Silverwing Quartz
Addam thinks of Minoth with a great trepidation - and this too, in itself, causes him reluctance.
There's certainly a decent share of fear in it. What he can be, for Minoth, is more than just a partner. Much more: he can be the chosen Driver for the only Blade who has ever chosen a Driver, and that's something, isn't it? Not even the Aegis has done that.
That's something far above Addam's accidental-by-definition station.
But more than that...
What he feels surely isn't love. Right? Or if it's love, rather, it isn't romantic.
Addam has never really regarded himself as a romantic type of guy. He is loving, certainly, and giving and esteeming and wanting to be around people as much as they'll allow, when he likes their company, which is very often, because Addam certainly knows that he's a gregarious sort, but the most general automatic definition, the one that typifies "finding love" for men of twenty years old and upwards, is...
Well, it's very serious, isn't it?
And Addam feels that he isn't up to serious. Not in the way that might be required.
He's a jokester, isn't he? And he shouldn't go around professing to feeling that really might not be any more serious than a joke. That wouldn't be right.
No, that wouldn't be right, Addam thinks to himself, not for the man I care more about than anyone else in the world.
Of course, if Minoth heard this he'd be tearing his hair out. And that would make Addam quite upset. In a manner of logistics and frugality, of course. Quite a waste to tear out all your hair - since I know it means so much to you and since I have such a deep feeling about what it is, to you, to have tender over your own choice of appearance.
It'd be funny if it weren't so fucking sad.
And Minoth doesn't know, so he can't do anything about it.
"So...you'll be my Driver, won't you?"
Minoth slides his eyes carefully over the facets of Addam's face, ready to watch him consider this and feint back and cower in on himself just as much would be obvious from the way he constantly fritters himself to feebleness about Mythra. It's pathetic, honestly.
Addam says, "Right! I suppose that's how the math works. Lucky me, then!"
That there is a pretty pathetic thing to say on its own. There he is, slapping at his thighs like it's a get-on-with-it and not a big, weighty proposal that everyone knew was coming but still sounds like an atom bomb.
Does he know? Minoth has to wonder. Maybe he thinks it doesn't mean anything, because Minoth has mostly gone out of his way to make sure it doesn't seem like it means anything. And that could be...fine. Right? Just gets it done with.
But Minoth is only marginally adjacent to being satisfied with that outcome. Minoth is shocked that Addam is satisfied with that outcome. He's not as insistent as Lora, usually, but he fusses up, when there's a problem laid in his lap.
"Okay," says Minoth, slowly. "Yeah. Lucky us."
Addam makes an interested noise at that, but says nothing more. The rest of his face seems to darken as if the lights have been neatly lowered.
What's that all about?
There it is. There's their trust. There's the brunt of shared memory, not in shapes so much as colors, blistering over the line to Addam, who hasn't been laughing near as much as usual on a strange sort of blatant purpose. He hasn't lost his capacity for humor, but rather seems to be intentionally stuffing it.
So this bundle of emotion coming hurtling towards him shouldn't really knock him off balance, should it? He seems to be firing on all cylinders, all mental faculties in place.
The Griffox takes another swipe, and instead of neatly dodging with Minoth's own fastidiousness to hand (or foot, as it were), Addam takes a nasty hit. The echo back to Minoth filters back to him then again, faintly, and the reaction tells Minoth they need to shut this down, and fast.
It wouldn't be as big of a deal if they didn't have to pull Mythra with them, but even Minoth knows that her temptation to overcompensate could do some very irreversible things to that collection of cliffs that even Malos hasn't done already.
"What are you doing?" hisses Minoth, grip tight around Addam's bicep. "I thought you knew how to work with Blades, all this 'one year on' crap."
It's not crap, except that apparently it is. Addam's expression looks much hollower than Mythra's, at the moment. Usually this is about where she'd stamp a foot, and tune it out, but now she's invested.
This isn't about her, though.
Addam shakes his head as if to clear it. "I...I'm sorry. I wasn't taking this seriously enough."
"I think you're taking it a little too seriously," Minoth snaps. "The problem was supposed to be me trusting you, not the other way around."
Addam blinks. "Well of course I trust you! There's no one else I trust more in this world!"
"You mind explaining why I don't feel like it, then?"
There have been worse feelings. There's certainly been a more all-encompassing distrust. But to have had such a wretchedly wrong read on the situation is...disturbing, to say the least.
He's always felt that there's something there, with Addam. Something it's his responsibility not to squander, though he'd do well to take his time with it.
In his despondence, Addam clutches for Minoth's hand. And the way he holds it...
Honestly, Minoth's annoyed.
"You're hanging onto me like you wanna screw me silly, and then again not very silly at all, but we stand you up straight and you're hopeless."
(Mythra has stopped listening.)
"Words, Prince?"
Addam grins. "Heaven forbid, not straight. I'll never get the hang of looking at you the way you want to be seen."