Strain

by Cozmos (Kandai)

Summary:

The Prisoner's new friend looks uncomfortable.

Notes:

• For SolsticeWatcher.

Disclaimer: Mobius Digital, Annapurna Interactive.
Note: A small drabble for a friend. You know who you are, my sweet. <3 Enjoy your reading. ::)

Strain

 

The stranger looks... uncomfortable.

Granted, the Prisoner might be wrong; it's not like they have any basis of comparison. The strange alien who freed them from their jail— jail, home, it's not like there is any difference after such a long time? — is even smaller than a premature foal, their limbs short and the rest of their body scaly and stocky. It's fascinating to observe but it also means it's hard to decipher their body language, especially since their eyes don't shine in the dark. However, the Prisoner is willing to bet that the weird twist of their mouth and the way they frequently touch the back of their neck with the tip of their fingers is a gesture of discomfort.

They can't help but feel vaguely guilty for welcoming them in such an inhospitable place. The Prisoner had centuries to get used to the cramped space of their prison and the furniture is at least made to their sizing; same thing cannot be said for their impromptu guest who looks ready to get swallowed by the chair they're sat on. Their feet cannot reach the floor and there is too much space between the edge of the chair and its back for their body to sit comfortably without straining the muscles. The alien doesn't seem to mind; still, they hold themselves rigid, as if their back had been punctured with thousands of sharp needles.

The Prisoner puts their Vision Torch away, keeping it nearby in case there would be an urgent need to communicate beyond words, and slowly rises up from their own seat. Their guest cranes their neck up— and that move earns them a small wince that doesn't go unoticed— eyes curious and ears twitching. It's a humbling sight, to be the subject of such an open trust; the Prisoner isn't exactly sure of what they did to deserve such a gentle devotion from such a dedicated creature, and they'd prefer not to ask. What they gathered from their use of the Vision Torch— stories of dying stars and time rewinding, of black holes and skeletons dancing around a green fire— had looked painful and intimate, not unlike a wound too deep to be healed.  The Prisoner has been no healer in life, and they're no better in death, but they can at least try to offer a small comfort.

Slowly, their crooked hand reaches for the neck of their visitor, gently discarding the rough fabric of their cloth until the skin is barred. There is no visible cut, no bruise to be seen but the muscles are tense under the Prisoner's fingers— a strain, most likely. Mindful of their sharp nails, they slightly press the heel of their palm into the skin of their new friend. It brings a soft sight to said friend's lips; something quiet and strangled, between relief and surprise. The Prisoner's own throat rumble in answer, while their palm begins making a soothing, circular motion.

It's no healer's work, of course, and it won't do much in the long term but after some minutes, the coil under the Prisoner's fingers slowly begins to bleed away, as the smaller figure of the stranger relaxes towards their host. For what feels like the billionth time since their punishment was ruled out, the Prisoner laments the lack of running water in their tomb. Granted, they don't need it to preen their own feathers— neither do they need it to drink— but it's one small comfort they could do with at this moment.

Their guest isn't complaining, though. Their lower eyes are half closed in what the Prisoner hopes is a gesture of contentment and their mouth is slightly open, exhaling softly whenever the Prisoner's hand works on a particular sore spot. They look oddly vulnerable, exposed like this; it makes the alien's old heart twist in a strange, painful way under their feathers.

They don't remember much of their last days, but they recall the mistrust and the disdain of their peers, the insults and the hateful glares they got before being sealed into a vault and left to live an eternal and solitary death. To be subjected to such a friendly smile, to open trust and affection is more grace than they had ever expected, be it in life or death— they had dreamed of being freed, of course, but always as a disgraced criminal or a shunned hermit. Not as... an equal.

As someone worthy of affection. Of kindness.

Minutes fly in silence, in the echoes of two phantom breaths growing closer. The strange alien ends up muttering something under their breath; a warped, monosyllabic word. It could be anything, from a threat to a declaration, but the Prisoner chooses to think it's a form of gratitude. They answer back in their own tongue, a quiet 'You're welcome' that they hope will cross the language barrier.

It's a strange feeling, being embraced as a friend again.

It's not unwelcome.