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    Summary

    "Yeah," he said. The word came out small.

    "Yeah what?" Tim said. Not sharp. Just bringing him to it.

    Something in Kon's chest unknotted by a single degree. The shape of the exchange was old and known and his. He didn't have to invent it. He didn't have to be clever or okay or load-bearing. There was a track and he could put himself on it and let it carry him.

    "Yes, sir," he said.

    "Good boy," Tim said.

    The word landed in the middle of him like a hand on the back of the neck. He felt his shoulders come down off his ears by a measurable amount. Good. It wasn't even praise, not really, it was just a flag planted in the ground— you are here, you did the thing, the thing was right— and his body believed it the way it would not believe anything he tried to tell it himself. That was the trade. He could not give himself an inch. He'd give Tim a mile and not notice his feet leaving the ground.

    --

    Kon has a rough day. Tim helps.

    Series
    Language:
    English
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