[Paul manages not to stop in his tracks at that revelation, but it's a near thing. He does veer slightly closer to Falco, looking down at him with an expression he controls to moderate concern.]
Are you by yourself?
[Another question already answered, but Paul wants it to not be.]
Ah, yeah, [ they’ve already made the turn on the street and gone down the block; the quaint cottage home is already in sights at the far end of it, though falco continues. ] I slept at Miss Rose’s house the other day, and made a camp yesterday with Perle.
[ he’s been jumping, didn’t want to be a bother for any adult who felt the responsibility to care for him when he could care finely for himself. yet, while there was no problem in staying alone, the prospect was a frightening one; he didn’t want to be, and begin seeing things, hearing things, or worse, hearing nothing at all. perle helped fill the void temporarily, at least, and she’d even grow about ten sizes to make him feel better about sleeping. ]
I’m making sure I’m in safe places, even if it’s for the night.
[Paul has thought about the way Falco said brother many times since, a wound he has left untouched in the belief that Falco is being taken care of.
His hand comes up to the younger boy's shoulder again. He feels the slimness of it, the delicate set of his bones, and presses his thumb down, like an anchor.]
I won't be staying on the beach forever. Only until next month. [He keeps his gaze on the cottage, allowing Falco that little bit of privacy.] If you haven't found anyone to stay with by then...I'm not very good at looking after myself. I could use help.
[ the weight of an anchor was meant to ground, securely— and it’s what falco feels just as they approach the home’s stairs and door. before the boy reaches to turn the knob, a small hand, delicate even, rises to meet the other’s firming hold. with it came falco’s gaze, growing with gratitude and admiration— the amount of energy from a single gesture . . . ]
I’d love to, Mister Paul. [ if he could give back in any way, he’d put his heart into it and make his stay not just a simple occupation of space. the door is open, and after a brief peer in to make sure everything is in place, falco welcomes them in. ] Why until next month?
[ there had been something about that, “only until next month”. why not sooner? something had to be keeping him from occupying a home when he wanted. ]
Are you expecting something?
[ it’s an offhandedly made comment that falco had only considered because of it being the closest thing that made sense to him: waiting for an item, for a person.
he hadn’t a single notion of the gravity of this “something”, and works to grab a small stack of wooden plates from the living room pantry while awaiting an answer he thought would be a simple yes or no. ]
[Paul looks down at Falco's burgeoning hope, and he answers it with a smile like an egg cracked open, some soft feathered thing inside wet with newness visible through the fracture.]
Thank you, Falco. And that's another thing I came to talk to you about.
[Paul searches out a table and sets out his wax paper wrapped goods on it, a selection of sweet stuffed buns and flaky rolls. There's even a thing like baklawa, layered sheets of thin pastry bound together with honey, spices, and chopped nuts. He does this carefully, with a black, roiling volatility caged in his ribs.
When Falco comes back, he'll find Paul seated at the table, and another wrapped bundle about the size of one of his closed fists in front of him. He pushes it towards the boy, that new smile still present.]
Why don't you open this first, and then we'll talk about it.
['This', once unwrapped, is a poppet of a bird, a floppy-winged fabric approximation of a falcon with two black button eyes, a plumply stuffed, strangely weighted body with a firm stone in its center, and an effort at resemblance to Perle.]
[ coffee was the next thing he’d prepare, having learned how to heat the water, set the filters and spoon a favorable amount of crushed beans to add the desired flavor. falco enjoyed the smell, readily reaching for the jar erwin had frequently used and spinning the top open to let out the crisp, indispensable aroma. the taste was bitter for him, so he’d only be having milk at room temperature— but he gets to work while the water boils at the kitchen’s iron stove on Paul’s soon to be coffee cup. it shouldn’t take long; he prepares the rest of the table and mind’s paul’s words as he did, catching sight of delectable looking rolls as he returned the first time, a smile on his face and nodding, quietly affirming with an “okay” as he set silverware by paul’s plate. just in case.
by the time falco goes back to the stove and returns with a finished cup in hand, he slows at the presence of a little wrapped package and the encouragement to open it. paul had said there was something for him, and now that there was beyond the words to prepare him, he still feels a giddy, boyish jump in his stomach. redness spreads to his cheeks. a gift, out of nowhere.
setting the cup in front of paul gently, in an effort not to spill its contents, falco’s enthusiasm comes as a meek grin, nearly laughing as he sits and takes the carefully packed gift in his hands, already tending to it with a delicate hold. if nothing could fully prepare him for the prospect of a gift, then nothing would prepare him for the contents— a falcon, so gingerly created with attentive hands and eyes to remarkable detail. that, falco could see immediately, sighing out with a charmed, breathy laugh he couldn’t contain.
it looked like the bird that sat by him every day. ]
[The truth of Paul's ongoing lack of address is multi-faceted. It began as a precaution in a novel, threatening environment, to be sure, but it's also been this: if he chooses a place to stay, if he calls it a house and it is empty, he will have to wake up to silence every day not because he's an efficient, agile survivor, but because he's alone.
So he listens to the sounds of Falco in the other room, smells the coffee being brewed, and looks around the little cabin with a feeling like a tentative extension of vines. They only proliferate when Falco emerges and perceives the gift, a thing Paul watches with a smile from behind his steaming cup.]
I did. [And he has the pricked fingers to prove it; he's not an expert in needlework.] There's a paleblood stone inside. It's a dream-hunter. If you keep it nearby when you sleep, it's supposed to chase away nightmares.
[Paul knows a thing or two about the kind of nightmares that Falco might have. It's a simple spell, and not one that wards against all bad dreams, but he thinks it might. That's why it's his paleblood that forms the stone.]
[ from his spreading smile came a flash of teeth that falco can barely contain behind his lips. not only was it made by his own hands (the type of gift that came with not only thought, but grand effort), it was made to ward off nightmares, with paleblood (was it paul’s, too? oh—). this had quickly become precious to him, and falco’s hold on the little falcon is tender with care, cupping its legs and floppy wings. the silence, the ugly entity living within the boy greatly dislikes this— but because paul has put in falco’s hands a beacon of hope and comfort. a possibility of prolonged peace, and in fact, a ward to strengthen his guard from loneliness, despair and fright. everything that may give force to corruption, and consequently, the entity.
he’s overjoyed. he’s overjoyed that he’s received a gift, and one so helpful to him, so cherished. ]
Thank you, [ he starts, nearly breathless, but starts again with more energy to express the warm rattling his heart beats. ] thank you so much, Mister Paul.
[ had that been enough? to express just how special this was for him? he can hardly let this thing go now, and adds, almost meekly: ]
[Being willing to kill for another person is a threshold that Paul takes seriously, even though he reaches it earlier and more often than most people might. It's a cultural difference, one Paul has noted in himself and made efforts to adjust for.
What he feels looking at Falco is another thing. Paul sits in this cosy, peaceful kitchen, watching a child cradling a toy, and knows that he would do much worse than kill for him, if called upon to do so. There's no anger in the thought, no fear. There is an answering warmth instead, a clarity of place and purpose. Paul leans forward and puts his hand on Falco's shoulder where it belongs, squeezing once and lightly.]
I hoped you would.
You know - I don't think I told you, but House Atreides' symbol is a hawk. I think that must mean we were meant to be friends. What do you think?
[ the first words out of his mouth, swiftly accompanied by attentive, drawn eyes to Paul with a soft touch of wonderment. he hadn’t been taught much about fate, and thus hadn’t had the habit of believing in it directly, but . . . knowing there are connections to things, and glimpses, pathways into the future the same way there was to the past— that’s very real. he didn’t need to be a paleblood, as temporary as it was, to understand that.
it was a coincidence that made his chest bounce briefly with unspoken thrill, and steering his weight into the hand on his shoulder that he’d hope to keep there for as long as he could. ]
If we’re here right now, I’d like for it to be true.
[ not even his name was a coincidence— it was the form he was to take in the future. the now. ]
A lot of things . . . Come together like that, don’t they?
[Falco can have all the shoulder touching he wants. Paul lets his hand stay anchored where it is.]
And once they do, we can decide to keep them together.
[He wants to stay on this subject. He would prefer greatly to sit here and talk about friendship and birds, instead of dreams and fate. But they need to get this out of the way, so that in a month - only a month, it's not so bad - they can come back to those subjects in this kitchen.]
I'd like to say we're friends. Friends trust each other, don't they?
[ it was falco’s turn to offer a hand; at being called a friend, something grand beyond his circle, he pulls a hand up to clasp over paul’s in camaraderie, in sureness. his heart soars in being trusted, and that he can trust someone in turn— it’s not easy to come by. falco’s eyes even begin to squint with just how much he smiles up at the elder boy, and says with confident certainty: ]
You can count on me, Mister Paul.
[ because he would do the same. that’s what that meant. ]
[Paul sets his coffee aside and presses his thumb down lightly. His expression is serious, but gentle. He practiced it before he came here. He captures Falco's smile in his memory like a pressing of a flower.]
Will you swear to me, on something important to you, that you'll trust me? You'll do what I ask you to, even if you don't always agree with it, as long as I promise you that it's for a good reason?
[ the curves on his lips begin to falter, flatten— they don’t become frowns, though they do hover at a dubious neutrality, his thin eyebrows pinching so slightly to express his sudden concern on what’s being asked of him. his hesitation comes with being used before. eren would have said everything he did was for a good cause. for his agenda, not falco’s. it cost liberio too many lives and entered war again because of the stupid little letters falco mailed off in good will, outside of the hospice for who he thought was a crippled “mister kruger” simply wanting to communicate with his family.
would paul be capable of something like that? as a (mostly) efficient judge of character, falco thinks he wouldn’t. he looks into his eyes and searches for something, in his expression, gesture, between the lines of his words and in his pupils. this wasn’t a threat, he gathers. this was a plea. ]
. . . I will. [ he knew better than to promise something he couldn’t, but this was paul’s trust in falco and falco’s trust in paul. it was something he could give, and wanted to, though still fully aware that any chaotic enough circumstance can change his course— for the same reason. falco was, after all, the type to act fast and sacrifice before he could realize his legs were moving toward danger. a bad habit of all jaw titans. ] Why—?
[ not because he still has doubts, but because he knows by now, or could guess, that something was wrong. ]
[Paul has noticed that people from other places don't quite seem to make promises the same way he does, sworn to or by a specific thing. Cultural relativity being what it is, he tries, and usually succeeds, in not holding that against them.
In Falco's case, Paul looks at their joined hands and thinks, sickly, that Falco is swearing on something. He keeps coming across these children willing to throw themselves into the hands of strangers at the slightest kindness, and Falco shows no signs of getting suddenly taller and stronger and more worldly (and no less vulnerable, even then- but that's a thought he shies from).
Paul would rather cut his hand off than misuse the trust being placed in it. The idea of it being possible still scares him. He leans in slightly, comfortingly, shieldingly.]
I've been having bad dreams about the future. [He isn't going to lie, but he will be gentle with the truth.] You've been in some of them. It's going to be all right. We're going to stop anything from happening while we're awake. I won't let anything happen to you. I swear on our friendship, I won't.
[Paul puts every note of reassurance he knows into his voice, blended with certainty and weight.]
[ the hand on falco’s lap, still cradling the prized dreamcatching falcon, holds the gift tighter around the wings and body while his remaining hand grips paul’s own firming but gentle grasp for a second— a second that begins the blooming change in his expression that immediately gives way. his brows pinch higher, his eyes seem to water and his lips feel tight against each other. they look so, but the more he seals them, the more he feels they could begin to tremble.
he’s the one usually out there trying to change something, fighting, investigating— he’s met so many older figures by now. some come from a similar background, and think it’s important to fight. some would care for him but would give him the liberty to act. very few have gone out of their way to fully protect him. he can remember only one instance: home, and nowhere else. annie had locked him and gabi in a ship’s quarters, to keep them from interfering. was that a good thing or—? falco knew the panic he’d felt when wanting to get out, wanting to do something because he could and, annie did eventually, but when she didn’t—
somehow, this felt slightly more different. the reason for the start of tears (that luckily dry before becoming too large and falling off his cheeks) is from being moved by paul’s consideration and protection, even more, friendship. when gabi had questioned his actions while on paradis— his heart felt a similar jump. why did you come? i don’t want you to die.
falco knew his answer, but would keep it to himself until it was time to answer, if that time would ever come to pass. ]
Paul . . . [ he’s not added the mister, possibly because this feels too intimate for formalities. it was like he was talking to . . .
he halts the thought before the sting at the bridge of his nose grows stronger. he swallows tight and nods, but asks: ] What can I do?
[There are things Paul is never and always thinking about, one way or another. There are things that are so deeply felt and known they have stopped being thoughts at all.
Paul sees Falco make himself be brave, tremulous and yet fierce, a little bird readying little talons and beak, and it's like watching the world end all over again.]
Falco. [Paul's voice is an ache, it's an aegis of protection, it's please.] Falco, you don't have to do -
[But Paul remembers being his age. It feels a long time ago, but he remembers. So he stops himself. He rises from his chair, barely disentangling himself from Falco's hand only to kneel on one knee in front of him and guide both of Falco's small hands to his gift, clasps his larger hands around them. He looks up at that impossibly sad face, the unbearable losses etched in it - childhood, innocence, a little dark eyed girl not here, a brother whose name Paul has been afraid to ask for.
Paul makes himself be brave. His eyes are solemn and gentle. He wills his hands to be warm, and they obey.]
[he doesn’t have to is true. he doesn’t necessarily need to be an attacker, especially when it’s not much in his nature (when the silence doesn’t intervene). he doesn’t need to be on the front lines, like so many captains have indoctrinated. but that doesn’t remove from falco something that is his. he wants to help. in some way, he wants to be helpful, and he wants to aid others who need it. like paul, like the fallen enemy soldier that spat curses at him as he stopped his bleeding.
falco’s back erects at the possibility that comes with the question paul asks. attentive, his smaller hands give a squeeze upwards at the larger ones clapping them together. ]
I’ve been practicing them on rags. [ he— he probably needed proof of that, in some way, and briefly leaves the hold of paul’s hands to turn with his torso, behind the chair where his messenger bag hung. it was in the larger flap, right next to a wooden box with simple tools. he was a resourceful boy and it was hard to let what he’s learned and been drilled for go. he speaks the truth, that he’s been practicing: when he turns back around, falco places the rag (about the size of a hand towel) on his lap for show. stitches peppered about the fabric range from mildly crude (but intricate) knots to exceptionally neat ones, learned from doctors and healers he’s been occasionally accompanying. falco had an interest in a blood minister’s job, but was frightened of the prospect of using his own blood (a problem they would get to, if he proved himself in more basic disciplines); there’s even improvements, when compared to the one he’s done on paul. ] Would this help—?
[ he didn’t have to fight. he didn’t. but maybe, he could serve in a way that was beneficial for all, including himself. ]
[Paul takes his time looking over the cloth to confirm the quality of its work, and to give himself somewhere else to look. He feels better at Falco's acceptance of the idea of staying out of harm's way, but only so much. He nods eventually at the stitching and looks up with a slight but fully approving smile.]
That would help. You're even better than last time.
[He brushes his thumb across the back of Falco's hand and keeps looking at him as if fixing his face to memory, as if he hasn't already done that.]
How are you feeling? Do you want to talk about it?
[It was one thing for so many of the adults that he warned to show such little concern for themselves, and so little interest in discussing their feelings. He understands that - but the buttoning down and immediate turning to action in Falco is different. There should be room for him to feel things, Paul thinks, and it's a notion that unsettles him in ways he can't quite articulate to himself. It's not right, that Falco can do that so easily, even if it makes things simpler for Paul.]
[ a small twitch to falco’s lips stirs at the compliment, but the gravity of the situation he’s feeling keeps his smile from going ear to ear. he’s happy to hear that. he’s happy because that meant it would be useful.
but, how did he feel? falco goes quiet in an attempt to assimilate and put into words what he feels— he’s thankfully not one to shy away from dialogue or talking about what it is he’s feeling (it was, actually, the quality that netted him a future girlfriend in the middle of a war). ]
I, um, [ is that what he’s asking? he begins to fold away the fabric in a neat square once it’s been seen. ] I’m really happy that you care that much about me. [ and inhale, because, certainly, he’s getting emotional, these gentle hazel doe eyes tracking with his words. the smile that comes with it is soft, small, like a fluffed cap of feathers. ] I do, too. That’s why I can’t just . . . Not do anything. I don’t want to lose you, either.
[ it’s like— it’s like watching someone run off into danger. he’s never kept put. gabi, pieck, reiner, annie— he’s never been able to just watch them go, without doing a thing about it. most of those times, falco had made a right call. if he hadn’t been there, worse would happen.
at least some of the worst happened to him, and not them— he took the bulk for being there, and there’s no regret in it. not if he uses that time wisely. once the cloth if tucked into itself, falco sets it on top of the table. there was something else; he inhales to make sure he’s ready to talk about it. ]
I made a promise to someone back home. They’re the reason I’m still alive.
[ it echoes to him, all the time. when he sleeps, he dreams— he sees the world through galliard’s eyes, from his life to his last moments. he wasn’t afraid. he went down protecting someone else. ]
If I could help with something, whatever it is— I want to help. I like helping people, but . . . I need to make sure he didn’t die for nothing.
Whenever I’m stuck, I keep thinking, what would Galliard do, if he were still here? He wouldn’t just . . . Watch. [ or hide, or anything of the sort that had to do with being idle, much less with a gift (or curse) so rare in numbers. falco leaves out his inheritance, but only because it seems like too much information for one sit down. ] I can’t do that to him.
[Paul listens to this with the gravity it demands of him, with the absolute attentiveness that he learned from so many older faces in his own life. It's a look that says I see you, a way of holding someone in your eyes so that they know that they are the center of a universe of care.
He doesn't let himself be a mirror or to crumple under the weight of recognition. That's not how it works. (He remembers his mother's eyes, and their emptiness, and the bleak understanding that it was up to him, now, all of it, the world falling across his unready shoulders.) What he does do is let Falco see it, just a little: his quiet shared understanding when Falco says Galliard and Paul hears another name in his heart.]
It's all right to be afraid. [Because there is so much fear there: the fear of failing, of loss, of being alone, and Paul's voice aches.] I am too.
[With that, Paul reaches up, and gently gathers Falco down into his arms. He wraps them around the younger boy and runs a hand over his hair, guiding his face to the crook of Paul's shoulder where Paul had dug his fingers in, once, to save Falco from another bad dream.]
You are helping people. You help me all the time.
No one who dies for someone else does it for nothing. Never. [Paul presses the smaller boy closer to his chest, says this close to the curved shell of his ear.] Galliard knew that. You're not nothing, and I am not going to leave you, not if there is anything I can do about it, and even if -
[Even if, even if, Falco knows too much of even if and its aftermath to lie to about that. Paul breathes out, faintly tremulous, and says:] I'd come back for you.
[ falco glides himself into the hold that comes effortlessly with tight lips and a wide gaze of recognition, as if it were always waiting for him and if he had been doing the same. he barely has to hunch over to meet paul’s already lowered height, as small as he was, only bending his knees some and canting his head into the crook that welcomed him. with one hand, the falcon presses against his hair and the start of his back while falco’s other grips fabric and tightens. even his face disappears for a stretch, soothing the hot sting to the corners of his eyes and nose into the elder boy’s jacket, just as the hand to the back of his head does.
there is nothing quite as heavy, or as potent, than a candid heart speaking up. as if paul’s own loss were palpable, his arms hug tighter around his neck. I’ll come back for you. he believes it. he knows it’s true. he breathes out, a voice slightly strained but firming itself to give his heart back. he’s already spoken it, but he’s been encouraged— to feel everything and use it. ]
I know you will. [ once the shared embrace comes to a natural close, falco’s hold loosens only to bring him to paul’s front, facing him— the falcon rests on his shoulder, and the boy’s opposite hand finds the space between his jaw and his neck. it’s a warm-hearted gesture of care. ] If you can’t find me, I’ll find you.
[Paul cups Falco's face on the opposite side of his falcon's perch, brushing a thumb over his cheek. It's a thing he doesn't remember ever having done for anyone else before, only had done to him, and it feels like a part of the world shifting under his hand. He doesn't know what his own eyes might look like, except that he feels a salt-sharp prick at their corners he blinks away.]
That's right. [Paul nods, emphatically, letting his hand come down to Falco's shoulder.] So we don't need to be so worried, do we?
[We being the operative word. Falco is going to worry, Paul is not unrealistic, but Paul will shoulder as much of it as he can for him. That starts with being steady enough to balance it. That starts with coaxing Falco back into his chair and sliding a pastry in front of him before Paul pulls his chair around the table to sit next to him and drape an arm over his shoulder companionably.]
So let's eat, and we can talk about it, if you want to, or we can talk about anything else. I still owe you a story, don't I?
[ if he could just stay in this wrap just a little bit longer, because something aches in chest despite being reassured. falco lets his weight be guided back to the chair he sat in regardless, but the phantom touch still brushed his cheek where paul had cupped his hand. he was no longer a paleblood, but there was . . . a sense of foreboding hanging close to his head. worry. it was the same feeling he had before war would break and he’d find himself in the middle of the battlefield searching desperately for his squad, colt, and when they were all gone— gabi.
it’s a feeling, and sad comprehension, that despite their words to be true to each other, it might not always happen the way they’d expect it to. whenever there’s battle in the picture, one might not find the other among the living. the risk is there— that was the bane that involved combat. falco attempts a smile, a weak one that he wished he could’ve made stronger for his elder friend the same way he’d made himself for falco.
he nods his head and agrees, but the melancholy awareness sits behind his soft agreement, too sympathetic, and a little bit selfish, to ruin it. he wants to enjoy the time paul is offering with him, too. this pastry, a story, his milk and paul’s coffee. he doesn’t want to feed the future he doesn’t know clearly, but he’ll be there to aid in shaping it however he could.
and he would find paul, wherever he was. ]
I’d like all of those. [ talking about the thing that’s dated to arrive, to prepare better, talk about something else— and the story. but, after a pause, falco brings honesty into a meek rise: ] Maybe a story, first.
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[Paul manages not to stop in his tracks at that revelation, but it's a near thing. He does veer slightly closer to Falco, looking down at him with an expression he controls to moderate concern.]
Are you by yourself?
[Another question already answered, but Paul wants it to not be.]
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[ he’s been jumping, didn’t want to be a bother for any adult who felt the responsibility to care for him when he could care finely for himself. yet, while there was no problem in staying alone, the prospect was a frightening one; he didn’t want to be, and begin seeing things, hearing things, or worse, hearing nothing at all. perle helped fill the void temporarily, at least, and she’d even grow about ten sizes to make him feel better about sleeping. ]
I’m making sure I’m in safe places, even if it’s for the night.
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His hand comes up to the younger boy's shoulder again. He feels the slimness of it, the delicate set of his bones, and presses his thumb down, like an anchor.]
I won't be staying on the beach forever. Only until next month. [He keeps his gaze on the cottage, allowing Falco that little bit of privacy.] If you haven't found anyone to stay with by then...I'm not very good at looking after myself. I could use help.
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I’d love to, Mister Paul. [ if he could give back in any way, he’d put his heart into it and make his stay not just a simple occupation of space. the door is open, and after a brief peer in to make sure everything is in place, falco welcomes them in. ] Why until next month?
[ there had been something about that, “only until next month”. why not sooner? something had to be keeping him from occupying a home when he wanted. ]
Are you expecting something?
[ it’s an offhandedly made comment that falco had only considered because of it being the closest thing that made sense to him: waiting for an item, for a person.
he hadn’t a single notion of the gravity of this “something”, and works to grab a small stack of wooden plates from the living room pantry while awaiting an answer he thought would be a simple yes or no. ]
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Thank you, Falco. And that's another thing I came to talk to you about.
[Paul searches out a table and sets out his wax paper wrapped goods on it, a selection of sweet stuffed buns and flaky rolls. There's even a thing like baklawa, layered sheets of thin pastry bound together with honey, spices, and chopped nuts. He does this carefully, with a black, roiling volatility caged in his ribs.
When Falco comes back, he'll find Paul seated at the table, and another wrapped bundle about the size of one of his closed fists in front of him. He pushes it towards the boy, that new smile still present.]
Why don't you open this first, and then we'll talk about it.
['This', once unwrapped, is a poppet of a bird, a floppy-winged fabric approximation of a falcon with two black button eyes, a plumply stuffed, strangely weighted body with a firm stone in its center, and an effort at resemblance to Perle.]
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by the time falco goes back to the stove and returns with a finished cup in hand, he slows at the presence of a little wrapped package and the encouragement to open it. paul had said there was something for him, and now that there was beyond the words to prepare him, he still feels a giddy, boyish jump in his stomach. redness spreads to his cheeks. a gift, out of nowhere.
setting the cup in front of paul gently, in an effort not to spill its contents, falco’s enthusiasm comes as a meek grin, nearly laughing as he sits and takes the carefully packed gift in his hands, already tending to it with a delicate hold. if nothing could fully prepare him for the prospect of a gift, then nothing would prepare him for the contents— a falcon, so gingerly created with attentive hands and eyes to remarkable detail. that, falco could see immediately, sighing out with a charmed, breathy laugh he couldn’t contain.
it looked like the bird that sat by him every day. ]
Did you make this—?
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So he listens to the sounds of Falco in the other room, smells the coffee being brewed, and looks around the little cabin with a feeling like a tentative extension of vines. They only proliferate when Falco emerges and perceives the gift, a thing Paul watches with a smile from behind his steaming cup.]
I did. [And he has the pricked fingers to prove it; he's not an expert in needlework.] There's a paleblood stone inside. It's a dream-hunter. If you keep it nearby when you sleep, it's supposed to chase away nightmares.
[Paul knows a thing or two about the kind of nightmares that Falco might have. It's a simple spell, and not one that wards against all bad dreams, but he thinks it might. That's why it's his paleblood that forms the stone.]
I'm glad you like it.
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he’s overjoyed. he’s overjoyed that he’s received a gift, and one so helpful to him, so cherished. ]
Thank you, [ he starts, nearly breathless, but starts again with more energy to express the warm rattling his heart beats. ] thank you so much, Mister Paul.
[ had that been enough? to express just how special this was for him? he can hardly let this thing go now, and adds, almost meekly: ]
I love it.
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What he feels looking at Falco is another thing. Paul sits in this cosy, peaceful kitchen, watching a child cradling a toy, and knows that he would do much worse than kill for him, if called upon to do so. There's no anger in the thought, no fear. There is an answering warmth instead, a clarity of place and purpose. Paul leans forward and puts his hand on Falco's shoulder where it belongs, squeezing once and lightly.]
I hoped you would.
You know - I don't think I told you, but House Atreides' symbol is a hawk. I think that must mean we were meant to be friends. What do you think?
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[ the first words out of his mouth, swiftly accompanied by attentive, drawn eyes to Paul with a soft touch of wonderment. he hadn’t been taught much about fate, and thus hadn’t had the habit of believing in it directly, but . . . knowing there are connections to things, and glimpses, pathways into the future the same way there was to the past— that’s very real. he didn’t need to be a paleblood, as temporary as it was, to understand that.
it was a coincidence that made his chest bounce briefly with unspoken thrill, and steering his weight into the hand on his shoulder that he’d hope to keep there for as long as he could. ]
If we’re here right now, I’d like for it to be true.
[ not even his name was a coincidence— it was the form he was to take in the future. the now. ]
A lot of things . . . Come together like that, don’t they?
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And once they do, we can decide to keep them together.
[He wants to stay on this subject. He would prefer greatly to sit here and talk about friendship and birds, instead of dreams and fate. But they need to get this out of the way, so that in a month - only a month, it's not so bad - they can come back to those subjects in this kitchen.]
I'd like to say we're friends. Friends trust each other, don't they?
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You can count on me, Mister Paul.
[ because he would do the same. that’s what that meant. ]
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[Paul sets his coffee aside and presses his thumb down lightly. His expression is serious, but gentle. He practiced it before he came here. He captures Falco's smile in his memory like a pressing of a flower.]
Will you swear to me, on something important to you, that you'll trust me? You'll do what I ask you to, even if you don't always agree with it, as long as I promise you that it's for a good reason?
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would paul be capable of something like that? as a (mostly) efficient judge of character, falco thinks he wouldn’t. he looks into his eyes and searches for something, in his expression, gesture, between the lines of his words and in his pupils. this wasn’t a threat, he gathers. this was a plea. ]
. . . I will. [ he knew better than to promise something he couldn’t, but this was paul’s trust in falco and falco’s trust in paul. it was something he could give, and wanted to, though still fully aware that any chaotic enough circumstance can change his course— for the same reason. falco was, after all, the type to act fast and sacrifice before he could realize his legs were moving toward danger. a bad habit of all jaw titans. ] Why—?
[ not because he still has doubts, but because he knows by now, or could guess, that something was wrong. ]
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In Falco's case, Paul looks at their joined hands and thinks, sickly, that Falco is swearing on something. He keeps coming across these children willing to throw themselves into the hands of strangers at the slightest kindness, and Falco shows no signs of getting suddenly taller and stronger and more worldly (and no less vulnerable, even then- but that's a thought he shies from).
Paul would rather cut his hand off than misuse the trust being placed in it. The idea of it being possible still scares him. He leans in slightly, comfortingly, shieldingly.]
I've been having bad dreams about the future. [He isn't going to lie, but he will be gentle with the truth.] You've been in some of them. It's going to be all right. We're going to stop anything from happening while we're awake. I won't let anything happen to you. I swear on our friendship, I won't.
[Paul puts every note of reassurance he knows into his voice, blended with certainty and weight.]
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he’s the one usually out there trying to change something, fighting, investigating— he’s met so many older figures by now. some come from a similar background, and think it’s important to fight. some would care for him but would give him the liberty to act. very few have gone out of their way to fully protect him. he can remember only one instance: home, and nowhere else. annie had locked him and gabi in a ship’s quarters, to keep them from interfering. was that a good thing or—? falco knew the panic he’d felt when wanting to get out, wanting to do something because he could and, annie did eventually, but when she didn’t—
somehow, this felt slightly more different. the reason for the start of tears (that luckily dry before becoming too large and falling off his cheeks) is from being moved by paul’s consideration and protection, even more, friendship. when gabi had questioned his actions while on paradis— his heart felt a similar jump. why did you come? i don’t want you to die.
falco knew his answer, but would keep it to himself until it was time to answer, if that time would ever come to pass. ]
Paul . . . [ he’s not added the mister, possibly because this feels too intimate for formalities. it was like he was talking to . . .
he halts the thought before the sting at the bridge of his nose grows stronger. he swallows tight and nods, but asks: ] What can I do?
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Paul sees Falco make himself be brave, tremulous and yet fierce, a little bird readying little talons and beak, and it's like watching the world end all over again.]
Falco. [Paul's voice is an ache, it's an aegis of protection, it's please.] Falco, you don't have to do -
[But Paul remembers being his age. It feels a long time ago, but he remembers. So he stops himself. He rises from his chair, barely disentangling himself from Falco's hand only to kneel on one knee in front of him and guide both of Falco's small hands to his gift, clasps his larger hands around them. He looks up at that impossibly sad face, the unbearable losses etched in it - childhood, innocence, a little dark eyed girl not here, a brother whose name Paul has been afraid to ask for.
Paul makes himself be brave. His eyes are solemn and gentle. He wills his hands to be warm, and they obey.]
You're still good at stitches, aren't you?
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falco’s back erects at the possibility that comes with the question paul asks. attentive, his smaller hands give a squeeze upwards at the larger ones clapping them together. ]
I’ve been practicing them on rags. [ he— he probably needed proof of that, in some way, and briefly leaves the hold of paul’s hands to turn with his torso, behind the chair where his messenger bag hung. it was in the larger flap, right next to a wooden box with simple tools. he was a resourceful boy and it was hard to let what he’s learned and been drilled for go. he speaks the truth, that he’s been practicing: when he turns back around, falco places the rag (about the size of a hand towel) on his lap for show. stitches peppered about the fabric range from mildly crude (but intricate) knots to exceptionally neat ones, learned from doctors and healers he’s been occasionally accompanying. falco had an interest in a blood minister’s job, but was frightened of the prospect of using his own blood (a problem they would get to, if he proved himself in more basic disciplines); there’s even improvements, when compared to the one he’s done on paul. ] Would this help—?
[ he didn’t have to fight. he didn’t. but maybe, he could serve in a way that was beneficial for all, including himself. ]
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That would help. You're even better than last time.
[He brushes his thumb across the back of Falco's hand and keeps looking at him as if fixing his face to memory, as if he hasn't already done that.]
How are you feeling? Do you want to talk about it?
[It was one thing for so many of the adults that he warned to show such little concern for themselves, and so little interest in discussing their feelings. He understands that - but the buttoning down and immediate turning to action in Falco is different. There should be room for him to feel things, Paul thinks, and it's a notion that unsettles him in ways he can't quite articulate to himself. It's not right, that Falco can do that so easily, even if it makes things simpler for Paul.]
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but, how did he feel? falco goes quiet in an attempt to assimilate and put into words what he feels— he’s thankfully not one to shy away from dialogue or talking about what it is he’s feeling (it was, actually, the quality that netted him a future girlfriend in the middle of a war). ]
I, um, [ is that what he’s asking? he begins to fold away the fabric in a neat square once it’s been seen. ] I’m really happy that you care that much about me. [ and inhale, because, certainly, he’s getting emotional, these gentle hazel doe eyes tracking with his words. the smile that comes with it is soft, small, like a fluffed cap of feathers. ] I do, too. That’s why I can’t just . . . Not do anything. I don’t want to lose you, either.
[ it’s like— it’s like watching someone run off into danger. he’s never kept put. gabi, pieck, reiner, annie— he’s never been able to just watch them go, without doing a thing about it. most of those times, falco had made a right call. if he hadn’t been there, worse would happen.
at least some of the worst happened to him, and not them— he took the bulk for being there, and there’s no regret in it. not if he uses that time wisely. once the cloth if tucked into itself, falco sets it on top of the table. there was something else; he inhales to make sure he’s ready to talk about it. ]
I made a promise to someone back home. They’re the reason I’m still alive.
[ it echoes to him, all the time. when he sleeps, he dreams— he sees the world through galliard’s eyes, from his life to his last moments. he wasn’t afraid. he went down protecting someone else. ]
If I could help with something, whatever it is— I want to help. I like helping people, but . . . I need to make sure he didn’t die for nothing.
Whenever I’m stuck, I keep thinking, what would Galliard do, if he were still here? He wouldn’t just . . . Watch. [ or hide, or anything of the sort that had to do with being idle, much less with a gift (or curse) so rare in numbers. falco leaves out his inheritance, but only because it seems like too much information for one sit down. ] I can’t do that to him.
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He doesn't let himself be a mirror or to crumple under the weight of recognition. That's not how it works. (He remembers his mother's eyes, and their emptiness, and the bleak understanding that it was up to him, now, all of it, the world falling across his unready shoulders.) What he does do is let Falco see it, just a little: his quiet shared understanding when Falco says Galliard and Paul hears another name in his heart.]
It's all right to be afraid. [Because there is so much fear there: the fear of failing, of loss, of being alone, and Paul's voice aches.] I am too.
[With that, Paul reaches up, and gently gathers Falco down into his arms. He wraps them around the younger boy and runs a hand over his hair, guiding his face to the crook of Paul's shoulder where Paul had dug his fingers in, once, to save Falco from another bad dream.]
You are helping people. You help me all the time.
No one who dies for someone else does it for nothing. Never. [Paul presses the smaller boy closer to his chest, says this close to the curved shell of his ear.] Galliard knew that. You're not nothing, and I am not going to leave you, not if there is anything I can do about it, and even if -
[Even if, even if, Falco knows too much of even if and its aftermath to lie to about that. Paul breathes out, faintly tremulous, and says:] I'd come back for you.
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there is nothing quite as heavy, or as potent, than a candid heart speaking up. as if paul’s own loss were palpable, his arms hug tighter around his neck. I’ll come back for you. he believes it. he knows it’s true. he breathes out, a voice slightly strained but firming itself to give his heart back. he’s already spoken it, but he’s been encouraged— to feel everything and use it. ]
I know you will. [ once the shared embrace comes to a natural close, falco’s hold loosens only to bring him to paul’s front, facing him— the falcon rests on his shoulder, and the boy’s opposite hand finds the space between his jaw and his neck. it’s a warm-hearted gesture of care. ] If you can’t find me, I’ll find you.
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That's right. [Paul nods, emphatically, letting his hand come down to Falco's shoulder.] So we don't need to be so worried, do we?
[We being the operative word. Falco is going to worry, Paul is not unrealistic, but Paul will shoulder as much of it as he can for him. That starts with being steady enough to balance it. That starts with coaxing Falco back into his chair and sliding a pastry in front of him before Paul pulls his chair around the table to sit next to him and drape an arm over his shoulder companionably.]
So let's eat, and we can talk about it, if you want to, or we can talk about anything else. I still owe you a story, don't I?
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it’s a feeling, and sad comprehension, that despite their words to be true to each other, it might not always happen the way they’d expect it to. whenever there’s battle in the picture, one might not find the other among the living. the risk is there— that was the bane that involved combat. falco attempts a smile, a weak one that he wished he could’ve made stronger for his elder friend the same way he’d made himself for falco.
he nods his head and agrees, but the melancholy awareness sits behind his soft agreement, too sympathetic, and a little bit selfish, to ruin it. he wants to enjoy the time paul is offering with him, too. this pastry, a story, his milk and paul’s coffee. he doesn’t want to feed the future he doesn’t know clearly, but he’ll be there to aid in shaping it however he could.
and he would find paul, wherever he was. ]
I’d like all of those. [ talking about the thing that’s dated to arrive, to prepare better, talk about something else— and the story. but, after a pause, falco brings honesty into a meek rise: ] Maybe a story, first.
[ any kind. ]