something's fucky

I will not be great, but I'm grateful to get through

Ever blinks down at his hands, fingers loosely laced together in his lap, and gives a small, uncertain shrug. "I'm not sure, actually," he says, because it’s the most honest answer he has. "Because Isla is an Ancient, it could be faster than normal, or slower." His brows knit faintly as he considers it. "We don’t really know yet." The unknown sits there between them, not frightening so much as uncharted, and Ever has never been especially fond of maps with blank spaces.

When Mateo tells him he’s proud, Ever’s shoulders draw in instinctively, a flush creeping up his neck as he glances over at his friend rather than meeting his eyes head-on. Praise has always been harder to accept than criticism, harder to file away neatly without it snagging. "I..." He exhales, then shakes his head slightly. "I have you to thank for a lot of it," Ever says instead, earnest and unembellished. "If you hadn't gone to Frey for that quest for me, I think most of this would still feel very impossible." He doesn’t need to specify what this is; the life he’s built feels fragile enough without naming every part of it.

After a brief hesitation, Ever reaches out and takes one of Mateo’s hands, squeezing it once, firm but quick. "Thank you," he says simply, before withdrawing his hand and folding both of them back into his lap, posture settling again as if he’s carefully put something important where it belongs.

champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between

"Oh? Oh, does her being an Ancient change that as well?" Mateo's eyes grow wide as he considers it, the botanist chewing at the inside of his cheek. "I wonder if perhaps your mother would know anything. She must have treated some Ancients since the end of the last war..." Or maybe it will just be different for every Ancient; chaos incarnate, as is Dygra's whole deal. And the thought strikes him suddenly, Mateo clapping his hands together. "I know a priestess of Dygra too," he quips. "You know, if you wanted me to ask her, or to introduce you."

Realising he's at risk of overwhelming Ever with too many choices, Mateo holds up a hand and reins himself in with a slow, deep breath, though his smile is an impossible thing by this point and refuses to be banished. "I think you have yourself to thank," he counters easily as he catches sight of the aviator wilting under his praise out of the corner of his eye. "Even with all those things I did, if you had not wanted it, none of this would have happened."

Surprised and quietly delighted as the other man's fingers curl about his own, of all people Mateo knows not to take it for granted. "Prego," he trills. "You are my best friend and my snow brother, Ever. I will always be there for you, for this the same as anything else."

I will not be great, but I'm grateful to get through

Ever shrugs, small and careful, the motion more about uncertainty than dismissal. "I mentioned it to Isla," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck as if the skin there has suddenly decided to itch. "She reminded me that she’s also a doctor, so..." His mouth tilts faintly, somewhere between wry and sheepish. "I think I’m going to leave most of the medical things to her. I don’t want to step on her toes by trying to manage parts that are already hers."

At the mention of a priestess of Dygra, his brows lift with genuine interest, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. "That might actually be really helpful," Ever admits. "Just to ask questions, I mean. Without...bothering Isla every time something new occurs to me." The thought of having a separate place to direct the constant, low-level churn of what-ifs clearly appeals to him.

He shakes his head gently at Mateo’s counter, expression earnest as he replies, "Wanting things doesn’t make them possible." His gaze shifts back to his friend, steady and certain now. "You made it possible." Then, as Mateo calls him his snow brother, something soft and unmistakably warm breaks through Ever’s careful composure. He smiles, small but real, and tilts his head again, this time with a hint of humour. "Does that mean you’re going to be a snow uncle, too?"

champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between

"Ah, probably wise," Mateo says with a sheepish grin, also knowing better than to get on Isla's doctor side when it comes to anything medical. "Maybe you can just pass on any resources that Charlie - that's the priestess - suggests. Tobi, too. That way no one is stepping on toes." His suggestion is breezy, but as Ever agrees that putting him in contact with Charliewould be helpful, the botanist practically glows with pride, his smile turning into something dimpled and delighted. 

"I will send her a letter explaining and see if she wants to get in touch," he decides. "She can be quite... vibrant? But I will tell her to try and keep things simple for you." Charlie might be chaotic, but she's also a sweetheart, and Mateo feels like she'll treat his best friend well if he gives her some context. And if nothing else, perhaps Isla can act as a buffer. 

Ever seems to melt, then, like so much memory snow from their childhoods, and he responds to the aviator's smile with a warm squeeze to his shoulder. "It would be my honour to be snow uncle to your baby," he says earnestly. "Now come on - shall we go and get those books? I should read up as well if I am going to be an uncle."

I will not be great, but I'm grateful to get through

Ever nods as Mateo lays it out, glancing sideways at him when he hears the word vibrant. The adjective doesn’t quite resolve into anything concrete in his mind, but it’s enough of a warning label that he files it away anyway, a quiet note to himself to go into meeting Charlie as calmly and prepared as possible. "That sounds good," he says simply.

The aviator doesn’t flinch when Mateo squeezes his shoulder. If anything, he leans into it just slightly, and his smile in return is small but genuine. "I’m glad," Ever says, meaning all of it; the uncle part, the pride, the steadiness of having Mateo right here beside him while everything else feels like it’s shifting.

The sigh that leaves him at the mention of visiting his mother is quiet but unmistakable, resignation threaded through it rather than dread. Still, he nods and pushes himself to his feet, because this is something that needs doing. From the pocket not occupied by the piece of wood, he pulls out a tennis ball and holds it up between them, his mouth tugging into a sheepish smile. A moment later he's shifting, black fur rippling into place. He lands lightly on four paws, tail already wagging, and lets out an enthusiastic bark—bright, unmistakably pleased—before trotting a small circle.

~FIN