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You're not sure if you remember the last time you got good sleep.
When was that? A few weeks ago? A perigree? You remember a time before - before Vadaya , before the rebellion, before your life fell apart where you actually got decent sleep. There used to be a time where you didn't toss and turn or jolt awake with nightmares but you had to live with it after you joined in with the rebellion and got a good dose of coffee when the moons rose up the next night.
Now, nothing short of drugs injected straight into your veins can wash this exhaustion from you.
(Your mind is tired. It pulls up memories at the mention of injection and drugs and for a brief moment, you have a vivid image of looking down at your arm and seeing metal. Metal trimmed with red and when you twist your arm to face up, you see the clean crispness of a port near your elbow and the slide of a steroid needle into it. The rush doesn't hit right away but when it does, it cracks like lightning and then you have to snap out of it to remember that no, this isn't yours. Your arm is flesh and bone and skin, not the AREMA. You've never had a steroid in your life but - but you can wish you had one right now)
The wall against your back is cool as you scrub at your face, trying to banish those thoughts from your head. You're too tired to deal with the overflow of Vadaya's memories and you're not going to fall down that rabbit hole of blurred images. You know that's something you have to deal with later - you're soaking in things from his mind and you think he's absorbing bits from yours too. It's concerning but what can you do? All you can do is keep sludging forward through it, work to keep your memories separate and clean up the mess after you're done with him.
It's hard to keep him from your mind though. Even now he's there at the fringes of it. You can see the brightness of his mind at the edges of your own, close enough to grab and that's exactly what you do as you stand there, waiting in the empty halls outside of the communal showers. You draw his mind in closer to yours, pulling at the strings that connect yours to his until you can practically touch it.
But you don't.
His mind is thrumming under your psionic fingers, but you don't press into it to read what's going on in there. You know what's in there after all - he's showering, for the first time in a week and a half. He didn't want to, but you refused to let him sit around in his own filth with his shaggy hair and sparse beard. With a couple of prods at his emotions to ramp up the disgust and smoothing down his aggression and anger, he grudgingly agreed to be escorted down to shower. There's nothing in there that he can harm himself with and even if you don't push into his head to read his thoughts and see through his eyes, you can still feel the thrum of his emotions through your ‘fingertips.’
Loathing. Hate. Anger. Disgust. A bit of aggression that a wave of your ‘hand’ mellows down and an aching pang throbs though your head. There’s also a small amount of relief from him that you suspect might just be the feeling of washing a week’s worth of dirt and grime off. How often did you peek into his mind and find him exercising after all? You knew he couldn't be enjoying sitting in his own skin like that. Honestly, you were doing him a favor by forcing him to get off his ass and take a shower.
The soft squeak of metal echoes behind you and you turn your head to listen through the open doorway as the water slows to a drip. The showers are empty, of course, with only him inside and you waiting out there, so it’s easy to follow the sounds of his movements. You hear the sound of footsteps across tile and the shuffle of fabric and you lean your head back against the wall as you count the seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. A minute. Two, three, four and then five. That’s enough to give him enough time to dress and you reach over to knock against the doorframe.
“I’m coming in,” You say, tired and deadpan. You give him another minute, just in case, before you push off the wall and walk in.
It’s hot in the shower. Way too warm for your liking and humid too. Your gills flare at your neck when they feel the moisture and you have to force yourself not to make a sour look when they do. You haven’t put on your fabric necklace tonight and you never were that good at schooling your emotions with them. It was habit after all. You never learned because you always kept them hidden.
When you turn the corner, Vadaya's sitting there on one of the shower benches, dressed and clean. He doesn't look up at you as he towels his hair but you don't need him to. The form of his mind is still under your fingertips and you can feel the rise of aggression in him as you approach. It's easy enough to reach forward and smooth it out and you can practically see the tenseness in his shoulders leak out of him. He's not happy about it and a rise of disgust takes over in his mind because he knows what you're doing. That, you let stay because right now? Right now you're just tired.
You're tired and that's why instead of shoving into his mind and forcing him to cut his hair and shave his beard, you're doing it yourself. If you can, you're not going to press on his head today. The night had already been long for you and you know you're just a step away from burn out. A mental fight with him right now would go poorly for you - so you'll keep him placated. Keep him unaggressive. Let him stew his his hate and keep his mind from considering the possibility that he could murder you for real this time.
Unfortunately, that still meant you had to make sure he was obedient. It takes a minute to steel up the effort to deal with the pan ache and delve into his head.
Suddenly, you're surrounded by his thoughts. Bitter ones, angry ones, fantasies about how great it would be to grab you by the horn and smash your head against the tile and the sick licks of satisfaction that would bring. They're thoughts you're used to now and you shrug them off as you burrow deeper to find the threads of his personality, of his devotion and then you grasp it and twist.
He stiffens as the urge to obey you like a superior washes over him and you sigh as you pull into your body long enough to gesture at him to face the bathroom mirror. Your pan aches like a pulled muscle but even as Vadaya quietly moves for you, you know it's better than pushing into his consciousness. You've still got the threads of obedience curled around your fingers as you step behind him, your flesh and bone ones coming up to touch at his curls.
They're so long now, you mused. They're almost cute, if you were honest. Cute and they fit his face in the shock of bangs that hung over his eyes. You reach forward to brush them back, watching him through the mirror and you could almost see the curl of a lip. You can feel his disgust but a twist of his threads keeps him still and passive.
The towel next to you makes a great makeshift cape and you're careful as you tie it around his neck, high enough to cover his gills. There's a moment where you fluff at his hair with your fingers, but you don't waste time before you pull the scissors and comb out of your pocket and get cutting.
You've done this a hundred times before. Talgan, before he died, asked you to cut his hair. Aticus too, even when he was squirming and complaining about it. You think he's dead too though. Vadaya though, was not dead and alive and well in front of you… even if you're closely following his thoughts of how easy it would be to disarm you and put your scissors into your neck. Quick, efficient, a good way to kill a troll with what you had, but you don't let him dwell on it as a gentle tug of threads made his mind go elsewhere.
His hair is soft under your fingers. Wet, but smooth and you brush the curls out with your fingers and a comb before slicing them off. You're both quiet and the only thing that the two of you could hear was the soft snip of your scissors and the drip of water. It's almost calming - but neither of you are relaxed. He's almost boring holes through your face through the mirror and you keep glancing up to meet his gaze through the glass. He's almost handsome like this, you absently think, in a scruffy sort of way. You always liked the look of a short beard on a troll and with his strong chin, it compliments it. It hides the mole under his lips though and you can't tell if it's a fair trade off. His moles are so distinctive part of his face and you always did enjoy the triangle the three of them made. It was like a game of connect the dots and sometimes you just wanted to reach up and trace the lines, sometimes with your fingers, and sometimes, if you consider the idea of getting up on your toes to reach him, with your -
You close your scissors a bit more abruptly as you catch your thoughts and the loud click stands out in the silence. A quick glance up proved that your face hasn’t changed but - ah, fuck, your gills are the real betrayal here and they’re flared out again. Your face doesn’t move as you try to slowly urge your gills back down. You don’t need to be caught like this, with your gills up like some sort of over excited pupa with Vadaya of all people. Trying to snuff out the existing rumors of what you did with him was exhausting enough with every hoop you jumped through. You worked hard to make sure you were never fully alone with him just to avoid the talks that you were doing something illicit. This was the first time since that first night he was captured, so long ago, that you’ve been alone in a room with him.
Yes, the plan was to rebuild him as someone who would be sympathetic to their cause, another cuspy highblood raised in the Empire’s belly who saw that it was unfair and in need of change, not to - not to fuel rumors that you had just wanted another mutant like you to have at your beck and call.
Your fingers slid off of the sides of his head as the curls fell away and you inspected him for a moment in the mirror. The sides look good, but the bangs are a bit long. You step back and say softly “Turn,” with a tug at his threads of obedience. Vadaya, of course, turns on the bench and faces you and you have to repress a shudder as you guys are face to face. Face to face and closer than you wanted to be, but you didn’t say a word and neither did he as you started to trim his bangs.
… You were lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the fact that he was like you. He was cuspy. He had gills - and even if they didn’t work, they were there and visible and it made you feel… You don’t know how you feel about it. Glad? Relieved? Suddenly desperate to hold him close like some sort of object to be hoarded? You don’t know, but something made you decide he was your responsibility when you saw them because who else was going to understand? Hadean didn’t. Sipara didn’t. No one else in the base would know what it’s like to be some fucking cusp without a chance to live or prove yourself -
(Except he didn't either. He had a chance to live and prove himself and sometimes you ache over how much you wanted that in your life. You wanted what he had. He had friends, a job, a chance to work without having to sleep at night knowing that tomorrow could be your last day alive just because you existed as you. Why did he get a chance to live and you didn't? The thought is bitter in your head but you try not to think about it.)
The bangs are easy to finish off and you brush the extra hairs off of his jaw as you survey your work. Vadaya’s hair looks like how it was back when he was taken in. The beard though… You look at that for a moment and the glimpse of the mole hidden underneath the hair and you reach back into a pocket.
“Lift your head,” You murmur with a twist of the threads and something in his head is viscerally repulsed to the idea of it but his chin lifts anyway. You’ve got a razor and some gel in your pocket and you’re careful as you start to work. “We wouldn’t have to do this if you behaved enough to do it yourself.” Your words are quiet but pointed. It’s an attempt to hopefully turn the weirdness of the situation to something a bit less… Weird. This wasn’t a power play for you - you just knew it would be good for him. What would Zavare think after all if he didn’t keep up with himself or just hacked off his hair?
… Not that you thought he’d see them again. But it was the thought that counted, right?
You’re careful as you drag the razor across his cheeks and the revulsion in his head is clear. It makes something twist in your stomach but you don’t try to stop out what he’s feeling. Not tonight. You can still feel the ache of your psionics in the back of your pan and you know you’ll know no relief from that yet - just like you won’t be relieved from the feeling of emptiness in your stomach.
Sometimes you have regrets choosing him. You wanted a friend from back then, from when you were still stupid and hopeful and you thought maybe, just maybe you’d be able to crack him open and find something… Something else. You don’t know what. Acceptance? Would you have had a friend who accepted you? A chance to tell him your truth without worrying that he’d cull you? It was a wiggler’s dream from back then. You cracked him open and all you found was Imperial dogma and hate and revulsion for everything that you were. He fought you every step of the way and culled you every night, over and over until you managed to build up walls so you both could explore your sides of the dreamscape in peace - or until he decides to crash through them after you anyway.
You're starting to feel like you're not supposed to have friends. Has anything good happened to any of them? Have you done anything good for any of them? You don't think so. You've fucked over all of them so badly and so often that all you can do is just sit back and smile bitterly at the humor of it all. Hell, half of them were dead, one you dropped like a stone and the other…
The other was sitting in front of you, mind controlled and getting his face shaved and he hates you. You wish he didn't. You just wanted a friend again but you always fucked it up, time and time again and you wish you could say sorry.
Vadaya’s eyes are a dark purple as you glance up at him. He's pointedly ignoring you but you don't blame him. Scratch what you said earlier - you wish you could say sorry and have them accept it. But he wouldn't, not unless you let him go and that wasn't an option - but it didn't mean it wasn't a tempting one.
What would happen if you did? What would happen if you put down the razor and leaned him, wrapping an arm around his neck and tucking his head under your chin? If you pressed your nose against his curls and murmured that you were sorry as you let your pan slip from his and give him the first taste of freedom he hasn't had in a perigree? The romantic in you hoped that there'd be a pause and then there'd be the heavy weight of a metal arm sliding across your back and the soft call of “Ori?” - the same way he'd say it back during your first night you two met after the ball. Soft, friendly, curious - something that'd be a balm to the ache in your chest where you lost everything else you loved. Maybe there'd even be a soft press of lips against the pulse of your neck - you don't know. You don't care. You just wanted some acceptance for once.
...But you knew better. You knew what would happen if you did that. There would be an arm around your back, yes, but it's be heavy and it'd squeeze and pin you there as his head turns up and instead of lips, you feel the sharp tips of teeth. You'd feel the pain as they sink in and crush your throat and then rip it out and maybe you'd try to gasp like you were surprised and stunned at this newest development as the blood gushed.
You weren't dumb, you thought as you turned Vadaya's head, one thumb brushing against that mole on his chin. You knew which was more likely out of those two scenarios and you weren't about to risk your life for a silly fantasy.
The shaving finished faster than the hair cut and it wasn't long before you pulled back from him, satisfied over the job you did. Clean, smooth, looking as good as the day he came in. It's somewhat satisfying and you started collecting your stuff. “You're done,” You say to the silently seething troll. He'll have more to say tonight, you're sure of it. “Get up. Let's get you back to your bedroom.”
“My prison cell you mean,” He intones, quiet but pointed as he stands. The sound of his voice is a surprise and you glance up at him. He won't hurt you, you assure yourself. You still have his threads wrapped around your fingers and your other hand dipped in the pool of his emotions. He's angry, yes, seething, violated, frustrated - but he won't attack. You've made sure of it.
Throwing the towel over your arm, you nod. “Prison cell then,” You say and start on out. A tug at his strings has him following you like a good little soldier and you lead you both down the halls. Guards converge with the two of you not long after and it's a quiet, long walk back to Vadaya’s cell. Neither of you speak, the guards don't either, and it's almost a relief to lock Vadaya back up behind those cell doors.
After the lock clicks for the night, you don't stay behind to reminisce. You're tired - God, you're tired - but you don't have time to rest. If you're lucky, maybe you can have a few minutes of quiet before seeing those Indigo eyes again in your dreams.