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Exile was much, much worse than Thrawn had anticipated. There were the chores necessary to survival, but they didn't actually take up too much of his time once the initial bulk of the work was out of the way. He took to wandering the forests, attempting to create crude maps out of papery bark and some charcoal. Those drawings progressed into simple sketches, loose and almost childish depictions of different plants and animals. By month three, his skill had improved to something you could believe an adult had done, but he was also talking to himself regularly. By month seven, he was also narrating random noises and fully letting loose with the impulses to wave his hands, rock in place, and generally engage with the impulses that had been shamed out of him when he was younger. Not because he felt free to do so, though he recognized that he very much was, but because the isolation was crushing him and he needed to be loud to feel like he still existed, like he hadn't faded into foliage and half-forgotten memories of what it felt like to drift with the stars.
Two weeks after the one-year mark, he takes a blade to his wrist. He spends several hours studying the light of the sunset and how it sparks off the red of him, as its color fades and it dries to his flesh. He doesn't remember thinking much, a low buzz overtaking his thoughts like a comm frequency jammer. It becomes a ritual almost. Every two or three days, a singular cut, neatly aligned with the others. He just wanted to stop thinking. He didn't understand how there could be so much noise inside of him when it was so quiet.
The Imperials arrive one year, eight months after he had been dropped off to his exile planet. It takes everything he has to silence himself and enact the plan necessary to be taken aboard. He had nearly forgotten his mission, that his punishment was meant to be a farce. He isn't sure he believes that it is, anymore. The cadet assigned as his translator only looks at his scars once, and without pity or condescension. Vanto quietly brings him a smooth, cool cream dabbed into a disposable towel as if he'd stolen it from their infirmary, an impression made stronger by him taking the towel with him to dispose of elsewhere afterwards. His fingers are warm as he gently but firmly tugs Thrawns' arm to him and applies the cream without comment, which Thrawn permits with tension thrumming through his shoulders, uncertain if the younger man notices his discomfort of this acknowledgement of his weakness and how kindly it was so softly handled. By morning, his scars feel softer and his skin feels less tight, his most recent injuries no longer inflamed purple with irritation. If Vantos gentle touch lingered like a brand against his skin, that was Thrawns secret to keep.
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Eli was having trouble reconciling the stories his grandfather used to tell him with the very real man that stuck to him like a shadow. For that matter, he struggled to reconcile Thrawns attitude with his actual behavior. He was certainly a proud, competent warrior, of that Eli had no doubt. But he also became tense if Eli stepped away for too long, became agitated if he was around crowds for longer than strictly necessary, became uncertain in his words the instant the conversation wasn't about military matters. To some degree, it was obvious Thrawn was just naturally like this, in a way something deep in Eli recognized as being like himself. But he had to wonder exactly how long Thrawn had been alone on that empty world. He wonders, because Thrawn sang to himself in his native language or rocked or tapped his fingers in complex patterns when working on his homework in their quarters, and didn't seem to notice despite being extremely reticent with information about the Chiss. He wonders, because Thrawn would squeeze his scarred forearm hard enough to leave bruises, and then sleeve them in his uniform or in wraps when he couldn't wear sleeves to hide it. He wonders, because Thrawn whined, low and mournful, in his sleep, and would not settle until Eli soothes him with a quiet lullaby and a gentle, still hand on his hip.
Thrawns head was loud, and Eli could hear him thinking from across the room sometimes, and he wonders what it's like to have a tapestry of thought constantly reworking itself like that. Elis own mind felt far quieter, a database he drew information from with lightning-fast searches.
Eli finds Thrawn can be soothed with a brush of fingers when handing him a datapad, with low lights and a washcloth soaked in ice cold water. He discovers Thrawn responds to praise like a starving man quite by accident and makes an effort to compliment him not on his skill but on who he is as a person more frequently.
Royal Imperial is hard, and he can't imagine being in Thrawns position as the only member of his species somewhere so foreign. It's the least he can do for the man that fascinates him so completely.
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Thrawn doesn't know how to exist around Eli. He's not a subordinate and he's not an enemy, and not quite an ally, and he doesn't know him well enough to claim him as a friend. But he's so unfailingly kind, and it makes Thrawns chest ache with longing he doesn't quite know what to do with. He finds himself following Eli like a lost cat through the halls and seeking his smile more than his translations. He discovers Elis accent is very much like music and slyly manipulates him into talking for hours about numbers, about Lysatra, about their classmates, in an effort to listen to the bubbling song of his voice like a creek soothing away all his pressing loneliness that seems to have permanently infected his bones. He finds himself gently pushing Eli out of most of the chores of keeping their quarters tidy, taking on the duty of ensuring they had enough toothpaste and soap and that their uniforms were tidy and presentable. He takes to using his cadets' stipend to keep Elis favorite snacks on hand so his snack drawer in the desk never runs empty. He develops the habit of lecturing Eli after sparring sessions and classes, sharing tips and alternate perspectives in a way far more personal than he was used to doing with other Chiss, even.
Elis head was quiet compared to Thrawns, apparently, and it was nice to seek him out and feel warmth and comfort in silence rather than an overwhelming weight.
Royal Imperial is hard, he can't imagine being in Elis place dealing with someone learning how to person from scratch, socially speaking. It's the least he can do for the man that comforts him so completely.
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Eli feels like he hasn't slept in days. Between his normal duties and getting caught up in the specific intricacies of being the aide of the only nonhuman officer in the entire Imperial Navy, he figures he's averaging about three hours a night. Luckily, both him and Thrawn had leave coming up in a couple of days. He can't imagine Thrawn has been sleeping at all, since he always seems to be perfectly put together even in the middle of the night. He wished they had more personal time together outside of leave, though.
Entering his quarters, he finds tickets to a wild space style rodeo event scheduled for their fourth day of shore leave. He smiles reflexively, looking over at the Chiss sitting perched on his desk and stepping up to give him a brief kiss. Thrawn was wearing his athletics, and holding a familiar jar of cool, smooth cream. They talk quietly, everything and nothing, as Eli gently works it into Thrawns' fading, bruise-free scars. Thrawn teases him about his curls getting a bit long and wild, and Eli responds with a dry comment about Thrawn accidentally making Faro think the Chiss was female for the past two months, making Thrawn choke slightly on his water and demand further details. At some point, Eli pulls up the tickets he purchased for an art show by a lesser-known non-human artist scheduled for the last three days or so of their leave, and Thrawn rambles for the rest of the evening about the pieces shown as a teaser, his voice dropping Eli off into dreams and eventually, himself.
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Thrawn had several panic attacks on the way back to the Ascendancy with Eli. Eli had utterly refused to abandon Thrawn to a crumbling Empire and had proposed an alternate plan, one that would protect the Chimaeras' crew from retaliation, and revealed that he'd been laying the groundwork for deserting with Thrawn for years, ever since the Wookie slave incident. Thrawn hadn't been able to find any flaws, and Eli had steamrolled right over his protests, telling him if his duty was to the Ascendancy then there's no point in staying behind where he'll just be killed for committing treason eventually, as the Emperor was getting more and more paranoid. Thrawn had accepted this, but Eli could tell he was chewing over his anxieties even when he wasn't soothing him about it, that he was doing the right thing, that they had done everything they could for both the Empire and the Ascendancy.
Warning the Rebels about Project Stardust, bringing blueprints of weapons, shields, and ships, carefully curating a hidden cache of Jedi history and techniques to hand over to the Skywalker Corps. There was not much else they could do.
Thrawns shoulders ease as Eli takes his hand, and then Commodore Mak'ro greets them, eyes flicking between them in well veiled confusion and well learned resignation for his old CO's nonsense.
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Thrawn has been irritating Ar'alani for the past five hours as he rambles and worries about his proposal to Ivant. Before seeing them together, she had never before seen the man so... uncompressed? Though to herself, she quietly thought of it as her friend finally blooming into himself. She'd never before realized that she'd never seen him smile without a weight behind it before, until that weight was gone when he looked at Ivant. True, it came with an extra dose of Thrawn brand chaos, not to mention the specific flavor Ivant brought to the Ascendancy which was arguably worse and more efficient since the human actually understood politics and how to use it, but it was worth it. She'd never realized how disconnected her friend seemed from himself before, and she'd do quite a lot to keep him as happy as he is.
Scrolling through dress options (because despite all that she'd kill Thrawn if she wasn't a bridesmaid) as he continued to keep talking about ring and proposal setting options, she wonders if dragging him to a museum would calm him down. She'd try after she decided what kind of neckline she liked, he was currently in the middle of debating with himself if an oval or emerald cut gem would complement the callouses on Ivants' fingers best. Dear god.
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