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His shirt is mended. It had gone missing briefly, and he assumed that he simply lost it somewhere and forgot about it. Now, it’s neatly placed back on in his wardrobe, pressed free of wrinkles and scented nicely of lavender and someone else.
Swan, as they call him now, peers at where the hole used to be.
Upon closer inspection, he can see the neat stitching. The new thread is very close in color to the original seams. His thumb runs over the mending, and his soul is loud in his head with the simple, powerful intent woven into it. Protect. His back is bowed over the garment in his lap, shoulders hunching in as if to hide the precious thing from the world. He feels the stitching again and again with his thumb, soaking up the residual emotion he can taste from every little thread.
Someone cares about him.
He counts each stitch in his head, running his fingers lightly over them. One, two, three…
Anyone, anyone at all. Someone cares whether I get hurt.
The realization makes his head spin, and he holds his breath. Swan hopes that the surge of elation doesn’t sour the other shade’s senses. Usually his alternate pretends that he doesn’t exist at all, exactly as they both like it.
He folds the jacket inside out all the way, searching for any other changes. It appears that the rest of his jacket was also reinforced, some of the loose seams about the sleeve replaced entirely. He gently tests them, satisfied with how they resist his strength. His mouth is curled up in a ghost of a smile, tired purple eyes softened by a rare display of happiness. With a quick glance around, he holds the jacket up by the shoulders and relishes in the residual intent.
Protect.
He swallows roughly.
Protect.
There’s a quiet sniffle that he tries hard to ignore. The room is silent, save for the way his soul pounds loudly in his head.
Protect.
He breathes out slowly.
Someone cares about me. Someone wants to protect me.
His eyes water a little, and he blinks rapidly, laughing quietly at himself. Although the sound is self-deprecating, his chest is light. Swan bows over the jacket, and softly, as if it could cut the precious things that were gifted to him, he whispers: “Thank you.”
It’s been so long since someone, anyone at all, cared about him.