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The training room’s panels loudly flicker during the sudden silence.
Camu stands there, rooted in place, his frown a mixture of shock and fury. He asks, slowly, “Say that again?”
The Commandant repeats the request with the same unbothered demeanor, as if they didn’t just rattle the depths of his consciousness with a single question.
Can I pet your hair properly this time? Camu grits his teeth. What a joke. Does the Commandant think they’re funny?
“If you have a death wish,” Camu growls, arms crossed over his chest, “you can try.”
Camu believes that, like many times before, the Commandant will be put off by his meek display of hostility and scamper away. They have a habit of trying him, persisting in this tug of war as they continue to train together, to learn from each other. It’s only gotten worse ever since they slinked out of Hassen’s conference hand-in-hand.
Annoying, he thinks, but not once has he turned his back to them and walked out. Weird, he calls them, though he never raises his claws to push them away. Meaningless, he swears, all of it, yet Camu has tagged along for every lunch he’s invited to.
So caught up is he in his thoughts, that Camu doesn’t notice the Gray Raven Commandant stepping forward until they place their hand on his head.
Camu freezes up. The Commandant tentatively pets him once — they caress the synthetic hair, comb through gray strands with practiced ease. He stares at them, feeling every single one of his modules itching to burst inside his frame. The Commandant does it again, and again, feeling the frazzled ends of his hair.
Their defiance, the now familiar warmth of their touch, stirs something acrid right under Camu’s metal ribs. It burns his wires and spreads through his chest. They’re being so gentle with him, despite how jagged and rough he shows himself to be. Shame hollows his flaky composure and, in the midst of it, his nonexistent gut twists.
Camu tries to growl, to let out whatever it is that’s choking him up, but a pathetic, muffled groan escapes him instead. The human finally glances at him, their movements slowing.
No. Camu shuts his eyes and lowers his face. Don’t look at me like that. He’s scowling, though it’s akin to the face a puppy makes when pouting for treats. Don’t just stop.
Camu’s claws grip his arms tighter. “That’s… it?”
His voice barely, barely reaches the Commandant’s ears through his low, trembling tone. They offer him that same weird look of theirs, before they resume the patting with both of their hands.
Senses taken over by a buzzing static, Camu sharply inhales. Each caress leaves a tingling trail on his scalp, uprooting a mess of shunned emotions from his core. The Commandant’s hand trails down, holding the side of his face, and Camu can only lean into their palm, led along by his traitorous M.I.N.D..
How much time has passed since someone reached out to him like this? Has anyone ever reached for him to begin with? No sane person will pick the wilting rose in a garden, not with its many sharp thorns.
Yet this human, plucking him out of the coarse dirt, their skin pricked to no end… they hold him closely, and tenderly. Like they won’t let go — like he matters to them.
Camu isn’t aware of the way he follows the Commandant’s touch, nestling into their movements, like he has an itch to scratch all over. The Punishing within him has deepened his aversion, his loneliness. But someone has worked their way into earning his trust and sharing his woes. Camu’s instincts guide him closer to them, much to his dismay. His frown begins to lighten, and his frame loosens up.
Is this what it’s like to be safe in someone else’s company?
When a brush of a thumb traces his cheekbone, Camu blinks away the haze and returns to himself. He feels his hair tousled, his bionic skin radiating an abnormal amount of heat, and his chest heaving heavily. The Commandant tilts their head as they examine Camu’s expression, pulling his hood up and stepping back.
They raise an eyebrow at him then. Camu huffs, guilty and incensed, praying Babylonia blows itself up just about now.
“Was that so bad?” The human asks him.
“Tch. Terrible…” Camu mumbles, tugging his hood lower over his eyes, but not without catching a glimpse of the Commandant’s joyous face first.
A little embarrassment isn’t so bad, he supposes. He nonetheless swallows that thought down along with his gnawing appetite.