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“When am I ever even gonna use this?”
“Shh. Focus.”
They do. They try. And when they release the string, the dulled arrow pings uselessly off a gutter pipe. Which they guess is better than the arrows that broke against the brick wall. Not by much, though – it’s still a far cry from the makeshift target Faleal set up, which is really just a stack of newspapers with a target messily painted on the side. “Fuck,” Elaer hisses, perfectly enunciated. “I told you I’m not good at it. Can I go inside?”
Instead of a verbal answer, they get Faleal’s hand on their back and a gentle push.
They answer the silent go get it with a groan, a slump, and – after a moment of dramatics – the begrudging trudge towards the arrow. At least it’s easy to find: there’s only one that still has a head and isn’t broken in half from the force of hitting solid brick. “Why am I even learning this?” they grumble on their way back. “It’s dumb. I’m bad at it.”
“It isn’t dumb.” Again, like he’s done dozens of times before, he takes Elaer by the shoulders to position them in front of the target. There’s no resistance when he does, just acquiescence. “And you aren’t bad at it. You’re learning.”
They groan again. Still, they pick the bow back up and nock the arrow. “I’m gonna kill someone’s fuckin’ cat like this.”
“Dull arrows.”
A raspberry.
“Focus.” One hand gently knocks their elbow a little farther back. “Keep it parallel.” That hand moves to their face, where it pulls wild locks of hair backwards; “Eye on the target.”
They do. They squinch one eye shut and they try their hardest to keep their elbow from drifting off to the side. They loose the arrow. This time, it barely nicks the target, sending scraps of old newspaper flying. Despite themself, they grin. “Hey! Hey, look, I almost got it!”
“Hm.” Faleal's expression would be implacable to most, straight-lipped and stoic – but Elaer knows the way he smiles with his eyes when they see it, and it fills them with warmth to see. “I thought this was dumb.”
“It is.” There’s no malice behind the words. “But I did it!”
“Now you need to hit the target.”
“Buzzkill.”
He ruffles their hair in response, earning a happy little chirp. “You’re doing well, you know. When I was your age, I quit five minutes in.”
“Yeah?” Unprompted, excited, they nock another arrow. “You must’ve been pretty bad at it.”
There’s a snort. “Okay, smart ass. Pay attention to what you’re doing.”
They do.
The arrow lodges firmly just outside the bullseye.
Elaer can’t help but whoop, arms thrown upwards in victory. “I got it! I got it! Look at that, look! I hit it!”
Faleal isn’t very good at hiding his pride, or the tiny smile it brings. “Again.”
The next arrow hits a few inches to the right; the next misses; the third nicks the very edge of the centre, and then they’re out of arrows. “That counts as a bullseye!”
“Mhm.” He’s never been much for words. The way he wraps an arm around Elaer’s shoulders and tugs them towards his side, very much like a hug, means more than his words ever could. “I’m proud of you.”
(Actually, those words mean more.)
They pull from his hold to hug him fully.