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The Freelancer ran their fingers over the pages in the first book of the set Lasko had given them. His own thoughts about the contents felt more useful than the books themselves sometimes; comparisons to human history, reminders of what was happening in the unempowered world, pointers that certain ideas and phrases were archaic. A set, covering nearly a millennia of empowered history and culture, every page covered in Lasko’s comforting scrawl, both on the paper and on sticky notes he’d added in. It was by far the best gift they’d ever received, and now, over a year later, they had no idea how to return the amount of care that had gone into it.
Huxley fingered the charm he’d made and added to his bracelet, otherwise bare except for a charm from his moms, and one Xavier had given him for Christmas. The Aster petal, fallen from the bush Lasko must have spent months working on, had been dried and pressed, covered in a small bead of resin, and tied to his wrist. It wasn’t as beautiful as the Aster itself, but this he could carry with him wherever he went. The petal, and its color like Lasko’s eyes, had anchored him when he went back home, reminded him that most of his friends had made it. But how to give Lasko that kind of comfort, when he didn’t seem to think he deserved it to begin with?
Normally, it would have been embarrassing, lying in bed, with a face covered in not-yet-dried tears. The paper shook in Damien’s hands, and he knew he wouldn’t make the tonic Lasko had designed so long ago – not today at least – but remembering that it was there, that someone had put so much effort into giving him the chance to breathe, meant everything right now. He felt bad about having forgotten about it, but he figured that would’ve made Lasko happy too – knowing that Damien didn’t need it anymore. It was while rummaging through his desk that he’d found the instructions Lasko had written when he gave him the original bottle, and he’d felt the first hot tear the moment the realized what it was. How could he even go about thanking him for it now, when all of them were barely talking?
Gavin was home alone again. He wasn’t upset with Freelancer for it – not at all. They couldn’t really stop attending their classes, and the connected tap-bracelets they’d donned since that awful night meant he could still somewhat feel them. Right now, though, it was the sweater he’d wrapped himself in that was holding him together. Gavin had spent the first week or so with it trying to figure out who exactly it smelled like, but it wasn’t any of them specifically; it smelled like family, he’d eventually decided, picking up the notes of all four of the people he held so dear. The threads themselves, knitted into the sweater through Lasko’s own effort, seemed to pulse with everything he loved about the man. There was genuine care in the fabric, and while it wasn’t something he could feed on, he could feel his magic trying to, in the comfortable way that one reaches for the love they know is there.