Carlisle glances over at Glacius as the alien trails off, struggling as much to find his words as Carlisle had his own. Perhaps it's because Glacius has so actively tried to protect him, not just from actual threats like monsters and demons, but even perceived ones, like the buildings behind them and what may be lurking just beyond his darkened windows at night. They may be irrational fears, but they have plagued him enough to keep him awake at night, which makes them real in his mind.
Or perhaps it is what they have in common that draws Carlisle to Glacius, and gives him pause when he tries to find just what to say. They both often feel like outcasts, both have lost their families, both represent a lineage that is hard to live up to. Both know the fear of torture, of being controlled, of being denied free will. Both of them struggle to believe they are less monstrous than their pasts would have them believe.
They have more often turned inward for solace, but as they've adjusted to living together, the two usually solitary beings are finding out they are stronger together. Carlisle is receiving the patience and understanding he desperately needs to cope with his nerves, both things he often denies himself; Glacius is getting the support he needs in his most troubled times, reassurance that he is not as lost as he may think.
And most importantly to Carlisle, he feels significant, needed. He feels, for the first time, that it's him who can make a difference for someone. Not his family name, not something he had the potential to do, but failed spectacularly -- him, Carlisle, as he is here and now.
Carlisle recognizes the way Glacius lowers his neck, knows what his alien friend is offering. It is acceptance; it is fellowship. He might not be able to put a name to that emotion lapping at his chest, but Carlisle has to admit that... he likes it. He likes that feeling of gratitude and warmth blooming within him, so foreign that he cannot fully identify it. It's like the wine of Fireclaw Country, imported and precious, exhilarating and addictive to drink because of its effects.
He might not know its name, but he knows he wants more of it, and so he leans forward and presses his forehead to Glacius', returning his offering of solidarity with a gesture of his own.
"It means a lot to me, too," he admits, his voice low, nearly a whisper beside the soft hiss of the ocean as it draws upon the beach. "Just that- that you wanted me out here so badly. You could have better spent this time with any of your other friends, but that you wanted me out here makes me feel as though I'm- I'm doing something important. Makes me feel as though I could do more."
After all, they are stronger together. Carlisle knows that to be true for himself, having seen what he's managed to do in the weeks they've spent together in close quarters, but he may someday realize it goes both ways.
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Or perhaps it is what they have in common that draws Carlisle to Glacius, and gives him pause when he tries to find just what to say. They both often feel like outcasts, both have lost their families, both represent a lineage that is hard to live up to. Both know the fear of torture, of being controlled, of being denied free will. Both of them struggle to believe they are less monstrous than their pasts would have them believe.
They have more often turned inward for solace, but as they've adjusted to living together, the two usually solitary beings are finding out they are stronger together. Carlisle is receiving the patience and understanding he desperately needs to cope with his nerves, both things he often denies himself; Glacius is getting the support he needs in his most troubled times, reassurance that he is not as lost as he may think.
And most importantly to Carlisle, he feels significant, needed. He feels, for the first time, that it's him who can make a difference for someone. Not his family name, not something he had the potential to do, but failed spectacularly -- him, Carlisle, as he is here and now.
Carlisle recognizes the way Glacius lowers his neck, knows what his alien friend is offering. It is acceptance; it is fellowship. He might not be able to put a name to that emotion lapping at his chest, but Carlisle has to admit that... he likes it. He likes that feeling of gratitude and warmth blooming within him, so foreign that he cannot fully identify it. It's like the wine of Fireclaw Country, imported and precious, exhilarating and addictive to drink because of its effects.
He might not know its name, but he knows he wants more of it, and so he leans forward and presses his forehead to Glacius', returning his offering of solidarity with a gesture of his own.
"It means a lot to me, too," he admits, his voice low, nearly a whisper beside the soft hiss of the ocean as it draws upon the beach. "Just that- that you wanted me out here so badly. You could have better spent this time with any of your other friends, but that you wanted me out here makes me feel as though I'm- I'm doing something important. Makes me feel as though I could do more."
After all, they are stronger together. Carlisle knows that to be true for himself, having seen what he's managed to do in the weeks they've spent together in close quarters, but he may someday realize it goes both ways.