He lets Edwin hold his face; his hands are very grounding.
"Oh," he says again, blinking hard.
It doesn't - it doesn't really matter, he tries to tell himself. Arthur is a unit with John, and Edwin is still going home with them someday if they let him, and Jedao has to hope they will, has to hope he'll see Faroe again, and it doesn't matter that Jedao made peace in his heart with all his father's massacres, wanting to find a good home to give Edwin, with a million more little brothers who don't mind shapeshifters and aliens, and Hemiola, and the orchard -
But Edwin would like to choose him, and it still feels like a meteor strike, like a seismic impact in his brain, far more impossible to comprehend than the eldritch geometries he once saw in the King's shifting vorticies.
He grabs Edwin tight again, so tight, and this time he's the one pressing hot, wet eyelids against the shoulder of Edwin's shirt. He doesn't sob, doesn't even breathe for a long time, just clings to him.
"I wouldn't ask you," he whispers. But. But. "Thank you, Edwin."
"I know." He clings back, relieved in an odd way to be the solid one for a moment. "But--"
He stops, tries to figure out how to say this. "I want to travel with John. I want to see Faroe. I want to know what that world is like from a better place. But it..."
Again, he's not sure how to phrase it, sorting through the complicated detritus that he sorts through every other day.
"I don't know what it's like there, because there are still things they won't tell me. That's not home. That's a place to visit, a place to stay, a place to live even maybe and love probably a lot. That's not home. I can't daydream about all that much, when I think of Arkham."
"It's okay. I promise." Jedao wants - selfishly, he wants the soon years, all this time when Edwin is still growing up to match the age he looks like. But Jedao and Edwin and John are immortal. Arthur and Faroe - Jedao shouldn't steal any of the time Edwin can have with them.
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"Oh," he says again, blinking hard.
It doesn't - it doesn't really matter, he tries to tell himself. Arthur is a unit with John, and Edwin is still going home with them someday if they let him, and Jedao has to hope they will, has to hope he'll see Faroe again, and it doesn't matter that Jedao made peace in his heart with all his father's massacres, wanting to find a good home to give Edwin, with a million more little brothers who don't mind shapeshifters and aliens, and Hemiola, and the orchard -
But Edwin would like to choose him, and it still feels like a meteor strike, like a seismic impact in his brain, far more impossible to comprehend than the eldritch geometries he once saw in the King's shifting vorticies.
He grabs Edwin tight again, so tight, and this time he's the one pressing hot, wet eyelids against the shoulder of Edwin's shirt. He doesn't sob, doesn't even breathe for a long time, just clings to him.
"I wouldn't ask you," he whispers. But. But. "Thank you, Edwin."
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He stops, tries to figure out how to say this. "I want to travel with John. I want to see Faroe. I want to know what that world is like from a better place. But it..."
Again, he's not sure how to phrase it, sorting through the complicated detritus that he sorts through every other day.
"I don't know what it's like there, because there are still things they won't tell me. That's not home. That's a place to visit, a place to stay, a place to live even maybe and love probably a lot. That's not home. I can't daydream about all that much, when I think of Arkham."
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"It's okay. I promise." Jedao wants - selfishly, he wants the soon years, all this time when Edwin is still growing up to match the age he looks like. But Jedao and Edwin and John are immortal. Arthur and Faroe - Jedao shouldn't steal any of the time Edwin can have with them.
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He frowns, trying to figure out how to put this. Words are hard.
"Everything..." No, not entirely true. "Almost everything I know about how to-- to support someone when you don't agree with them is because of you."
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"Obviously. You adopted me."
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