Should he even do this? It wasn’t like Foxen had enough problems of his own to deal with, and the last thing he wanted to do was impose on his future brother-in-law. He repeatedly tapped his knee with his index finger while staring at one of two of his beskar vambraces. There it was … the “call” button. All he had to do to initiate a holocall was press the button. Maybe he wouldn’t even answer? Maybe he still had him blocked …
He quickly pressed the button and held his breath.
*… connecting …
… connecting …*
Just when it was beginning to seem like his suspicions were correct, the message changed.
… initializing …
A colored hologram of the nautolan-chagrian hybrid materialized in the space above his vambrace.
<@244244163002892288>
The tiny Nautolan hologram – the smallest Foxen there’d ever be – looked immediately suspicious. Or maybe that was just him projecting…on a projection. Or just how Foxen looked. Which granted, was also true. If he was emoting at all–
Bril, Foxen gestured his name sign. What is it? Tiny holographic eyes squinted at him. There would be an opposite hologram on the other side. Do you look like shit or are you connecting from a dirtball.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind, Foxen,” he said, voice barely registering above a whisper on his end. Were it not for the sensitive microphone of his vambrace, his elder likely wouldn’t have heard him at all. He was tired, and that showed in his voice. Dark rings had settled into the skin beneath his eyes.
“I thought I was doing better, but the nightmares are back. The doubt. I’ve been training harder than ever but nothing seems to make a difference to my mind.”
Foxen considered him a moment that seemed like eternity.
Do you want to talk like this, or do you want physical company? Also: do you want my opinion. Not assuming just because you called.
“If you could come over, that’d be great,” he muttered, “Minnie is out with Morra and Femi.”
Confirm. Don’t hang up. You can talk if you want or wait, but stay on. Esk-Trill-Aurek 12:00. the Nautolan instructed, and Bril watched his avatar go through motions that might be moving about their home without actually being able to see most of the things he interacted with, the projection technology focused on the person it detected and only things he touched directly near his person. There was some signing at one point that obviously wasn’t to Bril, and he heard Flyndt call an affirmative to Foxen as well as a comment of well wishes to the Zabrak.
In indeed short order the little hologram was obviously running, and not many minutes after there came a knock at the door, just once: nine minutes, not twelve. Foxen had sprinted there, not that he seemed winded when Bril answered, finally disconnecting the call.
The door opened, but not from Bril’s hand. In fact, the first thing Foxen saw when it was sufficiently ajar was the zabrak man sitting on floor, his hunched back pressed against the wall that divided the living area from the rest of the apartment. He’d opened it with the Force, of course.
“Come in,” said Bril while gesturing for him to enter. Notably, he hadn’t given him a nickname.
Foxen paused at the threshold only briefly to have a moment of inverse deja vu. Then he continued forward, closing the door behind him and cataloguing both all details of the apartment in their differences since he’d last seen it and of Bril himself. The look like shit assessment was accurate.
Stepping over cat toys (gross) and pink throw rugs (unacceptably carnation for this late in the summer, poor choice, tadpole), he snorted slightly at the particular combination of incense on the caf table that could only be Zabraki of some kind (she’d never used such things before, and now they seemed to be in every room). He stopped a half meter away from Bril and crouched down. He had a bag over his shoulder. Red eyes roved to assess condition, looking for wounds.
Alright, champ, the Nautolan began. Ground rules: touch or no touch. Talk or no talk, my opinion or only listen. Have you hurt yourself or ingested toxic materials. Have you eaten today.
“Touching is fine. Talking and opinions are fine. No, and no,” answered Bril, sounding more tired after every answer. He tried to stand, but either due to his own exhaustion or lack of a will to truly do so, he failed.
“You got here quickly.”
You asked me to come. I ran, Foxen supplied as if that was blindingly obvious. Then there was a pause in any words whatsoever as he moved closer and hooked the comparatively small Zabrak around the back of his shoulders and legs and lifted him like it was nothing. The carry wasn’t long; only to the couch, where the Nautolan deposited him carefully and made almost confoundingly fast work of gathering half the billion throw pillows they had and building what was essentially a soft fort around him under his arms and back, propping him up.
Out of the bag came a large water bottle.
Drink, if you can. If you need assistance because you blew out every muscle you have, tell me, the older man ordered. I’m reheating this. You eat while we talk. I’ll help if you require.
As Foxen picked the young zabrak up and carried him into the living room, Bril couldn’t help but laugh. What started as a chuckle ended up becoming a hearty laugh that suggested he was enjoying whatever he’d though of way too much. Was he delirious?
With his fort now holding him up, Bril’s expression darkened into a rather comical attempt at looking intimidating. “Good, good … I’m the Boba Lord, now.”
Water wasn’t a bad idea, so he weakly extended a hand to lift the bottle with the Force. He could still do that, at least. He took a few sips, then a gulp.
“Thank you.”
Confirm, Foxen replied, briefly squinting in suspicion at the floating bottle. If that is more taxing than me doing it, don’t.
Then the matted, riddled back of one massive scarred hand pressed to the Zabrak’s forehead and cheeks, testing temperature. Delirium could be from fever. If anything, someone with Bril’s physiology was running low. Foxen added another blanket, then rose to assault the thermostat and the oven.
Bril shook his head. “Gotten so good at it now that it barely requires anything of me,” he replied.
When Foxen stepped into the kitchen, Bril raised his voice, which cracked under te strain. “Master Cora told me that I’d been pushing myself too hard. I should have listened more.”
With Foxen out of sight and the distance between them, the reply he received came as a ping routed to his vambrace.
🦈: No shit. 🦈: I thought you worshipped the ground those two walked on.
Clattering noises and scrunching foil and clicking dials came from the kitchen. The weight of Foxen’s steady, watching stare was a regular interval every three double-drum heartbeats.
“I have a lot of respect for my masters, yes,” Bril replied, “but that doesn’t mean I do everything they say. I like to make my own decisions, you know—sometimes for better, other times for worse.”
🦈: I am vividly aware. And it is a shared sentiment. 🦈: why did you choose worse this time?
“I didn’t intend to,” he admitted, rubbing his arm while shifting in his pillow fort. “I just … wanted to improve. Faster than I have been.”
A grunt came from the kitchen, and could have been parsed as derisive or empathetic. Then a more displeased hrm before he heard the opening and closing of their reheater.
🦈: Such things happen. The body fails, the mind fails, we fall the frak apart. Push too hard, lose control, hurt ourselves out of intention or desperation. Hurt those who loved us doing it. It is not easy. It’s fraking hard.
The microwave dinged, and there came a pause in messaging as the sounds of glassware and metal clinked, then the heating resumed.
🦈: do you want to tell me what happened? Or tell me anything?
“I…” Bril hesitated as doubt crept into his mind. He’d only told Ruka, Cora, and Minnie herself about the dreams he’d been having, and Minnie and himself hadn’t discussed them since the first time that it came up. Foxen was honest, often brutally so, and likely would only tell him what his rational mind already knew, but that his heart couldn’t bear. Yet, Foxen had come all this way to talk to him … to help him. He deserved to know.
“I do. But I need you in here for you to hear it.”
🦈: Okay. Two minutes. Food, then you can say whatever you want. Will listen. If want opinion then say so. Can also stop any time. __Your choice.__
Just so it was two minutes, a click of the microwave, and some more shuffling later when Foxen returned to the makeshift throne-cum-shelter of soft things and crouched in front of Bril; probably for the best he didn’t sit on the caf table, as it might not have survived his bulk. He carried a warm, lightly steaming dish on a hot pink cutting board Bril hadn’t known existed, using it as a makeshift serving tray. It smelled incredible, if odd.
It’s only flash-cooked leftovers but that’s what emergencies get. I’ll make you something Z-A-B-R-A-K-I soon. Been trading recipes with your grandmother, Foxen slowly signed, before lifting a fork and spearing what seemed like a bready meatball in a creamy sauce. He offered it up.
The pink cutting board. The one cutting board they had in their quaint little apartment. It reminded him that he needed to go shopping for more cookware when he was feeling up to it. For now, he gave Foxen an appreciative nod before taking control of the fork with the Force.
“Thank you,” he said before guiding it into his mouth. Bril’s eyes lit up when he tasted it. “This is really good, bro. Thank you.”
Finishing off the rest of the food was an easy enough task given his control with Force telekinesis. Once he was finished, he thanked Foxen again before doing the work of mentally preparing himself for their talk. He sighed.
“Opinions are welcome. But please don’t tell Minnie I talked to you about this, okay? She already knows so it’s not a secret or anything, I just don’t want to worry her more than I already have.”
It was probably the first and perhaps only time Bril hadn’t gotten his entire head shoved in one palm for calling the Nautolan bro. Instead, Foxen was a silent support while Bril ate, if a somewhat uncomfortable one staring unblinking at him the entire time, watching every movement of both fork, mouth, and the Zabrak’s double pulse. When Bril was done, he took the dish back with a thank you to the chin and set them on the table behind him to be cleaned later.
In reply to the younger man, he said, Stupid ass poor choice. But you’re in distress so you’re allowed to think stupid things like that letting the people who love you know you’re getting additional help is more of a stressor than a relief. Regardless, if that’s your choice, confirm. Won’t tell her.
“It’s not that letting her know I’m getting more help is what I’m worried about, it’s what it is about. I don’t want her to be worried about it because she was rightly spooked when I first brought it up.”
After that brief bit of preamble, Bril went on to explain the vision he’d received from the Force while in Imperial space, the territory of Clan Scholae Palatinae, and how it showed him an idyllic future with Minnow and their daughter, Jisula.
“Ruka and Cora warned me to not get too invested in visions of the future because they’re never concrete, not like my visions of the past are, and I know they’re right but … but the Force showed me that for a reason, Foxen. And even if things don’t play out exactly like that, if we have a family together at all in the future, I have to be capable of keeping them safe. Much more capable than I am now.”
He dropped his head with a sigh.
Foxen was silent as he listened, of course, though his hands were still too. Even after Bril hung his head, the lack of movement was palpable, such that when he snapped his fingers lightly to get Bril’s visual attention it was to assure, Not ignoring. Thinking.
When Bril indicated in the positive to that, Foxen hummed. Eventually, he started to sign.
Uncertainty doesn’t really matter if it’s real to you. Trauma is the same. Reality fractures, twists. Whether hallucinations or horrible fraking nightmares of killing the one you love or visions of some child, it’s real to you, isn’t it? So you feel what you feel.
And it sounds like what you feel is inadequate and incapable and afraid. Is that correct?
Bril nodded weakly. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”
“Hrm,” Foxen grunted. As you and Minnow say: ‘mood.’ Perhaps you are being irrational. Perhaps it is perfectly rational. You could be right. Doesn’t mean it’s healthy. I was incapable and inadequate to protect Flyndt, and I am afraid of it happening again, of being the one to hurt him again. Circumstances do not alleviate guilt, though we can process and control our thoughts to make it so. Defeat our emotions with logic. Boxes.
He grimaced.
At least up until the point it all falls apart. And everything you try to cope, stupid and unhealthy or mindful and healthy, doesn’t work.
His thumb brushed over his hands, some.of the multitude of scars there.
Then it is… Nice…to be able to reach out.
“I feel like I’ve been teetering on the precipice of that for a while, of everything just … falling apart,” he admitted. Part of him felt good for being able to admit that so easily, but he wasn’t sure what solace it would provide him in the grand scheme of things. “I don’t know what to do.”
Foxen reached out and gripped the Zabrak’s shoulder. Unlike when Ruka would do it to him, the Nautolan’s hand reached all the way from bicep to inner clavicle, thumb against hollow of throat as he squeezed with what would be a surprising gentleness to most, but was familiar to Bril now. He kept the touch there a moment before withdrawing to better reply.
Then you fall apart. His gestures were sure and calm. It will happen. This isn’t a weakness on your part, Bril. It is an inevitability. Perhaps, not so much so for the average sentients not caught up in wars, magic powers, trauma-inducing events literally every week, etc. However, 37 years of observation have dictated to me: most objects: people feel. And when they do, they are liable to break. It is our condition. You are not weak for this. You are merely new to it. Your age does not discredit you, but I would guess that you have not experienced this before, given your conveyed sense of desperation and loss. I am sure Minnie has said this, but in case she hasn’t: frak the mindset of constant perfection. Frak not admitting mistakes or need for help. Frak lying to yourself about your needs. You are a person. You are allowed to fall apart. And it is natural if not inevitable. This is simply physics, which sure, champ, you’re in the habit of defying laws of nature like the magic frak you are, but newsflash, N-E-W-S-F-L-A-S-H, newsflash, they still apply. Only so much pressure/heat/energy etc any material can undergo before a state change.
- So you fall apart. And then you pick yourself up and put yourself back together. Or if you have people, they will be there to help you. And the body and the mind go on because they must, unless you plan to ||kill yourself, which is also your choice.|| He shrugged, blasé about it. And that is it. Worst case scenario, you have a very bad time, and things are bad, and it’s all bad, but you can get out of it. And you of all people will not be alone. Minnie will not leave you. We will not. Your family loves you. Yes? So. It happens. And then we keep going.
He paused for a moment, seemingly as much resting his hands as giving Bril a moment to process.
But if you would like, we can attempt some techniques/planning etc to try and prevent the breakage. Some work for me, some may not work for you. You are clearly very close to stress point. May not be easy to recover. You might slip. That’s fine. Recovery is not a straight fraking line. But it’s your choice.
Bril was quiet, too exhausted really for all this. The pressure behind his eyes, the pounding in his skull, the way his chest felt too thin and sharp and hollow all at once–
But his friend and hoped for brother put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him up. The other pressed flat to his chest, while the back hand slid down. It forced his posture meditaiton-straight and expanded his chest.
They didn’t need to say anything in gestures or words to know that Foxen was telling Bril to breathe.
So he did for a little while, sat in his pillow fort/throne, Foxen’s bulk blocking out the rest of the world directly in front of him. And kept drinking his water. And the food was warm and heavy in his stomach.
His aching eyelids drooped, sand paper rough.
“I don’t want to dream again,” he whispered, a cracked admission of fear.
I know, Foxen replied. I do the same thing. Awake for days at a time, week. Makes it worse. But the nightmares. He shook his large head. His mauled, decorated headtails swayed. He pressed a thumb almost too hard into Bril’s temple, then laid his palm over the Zabrak’s forehead. His hand was large enough to make Bril feel like a child again, tended during a rare fever by his grandmother.
Go to sleep, vod'ika. I will stay.
He felt so heavy and hopeless. But his eyes were closing. He struggled against it, couldn’t help it.
“What was that word? Didn’t…re'onize…it.”
I’ll tell you when you wake up. Go on.
So sleep he did.
-
When Bril did wake up many hours later, Foxen was still there. Right there. Logically he had to have moved, as there was the smell of food cooking, and he could hear Minnow talking nearby quietly. A warm weight on his head suggested Femi had her butt on him while using his pillows as her perch instead of sitting in his lap or something nicer.
He hadn’t dreamed at all.
Later, Bril would find various pieces of advice from the Nautolan:
Stay in the moment because that’s what there is to live. No guarantee in future. Only thing you control is yourself, and we fuck up that too, lose it, have it taken– or we give it over, in trust, and love.
You say this family with Minnie is what will happen, but does she want that? That’s been you two. You need to be honest, fucking communicate, even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts you both. And if your differences are irreconcilable, then you go from there.
You are traumatized. You’ve nearly died. Minnie has too. We’ve been there. Talk to your people. Acknowledgement of the pain, the weakness, acceptance of the self. You blame yourself? Yippie welcome to the party. Blame yourself. Then analyze where blame actually lies, and let the logic rule. You can feel everything. Too much. But you can also direct it. Navigate it. You can change if you want to. I made this me. You make you.
There was more. It would come in time. But there was also this:
Little brother.
“What?” Bril asked, bleary still, as he woke up that evening – or what was actually the next morning. He’d been handed tea that smelled like home with his parents when they visited grandmother, Minnie had joined him in the fort, and Foxen was expressionless only to someone who didn’t know him, who’d judged like Bril once had.
But he’d grown.
That word you didn’t know. Vod'ika. V-O-D-‘-I-K-A. Isn’t Basic sign. It’s Mando'a. Vod means kin, brother, sister, etc. Suffix makes diminutive, usually younger, smaller. Your contact is not discount mustard. It’s Little brother.
And if there were tears for that, well.
Foxen already had tissues ready anyway.