of the beaded strings are tied into his hair, Hizashi starts braiding a length of yellow yarn directly with his hair while humming, unrushed with the entire process.  He inserts a few beads and one of his feathers, using his hair and the yarn to keep them in place.

Hitoshi squirms a little.  Even though it's not all that dissimilar to how Hizashi’s family tried to give him bracelets and jewelry, this feels very childish.  And he isn’t a child.

Yet, when Hizashi keeps pausing to delicately untangle his hair, taking the time to brush away any strand that falls over his face, Hitoshi’s chest feels tender and achy, like a healing bruise.

When Hizashi ties off the ends, Hitoshi’s almost disappointed.

But he can’t be, not when the beaded strings fall on the side of his head, the glass beads clinking together satisfyingly everytime he shifts.  He shakes his head to feel the weight of them, admiring the fluttering feather Hizashi attached to his hair.

“You like it?”

“Yes.”  Hitoshi touches the beads.  He doesn’t know how Hizashi did it, but the yellow and black go well with his hair.  His gaze is drawn toward his own beaded string.  He asks, before he can lose his courage, “You want mine?”

“Yeah!”  Hizashi’s enthusiasm is contagious.  Hitoshi picks his beaded string, unsure where it can go.  Surely he can’t just tie it to Hizashi’s feathers?

Hizashi solves his dilemma when he holds his ankle up, the one without the metal clasp.  Hitoshi is unbelievably cautious as he ties it, breath held as images of dented doors and caved in heads flashing behind his eyes.

Hizashi, so careless about being at the mercy of Hitoshi’s bloodstained hands, crows as he admires his new jewelry.  The sole purple bead stands out against Hizashi’s scales.  “I love the colours you chose --- --------!”

Hitoshi scratches his cheek, looking away with an embarrassed smile.

A wing waves to get his attention.  “What about you make one for Shouta?”

“Shouta?” Hitoshi asks skeptically.  Making jewelry for Hizashi, who walks around with fancy metal nails over his claws and shiny bracelets, is one thing.  Gifting a bead bracelet to Shouta is another.  The only time he’s ever seen that alien wear anything is that beaded necklace, and even then, it's obvious it's because Hizashi made it.

“Yeah!  I really think he’d like it!”

“Okay.”  Hitoshi doubts Shouta will appreciate it, but Hizashi seems so eager.  He starts threading beads on a  string—black again—a little faster than his previous attempt.

Meanwhile, Hizashi decorates the hoverbed’s side rails with more beaded strings.  He makes a few more before Hitoshi finishes up.

They go search for Shouta, Hitoshi more reluctantly than Hizashi.  Unfortunately, Hizashi is able to steer and pull the hoverbed, so they reach Shouta faster than Hitoshi anticipates.

Shouta blinks slowly in their direction.  There’s a short silence until Hizashi nudges Hitoshi in encouragement.

“For you.  Hizashi said you wanted one,” he signs quickly, holding out the beaded string all tangled up.  He keeps his head bowed, resolutely fixing the covers of his hoverbed.

Skin touches his hand and picks up the beaded string delicately.  Hitoshi hides the slight shudder at having the skin worm touch him.

“It’s well made,” Shouta signs after inspecting it.  He holds it up to Hizashi, who starts tying it in his fur.  “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Hitoshi signs quickly.  This is weird.

Shouta silently places a pouch of jelly on his hoverbed.  Hitoshi picks it up, using it as an excuse to stop looking at the aliens.  He opens it and starts sipping.  It’s a new flavour, one that tastes like a mix of tomato and watermelon.  When he inspects it, the liquid is a bright green.  It’ll probably stain his tongue.

Hitoshi watches Hizashi and Shouta interact.  They push and hiss and peck at each other, but Hitoshi has almost grown used to this display.  He knows it's less like how his parents used to fight and more akin to how he roughhoused with the boys in his dorm.  Only way gentler.  He keeps expecting feathers or fur to be torn accidentally (and not so accidentally—he swears he still has a patch on his scalp where hair is thinner), but they never go that far, which is a relief.

When Hizashi escapes Shouta’s worm thing with mused up feathers, Hitoshi offers him an awkward smile.

He almost misses the way Hizashi’s feathers flare out as he stills.  Before Hitoshi can ask him what’s wrong, Hizashi signs that he forgot about a task and leaves quickly.

Hitoshi feels his mood drop like a stone as he silently watches Hizashi go.  He’s done something bad again.  Shouta signs something about drinking water, but Hitoshi turns around and pretends he doesn’t see him.

The next few days are the same; Hizashi will act normally, before Hitoshi will unfailingly act wrong and the alien will leave without any explanations.

Shouta is of no help.  He’ll only watch Hizashi with a lashing tail, before trying to distract Hitoshi while offering no explanation.

It leaves Hitoshi unsettled.  He’s getting more anxious and on edge everytime Hizashi flees, which only makes the urge to stay by the alien’s side stronger.

One evening, Shouta leaves him to go prepare a meal.  Hitoshi pets Lampbulb with the tip of his fingers.  She makes a little grinding noise when he rubs circles behind her ears.  He can’t help but smile at her, some of the building tension seeping out of his shoulders.  With his other hand, he simultaneously plays with Motor, having her chase him while catching her when she inevitably pounces uncoordinatedly and goes to faceplant on the floor.

On her nineteenth pounce, he doesn’t catch her in time.  She falls on Lightbulb, who immediately starts chasing after her.  On lap around the room, and then they’re gone, leaving Hitoshi alone.

He scratches uneasily at his neck.  His back and knees ache when he stands up to hurry after them.

He’s ambling around the ship, growing tenser every time he loses sight of them.  Thankfully, Motor’s stumbling slows them enough for Hitoshi to find them every time.

They go deeper into the ship, dipping into random rooms until they end in front of the bedroom.  Motor paws at the door, before looking at Hitoshi with pleading eyes.

Hitoshi looks around furtively.  Hizashi told him he could use it anytime, but he’s nevertheless nervous to go inside alone, especially since Hizashi and Shouta’s stuff is there.

Lampbulb stares at him with huge eyes.  Hitoshi folds and opens the door.

They barrel inside without giving him a second glance.  Hitoshi waits at the threshold, until Motor falls into the weird bed pit in the middle of the room and tramples all of the folded blankets.  Not wanting her to get into trouble—he’s never seen them go in Hizashi’s bed, so he doesn’t think they’re allowed in there—he goes in, ignoring the scratching low-level panic.  The thought of being caught here makes his heart rate faster.

“Baby, come here.”  He holds out his arms, wiggling his fingers to entice her closer.  She looks at him, then shoves her face into the organized pile of pillows.  “Please get out of there.”

She finally gets close enough for him to snatch her up.  Motor yowls angrily, until he kisses her forehead and snuggles her.  One handedly, he rearranges the bed so it’ll look undisturbed again.  His hand knocks on Hizashi’s tablet, hidden between a pillow and the folds of a blanket.

It lights up, unlocking immediately without his input.  Hitoshi scowls at it.  Shouta tried explaining how the tablet used a mix of cameras and touch input to identify the person, but Hitoshi had been stuck on the idea of there being sensors that tasted him and he hadn’t listened to the rest.

He’s about to close the tablet when he freezes at the still image on its screen. 

With cold fingers, he picks the tablet, numbingly flicking the sound switch on.  The video starts playing.

It's him.  

It’s him, in the metal arena, arms covered in blood and sinew.

The roar of the crowd almost makes him drop the tablet.  His breath quickens, as if he really were back there, about to fight a new opponent, unsure if they’re a person or an animal, but having to kill them all the same.

The camera shakes, before zooming out.  In à small part of his brain, Hitoshi notes how he’s never seen the arena from this angle before.

Nausea rises at the sound of the bell announcing the next fight.  He tenses, the world shrinking around himself and the video.  Quickly, he swipes the screen.  The relief of successfully exiting the video falls away when he sees more thumbnails featuring his snarling face.

There are so many.  On some level, he knows he was filmed, has seen his face projected onto a big screen, but he hadn’t thought of it further, all of his energy spent on surviving and then trying to forget it all happened.  He thought it was all behind him.

But here are dozens of his fights shared around space.  People have seen him. 

He shakily closes the tablet.  The screen goes black.

He’s never thought of himself as vain, even if he used to spend a  few minutes arranging his hair back on Earth, and even then, it was mostly to keep the adults off his back.  There just wasn’t any reason to worry about his appearance when everyone already knew he came from a children’s home.

When he thinks of himself, he remembers wild purple hair, childish fat filling his cheeks, and eye bags decorating his face.  Despite the lack of mirrors since he’s been taken from Earth, he knows what he looks like.

The reflection on the tablet is nothing like that.

It had a gaunt face, all skin and bone, eyes sunken into their orbits in a way that frightens him.  His shirt hangs on its frame, dirty grey hair standing impossibly tall, but most horrifying are the teeth, filed into pointed nubs and leaving crooked gaps.  His reflection looks like a still breathing corpse. 

The two images of himself clash.  The reflection couldn’t be him, and yet, when he looks down on himself, he notices how bony his wrists are, his washed out skin, the raised scars marking him. 

Hizashi has been watching his fights.

The thought makes his heart rate spike.

The sound of the door sliding open sends lightning running through his hypervigilant body.  Hizashi stands in the door frame, feathers puffed out except for the tips of his slightly damp wings.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, both shocked at the other’s presence.

“--- --------, I—”

Suddenly, the idea of anyone seeing him, nubby teeth and all, makes him sick.  Hitoshi’s head ducks down and he self-consciously holds his hands to his face.  His ears ring like the fight announcing bell, and suddenly, it all feels too much like he’s in the arena, with adrenaline coursing through his veins and his desire to live stronger than anything else.

Hizashi steps forward.  The movement sends him running out of the room with bared teeth, an instinctual hiss stuck behind his tongue.

His mental map of the ship makes him double back a few times to lose anyone who’d pursue him, until his legs bring him to the kitchen, and without hesitation, he opens an almost empty cupboard and slides into the tight space.

It’s dark.  The walls pressing around his shoulders should be oppressing.  Instead, it makes him breathe easier—no one can see him here.  The cupboard forces him in a fœtal position, and he can feel hard edges of tins and cans digging into his hip.  The walls bear down on him, keeping him inside his body even if he feels too big for his skin.  Tears roll uncontrollably down his cheeks, dripping down his nose and the back of his throat.

Muffled calls of his name come through.  He should come out, apologize.  He’s being disturbing, he’s worrying them.  But the way they warble his name, distorting the syllables until they’re almost unrecognizable, hurts in a way he didn’t expect.  He’s never been bothered by it, but now, he can’t stop thinking of his image distorted and twisted in the mirror.  His name, unrecognizable.

He stays quiet as the tears come down quicker, pressing the palm of hands that aren’t his against eyes that don’t belong anymore.

He holds his breath when Shouta’s voice passes right in front of his hidden place, but he doesn’t have to wait for too long.  Soon enough, the alien’s calls grow farther away.  Hitoshi tucks his face in his folded arms.

Chapter Text

When Hitoshi charges towards him, Hizashi instinctively tenses his limbs and inhales sharply, filling his lungs in preparation for—

But all Hitoshi does is run past him, hands covering his face to hide his eyes, leaving Hizashi rooted into place with his heart in his throat.

His wings start quivering, mind revolting against the idea of hurting Hitoshi.  His breath quickens at how close he came to liquefying Hitoshi from the inside, how he almost sank his talons into unfeathered skin.  He feels rotten down to the very core.  There’s nothing more despicable, more cowardly, more abhorrent than someone who intentionally wounds a youngling.

Did Hitoshi notice?  Was the hitch in his shoulders due to fear?

Hizashi doesn’t know for how long he stands there, but Hitoshi is running through the ship the entire time, the floor vibrating under each panicked stride.  Under usual circumstances, Hizashi would be able to follow the exact path Hitoshi is taking.  Right now, the sandstorm raging in his brain, pelting sand through his stomach, makes thinking too difficult.

The hatch, which had closed automatically at one point, whirs open. 

“Have you seen—“  Shouta’s scarf suddenly billows out, fur standing on its ends in alarm.  He scans the room, putting his back to a wall.  “Zashi, what’s wrong?”

I messed up, he wants to say.  All that comes out is a croak.

Shouta quickly inspects him, scarf fluttering over Hizashi, pressing against his head, his stomach, moving clinically against his extremities.

Hizashi wants to push him away.  He wants to tell his mate to not waste his time looking for injuries, not when he doesn’t deserve this careful attention.  Hitoshi is the one who needs help.  Instead, he points toward the evidence of his failure.

Shouta’s head snaps toward the dropped padd.  His ears pin down in confusion.  Reluctantly, his bondmate parts from him to walk toward it.  He picks it up, glancing at Hizashi, and opens it.

Shouta stills.  There a long, horrified silence.  It stretches thickly over them, oily and unpleasant. 

Finally, the tension breaks.

“You’ve been watching his fights,” he states.  It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Hizashi whispers anyways.

Shouta’s ears press themselves further back.  “Has he seen this?”

Hizashi can’t make himself answer.  His mate starts tapping the padd.  He’s erasing everything.  Without saying a word, Shouta places the padd back down, before sitting with a tired huff, a few tails apart from Hizashi.  His scarf starts rubbing the space between his eyes.  “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”  The space behind his chest tightens in anxiety.  Hitoshi could be anywhere on the ship.  He presses closer to the ground, but the ship stays silent, apart from the occasional light vibrations from the mèos.  “I’ll go find him.”

Nausea threatens his empty stomach.  He needs to give Hitoshi some semblance of explication, but how can he justify this?  He might have been sent the first holovid, but he looked for the rest himself.

He’s really no better than the people paying to see Hitoshi’s death matches. 

His bondmate grabs him before he can take a step.  “I think he needs some time for himself.”

It goes against everything Hizashi knows.  No see’krtsh young willingly wants to be left alone in moments of distress.

“What if he’s hungry?” Hizashi signs weakly.

“I’ve fed him a tone ago and left some food in the scullery and the share room.”  Shouta adds, “Leave him be for a while.”

Hizashi begrudgingly settles.  He’s the last one Hitoshi will want to see anyways.  Furthermore, Hizashi has to admit that Hitoshi does have a tendency to isolate himself when he needs to deal with his emotions.

He’s been stepping all over the nestling boundaries, hasn’t he?  Hizashi preens his wings harshly.  With the way Hitoshi is so tight-gestured about everything, Hizashi has to do better, has to be more careful, because Spirits know Hitoshi won’t say if he makes him uncomfortable.  He’ll wait for Hitoshi to come to him.

If he ever does.  The panicked expression Hitoshi had worn transcends language.  His wide eyes, stuttering breathing, and blood-drained skin is seared in Hizashi’s brain.  All because he can’t get it through his head that Hitoshi isn’t dangerous to him.  He doesn’t deserve to be considered pack.

He could look at the cameras.  Just to see where Hitoshi is.  Nothing more.

Hizashi ruffles his crest.  No, he’s already invaded Hitoshi’s privacy.  He can wait.

Hizashi paces and glides through the room at least seven times before moving onto rearranging his and Shouta’s nest, fluffing the pillows and folding and refolding the covers.  Hitoshi’s wrinkled cot catches his eye, and he almost goes to smooth it out before remembering at the last moment that the nestling might not appreciate if Hizashi touched his things without his presence, so he goes back to working on his own nest until his entire frame shakes from nerves and he catches himself looking toward the hatch for the sixteen time.

“I’ll go find something for him to eat,” Hizashi announces.  Shouta’s left ear flicks skeptically, but before he can voice his disapproval,  Hizashi quickly heads to the scullery.  If he takes the long way there, lingering in front of every room with his sternum pressed against the floor, well that’s only for him to know.

He inevitably arrives at his destination with no hint of Hitoshi.  Disappointed and slightly relieved, Hizashi pulls out some jelly pouches, taking care to choose the flavours Hitoshi seems to prefer.  As he closes the drawer, he senses a wave of vibrations through the metal.

Pausing, Hizashi holds his breath.  It doesn’t take long before it happens again, the pattern organic and entirely different from the mechanical hum of the ship and its components.  Hizashi follows the vibrations, until he stands in front of one of their airtight cabinets.

The jelly pouches slip through his slack talons.  His brain goes quiet for one single blink, before it catches up to what Hizashi has realized.  The cabinet door is wrenched open before the pouches even hit the floor.

Horror shakes him when he finds Hitoshi unnaturally folded in the cabinet, as if he’d been stuffed in there.  The vessels in his eyes look on the verge of bursting, dilated by his increased efforts to breathe.  His fingers are curled around his garment, whitened and tight in a typical rigor mortis' grip.  For a click, Hizashi believes Hitoshi is already gone.

Fortunately, miraculously, it is not Hitoshi’s time yet.  He bursts into movement, furling so suddenly and tightly onto himself that it reminds Hizashi of a ship imploding.  His shoulders hitch as he gasps for air, hiccups making his whole body shake.  Hizashi wants to say something, but his words catch on his bones when he blinks and sees the afterimage of small bodies curled onto themselves, younglings trying to escape ship fires by unknowingly locking themselves in closets and storage containers.

“Go away,” Hitoshi signs, blindly reaching for the cabinet door.  Thankfully, he doesn’t manage to grab it.  His gestures are sharp and thrown widely when he yells, “Leave!”

Hizashi whistles to get the nestling’s attention, alarm making his talons grind unpleasantly against the metal.  “Please come out,” he begs.  “I’ll leave, but you can’t stay in there.”

He needs oxygen.  The way he’s gasping, with his irregular broken sounds in between each inhale, even though he has access to air again, is worrying. 

Hitoshi gives up on trying to enclose himself in his makeshift tomb.  He buries his face in his upper limbs and somehow twists until his back is to Hizashi.

“Please,” Hizashi pleads, reaching one wing out, stopping right before his talon makes contact with Hitoshi.  Self-loathing crashes into him in waves at his own hesitation, at the way his heart thunders in his chest as snippets of Hitoshi’s fights unwillingly bully themselves to the forefront of his mind.

He pushes through, closing the space between them until his talons wrap gently around Hitoshi’s limb.  a part of him he can’t completely silence keeps wanting to recoil, in case Hitoshi becomes violent in his displeasure and accidentally—or perhaps not so accidentally when he’s taken by frustration—injures him.

Hitoshi tenses for long unbearable clicks, before he turns his head just enough for one wet eye to peek out between folds of fabrics.

“I’m so sorry.”  Hizashi’s words are coming out all wobbly.  He wants to add more, wants to spin a speech that’ll somehow end with both of them—or at the very least Hitoshi—feeling better, but all he can manage is, “I shouldn’t have looked for those holovids.”

The eye watches him for a long time, the small pupil roving over his face, moving to his wings and his talons, before rolling back to his face to start the cycle all over again.  It’s disturbing and creepy; it looks so much like the way Hitoshi would evaluate an opponent, right before pouncing on them at the gamemaster’s signal.  Hizashi forces himself to hop closer.  “It was wrong of me.”

The skin around Hitoshi’s eye suddenly scrunches up in pain.

Hizashi squawks.  His wings flutter over Hitoshi’s huddled form.  “What’s wrong?”

“I,” Hitoshi starts, interrupting himself to rub his eyes, body spasming, “I want—”

He stops to inhale, water leaking at an alarming rate out of his eyes.  Hitoshi had said this was a physical reaction to feeling too much, didn’t he?  But back then, Hitoshi hadn’t looked like he was choking on air, hadn’t been clutching at his garment, right over where his human heart would be.  

If distress can make his eyes water, what else could it do?  It’s already affecting his breathing, making him shake and hiccup, pulling out awful sounds at every other exhale.

Hizashi, with barely a click of hesitation, starts petting Hitoshi’s back, just like he did back in that cell.  He coos too, adding a low tone rumble that usually helps comfort hatchlings.

Hizashi’s body tensing is the only warning Hizashi gets before he’s grabbed.

The upper half of the nestling’s body is hanging out of the cabinet, just enough to fit his upper limbs around Hizashi.  His beak is pressed almost painfully against Hitoshi’s shoulder bones, his feathers bent uncomfortably.  Still, even with predator teeth near his carotid—right on the edge of being too close to his neck, still suffering from fantom sparks and the ache of a collar—and Hizashi’s instincts blaring warnings throughout his entire being, he spreads his wings, exposing his vulnerable stomach, and slides them around Hitoshi.

It bends his joints near their limits.  Hizashi tries his best to hold Hitoshi the same way he’s sometimes seen him hold the mèos; one wing on his upper back, spread out to hide the fragile curve of his neck, the other protectively spanning the rest of his spine.  His tail curls to gather Hitoshi’s lower limbs,  

Hitoshi doesn’t lash out or push him away.  He still trusts Hizashi enough to let himself be held like this.  It makes Hizashi’s next breath stutter. 

He squeezes Hitoshi to help contain his shaking, pressing him until his singular heart hammers against Hizashi’s, leaning back to coax the nestling out and onto the scullery floor.

It takes time, but eventually, they’re both sprawled out into the open, the cabinet’s door safely closed with a push of his tail.  Hizashi tries to pull away to see if Hitoshi’s eyes are still bloodshot, maybe talk to him, but a desperate noise keeps him from doing so.

“You are okay.”  His Humanish has great room for improvement.  He preens a few sweaty strands of fur sticking to Hitoshi’s neck.

Hitoshi mumbles something back, words all jumbled up from feathers and Hizashi’s poor grasp on the language.  Hizashi doesn't dare ask him to repeat himself.  The sounds were pained enough already, Hitoshi’s fingers carving themselves around him until they burrow in his afterfeathers.  The junction between his wing and his neck starts pulling from the weight of Hitoshi’s water.

He can’t do anything but keep him from falling apart.  He doesn’t know if he succeeds. 

Hizashi glances at Hitoshi.

The nestling’s downcast eyes are still slightly red-rimmed, but his breathing has slowed back to its regular pace.

Hizashi hadn’t noticed just how often Hitoshi made eye contact until now.  He hasn’t looked at Hizashi since they’ve disentangled from the floor, Hitoshi pushing him away and wiping his face with his garments the moment Shouta stepped into the scullery.  He hasn’t asked Hizashi why he’s been looking at his fights.

Instead, he quietly follows Hizashi, trailing after him exactly one tail’s length.  He stays silent when they eat, for once slow as he clears his dish.  When he finishes his medication without any of his usual scrunched up face-expressions, Hizashi brings him to the medbay.  There’s nothing wrong with his eyes, no sign of brain fluid leak, lung wound or heart strain.  Shouta keeps his distance, tail curved in discomfort as he tries to catch Hizashi’s expression.

“Is there something you want to do?”  Hizashi tries to reach for Hitoshi, but the youngling leans away, face turning the other way.  

Hitoshi shakes his head ‘no’.  He’s hunched into a smaller form, his fingers have found the edge of his garments to twist and pull.

Hizashi swallows around the lump in his throat when he finally places the expression Hitoshi had been wearing this entire time.  Shame.  

Hizashi presses a wing against his sternum, where an unsteady sound keeps wanting to burst out.  He wishes he’d never left his padd unlocked and so easily accessible.  He wishes he’d never seen those holovids.

They eventually move to their resting quarters.  Hitoshi slips into his cot without wishing them a good rest, ignoring the way the mèos paw at him.  He turns until he faces away from them.  Hizashi doesn’t think he imagines the way he’s moved farther away from them.

The mèos choose to sleep in the folds of Hitoshi’s cot instead of their own nest, draping themselves near his head, where they can puff gentle breaths into his fur and offer comfort with gentle teeth grinding.

Hizashi watches the Hitoshi-shaped lump until Shouta dims the lights.

He wakes to someone gasping to catch their breath as the floor rumbles under each of their quickening steps.  It’s too dark to make out anything, but it’s easy to recognize Hitoshi’s two-beat walk and the accompanied click of beads.  The youngling is prowling around the nest.

Fear, still slightly groggy from sleep, doesn't have the time to fully form.  Not when Hizashi realizes that Hitoshi’s making a room sweep before his heart can truly take off.  He feels the youngling’s breaths slow until they’re impossible to sense through the beddings as he twitchingly inspects every piece of furniture, every corner of the room.  He even opens the hatches to look out into the hallway and the storage room for long tones, with his breath held and his body stone-still.  Not still in the way hunters are before descending on their target, but in the terrified way prey usually is when it looks out for predators.  The blinking indicator over the opened hatch allows Hizashi to make out Hitoshi's hunched outline.

A ball of emotion in his throat makes Hizashi's breathing more arduous than it should be.  Hitoshi is afraid, enough to have woken up to patrol their room despite the many security measures.

He's about to get up to blindly open the lights, so Hitoshi can be reassured and go back to sleep, when the youngling finally breathes out and closes the hatches.

Hizashi waits until Hitoshi goes back into his cot.  He’s still holding himself rigidly, tension making him look more frightening than he really is.  Hizashi only dares to close his eyes when the nestling has stopped fidgeting under the warm cot and the mèos have grumpily repositioned themselves over him.