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Follo paused in the entrance to the main common room. The antique couches tended to have scarce visitors around this time, early afternoon–most people were out working or getting a later lunch. Follo himself had just grabbed a small bowl of stew, hot porcelain bowl cradled in both hands, only halfway full. Being a somewhat fresh addition to the cleaners still, he didn’t want to take up too much space or take advantage of too many resources. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful either, though, so he ensured he grabbed enough to satisfy his cravings and thanked the cooks profusely each time he saw them.
It was the reason he chose to eat here, in the quiet common area nearly an hour past the busy lunch rush, getting the last scraps of food from the kitchen, where he could bother as few people as possible while maintaining the potential excuse of being around. Avoiding the others? Of course not. He just hadn’t run into anyone, was all.
I mean, what was he supposed to say? That he had a terrible fear of being inferior to anyone, to the point it made him anxious to interact with every Giver and Supporter he saw regardless of how friendly they were to him? Not really a fun conversation topic.
But part of maintaining that illusion of him having social adeptness meant not avoiding people if he did run into them. Which was why, when he saw Gris sitting on the common room couch holding his amulet, he didn’t turn around. He swallowed, tongue trying to lodge itself in his throat, and spoke.
“How long have you had that?” Follo asked. The younger man padded into the space, footsteps light on the hard floor. He took a seat on the other couch opposite of Gris, but sat directly across from him on his own couch so they could converse easily. Not too close, not too far; a perfectly sensible amount of distance between them.
Gris looked up at him, eyes finding the bowl Follo perched in his lap. “You haven’t eaten yet?” he asked.
“Oh, no, I tend to get hungry later in the day. Easier to avoid the lunch rush, too.” Lies seemed to roll off Follo’s tongue far too easily these days.
The blond chuckled. “Fair enough,” he said, and he turned back to the small, metal charm grasped in one calloused palm. Uncurling his fingers, he reached a hand forward to let Follo get a better look. Follo took in the sloped engravings of the metal hand-shaped amulet. The cord was looped around Gris’ wrist once, dangling loose off of his forearm.
“Had her long enough it’s hard to remember, honestly. At least six years, or so,” Gris said, swiping a thumb across the object.
Follo’s heart leapt in his chest. Both from the shock at Gris’ dedication to his object, and the sheer amount of time he’d dedicated to it without becoming a Giver yet. He knew the process of becoming a Giver could be long and slow, and wasn’t guaranteed to work, but he’d not really processed the reality of that yet. His next bite was long and slow, as though chewing through this newfound truth alongside his mushy food.
“Does it have a name?” Follo asked.
“Lucky Charm,” the older man laughed. “Pretty silly, huh? I thought I should give ‘er a nicer, cooler name or something, but it just stuck.”
Follo nodded. “I don’t think it’s silly, if it's special to you.” He swallowed another spoonful of stew. “That’s… That’s what vital instruments are all about, right? How much the owner cares about the object?”
Gris smiled up at him, beatific and glowing from sheer kindness. Something like pride in the lines of his smile. Follo thought he might be imagining it, but every aspect of Gris was so entirely genuine, even his self-doubt struggled to brush off moments like these.
“Yeah, it is.” He pulled his hand back to him, setting the amulet down across one knee. “I do remember when I got ‘er, actually.”
“Oh?” This piqued Follo’s interest. He found himself frequently fascinated by how people acquired their precious objects and vital instruments. Hand-me-downs, random childhood trinkets, special hobby items, disability aids, even everyday items like clothing. All of them were different, and they all held a different, special story to them.
“I bought ‘er at a little market, however long ago. I had just joined the supporters, and I realized I didn’t really have any one specific thing I treasured the way everyone else did. It felt… strange. Like I was missin’ out on something without realizin’ it.” Gris leaned back against the couch, head lolled back, staring at the scraped up ceiling.
“We passed one of those little market stalls in Canvas Town. I always liked lookin’ at them, even though no one else seemed too interested.” Gris chuckled at the memory. “And there was this older woman there sellin’ these nice lookin’ trinkets. I saw this one–” He picked up Lucky Charm for emphasis. “–and she caught me staring. She went on this long tale about how some cultures treated it as a symbol of protection and, well, I’m kind of a sap, so I ended up buyin’ it.”
He placed a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing at it in a sheepish motion. “Honestly, I’m not sure how it ended up becoming so special, but I think being a new Supporter and wantin’ to be there for my team, and the story she told, it just kind of slid into my treating it as a precious object. Now I pray to it before all our missions. Can’t imagine going without it,” he muttered out the last part. He readjusted his posture so his back sat straighter, looking Follo in the eyes again.
Follo opened his mouth, struggling to find the words to respond to something so personal, shared so freely with him.
Gris continued before he could get any words out. “You’ve never told me about yours,” he said. “You joined the Cleaners cause you looked up to ‘em, right?” The implication went unsaid; he must own an object he treated with the love deserving of a future vital instrument if he cared so much about Givers to join the Cleaners.
“I do, yeah,” Follo said. It was his turn to feel a slight twinge of embarrassment. He didn’t think he had the guts to share the story of how he acquired Alan. He felt guilty about being cagey of his own past after Gris opened up to him, but the memories were still fresh, and the emotions laced throughout them were potent. “It’s a hammer–I named it Alan. It’s kind of a difficult story to tell, but I got it from a friend,” he said. He hoped the older man would pick up on his reluctance. He hoped he wouldn’t press for more information either.
“Those kinds of items are common amongst Givers. Objects acquired from someone tend to hold a lot of sentimental value, which works in favour of a vital instrument," Gris said. “You don’t have to tell me the whole story, I know you’re new and still settling in. It's hard to feel comfortable right away.”
The man stood from his spot on the couch and stretched a long arm forward to place on Follo’s shoulder. It settled on his shoulder, weighty and warm even through the fabric of his t-shirt. Strong fingers flexed and squeezed the muscles in a firm grip. A gesture Follo found far more comforting than he would ever admit out loud. The combination of the hand on his shoulder and the soft grin rounding Gris’ cheeks reminded Follo of being home again, surrounded by familiar people who cared for him as much as he cared for them.
Maybe this was an invitation, and Gris could be that familiar presence for him in the Supporters.
“Just know, if you ever want to talk or need anything at all, I’m happy to be there for you, Follo.” His eyes crinkled and pearly teeth flashed in his bright smile. He released his grip to give two firm pats to his shoulder. “Supporters gotta support each other, got it?”
And then he leaned back, standing to his full height, and turned to walk out of the common room. Follo watched him go. His eyes stung and his bowl felt lukewarm and he was alone in the vast common room, surrounded only by rows and rows of worn-out book spines.
Despite it all, Follo couldn’t lock away the smile that crept across his face.