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oOo ▱∠▱ oOo
Swatch slowly comes to awareness from where they were sitting on the couch, eyes drawn to a corner of the living room while the Swatchlings idly moved around their communal house.
They shift themself slightly on the large, rounded couch and whoever is next to them starts caressing the feathers on the back of their neck. They can’t bring themself to use the energy it would take to look at who it is.
They’re trying to figure out what brought them out of their fugue state when the muted blur of background noise turns into distinct sounds. Someone’s started cooking, judging from the soft clattering of metal. Well. They might have been cooking for a while, and Swatch only noticed just now.
They don’t ask. It doesn’t matter.
Swatch was dragged to the Swatchlings’ house this morning, but they hadn’t told them why. They just went along with it (like they usually do with the flock, nowadays). It’s something important, though, they know it is. They just can’t make their brain catch up.
Whatever it is, it’s made them feel worse and worse with each passing day, reverting them to the almost-catatonic state they were in two months ago. It’s like they’re trapped in their own body with no desire to escape. So, they keep their eyes glued to the corner of the room and hope they can get lulled back into the blissful, mindless state they were in.
They don’t know when they were able to pull themself under again, but someone gently shaking their shoulder has them slowly resurfacing, fighting for awareness. The Swatchling’s face that’s attached to the hand is hazy, and Swatch has to blink a few times before they can make out Gray’s features.
“Do you want to come to the dining room?” he asks. “We have all the food set up.”
Swatch frowns, trying to find the words to describe how much they would not like to do that. They want to sit on this couch and let themself rot away from the inside out, let themself turn into dust and dissolve in the waters that have been submerging their head and making it hard to think, move, breathe, feel-taste-touch. They want to lock themself away from everyone and lay down on their bed and let themself die. Point blank, period. They want to die.
They don’t say any of this out loud, so Gray takes one of their hands and leads them off of the couch. The Swatchling next to them takes their arm and helps Gray lift Swatch.
They let the two lead them away. There’s no point in fighting it.
When they get into the dining room, they’re surprised to see the amount of effort put into the dishes. The Swatchlings have a feast basically every time they eat, of course, due to their size, but it’s only this fancy on special occasions.
They sit Swatch down in a chair at the rounded table, putting them in between Olive and Maroon. Olive scratches lightly at their back while Maroon leans Swatch’s head so it rests on xer arm. They don’t have it in themself to move from this position.
The Swatchlings, all seated by now, must have some unspoken signal (or maybe Swatch just didn’t comprehend that anything was said, too deep in their own head to notice) because they start filling plates, passing dishes around.
Olive takes the opportunity to fill Swatch’s plate with food, already aware of what they like. They won’t complain. They should thank her, but their voice has been dried up in their throat for the past two days.
Eventually, everyone else has begun to eat, and Swatch guesses that they should as well. They lift their head from Maroon’s arm (a herculean feat) and slowly begin to eat. It tastes like nothing. But they’ll eat it anyway; the Swatchlings deserve that much, at least.
Or, they would, if the next time they blinked hadn’t somehow shot them forty minutes into the future. They look around them, dazed. Everybody’s plates are empty, and Swatch is just sitting there, fork still in hand as if they’re about to raise it to their mouth.
The Swatchlings are talking, pretending not to watch Swatch’s every move. They appreciate that. They also appreciate the fact that Olive hasn’t removed her hand, still idly scratching at a shoulder.
“Are you finished?” Maroon asks. Swatch nods without looking at xem. They’re too tired to be ashamed.
With this, the Swatchlings begin to get up, cleaning the table off and carrying dishes to the kitchen. Swatch should help, but another Swatchling is already carting them to the living room to set them down on the couch.
They sit down next to Swatch, gently pulling at their body so their head ends up in the Swatchling’s lap. A blanket is tossed over them, and they relax into the cozy feeling. The Swatchling plays with their feathers, and somewhere else, soft piano music begins to play. Probably music from someone’s phone.
Swatch would fall asleep if they could. They don’t really sleep right now, as much as they stare into the darkness until their body wears out. So they do the next best thing and let themself fall back into themself, muting every noise around them and unfocusing their eyes.
After an indeterminate amount of time (it could’ve been five minutes, it could’ve been three hours— Swatch doesn’t know or care) the Swatchling gently pats Swatch’s shoulder to get their attention and gently pushes them into a sitting position.
They blink. A large gift bag is on the floor in front of them, and the Swatchlings are all looking at them expectantly. They slowly reach down and start pulling tissue paper out of the bag, reaching inside and feeling plush fabric beneath their talons. They pull out the gift to unfold it into a beautiful, multicolored quilt.
They swallow back some emotion they can’t place, something they haven’t felt in a long time. They clear their throat, trying to find the voice that they haven’t been able to use for days.
“Thank you,” they rasp. The Swatchlings all brighten, feathers fluffing at the sound, and Swatch can’t help the soft smile on their face before it’s claimed by confusion. “But… what’s the reason?”
The Swatchlings’ enthusiasm dims slightly, replaced by palpable nervousness even Swatch picks up, despite not having the deeper connection they share.
Finally, Teal speaks up, almost nervous. “It’s New Years’, boss.”
… Oh.
Now they remember. Shutting down the café for a few days, retreating more and more into themself as the holiday season went on. Distracting themself through books, knitting, anything, eventually leading them to retreat inside of themself to stop their thoughts from circling back to one man.
And it’s like a dam has broken inside of them, washing their veins in ice-cold water, reminding them of why they were grieving so hard these days in the first place. No wonder they’ve felt so empty recently. No wonder it’s been so impossible to get up after they were doing better only a few weeks ago.
They can’t bear to think of him, so they let themself cry instead, clutching the quilt to their chest, giving into the mindless grief that numbs all other thoughts. They’re vaguely aware of some Swatchlings surrounding them, cooing and purring and trilling and touching their feathers. They gently pull the quilt out of Swatch's hands and replace it with their talons, draping the quilt over their shoulders.
Swatch turns their face to the Swatchling sitting next to them and allows themself to be pulled into an embrace. They sob into their shoulder, quietly thankful for the pain that stabs into their chest with each shuddering breath, able to feel something, anything.
Swatch sleeps over at the Swatchlings’ house that night. They don’t think they should go home alone.
oOo ▱∠▱ oOo