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Theobald is first and foremost a strategist, so when he and Parrot find themselves fifty meters from their horses awhile from the Kingdom with their resources mangled and useless, he strategizes. There are two very strong looking Cindercrest soldiers, each very fast. He's encountered them before. But they're still over a hundred meters away with elytras, and Theobald can easily cover two meters per stride. Parrot, on the other hand, can probably only cover one and a half, given his height. He'll never make it on foot to the horses in time. So, Theobald commits to the most logical course of action that will bring them to safety.
He picks Parrot up and starts running.
Parrot makes a deep, bird-like noise, a squawk, really, and grabs onto Theobald's shoulders.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Theobald doesn't speak; he just runs. Battery acid pumps through his lungs and veins, the anxiety of knowing just how close they are to being caught and killed. Adrenaline makes him feel weightless. And maybe it's also the adrenaline that makes Parrot feel surprisingly light in his arms. Theobald is taller, more fit, but Parrot is all lean muscle and precision, deathly nimble. Theobald supports him with one hand on his back, the other on his hips, and can't help but notice how thin he is in his arms. Insanely, Theobald wonders if he's been eating enough.
They're only ten meters from the horses now, and Parrot has his legs wrapped around Theobald's waist for better grip. Reina deploys from her horses and uses the trees to take out the soldiers once they get close enough, which finally puts them out of danger. Theobald lets Parrot go and watches as he lands on his feet with a grace reserved only for cats before mounting his horse.
"Reina!" Theobald says, signaling for her to circle back. "We need to reconvene with the wagons and get new gear."
"Right," Reina says.
Parrot looks downright appalled, possibly embarrassed, as they head for the rest of the squad.
"It was the most logical course of action," Theobald says.
"Whatever," says Parrot.
Theobald's arms tingle with the memory of Parrot's weight for the rest of the expedition.
--
A week later, Parrot falls ill. It's nothing serious, at least that's what he shouts at everyone when they try to come near him. Theobald can't ever remember seeing Parrot sick before. It's odd to see. He doesn't look any different, just frowns deeper than usual, nose red and irritated. Literally every member of the army avoids him, either out of fear of catching it, fear of Theobald's temper snapping at them, or both.
He's seething that night in Theobald's room while they catch up on paperwork. Theobald pours him cup after cup of tea, hoping the warm brew will at least do something for him. It isn't until later in the night when the candle is almost burned to its wick that Theobald realizes that Parrot has a fever. He moves to refill his tea, fingers brushing over the mug, and Parrot's skin is burning. Theobald sets the teapot down.
"Parrot," he says. "Lean forward."
Parrot doesn't, but Theobald reaches out and feels his forehead with the back of his hand anyway. He's right. Parrot is burning up.
"Quit paperwork." Theobald snatches the papers out from under him. "Rest until your fever is gone."
"It's nothing serious—"
"Please."
Parrot throws his pen down and makes a displeased sound.
"Fine," he says.
He stands quickly, and then stumbles, blinks heavily. Parrot grabs the back of the chair to steady himself. He's dizzy with fever, and Theobald curses himself for not noticing the red in his cheeks earlier.
"I'm fine," Parrot says, but he's still holding the chair for support and Theobald suddenly doesn't trust him to get back to his room by himself.
He stands and rounds the desk, sees Parrot's shaking knuckles, and picks him up. He's as light as Theobald remembers him to be, even with all that muscle, and taut in his arms. Maybe it should feel strange to be holding the king of Unstable like this, but it doesn't, not at all. His head rests heavy against Theobald's shoulder and Parrot doesn't struggle, probably because of the fever, but he still curses in Parrot's arms.
"What are you doing?"
"Be quiet," says Theobald.
He carries Parrot over to the couch, nearly cradling him.
"I'm not a rag doll," Parrot says.
"I know you aren't." Theobald bends to one knee and sets him on the couch. He starts pulling Parrot's boots off. "Rest here. I'm calling for a doctor."
Parrot's eyes are already shut, and each exhale has him shaking. Theobald sets his boots on the floor and then feels his forehead again, smoothing the hair back from his eyes. He thinks about the day they first met. He thinks about Parrot's appearance at the Farlands, his eyes like a wolf's. Theobald who held a blade to his neck and didn't press in.
"Rest" he says again, and Parrot only nods.
--
The first two times were necessary. The third, not so much. But Theobald can't help it. He's become oddly obsessed with the feeling of Parrot in his arms, the way his body folds to his when he picks him up. And Parrot is small, though his height has never been something that Theobald has discredited him for. Parrot is the King of Unstable for a reason. But it does make the temptation that much greater.
On one of their very, very rare days off, they end up drinking together at a pub, they get more than a few dirty looks, but Theobald is content to ignore them once they get their first beers. This is a definite luxury. Theobald can't remember the last time he had a proper drink that wasn't a hurried gulp from one of somebody else's bottles. His eyes shut as the first sip of beer passes his lips, froth catching on his upper lip. Parrot is already half-finished with his. They're sitting together in a booth at the back of the pub to attract less attention, alone and content.
Three hours later, they've both downed a fair number of beers and are slouching further into the booth. They haven't done much besides shit talk—well, Theobald did most of it, Parrot just agreed or disagreed—but now the conversation has lulled, and Theobald feels pleasant all over.
"I'm tired," Parrot says, after a long moment of silence. "I'm going home."
"Probably best that I do as well," Theobald says.
They pay for their beer and leave together into the night. The weather is pleasant and cool as they walk, breezy but mild. It's late enough that no one is really around, and that's when the urge hits Theobald. He looks at Parrot next to him, the draw of his shoulders. He wants to pick him up. The street is empty anyway, so Theobald really doesn't see the harm. He turns and scoops Parrot up, arm resting under his bottom. Parrot does the squawk thing again.
"Theo, what the—are you drunk?"
"Not at all," Theobald says, which may or may not be the truth. "Though I think you are."
"I'm not," Parrot says. "Put me down."
"In a moment."
"Theo, I can walk."
"I know," Theobald says.
He doesn't put Parrot down. What's even more curious is the fact that Parrot doesn't hit him, or curse him out, or even try to get out of his hold. He just grumbles and wraps his legs around Theobald's waist to avoid their legs tangling. Theobald walks down the street like that, listening to his solitary steps on the cobblestones.
"This is ridiculous," Parrot says.
Theobald can't really disagree. But he doesn't put Parrot down. There is something familiar about the weight of him, about the feel of him. It doesn't really occur to Theobald that he should let go, not until Parrot starts to actually squirm in his arms some blocks later.
"Theo," he says. "Put me down."
It's the tone of his voice that gets Theobald to listen. There's nothing harsh or biting about it. parrot's voice is soft, almost far away sounding. Theobald sets him down. His gear and shirt are rucked up, and Parrot adjusts them quietly while Theobald looks out into the empty street. Maybe he is a bit drunk.
They walk the rest of the way together side-by-side, arms brushing, electric.
--
"This is getting out of hand," Parrot says, the next time.
Theobald picked him up in the hallway at Fort Feather. He didn't have a reason, not like the first two times, not even like the third time. He just wanted to pick Parrot up. So, he did.
"Is it?" Theobald says, and hums.
He doesn't mention that Parrot's got an arm slung around his neck or how perfectly he fits in his arms bridal-style.
"Where are you headed?"
"To the meeting rooms." Parrot glances quickly over his shoulder. "If someone sees this, I'm going to murder you."
"Everybody else is out training for war,"
Theobald sets him down at the stairs, not wanting to push their luck.
"Do you mind?" he asks.
Parrot pauses like he hadn't actually considered his stance in all this, like he hadn't thought Theobald would ask.
"What kind of question is that," he says finally. "Of course I mind. You're carrying me around like a child."
Then he turns and takes the stairs two at a time, but not before Theobald catches the flush that's spread across his cheeks. Theobald watches him go with something stuck in his throat.
--
After an expedition, he and Parrot sit alone for a long time in his office. Theobald asked to write the death reports of his squad himself, and Parrot would not deny him that. They drink whiskey instead of tea, silent and sullen. Parrot says nothing, though he's usually the more talkative one after an expedition. He rants until he's out of breath and then sits with arms and legs crossed until Theobald starts to make fun of him This evening, he's quiet. Theobald can see the heaviness under his eyes, the long pull of his face. Once he finishes with the death reports, he helps seals them into envelopes and stands. His grip on them makes his knuckles white.
"Don't make this a heavier burden than it has to be," Theobald says.
Parrot says nothing.
"Their deaths were not pointless, Parrot. They gave their lives for what they believe in."
"Don't do that," Parrot says. "Don't do that whole 'greater good' crap. Not to me."
The envelopes have started to crumple in his hand, so Theobald stands and takes them from him. Parrot resists at first, but after another gentle tug, he lets go. It's strange how his grief makes Theobald feel guilty. How it makes him regret.
"Parrot—"
"Stop talking," Parrot says. "Just stop talking and pick me up."
Theobald almost asks him to repeat himself, but he knows better. He hasn't picked Parrot up since that time in the hallway, though he isn't sure why. He'd thought about it, and when they were alone together, Parrot watched him like he was waiting for him to, like he was expecting it. Theobald just never did. Maybe he was waiting for this, waiting for Parrot to ask. He sets the envelopes on the desk.
This time, Parrot is already reaching up to meet him, arms winding around his neck, legs fitting around his waist. Parrot's cheek fits against the side of Theobald's neck perfectly, and they stay like that. Parrot says nothing else, and neither does Theobald. He just holds him. After ten minutes, Theobald's arms start to go numb, but he doesn't put Parrot down. He doesn't move until Parrot asks him to, and by then, Theobald isn't sure how much time has passed. Maybe an eternity.
--
He picks Parrot up a lot after that. He experiments with different positions, but he favors the one that has Parrot's face closest to his, the one that has Parrot wrapping his arms around Theobald's neck and settling against the nape. Theobald can do it as long as there's no one around, that's the silent agreement. They don't talk about the time after the expedition, and Parrot still makes that squawk noise sometimes when Theobald collects him into his arms.
"An inconvenience," he says.
But he never asks to be put down.