[ Reynir is, usually, quite emotionally resilient. No matter what gets thrown at him, he works hard to keep a positive attitude and find the humor and light in most situations. He tries to always assume the best about other people, and not to let himself be bothered by casual rudeness or ignorance, by small slights (or big ones). Reynir doesn't really enjoy conflict, and he doesn't like burdening other people when things are a little harder.
It's ingrained into him deep, that the best thing to do when he's not feeling great is to smile a bit wider and hide it away. He also is used to pushing through it, when he's feeling a little under the weather. There wasn't really time to laze around, when you grew up on a farm. Even if your throat was a bit sore. Even if you were tired and shivery. Animals still needed to be milked and fed and sweaters weren't going to knit themselves and firewood didn't just magically become chopped.
So it's really just a matter of habit that makes him silent when he starts to feel bad. The first signs are small - a tickle in the back of his throat. Waking up and still feeling drained. Feeling cold even with his sweater and jacket on inside the cottage.
After a day and a half of this, Reynir woke up and knew, categorically, that he must be sick. He could feel that shivery weakness that he just knew meant a fever, and when he touched his own cheeks, his hands felt so wonderfully cold.
He resolved that he would mention it to Onni later that day. Whenever it was convenient. Sure, Onni had always said that he would rather Reynir be honest with him... and Reynir had agreed to try. But the reality is more difficult than the theory.
Reynir doesn't ask Onni to go and pick up medicine for him, after all. He instead gets all wrapped up and heads out to do so himself. It was just a little chore. He would just get through it, and then he would be allowed to rest. Made perfect sense to him.
He hadn't been expecting what an awful trip it would be.
When he comes back through the door, there's no energy left in Reynir for pretending. He isn't holding his head high anymore. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes on his feet as he shuffles in. He sets down his bag on the floor, and doesn't call out a cheerful hello, the way he usually does.
He sees Onni, in the kitchen, finishing some washing up. Reynir hesitates a moment or two, swaying on the spot. Debating between two paths. A large part of his mind is saying the safe thing, the right thing to do is to walk right to his room and close the door. Shut himself away until he's fit to be in company again.
But he knows also that that likely won't work. There is no way Onni has gotten no hint at all through the Bond, of how wretched this day has turned out for Reynir. And, more than that... he doesn't want to lie. He doesn't want to hide. Everything is shitty and he just... wants Onni.
So he walks into the kitchen and wordlessly hugs Onni from behind, burying his face into the curve between Onni's shoulder and neck. There's a little surge of guilt in him when he does it, but in all likelihood if he's contagious, Onni's already likely been exposed to whatever bug he has. And Onni feels good, at least. Solid and warm. Reynir exhales a very shaky sigh, and keeps his face hidden there, not saying anything. ]
[It hadn't been difficult to tell how miserable Reynir had been feeling, through the Bond. It isn't as if Onni can feel the physical symptoms or anything, but he can feel the vague sense of exhaustion followed by determination and stubbornness. He can feel the numbing of all the positive emotions Reynir is usually putting out into the world and through the Bond, and after that it's easier to see the signs of the physical symptoms - a bit of sweat on his forehead and cheeks, the flush in his face, the repeated throat-clearing. But he'd decided when it first started that he'd let Reynir speak to him about it when he needed help, not wanting to interfere and taking Reynir at his word when he'd promised that he would tell Onni the truth about even the bad things he felt.
It should have been surprising that Reynir didn't come to him sooner, but it wasn't. When he feels that intense surge of sadness and exhaustion and upset through the Bond while Reynir is out running an errand, Onni makes the decision to let go of his resolve to leave Reynir to his own devices and bring up whatever's going on. So when Reynir comes in through the door while he's finishing up doing a few dishes, Onni sighs and lets him get his shoes off and come into the kitchen before he plans to turn and gently confront him.
But instead of sitting down or going into the living room to read or even leaning on the counter to chat, Reynir crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around Onni's waist, buries his face against the crook of Onni's neck. Sighing again, Onni dries his hands on a tea towel and lifts one of them, patting at Reynir's arm. He can feel how hot his skin is, the raggedness of his breath, and he can still feel his misery through the Bond, still not the physical, only the emotional.]
You're sick.
[He says it bluntly, straightforward, but gentle at the same time. Squeezing at Reynir's forearm carefully, he tilts his head to the side and lets his cheek rest against the crown of Reynir's head. There's that momentary flutter of panic, of course, at someone he cares for being sick, at someone sick exposing him to their illness, but he knows that it isn't the Rash because the Rash didn't come here with them, and he knows that it isn't the Cwyld because that presents differently. So he exhales and lets go of that flutter of fear.]
I would have gone to get whatever you needed, you know.
[ As soon as Onni speaks, says you're sick in that quiet voice that Reynir loves so much, something inside Reynir breaks. The dam that had been holding everything back inside him cracks and it's almost a physical sensation, that sudden release, the torrent of humiliation and fear and frustration and sadness spilling free. Onni will feel it first through the Bond, sudden and unstoppable as a flash flood. But then Reynir's breaths start to come quick and shallow, quivering little inhales and too-loud exhales as his eyes go hot with tears.
Some tiny, still-rational part of Reynir's mind knows that Onni isn't criticizing him. That he's saying he would've gone to the store for him as an expression of care. But those voices of reason are drowned out by the crushing and sudden feeling of his own uselessness. That self-doubt is a monster with clever quick hands, snatching Onni's words up and twisting them around into an accusation. If Onni had gone on that errand, Reynir is sure it would have gone perfectly smoothly. Because Onni is better than him. Onni isn't a helpless, worthless fool. ]
It's okay. I didn't even get what I needed, anyway.
[ His voice comes out thick with tears, and only just loud enough to be heard. There is again that impulse in him, telling him to mitigate this now, to break away from Onni and flee, lock himself up, hide. But Reynir makes the choice to stay. To hold onto Onni a little tighter, even as the first tear slides along his narrow nose, leaving a mark where it hits Onni's soft sweater.
Haltingly, and with great difficulty, Reynir forces himself to say: ]
[The moment the words leave his mouth, Onni can feel the reaction in Reynir through the Bond, intense and overwhelming, a burst of shame and fear and anger and sadness that bowls him over and leaves him a little breathless. He isn't sure he'll ever entirely get used to the intensity of Reynir's emotions. It continues on, he can feel the heavy feeling of Reynir's self-doubt and a flash of self-hatred that leaves him feeling uneasy.
But Reynir doesn't move. He just says that it's okay, that he didn't even get what he needed, keeps his face pressed against Onni's neck and chokes back tears. Onni can hear it in his voice, how hard he's trying not to cry, how hard he's working to keep his composure. But after a moment, Reynir moves a little, tightens his grip, and Onni can feel the dampness of a tear soaking through the collar of his sweater as Reynir says he's having a kind of bad day. Closing his eyes for a moment, Onni just keeps holding Reynir's forearm and then moves his fingers down to his wrist, takes hold of a hand and twines their fingers together.]
I'll go and get it for you later, then.
[For a moment, he's quiet, radiating concern and empathy because he knows how it feels to hold his tears back when he's feeling wounded, how much energy it takes, how much it hurts. Squeezing Reynir's hand, he sifts through that torrent of emotion, picks out the humiliation and shame, the fear, and exhales a soft breath - those are the things that don't seem to fit. A fever tends to amplify sadness and anger, Onni has experienced that much himself, and he can clearly feel how high a temperature Reynir is running, but shame and fear are different.
Squeezing Reynir's hand again, he nods an acknowledgement again and then lets go, pats the back of Reynir's hand.]
It's okay. Come sit with me on your bed, and tell me what's happened?
He releases Onni from his arms, nodding because he doesn't trust his voice at that moment. He wipes tears from his face with a few quick swipes of his long fingers. Notices, only at that moment, that there are a few small cuts on one of his hands, and down along his wrist. The scratches are tiny, only just visible, slightly raised and red, just a little bit of blood smeared into his sleeve and across his skin.
In his current state of mind, it feels like another failure, another monumental blow. He lets out an unsteady sigh and follows Onni back into his room, barely lifting his feet as he walks. It is a relief, at least, sinking onto his bed. He doesn't bother with sitting. Once he's off his feet, he lets the momentum keep going, tumbling and then crawling onto the bed and curling up on his side.
He'd thought he got a little bit of his composure back, as they changed rooms, but as soon as he opens his mouth to try to explain, the hot pressure of unshed tears is overwhelming him again. It's hard to force out the words. ]
It's- stupid. I shouldn't be-
[ His voice cracks, then, and he can't finish the sentence aloud, though it's crystal clear in his mind, the words ringing over and over again. He shouldn't be making a fuss like this, over something so trivial. Just a bad day, almost entirely because of his own poor choices. How could he stomach himself, making a fuss of that to Onni. Onni who has already got enough to worry about without this, too.
Reynir knows Onni, though. He knows that Onni isn't going to let him get away with not explaining, now. He hates how much he loves that about him. Closing his eyes, turned away from Onni, he croaks: ]
I wanted to get something for the fever. We were out. I should've checked we weren't out before I started to feel bad. And- and I was dumb, and I. Went the wrong way or wasn't paying attention or whatever and I didn't notice that. On the way walking there, somebody must've- somebody p-pickpocketed me.
[When Reynir releases him and nods, Onni takes his hand and twines their fingers together again, leading him to the bedroom and watching as he wipes at his eyes, noting the scratches on his hands and wrist. The sight of blood smeared at the cuff of Reynir's sweater has his gut twisting with protective anger - considering how Reynir is feeling, how he's reacting, it seems immediately obvious to him that someone might have done this to him.
Once they get to the room, Reynir clambers onto the bed and sits, then crumples over onto his side to lie down, curling up on his side and starts to try to explain. All he manages to do is open his mouth before his eyes flood with tears, wet and and red-rimmed, and then he speaks, voice halting and tight, that it's stupid and he shouldn't be...what? Upset about it? Something tightens in his chest again, and he shakes his head.
Reynir pauses then, and Onni takes a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to take his hand again, rubbing a thumb against the back of Reynir's hand idly. He waits, quietly, just watching Reynir and giving him time to collect himself so he can finish explaining. And eventually he manages, his voice tight again, closes his eyes and looks away from Onni. Frowning, he presses his lips into a tight line, not liking the fact that Reynir can't look at him, that he's ashamed of what he's saying.
That feeling of tension and protective anger twists tighter as Reynir continues explaining, blaming himself for not having checked if there was something for fevers before he felt bad. He calls himself stupid, he says that he went the wrong way and someone pickpocked him. Unconsciously, Onni squeezes his hand a little harder.]
No.
[His voice is firm, even-toned, and he shakes his head, takes a moment to breathe deeply. Closes his eyes and gathers himself, tamps down that anger before he speaks again so Reynir can't confuse it for anger at him.]
You had no reason to check if we had medicine for a fever until you were feeling sick. That's not dumb.
[It's firm, like what he's saying is the final word.]
And it isn't dumb to be pickpocketed. Don't even think that.
[He can't help the way that anger surges again, protective and fierce in his chest and gut, no matter how much he tries to keep control over it.]
[ Reynir knows what it feels like through the Bond, when Onni is irritated, impatient, scornful. He's felt it, in the months since the ceremony, in times when he and Onni were together and someone would cross Onni. He'd felt it a few times when he himself had gotten on Onni's nerves - and so he knows that the hot, angry, ferocious feeling that he picks up from Onni now is not that. It's something else. Something... new.
That feeling, combined with Onni's firm, resolute reassurances, help Reynir to keep from crumbling completely. In a way, Onni's curt denial of the truth of what he's saying is much more comforting than softly-spoken pretty words would be. Reynir knows that Onni isn't someone who says things he doesn't mean. And he is one of the most cautious, prepared people Reynir knows. If it had been foolish, not to constantly have the medicine at the ready... Onni would tell him that. He wouldn't spare Reynir's feelings, if getting stolen from really had been a result of his stupid negligence.
But of course, Onni only knows a part of it. There's still time for him to change his mind and understand how pathetic Reynir really is. ]
I- I didn't notice. And then when I got to the store, I couldn't find the right bottle, and it was packed in there, and I kept trying not to be in anybody's way. But I was- trying to get out of the way and I - tripped and fell, and knocked some stuff over, and it shattered.
[ It replays in Reynir's mind, that awful moment as he was falling, as the little display was tipping, and then the shatter of glass, the belated sting across his hand and wrist.
His breathing is getting jagged again, even though he knows it is so trivial. Reynir draws his knees higher, curling tighter around himself. ]
Everyone- looked at me.
[ The words are coming out halting and they sound so simplistic and childish and insufficient in Reynir's ears. He didn't know how to describe it, how terrible it had felt, that sudden scrutiny. The bored, annoyed, exasperated, and bland looks coming at him from all around. ]
They wouldn't let me help clean it up. And then - I had to ask where the right bottle was, and- and I, when I went to pay for it, my wallet was gone and there was just a bit of leather the same size in my pocket. And the. And when that happened the guy working there said-
[ Reynir's voice cracks, and he swallows against the rising burn of shame and embarrassment and unhappiness. But he can't bring himself to speak for several long, silent moments. Unwilling to repeat the specifics, because it's all just so trivial, he ought not to be affected by it, he knows that.
In the end, Reynir's voice goes very quiet as he finishes: ]
[As Onni listens to the rest of Reynir's story, that feeling of fierce protective anger only grows. Onni isn't a person who's given to embarrassment or shame, but he certainly understands it from having lived around other people his whole life. He's aware that just because he doesn't really care what other people think of him doesn't mean that other people don't, and he knows that Reynir, in particular, can be quite affected by that.
Imagining Reynir, with his worries about what people think of him and his history of being coddled and criticized at the same time, being stared at after having stumbled into a display while suffering from a fever is painful to think about. Reynir is curling up further and further into himself, his voice getting more and more broken and jagged, cut off with a tight throat and trying to hold back tears. That's something Onni can sympathize with, trying to hold back everything inside so the people relying on him will think that he's capable and strong and someone to trust.
Onni isn't given to shame, or to caring what people think of him, but even he would have felt the acute feeling of being incompetent in that sort of situation. However...the standard that he holds himself to isn't quite the same as the one he holds the people he cares for to. Tuuri hadn't been able to do wrong, and Lalli had been forgiven for things he normally wouldn't. It seems that now Reynir has come into that small circle somehow, in a way Onni had never anticipated, and he can't imagine thinking Reynir is incompetent or pathetic. Reynir is sick, he's off-balance, he's trying to do too much when he's not up to it - how could he be incompetent or pathetic?
For a moment, Onni is still, and he allows himself to feel it, to feel himself fully accepting Reynir into the circle of people he truly cares for. And he allows that feeling to flow freely through the Bond. Then he sighs and reaches out, pushing back some of Reynir's hair and resting his knuckles against his forehead.]
Tell me which shop it is. I'll go there later and pay them for their stupid display, and give that person a piece of my mind for speaking to you like that. It's uncalled for.
[It's just as blunt and straightforward as Onni usually is, but in this case he's putting words to that little knot of protective fury inside him. Naming it, in a way, so Reynir will know for sure what it is.]
People are stupid.
[He rests his knuckles against Reynir's forehead again, pausing for a moment and then making a soft hum in his throat.]
You should change into comfortable clothes and get some rest. I'll get some cool water and a cloth and sit with you.
[ Reynir's breath is shuddery with held-back sobs as Onni gently moves a lock of hair from his face and brushes his knuckles against his forehead. Reynir responds as if on instinct, eyes slipping shut, leaning into the touch. Onni's skin feels cool and nice against his, but Reynir knows he is sweaty and overhot and hardly at his best.
And even though he can feel it, that protective anger inside Onni on his behalf, and it's everything he could have wanted, Reynir's insides twist with guilt. He surely doesn't deserve that. He's never really deserved the faith that Onni put in him, in his competence and worth.
He is very used to those voices of self-doubt living in his own head, whispering reminders of all his limitations. And he is used to hurtful half-jokes and little stinging asides from others, the faintest echoes reflecting that internal narrative. But he is not used to someone shouting all his worst fears about himself at him, from a foot away, red in the face with anger.
The words ring in his head, still. Fucking idiot. Disrespectful. Waste of space. Brainless, pathetic, careless. Fuck-up. Dumbshit. ]
I'm- the stupid one.
[ Because he couldn't disagree with any of those things. That was the worst part.
And his feverish mind, not slow to twist the knife, spun all that into speculation. How was he possibly going to help Onni defeat the kade when he couldn't even do something as simple as going to a shop to buy something? A child could do that. What hope did he have of helping Onni to fulfill his contract with the swan? And what chance was there he would make it out in the world as a mage? His mother had been right, always. He wasn't cut out to go out into the world on his own. He was made of the wrong stuff for it. He should've listened to her and just accepted he wasn't good for anything better than looking after the sheep.
Reynir's face crumples as he finally gives in, breath hitching in a sob that sounds painful as his body starts to shake. Reynir is too exhausted and too caught up in his own spiraling thoughts to cry silently. But the sound of his own pathetic little sounds--so childish, so unnecessary--only makes him more miserable. ]
[It's as certain and blunt and straightforward as the first time he'd said it, there's conviction in his voice, and he shakes his head. But Reynir is already crying, his chest hitching and his eyes red-rimmed and struggling to hold back the sounds that he's making. Onni sighs and slides further onto the bed, pushing some of Reynir's hair back from his face, mouth set into a little frown.
There's worry in him. Concern that runs deep. But there's also understanding. This is something Onni understands, on a very deep and personal level. Something he can relate to. He might not know the exact thoughts going throuh Reynir's head or the spirals they've spun themselves out into, but he can guess what at least some of it is, just based on what Reynir has been saying. He can guess that Reynir is angry at himself, that he agrees with whatever stupid opinions the shop owner had flung at him, that he thinks he's useless or stupid or incompetent. He can feel some of it through the Bond, too, the self-doubt and self-hatred and helplessness.
For a moment, Onni is quiet and just lets Reynir feel what he's feeling, but the choked sounds of his held-back sobs and the little whimpers of pain that come with them hit far too close to home. Brushing fingers through his hair, Onni speaks after a moment, his voice a little softer than previously, the sincerity in it obvious even if it hadn't also been coming through the Bond.]
You're not stupid. Sometimes you're impulsive and don't think things through, and no one has taught you much about the world. But that doesn't make you stupid, and not being taught isn't your fault. Whatever that person said is wrong.
[After another moment of silence, he brushes his knuckles through the tear tracks on Reynir's cheek and then speaks again, carefully.]
And you don't have to stop yourself from crying. I won't think less of you.
[ Reynir only has so much strength left in him - the fever has drained away his usual resources, leaving him unusually fragile. All the things he's so carefully worked to bury under thick layers of happiness and easygoing cheer and forgiveness and pretended ignorance are sitting at the surface, like an exposed nerve.
So when Onni says he can cry without Onni thinking any less of him, Reynir lets himself. He stops trying to muffle those sounds he's making. He uses what little energy he does have to roll himself over so he can fling long arms around Onni's torso and cling to him, face pressed against Onni's side.
He shouldn't allow himself this, he thinks, permission or no. Onni has been comforting others entirely too much over the years - being strong for Tuuri, for Lalli, after their family was destroyed.
(It never occurs to Reynir that Lalli and Tuuri probably hadn't needed this kind of comfort from Onni for years, that he might be getting something out of giving it, and being needed like this).
It helps, turning Onni's words over in his mind. They're typical of Onni - blunt, realistic, not sparing what criticism Onni thought was actually true. But in a way, that makes them easier for Reynir to believe. Onni didn't say he was wise (he knows he isn't), didn't paper over any flaws by telling him he's a perfect saint. But he still thought Reynir was worthwhile, imperfections and all. ]
You don't- you don't wish I was-
[ He chokes on a sob, searching for the right word. He doesn't know what it should be. It seems he's never been quite the right thing, for other people. Not immune enough to teach magic. Not experienced enough to be a real explorer. Not smart enough, not worldly enough, not masculine enough, not not not.
Eventually he finds the word to encapsulate it all, finishes: ]
[For a few moments, Onni is quiet, just watching Reynir react to what he'd said, and then watching him crumple and start to really cry. Part of him had expected to be uncomfortable with it, with the open expression of emotion, but he's had an entire lifetime to get used to Tuuri's emotionality, he's had a lifetime of dealing with his own. So when Reynir rolls over and wraps his arms around Onni's middle, presses his face against his side and cries, messy and loud and leaving wet spots in the side of his sweater, he doesn't feel uncomfortable at all. All he can feel is Reynir's raw misery through the Bond and his own concern.
Patiently, he sits there and lets Reynir cry, lowers a hand to push his hair back from his hot cheeks and his hot forehead, and hums a tune idly just under his breath. In that broken voice, Reynir starts to ask a question of him, about what he might wish Reynir would be, chokes off in the middle to sob more, and Onni can so acutely feel the pain of it, the fear of rejection. He asks if Onni wishes he were better, and Onni sighs, mouth set in a straight line.
It seems only fair to actually think about the question before spouting off some sort of reassuring comment - Onni is honest, he's always been honest, to the point of bluntness. It isn't in his nature to say things that he doesn't mean without thinking about them. Blurting out some sort of immediate coddling response about how Reynir is perfect the way he is would just come across disingenuous, and that's the opposite of everything Onni is as a person. So he's quiet for a few moments, thinking, turning it over in his mind, imagining what a better version of Reynir would be like. All he can think of is a Reynir that is more self-confident, better trained as a mage, and that doesn't say anything about who he is, only the potential for his growth.
Making a soft hum under his breath, Onni shakes his head, and then speaks.]
No, I don't.
[After a moment, he works out how to articulate the things that he's thinking, to explain the reasons for saying no. He thinks of Lalli, about dealing with the difficulties that raising him for the second half of his childhood had come with, trying to adjust his behaviour for the good of all three of them. Through all of that, Lalli had still remained Lalli, and that is, he thinks, the crux of the issue.]
You can't change people. I think if you like someone, you should like the version of them that's in front of you and not some imaginary better version.
[He spends another few moments thinking, his fingers rubbing gently at Reynir's scalp at the side of his head, avoiding the sensitive bases of his horns.]
I'd like to see you grow, but you're just fine the way you are, too.
[ Reynir has time to turn Onni's words over in his mind; his body is still wracked with sobs, purging all the built-up stress and misery from earlier. But although he continues to cry, there is a lightening of some heaviness in his chest. It's an immediate thing - a shift that changes his mood from the self-loathing leaden sickness of just a moment before to something calmer, looser.
I think if you like someone, you should like the version of them that's in front of you and not some imaginary better version.
It dawns on him, right then, that he's not sure how many people have ever liked the version of him that is in front of them. Not for years, anyway. His friends back home liked the version of him they'd made up in their minds, cobbled together from their own desires and the person he had been as a child. He would like to think that Mikkel and Sigrun and Lalli and Emil and Tuuri had not hated being around him, but he's fairly confident none of them had actively liked him - and certainly all of them would have been eager to suggest improvements.
I'd like to see you grow, but you're just fine the way you are, too.
And even those people that he knew loved him - his mother, his father, his siblings... he isn't sure they really wanted him to grow. In fact, thinking on it, he's fairly certain they hadn't. That had been one reason why he'd needed to leave. Around them, he wouldn't have ever been able to. He's sure of it.
Gradually his sobs lose their force, becoming hiccupy and quiet, and Reynir sniffs, awareness coming back to him. He realizes how tightly he's holding Onni, how many of his tears have soaked into Onni's sweater, how overwarm his body is, how his hair is messy and plastered to his damp forehead (at least, where Onni had not pushed it back).
With a shuddery exhale, he says: ]
Thank you.
[ He gives Onni a last squeeze and then eases the pressure of his arms. Reynir feels too dizzy to sit up, but he rolls away from Onni, onto his back, looking up at him from the bed. It feels like the room is spinning - but that's what you get when you walk all around town, get pumped full of adrenaline thanks to a conflict, walk home, sob your heart out, all while having a fairly high fever. He's just going to... stay laying down.
But that doesn't mean he has to be silent. ]
I - I feel that way about you, too. L-
[ Reynir swallows. ]
Liking you how you are and wanting to see you grow.
[The change is more subtle than the onset of Reynir's crying, but Onni can feel it, that switch from the self-hatred and the certainty of Reynir's own failure and incompetence to something else, something that's more a purging of emotion and exhaustion. It's a relief, to feel it, and to feel the accompanying surges and ebbs of emotion as Reynir processes what he'd said. Normally, he'd wonder if he'd said the right thing to make the situation better or not, but in this case he can feel through the Bond that he has. That Reynir's grief and pain are lightening and slowly subsiding.
After a while, during which Onni goes back to softly humming and carding his fingers through Reynir's hair, letting him vent all of the things inside himself out, Reynir's sobs turn into hiccups and sniffles, and then he falls quiet. For a few moments, they sit that way, with Reynir's long arms wrapped tight around his waist, and then the lanky Icelander rolls over and lies on his back, thanks Onni, and looks up at him.
It strikes Onni then that Reynir looks very pretty like this. Whenever Onni cries, he's left with a puffy face and red eyes, leaving him looking a little like a fussy baby in a way that he completely hates. When Reynir finishes crying, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are red-rimmed and glossy, but in a way that highlights their impossible greenness and long eyelashes, his hair is stuck to his forehead and wet cheeks, but it looks effortlessly appealing instead of messy like most people. Onni doesn't know what to think of that.
Thankfully, Reynir gives him something else to think about, not that it's much easier, by saying that he feels the same way about Onni, that he likes how he is and wants to see him grow. Onni makes a noise in his throat, pale eyes flicking back to meet Reynir's.]
I know. You make it pretty clear.
[While it's blunt, it also doesn't have any undertones of negativity. Onni says it very clearly like it's a good thing that he knew so easily, and reaches down to carefully pull more of Reynir's hair away from his cheeks and forehead, to brush his knuckles against the younger man's forehead again to test his temperature. The results leave him clicking his tongue and shaking his head.]
You're too warm. Lie still. I'm going to go get a cool cloth, and then we can get you changed into something cooler and dry and get you in bed, hm?
[Raising his brows, he waits for a response, and then heads into the bathroom, returning after a moment with a bowl of cool water and a couple of washcloths. Dipping one into the water, he squeezes it out until it's damp, and pushes Reynir's hair back, dabbing the cloth against his forehead and cheeks.]
[ Reynir looks up at Onni, blinking slowly as Onni reaches down and brushes the hair from his face. His touch is so impossibly soft, and Reynir melts beneath it, body relaxing into the soft bed. He would rather not be sick, of course, but the fever seems to be simmering his brain at just the right temperature for all sorts of revelations. He wonders if, buried beneath all his love for Onni, beneath his ideas about being a good person and good friend, beneath his genuine belief that Onni deserves better than what other people give him... he wonders if perhaps he's been giving the kind of affirmation he'd always been wanting to receive, himself.
But if he is, is that such a problem, really? People aren't so different from one another. Of course he would project out love to Onni in a certain way that he would also, naturally, appreciate being the recipient of... nothing wrong with it.
It is that thought, in fact - that if Onni were the one sick, he would want Onni to allow himself to be cared for - that keeps him from protesting those gentle orders from Onni when they come. Instead, his eyes flutter closed and he nods, swallowing, throat achey.
When Onni leaves, Reynir drifts, keeping his eyes closed and trying to let go of the worry and self-accusation. He would buy another wallet. There hadn't been that much money in it, nothing there he couldn't replace. Onni would pick up medicine and Reynir would find a different shop to go to any time he needed such things.
The damp cloth feels so good against his skin when Onni returns and sits on the bed that Reynir lets out a helpless little groan of gratitude. ]
Better, mentally. A lot. Which is - that was the worse part. Physically, maybe a little worse. I. Shouldn't have walked so far.
[There's something very vulnerable and endearing about the slow way that Reynir blinks at him as he pushes his hair away from his sweaty forehead, thinking about what the younger man had said. That he likes him as he is, would like to see him grow. Onni had said it was clear to him in how Reynir treats him and feels about him, and he'd said it immediately, without needing to think about it. Now, though, he is thinking about it a little. Thinking about what it was that made him so certain. He can't help but think of the times he'd been overwhelmed with grief when he'd first come here, the wounds too fresh with Tuuri's spirit so far from him now, and how Reynir had encouraged him to express himself, to open up. That is a type of growth, he thinks now, though he hadn't thought so at the time, and it was encouragement to grow that obviously came from a place of affection.
Onni isn't sure he remembers the last time someone acted like that toward him. All he can seem to remember is his grandmother's practical lessons and then being the one to encourage growth in Lalli and Tuuri. He can remember his mother's hugs and his father's voice, but he can't really remember any of their words of comfort or encouragement, though he's sure they'd said them. It's a little disheartening, a little lonely and, surprisingly, quite touching to think of those things starting to come from Reynir now.
It's a lot to mull over and think about, and he doesn't vocalize any of it for the moment because the realizations are too fresh, too raw to put into any kind of succinct thankful explanation. So instead he focuses on cooling Reynir's face, on dipping the cloth and squeezing it out over and over until there's no more sweat, until the skin is a bit cooler to the touch, and then moving from Reynir's cheeks and forehead and nose and chin down to his throat and the sides of his neck, enjoying the sounds of appreciation he gets in return.]
You shouldn't have walked anywhere at all. You should have asked me to go for you. I wouldn't have minded.
[For a moment, he's quiet, just dabbing the cloth against Reynir's temples, pulling the hair carefully out of the way.]
Why didn't you ask me?
[There's no accusation to it, there's no accusation in the emotions that flow through the Bond, though there is the slightest hint of hurt that he can't quite restrain. Mostly, he wants to know what the problem is so he can do something about it.]
He's so used to thinking of Onni as someone who gets him, just understands where he's coming from immediately. And there's no question that he gets Reynir better than anyone ever has, except perhaps Bjarni (and Reynir's not so sure how well his brother really would know him now - with discovering his magic and everything he'd been through and seen in Denmark and then Finland...).
But he feels that little flicker of hurt in Onni, can see the genuine curiosity in Onni's expression. So he swallows, throat aching and the wrung-out feeling of having cried so much mixing with the shaky weak feeling of the fever making his answers come slowly. ]
I'm stubborn.
[ He holds up a finger pre-emptively, lest Onni jump in and try to stop him, the way he had when Reynir was calling himself stupid earlier. Reynir lets his eyes slide shut and goes on talking, slow and deliberate. It's not something he would've said so directly, if he were feeling better and had some filters in place. But oddly, being so sick is working to his advantage in this, removing inhibitions that might prevent him from being so blunt. ]
Everybody treats me like I'm helpless. They look down on me, and baby me. They always have, because I was the youngest, and not immune, and I'm pretty and not book-smart. And I hate it. Even when it's coming from love.
[ Reynir sits up with a heavy sigh. It makes him dizzy, but it turns out he can't talk about this while laying still, letting Onni dab at his forehead with a cool cloth. It made him feel itchy and awful inside, and he had to do something. Even something as small as sitting up and pulling off his shirt, damp from sweat and overhot. He pulls it up over his head, navigating the wide neck around his horns - it's automatic for him, by now. Reynir tosses the shirt to the floor, disgustedly, and lays back down. It was worth the slight nausea and disorientation, to do that. The air feels wonderful and cool against his bare skin.
He hadn't meant it to be a demonstration, but he supposed it worked as one as well. ]
You never treated me like that. Never, not since the very first time we met. I didn't want to- I didn't want you to- I was afraid you'd look at me differently.
[ The words are honest, raw with it, and Reynir gives a small shiver, breath still hiccupy from crying. ]
[Honestly, Onni hadn't intended to butt in when Reynir calls himself stubborn - that is something he agrees with him on, after all. Reynir is the only person he's ever met who could stare him down and win a battle of wills, and that's something notable. So instead of interrupting, he just makes a little grunt of agreement when Reynir says he's stubborn.
But that's where his calm agreeableness ends. Reynir goes on to explain that people see him as helpless, like a baby, young and non-Immune and pretty and practical rather than intellectual, that he hates being treated that way. Onni is about to respond when Reynir pushes himself up, hauls his shirt up over his head and tosses it onto the floor without looking where it's going and then lying back down. Without a word, Onni dips the cloth again and starts dabbing cool water further down, from his throat to his collarbone and chest, pale eyes locked on his face.
When Reynir explains that he's worried about Onni seeing him differently and starting to treat him like that, like he's helpless, like he's a stupid baby, something clicks. Onni makes another noise in his throat, his hand falling still and his eyes flicking back up to Reynir's face, trying to catch his eyes. After a moment, he sighs.]
Reynir, I don't treat grown people like babies. Even Tuu- [For just a moment, his voice catches on her name, but he comes through the wave of grief faster than expected, despite the fact the subject matter reminds him of dozens of moments when they were children. Carefully, he clears his throat and carries on.]
Even Tuuri. She was my little sister, and I love her. She wasn't Immune. If she was being stupid, I told her so. If she was taking on too much, I told her so. I protected her, but I didn't coddle her. Coddling people is stupid. But when a person is sick or injured and can't do something, that's different. It isn't as if you can't take care of yourself perfectly well when you're not sick.
[A pause, and he shrugs.]
When my rib was hurt and you washed my hair, it didn't feel like being coddled. Same thing.
[ Onni says it all so simply, like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like it's no struggle at all for him to think of Reynir as competent - as competent as anyone else. And Reynir knows what he's saying is true. Onni had kept Tuuri from venturing out from Keuruu for a long time, but it had been in a different way than his parents, his mother specifically, had kept him at home in their village.
Onni hadn't lied to Tuuri. He hadn't stopped her, when she was old enough to leave with the expedition. And he had done it not out of a sense of her incapability, her vulnerability, her unfitness. He had done it because he, personally, was terrified of the world outside. Because he was sure that anyone, no matter how skilled or how immune, would be in so much danger that it wasn't worth it.
Onni just sits there, looking down at him with those blue blue eyes, telling Reynir he is allowed to get sick and be injured and it won't change Onni's view of his capability as a person overall. And Reynir knows it is true because Onni is honest and because he feels it in the Bond. There's no pity, no condescension. Just worry, and warmth underneath it, unchanged and beautiful.
If he wasn't already in love with Onni, Reynir thinks he would have fallen for him right at that moment. He shuts his eyes again, letting his head fall to the side, enjoy the cool air and cool damp cloth and the feeling of Onni sitting so nearby, quiet and steady and strong. The love he feels at that moment is almost a physical thing washing over him. It is not the frantic, giggly, nervous feeling of first infatuation. It is not the urgent, unchecked physical desire for Onni that had burned him down to the bone during the autumn. Instead it is something deep and gradual and inevitable, like sinking beneath water. Like opening his eyes into the dreamspace and feeling himself fitting in a way he never felt in the same way when he was awake.
He loved Onni, and there was no hiding it, no dissembling - and he couldn't even remember at that moment through the dizziness and fever and relief why he would even want to. He loved Onni and chances were Onni could feel that through the Bond so clearly that saying it aloud was almost immaterial. ]
I'm sorry. I - I'm not used to. You. The way you treat me. But I want to be, so. So if you really don't mind, you can take care of me when I'm sick, and I can take care of you when you're hurt, and- and we'll both work on being less stubborn.
[Having lived with Reynir for months now, it wouldn't occur to Onni to think that he couldn't take care of himself, that he wasn't competent. He works and brings in money, he cooks, he takes care of the house and the yard, he helps build the sauna, he decorates the cottage and makes it feel like home. The way his parents had treated him as helpless and stupid hadn't made much sense to him even back when he'd stayed at their place in Iceland for a few days.
He's about to go about finding a new shirt for Reynir, something cool and dry, when he feels that rush of emotion from the younger man, intense and overwhelming. It washes over him like a tidal wave, that mingled feeling of gratitude and affection and relief and satisfaction, like he's falling into place, like he's right where he should be. Even moreso, Onni can feel something else, encompassing all those other things and yet more than them, more vivid, more complete, and more powerful. It's strong enough that he can't help but name it - love.
Reynir has felt that fondness for him that's crossed from simple affection to love, and Onni had thought about it a little, when he couldn't sleep at night or when he was trying to wake up with his hands curled around a hot cup of coffee or while sweating on the roof of the nearly-complete sauna. But he'd never really explored it too much because it was too confusing and too vulnerable and too much. But there's no denying it right now, no denying that Reynir, with his head turned to the side and his lips curled into a slight smile and his eyes closed, loves him. Deeply. Beyond the type of love that friends have, close to the type of love that family has, but different because they're not family.
There's only one other type of love he can think of.
Taking a little breath, he watches as Reynir speaks, telling him that he's not used to the way Onni treats him, that he wants to be, that he wants Onni to take care of him and to take care of Onni in return, that they'll work on being less stubborn. Together.
For a moment, Onni is still, feeling a rush of heat to his face, his ears ringing slightly, his hand still, paralyzed by the combination of that feeling and what Reynir had just said. There is that slight shock of clarity that comes with realizing something vitally important that he'd missed before, something that should have been so clear. There is also the confusion and mild panic at not knowing how he wants to respond, if he should respond, of trying to name what's going on inside him. There's no suppressing the slight flutter of confusion and fear, but he's looking at Reynir still, and he allows the feeling to be buried in affection and concern.]
Of course I don't mind.
[His voice is a little brusque, but not with anger, and he wets the cloth one more time before sliding it down the center of Reynir's chest, cooling him a little more. After a moment, he speaks again, his voice a little careful.]
I'm not sure what special way I treat you, but I'm glad it makes you happy.
[Another pause, while he works out how to speak to make sure he's not dampening that feeling in Reynir, because he's come to realize very abruptly that he likes having someone feel that way about him.]
I like the way you treat me too. It's...scary sometimes. But I like it.
[ Even as full of love as he is, as blurred by exhaustion and fever, Reynir senses that confusion and fear, bubbling up inside Onni. He doesn't know where they are from, but he knows by now that Onni is sometimes like this. He mistrusts good things. He recoils from good luck, from comfort, from happiness, like he's afraid it will hurt him. And Reynir understands that a little better now. He knows how Onni had been taught - both in word and in experience - that it was dangerous and weak to let himself be soft.
And he knows, too, that thoughts of the future sometimes set off a fear in Onni. Maybe he'd been thinking of the swan, of that bargain, of everything that may happen when they return home. Who knows.
But he also feels how quickly those negative shades fade, and how quickly Onni goes back to what he'd been feeling before - though it feels a touch more complicated now. ]
I'm... glad, too.
[ Reynir reaches up, gently taking Onni's hand that is holding that damp rag and bringing it up so he can kiss the back of it, a little gesture of affection that he can't quite hold in. And then, because he is trying to actually follow through and ask for what he needs, he licks his lips and admits: ]
I'm really - I'm really thirsty, do you think you could...?
[ He might not get all the way through the request, but he makes half of it, and hopefully Onni will be okay with that. Reynir still feels a momentary flush of shame - asking for someone to bring him a glass of water like he's some fucking kid - but does his best to shove it down, deny and ignore it. He would never think such a thing if it was Onni asking. Of course he wouldn't. He will just - try to extend that to himself. Somehow. ]
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It's ingrained into him deep, that the best thing to do when he's not feeling great is to smile a bit wider and hide it away. He also is used to pushing through it, when he's feeling a little under the weather. There wasn't really time to laze around, when you grew up on a farm. Even if your throat was a bit sore. Even if you were tired and shivery. Animals still needed to be milked and fed and sweaters weren't going to knit themselves and firewood didn't just magically become chopped.
So it's really just a matter of habit that makes him silent when he starts to feel bad. The first signs are small - a tickle in the back of his throat. Waking up and still feeling drained. Feeling cold even with his sweater and jacket on inside the cottage.
After a day and a half of this, Reynir woke up and knew, categorically, that he must be sick. He could feel that shivery weakness that he just knew meant a fever, and when he touched his own cheeks, his hands felt so wonderfully cold.
He resolved that he would mention it to Onni later that day. Whenever it was convenient. Sure, Onni had always said that he would rather Reynir be honest with him... and Reynir had agreed to try. But the reality is more difficult than the theory.
Reynir doesn't ask Onni to go and pick up medicine for him, after all. He instead gets all wrapped up and heads out to do so himself. It was just a little chore. He would just get through it, and then he would be allowed to rest. Made perfect sense to him.
He hadn't been expecting what an awful trip it would be.
When he comes back through the door, there's no energy left in Reynir for pretending. He isn't holding his head high anymore. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes on his feet as he shuffles in. He sets down his bag on the floor, and doesn't call out a cheerful hello, the way he usually does.
He sees Onni, in the kitchen, finishing some washing up. Reynir hesitates a moment or two, swaying on the spot. Debating between two paths. A large part of his mind is saying the safe thing, the right thing to do is to walk right to his room and close the door. Shut himself away until he's fit to be in company again.
But he knows also that that likely won't work. There is no way Onni has gotten no hint at all through the Bond, of how wretched this day has turned out for Reynir. And, more than that... he doesn't want to lie. He doesn't want to hide. Everything is shitty and he just... wants Onni.
So he walks into the kitchen and wordlessly hugs Onni from behind, burying his face into the curve between Onni's shoulder and neck. There's a little surge of guilt in him when he does it, but in all likelihood if he's contagious, Onni's already likely been exposed to whatever bug he has. And Onni feels good, at least. Solid and warm. Reynir exhales a very shaky sigh, and keeps his face hidden there, not saying anything. ]
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It should have been surprising that Reynir didn't come to him sooner, but it wasn't. When he feels that intense surge of sadness and exhaustion and upset through the Bond while Reynir is out running an errand, Onni makes the decision to let go of his resolve to leave Reynir to his own devices and bring up whatever's going on. So when Reynir comes in through the door while he's finishing up doing a few dishes, Onni sighs and lets him get his shoes off and come into the kitchen before he plans to turn and gently confront him.
But instead of sitting down or going into the living room to read or even leaning on the counter to chat, Reynir crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around Onni's waist, buries his face against the crook of Onni's neck. Sighing again, Onni dries his hands on a tea towel and lifts one of them, patting at Reynir's arm. He can feel how hot his skin is, the raggedness of his breath, and he can still feel his misery through the Bond, still not the physical, only the emotional.]
You're sick.
[He says it bluntly, straightforward, but gentle at the same time. Squeezing at Reynir's forearm carefully, he tilts his head to the side and lets his cheek rest against the crown of Reynir's head. There's that momentary flutter of panic, of course, at someone he cares for being sick, at someone sick exposing him to their illness, but he knows that it isn't the Rash because the Rash didn't come here with them, and he knows that it isn't the Cwyld because that presents differently. So he exhales and lets go of that flutter of fear.]
I would have gone to get whatever you needed, you know.
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Some tiny, still-rational part of Reynir's mind knows that Onni isn't criticizing him. That he's saying he would've gone to the store for him as an expression of care. But those voices of reason are drowned out by the crushing and sudden feeling of his own uselessness. That self-doubt is a monster with clever quick hands, snatching Onni's words up and twisting them around into an accusation. If Onni had gone on that errand, Reynir is sure it would have gone perfectly smoothly. Because Onni is better than him. Onni isn't a helpless, worthless fool. ]
It's okay. I didn't even get what I needed, anyway.
[ His voice comes out thick with tears, and only just loud enough to be heard. There is again that impulse in him, telling him to mitigate this now, to break away from Onni and flee, lock himself up, hide. But Reynir makes the choice to stay. To hold onto Onni a little tighter, even as the first tear slides along his narrow nose, leaving a mark where it hits Onni's soft sweater.
Haltingly, and with great difficulty, Reynir forces himself to say: ]
I'm having. A k-kind of bad day.
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But Reynir doesn't move. He just says that it's okay, that he didn't even get what he needed, keeps his face pressed against Onni's neck and chokes back tears. Onni can hear it in his voice, how hard he's trying not to cry, how hard he's working to keep his composure. But after a moment, Reynir moves a little, tightens his grip, and Onni can feel the dampness of a tear soaking through the collar of his sweater as Reynir says he's having a kind of bad day. Closing his eyes for a moment, Onni just keeps holding Reynir's forearm and then moves his fingers down to his wrist, takes hold of a hand and twines their fingers together.]
I'll go and get it for you later, then.
[For a moment, he's quiet, radiating concern and empathy because he knows how it feels to hold his tears back when he's feeling wounded, how much energy it takes, how much it hurts. Squeezing Reynir's hand, he sifts through that torrent of emotion, picks out the humiliation and shame, the fear, and exhales a soft breath - those are the things that don't seem to fit. A fever tends to amplify sadness and anger, Onni has experienced that much himself, and he can clearly feel how high a temperature Reynir is running, but shame and fear are different.
Squeezing Reynir's hand again, he nods an acknowledgement again and then lets go, pats the back of Reynir's hand.]
It's okay. Come sit with me on your bed, and tell me what's happened?
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He releases Onni from his arms, nodding because he doesn't trust his voice at that moment. He wipes tears from his face with a few quick swipes of his long fingers. Notices, only at that moment, that there are a few small cuts on one of his hands, and down along his wrist. The scratches are tiny, only just visible, slightly raised and red, just a little bit of blood smeared into his sleeve and across his skin.
In his current state of mind, it feels like another failure, another monumental blow. He lets out an unsteady sigh and follows Onni back into his room, barely lifting his feet as he walks. It is a relief, at least, sinking onto his bed. He doesn't bother with sitting. Once he's off his feet, he lets the momentum keep going, tumbling and then crawling onto the bed and curling up on his side.
He'd thought he got a little bit of his composure back, as they changed rooms, but as soon as he opens his mouth to try to explain, the hot pressure of unshed tears is overwhelming him again. It's hard to force out the words. ]
It's- stupid. I shouldn't be-
[ His voice cracks, then, and he can't finish the sentence aloud, though it's crystal clear in his mind, the words ringing over and over again. He shouldn't be making a fuss like this, over something so trivial. Just a bad day, almost entirely because of his own poor choices. How could he stomach himself, making a fuss of that to Onni. Onni who has already got enough to worry about without this, too.
Reynir knows Onni, though. He knows that Onni isn't going to let him get away with not explaining, now. He hates how much he loves that about him. Closing his eyes, turned away from Onni, he croaks: ]
I wanted to get something for the fever. We were out. I should've checked we weren't out before I started to feel bad. And- and I was dumb, and I. Went the wrong way or wasn't paying attention or whatever and I didn't notice that. On the way walking there, somebody must've- somebody p-pickpocketed me.
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Once they get to the room, Reynir clambers onto the bed and sits, then crumples over onto his side to lie down, curling up on his side and starts to try to explain. All he manages to do is open his mouth before his eyes flood with tears, wet and and red-rimmed, and then he speaks, voice halting and tight, that it's stupid and he shouldn't be...what? Upset about it? Something tightens in his chest again, and he shakes his head.
Reynir pauses then, and Onni takes a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to take his hand again, rubbing a thumb against the back of Reynir's hand idly. He waits, quietly, just watching Reynir and giving him time to collect himself so he can finish explaining. And eventually he manages, his voice tight again, closes his eyes and looks away from Onni. Frowning, he presses his lips into a tight line, not liking the fact that Reynir can't look at him, that he's ashamed of what he's saying.
That feeling of tension and protective anger twists tighter as Reynir continues explaining, blaming himself for not having checked if there was something for fevers before he felt bad. He calls himself stupid, he says that he went the wrong way and someone pickpocked him. Unconsciously, Onni squeezes his hand a little harder.]
No.
[His voice is firm, even-toned, and he shakes his head, takes a moment to breathe deeply. Closes his eyes and gathers himself, tamps down that anger before he speaks again so Reynir can't confuse it for anger at him.]
You had no reason to check if we had medicine for a fever until you were feeling sick. That's not dumb.
[It's firm, like what he's saying is the final word.]
And it isn't dumb to be pickpocketed. Don't even think that.
[He can't help the way that anger surges again, protective and fierce in his chest and gut, no matter how much he tries to keep control over it.]
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That feeling, combined with Onni's firm, resolute reassurances, help Reynir to keep from crumbling completely. In a way, Onni's curt denial of the truth of what he's saying is much more comforting than softly-spoken pretty words would be. Reynir knows that Onni isn't someone who says things he doesn't mean. And he is one of the most cautious, prepared people Reynir knows. If it had been foolish, not to constantly have the medicine at the ready... Onni would tell him that. He wouldn't spare Reynir's feelings, if getting stolen from really had been a result of his stupid negligence.
But of course, Onni only knows a part of it. There's still time for him to change his mind and understand how pathetic Reynir really is. ]
I- I didn't notice. And then when I got to the store, I couldn't find the right bottle, and it was packed in there, and I kept trying not to be in anybody's way. But I was- trying to get out of the way and I - tripped and fell, and knocked some stuff over, and it shattered.
[ It replays in Reynir's mind, that awful moment as he was falling, as the little display was tipping, and then the shatter of glass, the belated sting across his hand and wrist.
His breathing is getting jagged again, even though he knows it is so trivial. Reynir draws his knees higher, curling tighter around himself. ]
Everyone- looked at me.
[ The words are coming out halting and they sound so simplistic and childish and insufficient in Reynir's ears. He didn't know how to describe it, how terrible it had felt, that sudden scrutiny. The bored, annoyed, exasperated, and bland looks coming at him from all around. ]
They wouldn't let me help clean it up. And then - I had to ask where the right bottle was, and- and I, when I went to pay for it, my wallet was gone and there was just a bit of leather the same size in my pocket. And the. And when that happened the guy working there said-
[ Reynir's voice cracks, and he swallows against the rising burn of shame and embarrassment and unhappiness. But he can't bring himself to speak for several long, silent moments. Unwilling to repeat the specifics, because it's all just so trivial, he ought not to be affected by it, he knows that.
In the end, Reynir's voice goes very quiet as he finishes: ]
-said some not very nice things to me.
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Imagining Reynir, with his worries about what people think of him and his history of being coddled and criticized at the same time, being stared at after having stumbled into a display while suffering from a fever is painful to think about. Reynir is curling up further and further into himself, his voice getting more and more broken and jagged, cut off with a tight throat and trying to hold back tears. That's something Onni can sympathize with, trying to hold back everything inside so the people relying on him will think that he's capable and strong and someone to trust.
Onni isn't given to shame, or to caring what people think of him, but even he would have felt the acute feeling of being incompetent in that sort of situation. However...the standard that he holds himself to isn't quite the same as the one he holds the people he cares for to. Tuuri hadn't been able to do wrong, and Lalli had been forgiven for things he normally wouldn't. It seems that now Reynir has come into that small circle somehow, in a way Onni had never anticipated, and he can't imagine thinking Reynir is incompetent or pathetic. Reynir is sick, he's off-balance, he's trying to do too much when he's not up to it - how could he be incompetent or pathetic?
For a moment, Onni is still, and he allows himself to feel it, to feel himself fully accepting Reynir into the circle of people he truly cares for. And he allows that feeling to flow freely through the Bond. Then he sighs and reaches out, pushing back some of Reynir's hair and resting his knuckles against his forehead.]
Tell me which shop it is. I'll go there later and pay them for their stupid display, and give that person a piece of my mind for speaking to you like that. It's uncalled for.
[It's just as blunt and straightforward as Onni usually is, but in this case he's putting words to that little knot of protective fury inside him. Naming it, in a way, so Reynir will know for sure what it is.]
People are stupid.
[He rests his knuckles against Reynir's forehead again, pausing for a moment and then making a soft hum in his throat.]
You should change into comfortable clothes and get some rest. I'll get some cool water and a cloth and sit with you.
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And even though he can feel it, that protective anger inside Onni on his behalf, and it's everything he could have wanted, Reynir's insides twist with guilt. He surely doesn't deserve that. He's never really deserved the faith that Onni put in him, in his competence and worth.
He is very used to those voices of self-doubt living in his own head, whispering reminders of all his limitations. And he is used to hurtful half-jokes and little stinging asides from others, the faintest echoes reflecting that internal narrative. But he is not used to someone shouting all his worst fears about himself at him, from a foot away, red in the face with anger.
The words ring in his head, still. Fucking idiot. Disrespectful. Waste of space. Brainless, pathetic, careless. Fuck-up. Dumbshit. ]
I'm- the stupid one.
[ Because he couldn't disagree with any of those things. That was the worst part.
And his feverish mind, not slow to twist the knife, spun all that into speculation. How was he possibly going to help Onni defeat the kade when he couldn't even do something as simple as going to a shop to buy something? A child could do that. What hope did he have of helping Onni to fulfill his contract with the swan? And what chance was there he would make it out in the world as a mage? His mother had been right, always. He wasn't cut out to go out into the world on his own. He was made of the wrong stuff for it. He should've listened to her and just accepted he wasn't good for anything better than looking after the sheep.
Reynir's face crumples as he finally gives in, breath hitching in a sob that sounds painful as his body starts to shake. Reynir is too exhausted and too caught up in his own spiraling thoughts to cry silently. But the sound of his own pathetic little sounds--so childish, so unnecessary--only makes him more miserable. ]
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[It's as certain and blunt and straightforward as the first time he'd said it, there's conviction in his voice, and he shakes his head. But Reynir is already crying, his chest hitching and his eyes red-rimmed and struggling to hold back the sounds that he's making. Onni sighs and slides further onto the bed, pushing some of Reynir's hair back from his face, mouth set into a little frown.
There's worry in him. Concern that runs deep. But there's also understanding. This is something Onni understands, on a very deep and personal level. Something he can relate to. He might not know the exact thoughts going throuh Reynir's head or the spirals they've spun themselves out into, but he can guess what at least some of it is, just based on what Reynir has been saying. He can guess that Reynir is angry at himself, that he agrees with whatever stupid opinions the shop owner had flung at him, that he thinks he's useless or stupid or incompetent. He can feel some of it through the Bond, too, the self-doubt and self-hatred and helplessness.
For a moment, Onni is quiet and just lets Reynir feel what he's feeling, but the choked sounds of his held-back sobs and the little whimpers of pain that come with them hit far too close to home. Brushing fingers through his hair, Onni speaks after a moment, his voice a little softer than previously, the sincerity in it obvious even if it hadn't also been coming through the Bond.]
You're not stupid. Sometimes you're impulsive and don't think things through, and no one has taught you much about the world. But that doesn't make you stupid, and not being taught isn't your fault. Whatever that person said is wrong.
[After another moment of silence, he brushes his knuckles through the tear tracks on Reynir's cheek and then speaks again, carefully.]
And you don't have to stop yourself from crying. I won't think less of you.
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So when Onni says he can cry without Onni thinking any less of him, Reynir lets himself. He stops trying to muffle those sounds he's making. He uses what little energy he does have to roll himself over so he can fling long arms around Onni's torso and cling to him, face pressed against Onni's side.
He shouldn't allow himself this, he thinks, permission or no. Onni has been comforting others entirely too much over the years - being strong for Tuuri, for Lalli, after their family was destroyed.
(It never occurs to Reynir that Lalli and Tuuri probably hadn't needed this kind of comfort from Onni for years, that he might be getting something out of giving it, and being needed like this).
It helps, turning Onni's words over in his mind. They're typical of Onni - blunt, realistic, not sparing what criticism Onni thought was actually true. But in a way, that makes them easier for Reynir to believe. Onni didn't say he was wise (he knows he isn't), didn't paper over any flaws by telling him he's a perfect saint. But he still thought Reynir was worthwhile, imperfections and all. ]
You don't- you don't wish I was-
[ He chokes on a sob, searching for the right word. He doesn't know what it should be. It seems he's never been quite the right thing, for other people. Not immune enough to teach magic. Not experienced enough to be a real explorer. Not smart enough, not worldly enough, not masculine enough, not not not.
Eventually he finds the word to encapsulate it all, finishes: ]
-better?
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Patiently, he sits there and lets Reynir cry, lowers a hand to push his hair back from his hot cheeks and his hot forehead, and hums a tune idly just under his breath. In that broken voice, Reynir starts to ask a question of him, about what he might wish Reynir would be, chokes off in the middle to sob more, and Onni can so acutely feel the pain of it, the fear of rejection. He asks if Onni wishes he were better, and Onni sighs, mouth set in a straight line.
It seems only fair to actually think about the question before spouting off some sort of reassuring comment - Onni is honest, he's always been honest, to the point of bluntness. It isn't in his nature to say things that he doesn't mean without thinking about them. Blurting out some sort of immediate coddling response about how Reynir is perfect the way he is would just come across disingenuous, and that's the opposite of everything Onni is as a person. So he's quiet for a few moments, thinking, turning it over in his mind, imagining what a better version of Reynir would be like. All he can think of is a Reynir that is more self-confident, better trained as a mage, and that doesn't say anything about who he is, only the potential for his growth.
Making a soft hum under his breath, Onni shakes his head, and then speaks.]
No, I don't.
[After a moment, he works out how to articulate the things that he's thinking, to explain the reasons for saying no. He thinks of Lalli, about dealing with the difficulties that raising him for the second half of his childhood had come with, trying to adjust his behaviour for the good of all three of them. Through all of that, Lalli had still remained Lalli, and that is, he thinks, the crux of the issue.]
You can't change people. I think if you like someone, you should like the version of them that's in front of you and not some imaginary better version.
[He spends another few moments thinking, his fingers rubbing gently at Reynir's scalp at the side of his head, avoiding the sensitive bases of his horns.]
I'd like to see you grow, but you're just fine the way you are, too.
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I think if you like someone, you should like the version of them that's in front of you and not some imaginary better version.
It dawns on him, right then, that he's not sure how many people have ever liked the version of him that is in front of them. Not for years, anyway. His friends back home liked the version of him they'd made up in their minds, cobbled together from their own desires and the person he had been as a child. He would like to think that Mikkel and Sigrun and Lalli and Emil and Tuuri had not hated being around him, but he's fairly confident none of them had actively liked him - and certainly all of them would have been eager to suggest improvements.
I'd like to see you grow, but you're just fine the way you are, too.
And even those people that he knew loved him - his mother, his father, his siblings... he isn't sure they really wanted him to grow. In fact, thinking on it, he's fairly certain they hadn't. That had been one reason why he'd needed to leave. Around them, he wouldn't have ever been able to. He's sure of it.
Gradually his sobs lose their force, becoming hiccupy and quiet, and Reynir sniffs, awareness coming back to him. He realizes how tightly he's holding Onni, how many of his tears have soaked into Onni's sweater, how overwarm his body is, how his hair is messy and plastered to his damp forehead (at least, where Onni had not pushed it back).
With a shuddery exhale, he says: ]
Thank you.
[ He gives Onni a last squeeze and then eases the pressure of his arms. Reynir feels too dizzy to sit up, but he rolls away from Onni, onto his back, looking up at him from the bed. It feels like the room is spinning - but that's what you get when you walk all around town, get pumped full of adrenaline thanks to a conflict, walk home, sob your heart out, all while having a fairly high fever. He's just going to... stay laying down.
But that doesn't mean he has to be silent. ]
I - I feel that way about you, too. L-
[ Reynir swallows. ]
Liking you how you are and wanting to see you grow.
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After a while, during which Onni goes back to softly humming and carding his fingers through Reynir's hair, letting him vent all of the things inside himself out, Reynir's sobs turn into hiccups and sniffles, and then he falls quiet. For a few moments, they sit that way, with Reynir's long arms wrapped tight around his waist, and then the lanky Icelander rolls over and lies on his back, thanks Onni, and looks up at him.
It strikes Onni then that Reynir looks very pretty like this. Whenever Onni cries, he's left with a puffy face and red eyes, leaving him looking a little like a fussy baby in a way that he completely hates. When Reynir finishes crying, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are red-rimmed and glossy, but in a way that highlights their impossible greenness and long eyelashes, his hair is stuck to his forehead and wet cheeks, but it looks effortlessly appealing instead of messy like most people. Onni doesn't know what to think of that.
Thankfully, Reynir gives him something else to think about, not that it's much easier, by saying that he feels the same way about Onni, that he likes how he is and wants to see him grow. Onni makes a noise in his throat, pale eyes flicking back to meet Reynir's.]
I know. You make it pretty clear.
[While it's blunt, it also doesn't have any undertones of negativity. Onni says it very clearly like it's a good thing that he knew so easily, and reaches down to carefully pull more of Reynir's hair away from his cheeks and forehead, to brush his knuckles against the younger man's forehead again to test his temperature. The results leave him clicking his tongue and shaking his head.]
You're too warm. Lie still. I'm going to go get a cool cloth, and then we can get you changed into something cooler and dry and get you in bed, hm?
[Raising his brows, he waits for a response, and then heads into the bathroom, returning after a moment with a bowl of cool water and a couple of washcloths. Dipping one into the water, he squeezes it out until it's damp, and pushes Reynir's hair back, dabbing the cloth against his forehead and cheeks.]
How are you feeling now?
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But if he is, is that such a problem, really? People aren't so different from one another. Of course he would project out love to Onni in a certain way that he would also, naturally, appreciate being the recipient of... nothing wrong with it.
It is that thought, in fact - that if Onni were the one sick, he would want Onni to allow himself to be cared for - that keeps him from protesting those gentle orders from Onni when they come. Instead, his eyes flutter closed and he nods, swallowing, throat achey.
When Onni leaves, Reynir drifts, keeping his eyes closed and trying to let go of the worry and self-accusation. He would buy another wallet. There hadn't been that much money in it, nothing there he couldn't replace. Onni would pick up medicine and Reynir would find a different shop to go to any time he needed such things.
The damp cloth feels so good against his skin when Onni returns and sits on the bed that Reynir lets out a helpless little groan of gratitude. ]
Better, mentally. A lot. Which is - that was the worse part. Physically, maybe a little worse. I. Shouldn't have walked so far.
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Onni isn't sure he remembers the last time someone acted like that toward him. All he can seem to remember is his grandmother's practical lessons and then being the one to encourage growth in Lalli and Tuuri. He can remember his mother's hugs and his father's voice, but he can't really remember any of their words of comfort or encouragement, though he's sure they'd said them. It's a little disheartening, a little lonely and, surprisingly, quite touching to think of those things starting to come from Reynir now.
It's a lot to mull over and think about, and he doesn't vocalize any of it for the moment because the realizations are too fresh, too raw to put into any kind of succinct thankful explanation. So instead he focuses on cooling Reynir's face, on dipping the cloth and squeezing it out over and over until there's no more sweat, until the skin is a bit cooler to the touch, and then moving from Reynir's cheeks and forehead and nose and chin down to his throat and the sides of his neck, enjoying the sounds of appreciation he gets in return.]
You shouldn't have walked anywhere at all. You should have asked me to go for you. I wouldn't have minded.
[For a moment, he's quiet, just dabbing the cloth against Reynir's temples, pulling the hair carefully out of the way.]
Why didn't you ask me?
[There's no accusation to it, there's no accusation in the emotions that flow through the Bond, though there is the slightest hint of hurt that he can't quite restrain. Mostly, he wants to know what the problem is so he can do something about it.]
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He's so used to thinking of Onni as someone who gets him, just understands where he's coming from immediately. And there's no question that he gets Reynir better than anyone ever has, except perhaps Bjarni (and Reynir's not so sure how well his brother really would know him now - with discovering his magic and everything he'd been through and seen in Denmark and then Finland...).
But he feels that little flicker of hurt in Onni, can see the genuine curiosity in Onni's expression. So he swallows, throat aching and the wrung-out feeling of having cried so much mixing with the shaky weak feeling of the fever making his answers come slowly. ]
I'm stubborn.
[ He holds up a finger pre-emptively, lest Onni jump in and try to stop him, the way he had when Reynir was calling himself stupid earlier. Reynir lets his eyes slide shut and goes on talking, slow and deliberate. It's not something he would've said so directly, if he were feeling better and had some filters in place. But oddly, being so sick is working to his advantage in this, removing inhibitions that might prevent him from being so blunt. ]
Everybody treats me like I'm helpless. They look down on me, and baby me. They always have, because I was the youngest, and not immune, and I'm pretty and not book-smart. And I hate it. Even when it's coming from love.
[ Reynir sits up with a heavy sigh. It makes him dizzy, but it turns out he can't talk about this while laying still, letting Onni dab at his forehead with a cool cloth. It made him feel itchy and awful inside, and he had to do something. Even something as small as sitting up and pulling off his shirt, damp from sweat and overhot. He pulls it up over his head, navigating the wide neck around his horns - it's automatic for him, by now. Reynir tosses the shirt to the floor, disgustedly, and lays back down. It was worth the slight nausea and disorientation, to do that. The air feels wonderful and cool against his bare skin.
He hadn't meant it to be a demonstration, but he supposed it worked as one as well. ]
You never treated me like that. Never, not since the very first time we met. I didn't want to- I didn't want you to- I was afraid you'd look at me differently.
[ The words are honest, raw with it, and Reynir gives a small shiver, breath still hiccupy from crying. ]
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But that's where his calm agreeableness ends. Reynir goes on to explain that people see him as helpless, like a baby, young and non-Immune and pretty and practical rather than intellectual, that he hates being treated that way. Onni is about to respond when Reynir pushes himself up, hauls his shirt up over his head and tosses it onto the floor without looking where it's going and then lying back down. Without a word, Onni dips the cloth again and starts dabbing cool water further down, from his throat to his collarbone and chest, pale eyes locked on his face.
When Reynir explains that he's worried about Onni seeing him differently and starting to treat him like that, like he's helpless, like he's a stupid baby, something clicks. Onni makes another noise in his throat, his hand falling still and his eyes flicking back up to Reynir's face, trying to catch his eyes. After a moment, he sighs.]
Reynir, I don't treat grown people like babies. Even Tuu- [For just a moment, his voice catches on her name, but he comes through the wave of grief faster than expected, despite the fact the subject matter reminds him of dozens of moments when they were children. Carefully, he clears his throat and carries on.]
Even Tuuri. She was my little sister, and I love her. She wasn't Immune. If she was being stupid, I told her so. If she was taking on too much, I told her so. I protected her, but I didn't coddle her. Coddling people is stupid. But when a person is sick or injured and can't do something, that's different. It isn't as if you can't take care of yourself perfectly well when you're not sick.
[A pause, and he shrugs.]
When my rib was hurt and you washed my hair, it didn't feel like being coddled. Same thing.
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Onni hadn't lied to Tuuri. He hadn't stopped her, when she was old enough to leave with the expedition. And he had done it not out of a sense of her incapability, her vulnerability, her unfitness. He had done it because he, personally, was terrified of the world outside. Because he was sure that anyone, no matter how skilled or how immune, would be in so much danger that it wasn't worth it.
Onni just sits there, looking down at him with those blue blue eyes, telling Reynir he is allowed to get sick and be injured and it won't change Onni's view of his capability as a person overall. And Reynir knows it is true because Onni is honest and because he feels it in the Bond. There's no pity, no condescension. Just worry, and warmth underneath it, unchanged and beautiful.
If he wasn't already in love with Onni, Reynir thinks he would have fallen for him right at that moment. He shuts his eyes again, letting his head fall to the side, enjoy the cool air and cool damp cloth and the feeling of Onni sitting so nearby, quiet and steady and strong. The love he feels at that moment is almost a physical thing washing over him. It is not the frantic, giggly, nervous feeling of first infatuation. It is not the urgent, unchecked physical desire for Onni that had burned him down to the bone during the autumn. Instead it is something deep and gradual and inevitable, like sinking beneath water. Like opening his eyes into the dreamspace and feeling himself fitting in a way he never felt in the same way when he was awake.
He loved Onni, and there was no hiding it, no dissembling - and he couldn't even remember at that moment through the dizziness and fever and relief why he would even want to. He loved Onni and chances were Onni could feel that through the Bond so clearly that saying it aloud was almost immaterial. ]
I'm sorry. I - I'm not used to. You. The way you treat me. But I want to be, so. So if you really don't mind, you can take care of me when I'm sick, and I can take care of you when you're hurt, and- and we'll both work on being less stubborn.
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He's about to go about finding a new shirt for Reynir, something cool and dry, when he feels that rush of emotion from the younger man, intense and overwhelming. It washes over him like a tidal wave, that mingled feeling of gratitude and affection and relief and satisfaction, like he's falling into place, like he's right where he should be. Even moreso, Onni can feel something else, encompassing all those other things and yet more than them, more vivid, more complete, and more powerful. It's strong enough that he can't help but name it - love.
Reynir has felt that fondness for him that's crossed from simple affection to love, and Onni had thought about it a little, when he couldn't sleep at night or when he was trying to wake up with his hands curled around a hot cup of coffee or while sweating on the roof of the nearly-complete sauna. But he'd never really explored it too much because it was too confusing and too vulnerable and too much. But there's no denying it right now, no denying that Reynir, with his head turned to the side and his lips curled into a slight smile and his eyes closed, loves him. Deeply. Beyond the type of love that friends have, close to the type of love that family has, but different because they're not family.
There's only one other type of love he can think of.
Taking a little breath, he watches as Reynir speaks, telling him that he's not used to the way Onni treats him, that he wants to be, that he wants Onni to take care of him and to take care of Onni in return, that they'll work on being less stubborn. Together.
For a moment, Onni is still, feeling a rush of heat to his face, his ears ringing slightly, his hand still, paralyzed by the combination of that feeling and what Reynir had just said. There is that slight shock of clarity that comes with realizing something vitally important that he'd missed before, something that should have been so clear. There is also the confusion and mild panic at not knowing how he wants to respond, if he should respond, of trying to name what's going on inside him. There's no suppressing the slight flutter of confusion and fear, but he's looking at Reynir still, and he allows the feeling to be buried in affection and concern.]
Of course I don't mind.
[His voice is a little brusque, but not with anger, and he wets the cloth one more time before sliding it down the center of Reynir's chest, cooling him a little more. After a moment, he speaks again, his voice a little careful.]
I'm not sure what special way I treat you, but I'm glad it makes you happy.
[Another pause, while he works out how to speak to make sure he's not dampening that feeling in Reynir, because he's come to realize very abruptly that he likes having someone feel that way about him.]
I like the way you treat me too. It's...scary sometimes. But I like it.
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And he knows, too, that thoughts of the future sometimes set off a fear in Onni. Maybe he'd been thinking of the swan, of that bargain, of everything that may happen when they return home. Who knows.
But he also feels how quickly those negative shades fade, and how quickly Onni goes back to what he'd been feeling before - though it feels a touch more complicated now. ]
I'm... glad, too.
[ Reynir reaches up, gently taking Onni's hand that is holding that damp rag and bringing it up so he can kiss the back of it, a little gesture of affection that he can't quite hold in. And then, because he is trying to actually follow through and ask for what he needs, he licks his lips and admits: ]
I'm really - I'm really thirsty, do you think you could...?
[ He might not get all the way through the request, but he makes half of it, and hopefully Onni will be okay with that. Reynir still feels a momentary flush of shame - asking for someone to bring him a glass of water like he's some fucking kid - but does his best to shove it down, deny and ignore it. He would never think such a thing if it was Onni asking. Of course he wouldn't. He will just - try to extend that to himself. Somehow. ]