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The situation was getting dire. Pressure was increasing from all sides, with no indication that it would let up any time soon. Yet through it all, Grand Admiral Thrawn conducted himself with his characteristic grace, handling Imperial and New Republic dignitaries with ease as they entered the third week of peace negotiations. At least, Gilad Pellaeon thought darkly as he saw Thrawn’s jaw tighten at a comment from some Senator, that was what most people saw.
Pellaeon saw things differently. He saw the way Thrawn tensed when he had to shake yet another hand - Force the New Republic liked physical contact - and the weariness in Thrawn’s expression at the end of another day. He saw the way Thrawn seemed to eat less and less of the fantastical food that was shared at each reception, the way Thrawn only picked at the plain cuts of meat and steered clear from anything sauced or spiced or mixed together. The biggest warning came when Thrawn lifted his arm, revealing the undertunic he had on under his dress uniform. It was the dark green one, the smoothest and softest one Thrawn owned, and Pellaeon had it on good authority that he usually only wore it under his battle armour and… in those first days after Bilbringi. It was the undertunic he saved when he was uncomfortable, unable to handle the sensation of anything else.
It was all this in mind that Pellaeon watched the situation unfold in an almost horrifying slow motion. A minor noble shuffled past Thrawn’s chair, casually placing her hands on his shoulders with a high pitched “Oh, excuse me Grand Admiral dear,” as she slipped behind him. Thrawn tensed, his discomfort now out in the open instead of hidden away behind soft undershirts and the glint of noise-cancelling devices Pellaeon could now see in his partner’s ears.
A split second later the mask had returned, falling neatly back into place as though nothing had happened.
“Please excuse me,” Thrawn said a moment later, and Pellaeon could hear it shaking as he spoke. He rose from the table in a fluid motion. Pellaeon watched him go, the way he shook such that only a most practiced eye would notice, until he turned a corner and departed.
Five minutes of polite conversation and ten minutes of awkward questions (“no, I’m sure Grand Admiral Thrawn is not ill”,” no, he wasn’t offended”, “yes, I’m sure we can proceed as planned”), Pellaeon finally escaped the dinner.
He returned to their quarters to find Thrawn’s white tunic discarded on the floor. That wasn’t a good sign - nor were the quiet sounds Pellaeon could hear coming from the closet. They most certainly not sobs, Pellaeon told himself firmly as he moved around, closing the blinds and unfolding the rumpled tunic to lay out on the bed.
“Thrawn, it’s Gil.” He kept his voice low and gentle as he spoke. “You don’t have to say anything, but I want you to know I’m here.”
The closet door cracked open an inch, just enough to see two pinpricks of red light peeking out at him. Pellaeon smiled at him, suppressing the surge of protectiveness he felt flowing just under his skin.
“Gilad.” Thrawn’s voice was barely above a whisper, full of an aching pain that made Pellaeon want to pull the other man into his arms and never let go. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Pellaeon said firmly, “it’s that woman’s fault for having no concept of personal space.”
In the dim light, Pellaeon could see the split second half smile on Thrawn’s tear-stained face before he frowned again.
“Do you want to be alone, or do you want me to stay?”
“Stay.”
Pellaeon smiled at him. “I’m going to order takeout, would you like some?”
Thrawn nodded, ever so slightly. “You pick.”
“Yes, Sir,” Pellaeon said affectionately, taking a seat at the desk and scrolling through the options.
A half hour later, Thrawn finally emerged from the closet - dressed in only his undershirt and clutching a pillow. It was Pellaeon’s pillow, he realized suddenly, and another burst of protective affection bloomed in his chest as he watched Thrawn pad slowly across the room.
“Are you ready to talk about it?” He asked gently.
Thrawn folded himself into a corner of the couch, shooting a halfhearted glare in Pellaeon’s direction. “No.”
“Is that because you aren’t ready yet or because you’re hoping I’ll drop it without pressing you?”
He deflated slightly, hugging the pillow close to his chest. “I don’t see why we need to dissect all my failings.”
Pellaeon frowned. “You didn’t fail , Thrawn.”
“Didn’t I?” Thrawn snapped. “Did I not fail to maintain control of myself and thus jeopardized our negotiations by leaving abruptly?”
“This isn’t your fault, Thrawn!” Pellaeon watched in horror as Thrawn flinched away, and he made an effort to lower his voice again. “It’s not a personal failing that you are so sensitive, and it’s certainly not your fault that these past weeks seem to have been tailor made to torment you.”
Thrawn seemed to consider that for a moment, but he shook his head. “I still should not have allowed myself to react this way. It is… I should be better.”
Pellaeon moved to sit beside him, close enough that he was in reach but far enough away that Thrawn didn’t have to touch him. “If you were anything or anyone else, you wouldn’t be the genius that brought us here.”
Thrawn shifted slightly, leaning on Pellaeon’s shoulder. “I would prefer to be such without the indignity of… being overwhelmed by simple tasks.”
“I know,” Pellaeon said, taking Thrawn’s hand in his own. “But we’ll get you through it.”
Thrawn nodded slightly, leaning further into him. “Very well, Gilad. I will defer to your judgement.”