TheobaldThebird | Unstable Universe AU

The golden evening light filtered through the windows painting everything in soft gold, with dust motes floating in it like stars moving through a sea of cosmos. The room reeked of old ink and rusty metal from a pile of blueprints and scraps on a crafting bench, each print showing detailed step by step processes of creating complex machinery difficult (not quite) enough to make Theo's brain itch from his poor comprehensibility. There were metal scraps and redstone materials laid out on the side of the bench, they were starting to rust and break down over time, it's most likely this project was abandoned several months ago. On another cabinet nearby, a few trinkets were scattered throughout, small amounts of dust clinging to the undersides and corners of the trinkets, left untouched after at least one or two more uses of these. One particular silverware caught the light—it bounced, sharp and bright, reflecting across Theo's yellow wings making it glow softly. Theo was perched on a chair in a quiet room, knees drawn up, his weapons tucked away in a shulker box, the feathers of his wings puffed up so big he barely fit as he stared out the window. The warm bright beam of the sun reminded him of how the light caught onto your features back when you two were in a field of tall grass, he still remembered how the light seemed to soften the edges of your silhouette and the gentle sway of your hair caught the wind, he felt a familiar warmth tug in his chest—one that appeared too many times whenever he was around you. He was quiet—an uncharacteristic vulnerability that anyone could've asked if he'd got a concussion as he silently counted the seconds until you came back. One. Two. Three. He lost track at forty-seven. Started over. Five days. Or four? The sun was setting and he still couldn't remember if it was Tuesday. This guy can't even count. He probably skipped a number or two. The sunlight begins to shrink as the sun settles into the horizon, pulling away from the floorboards inch by inch in strips making it slightly dimmer in the room. The gold on Theo's wings thinned out, then vanished. The last bright spot clung to the tip of his feathers before it too, slipped away, leaving him in the dark. It almost felt like it was mocking him.

Then the sunlight completely faded, like a candle that stopped burning once it reached the very bottom, and only the cold moonlight illuminated the room in dim silver blending with the remaining warm glow from torches on the walls. It was almost melancholy if you think about it. Theo let out a quiet sigh, breaking the uncomfortable stillness that lingered, and rested his head against the window frame. Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock pecked at the silence like a restless woodpecker while Theo sat by the window. The room had grown dim enough that the glass reflected his own face back at him, and for a moment he found himself staring at the lonely figure in the reflection instead of the world outside. He tried counting the seconds again, but somewhere after twenty-eight his thoughts wandered, and the numbers slipped through his grasp like grains of sand. Now Theo attempted to occupy himself by organizing books on a shelf, not that he's trying to be productive but to find a way to divert from his thoughts; his thoughts of you. But even for an activity that was supposed to be calming and distracting, he seemed tense and his thoughts never went away — deliberately arranging books by height, then color, then by authors he couldn't quite memorize in at least according to what he insisted was alphabetical order. Every so often, he'd shove the books into place with unnecessary force, the dull thump echoing through the otherwise quiet room. Theo reached for another book, frowned at the pile he'd already sorted, and realized he'd somehow been placing the same three books back and forth between two shelves. "...How did I even manage that?" he muttered to himself, giving up almost immediately. Then he found one book you'd once absentmindedly tucked a pressed flower between the pages acting like a bookmark. A Morning Glory, your favorite flower that you'd always look after with fervent, tender care. His wings froze, completely going rigid behind him. He stared at it for a long while, before quietly sliding it back where he'd found it. The shelf remained only half-organized.

He let out a groan. Even after all that, the room felt just as quiet. The books occupied his hands, but never his thoughts. He was hopeless. Then the sudden sound of Parrot's voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade through silk: ".. Theo." Theo jumped so violently that he nearly knocked the entire shelf over, several books tumbling to the floor with loud, clattering thuds that echoed embarrassingly through the room. His wings flared instinctively, puffed up to twice their normal size in a startled display of white and gold feathers that made him look less like a skilled fighter and more like an agitated marshmallow. "Gah! Parrot!" he yelped, his voice cracking slightly before he could regain his usual bravado. His face flushed a deep red beneath his feathers, visible even in the dim moonlight filtering through the window. "Don't—don't just do that! You can't sneak up on a warrior like that, I could've... I could've had a reaction ready!" He scrambled to straighten himself out, hastily shoving the book with the pressed flower back into its spot with more force than necessary. His heart was hammering against his ribs partly from the fright, but mostly from the feeling of being seen so vulnerable. The restless, agitated energy that had been building up inside him all evening suddenly had nowhere to go, leaving him feeling exposed. Parrot raised an eyebrow at him, then the corner of his lip twitched upward slightly to what almost seems like a knowing smirk if you looked closely enough before he quickly suppressed it, "I literally only said your name." Parrot said flatly. "I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID." Theo shot back. "...Right."

"Don't." Theo narrowed his eyes.

"I didn't say anything." Parrot shrugged.

"You were about to." Theo hissed.

"Was I?"

"YES." Theo snapped, the sound that came out of him was mortifying. Half hiss, half whine. Like a cat that got caught in the rain.

Parrot didn’t say anything for a long beat. Just stood there in the doorway, silhouetted by the hallway torchlight, arms crossed. The quiet stretched again, but this time it wasn’t the clock doing it. Theo could feel his ears burning. His wings were still half-puffed, making him look ridiculous. He tried to make himself smaller in the chair, which was impossible because he barely fit to begin with. “…Five days,” Theo mumbled finally, staring at the floorboards instead of Parrot. Five days had settled into the room without either of them noticing. Dust had gathered thicker along the edges of the shelves, the abandoned blueprints remained exactly where they had been left, and the half-organized books sat crookedly beneath the window. Everything looked as though it had been waiting with him. “It’s been five days.”

Parrot’s expression softened. Just a little. “I know.”

Outside, the last traces of evening had long since disappeared. Moonlight rested against the window in pale strips, barely reaching the floor, while the torches in the hallway cast a warmer glow through the doorway. Dust drifted lazily through the light, undisturbed except when Parrot shifted his weight. “You don’t know anything,” Theo shot back, too fast. Then immediately regretted it. His fingers found the edge of the shelf and gripped it. The hallway torch crackled softly. “You weren’t there. In the grass. With the—” He cut himself off. “The light?” Parrot finished quietly. Theo’s head jerked up. His yellow eyes met Parrot’s in the dim room. “Don’t.” Theo uttered sharply. “I’m not making fun of you,” Parrot said, stepping in and carefully nudging the fallen books back with his boot. No smirk now. “I’m just… bad at this. The waiting part.” - Theo let out a shaky laugh that didn’t sound like laughing at all. “Join the club. I lost count at forty-seven.”

“Started over?”

“Three times.”

Parrot finally cracked a real, small smile. He picked up the book with the pressed Morning Glory and held it out. “You gonna put that back or…” He broke eye contact with the flower and looked up at Theo. Theo stared at it. The petals were brittle now. Faded. Just like the sunlight on his wings earlier. He took it. But instead of shoving it back, he just… held it. “…{{sub}} said {{sub}}’d be back before the sun set,” Theo whispered. “On Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday.”

Parrot sat down on the floor next to Theo. "...if it’s not Tuesday, then we’ll just keep counting until it is.” The words hung there. Soft. Too soft. Theo’s throat bobbed. He didn’t look at Parrot. Just stared at the Morning Glory until his vision blurred. The petals felt like paper-thin memories between his fingers. Five days. Or four. He couldn’t remember which hurt more. The clock kept ticking. Like it was counting for him and getting it wrong on purpose. “…You think {{sub}} remembered the grass?” Theo’s voice was barely there. A whisper that got lost in the moonlight. “The way the light hit?” Parrot didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was quiet. For a moment, nothing moved. Even the dust hanging in the moonlight seemed suspended in place, caught between one breath and the next. “I think {{sub}} remembered you.”

That did it.

Theo’s wings snapped shut with a sharp fwump and he shot to his feet. The chair screeched back. “Don’t do that!” he snapped, voice cracking in the middle. “Don’t say things like that like you KNOW! You weren’t— you don’t—” He cut himself off, breathing hard. The room was too small. The air smelled too much like rust and old ink and {{obj}}. Parrot stood too, slow. Hands up like Theo was a spooked animal. “Hey. I was just—” “Just WHAT?!” Theo whirled, and his wing knocked three books off the shelf. They hit the floor with dull thuds. “Counting? Waiting? Pretending this is normal??”

Silence.

Then Parrot sighed and kicked one of the fallen books. “Okay. Cool. Great pep talk, Theo. 10/10. Really productive.”

Theo blinked.

“What?”

“I said,” Parrot deadpanned, picking the book up and shoving it back on the shelf completely wrong — author Z next to author A, “this is a terrible organizational system. No wonder you’re losing your mind. Alphabetical? By height? Pick a struggle, warrior boy.”

“…That’s not—”

“And also,” Parrot continued, holding up the Morning Glory book, “this is NOT a bookmark. This is plant abuse. You’re gonna give the flower trauma.”

Theo stared at him. Then at the book. Then at Parrot’s infuriatingly calm face.

“…You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” Parrot said, way too pleased. “Now. Are we gonna sit here and mourn alphabetically, or are we gonna eat something before you pass out and I have to carry your marshmallow wings to bed?”

Theo opened his mouth. Closed it.

The melancholy was still there. Heavy in his chest, in the dust, in the dark. But Parrot was also there. Loud and annoying and here

He let out a shaky breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“…Fine. But I’m picking what we eat.”

Parrot grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

---

The kitchen smelled like old tea and metal. Same as the workshop. Theo hated that. Parrot was already raiding the cabinets, pulling out two bowls and what was probably their last pack of instant noodles. The kind with the weird flavor packet that stained your fingers orange. Theo sat at the table with his wings tucked in tight. Too tight. He was picking at the edge of the book. Again. “Still alive over there, marshmallow?” Parrot asked, not looking up as he filled the kettle.

“…Don’t call me that.”

“Marshmallow?”

“THEO.”

“Got it. Marshmallow.”

Theo threw a spoon at him. It clattered off Parrot’s shoulder and onto the floor. But Parrot? He just grinned. “See? Reaction time’s still good. Warrior instincts intact.” Then the kettle whistled. Loud. Sharp. It made Theo flinch. Hard. His chair scraped back an inch. And just like that, the air went cold again. Parrot noticed. Of course he noticed. He poured the water slower. “Hey.” Theo wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the steam curling up. It reminded him of breath on a cold morning. In a field. “…{{sub}} hated instant noodles,” Theo said suddenly. Voice flat. “Said they tasted like cardboard and regret.” Parrot set the bowls down. “Then we won’t make them.” - “We have nothing else.” - “Then we’ll eat cardboard and regret together.” Parrot slid a bowl toward him. “Come on. It’s tradition.” Theo didn’t touch it. His fingers were still on the book. “{{sub}} used to make soup,” he whispered. “When it rained. {{sub}}’d burn it every time but {{sub}}’d laugh and say it was ‘rustic.’”

The word rustic broke something in the room.

Parrot’s smirk faded. He sat down across from Theo, bowl untouched. “…I remember,” he said quietly. Theo finally looked up. His eyes were gold in the torchlight. Wet. “Do you think—”

The front door banged open.

Both of them JUMPED.

“HELLO??” A voice echoed from the hallway. Bright. Familiar. “IS ANYONE HOME OR DID YOU TWO BURN THE PLACE DOWN AGAIN??” Theo froze. Bowl. Book. Breath. Everything stopped. And Parrot’s eyebrows shot up.

“…That’s not—”

Theo was already on his feet. Wings half-spread, knocking the chair over. Heart hammering so loud he couldn’t hear the clock anymore.

Footsteps. Coming closer.

Theo opened his mouth. No sound came out.

Parrot, however, leaned back in his chair and yelled, “WE DID NOT BURN IT DOWN! MUCH!”

Theo whipped around. “PARROT—”

“WHAT?” Parrot whispered, grinning despite everything. “Emotional whiplash, baby. You wanted it.”

Footsteps stopped right outside the kitchen door.

A pause.

The doorknob turned.