be grateful

"He's what?" Elliott exclaimed, standing up from his seat on the sofa. He shook his head, hoping he heard wrong. 

Tony tilts his head, observing the boys reaction. The look on his face said it wasn't a big deal, and it made Elliott's anger spark up slightly. 

His eyebrows furrowed, and his expression turned sour-er than it already was. He did not want that lunatic here, on the very planet he wreaked havoc on weeks prior. Who was to say he wouldn't do it again? 

"It's only temporary," Tony reassures. "I don't particularly want him here either, but it'll be fun to boss him around." Tony looks at something behind Elliott and smirks, thinking of some scenario. 

"He had a choice of spending his time in the dungeons, or staying here." Tony shrugged. "He chose to stay on earth, and I don't mind too much as long as Thor keeps him in check."

Elliott's head tilted curiously. Now that would aid the bitterness he felt about Loki's visit. 

"Oh yeah- Thor will be staying with us on a more permanent matter, too. I know you guys are buddy-buddy," Tony says, taking a sip of his drink. Surprisingly, it wasn't an alcoholic one- or if it was, there was such a small amount Elliott's nose couldn't pick it up. 

Thor and Elliott were kind of buddy-buddy. They got along amazingly on the boat thing, and on previous encounters, they talked like old friends. On his short, spontaneous stays on earth, he would invite Elliott to have drinks at his apartment. He'd like to think they were good friends, but they weren't near one another enough to really let Elliott figure it out. Whatever it was, it was at the least, a pleasant friendship. 

"I've asked him to reside here for the duration of Loki's stay, so just in case the brat decides to go bananza, we have his brother as a backup. You feel me?" Tony asks, cocking a brow. 

But, Loki would still be a rude little bastard no matter what. "He told me I belong in a fetish zoo, Tony." Elliott reminds him, crossing his arms and sitting back down on the couch with an audible huff.

Elliott furrowed his brows, feeling slightly flustered at his childish pouting- but not enough to bite back his hatred for the man. 

"He magicked a dog whistle!" Elliott exclaims, snarling. He would not live down that humiliation any time soon. His face was scrunched with anger, all his features rigid and tense. He resented that stupid god with all his might. He wished he could beat him into the ground and ruin his perfect face. 

"Speaking of," Tony grinned at that image in his head. "Your earpieces are done. I'll bring them to you later." He claps his hands together once and stands. It was obvious that there was nothing Elliott could do about it, Tony's mind was already made up. 

After the foolish incident with the dog whistle, Tony realised that a specialized earpiece would do Elliott good. It would cut off the noise if it was above a certain frequency, like an electric pair of earmuffs for shooting guns at shooting ranges. 

"My tail still hurts," Elliott grumbles, scrunching up his nose, and looking off to the side. He clenches his teeth, remembering the shooting agony that had trailed up his spine. His stomp and twist maneuver hurt immensely. The fur on the part of the tail he stepped on was all bent and ragged the next day. 

Elliott sighs in defeat, thinking up different scenarios of what might happen between the two. He definitely was not going to be friendly towards him, he tried to float there, but Loki put a hole in that boat. What was with that man and thinking he deserved more respect than Elliott had already given him? 

"Where's he staying?" Elliott asks, getting a tad more professional than his previous, childish whining. He needed to know where his quarters were, so he could stay as far away as possible from them. He was intent on making sure their interactions were slim. 

"With Thor," Tony responds, humming thoughtfully. "Thor's moving to your floor, by the way." He adds, raising his eyebrows, and taking a sip of his drink. 

That complicated things a bit. Elliott had wanted to continue those drink nights every now and then. Loki would disrupt the blissful visits. And on the same floor, too? What happened to the one Thor was staying in? Well... to be fair, the apartment was quite small for two grown adults, and Elliott didn't see any guest bedrooms on his visits. 

Maybe he could just block Loki out? That wasn't ideal when it came to drinks and relaxing and having fun with a friend, but he would make do, he supposed. 

Tony lowers the glass from his lips and stretches his back slightly with a small groan. "Have you eaten today?" He asks, shifting his weight onto one foot. 

The younger boy's tail flicked slightly, and his ears flattened. He looked up with a sheepish expression and met Tony's somewhat disappointed one. He thought about it, but he just didn't feel hungry. 

"Do I need to start setting reminders on your phone? I can get Jarvis to monitor you so you eat." Tony says, looking down. 

Elliott didn't like that tone. Tony was going dad mode on him, and he was less than fond of it. Of course, the efforts were greatly appreciated, but he didn't need to be babied. 

"No, no. I'll eat, alright? Give me a break." Elliott groans, rubbing his face with one hand. He adjusted his position, intent on staying here for a while longer. He rested one hand on his thigh, and the other on the armrest of the couch. He leaned his head back, letting it rest on the back of the couch. 

Eating was exhausting for him. He didn't know why, it was just a boring task. He knows that isn't a good reason to not eat, but he didn't care. He didn't feel like eating. His stomach would tell him when he needed to eat, and that was enough for him. He drank plenty of water.

"I know that look. Cmon. Up." Tony sighed, grabbing Elliott's wrist, and gently pulling him up. 

His touch wasn't harsh, letting Elliott know he could refuse if he really wanted to. That's what he liked about Tony. He cares a ton, but won't force something unless absolutely necessary. Elliott liked that kind of person. 

He accepted Tony's help, and got up, grabbing his phone on the way. He stretched a little too, shaking his head slightly. He really wasn't hungry, but he knew it would make Tony happy. 

Tony indeed smiled brightly, pulling Elliott into a side hug. "Yeah. I could care less if you eat, to be honest." Tony says afterward, rubbing his nose with his hand and looking to the side. It was obvious he was joking, and it made Elliott smile. 

"But, y'know, seeing as you're already up, might as well treat you." He shrugs and starts to pull Elliott along. 

The younger man laughs, tail wagging at the tip. He was thankful he cared about him to that extent.

"It's dinner time, my dude," Tony says in a weird accent, causing Elliott to laugh hard enough that he had to stop for a second to catch his breath. The accent was stupid sounding, like a boy going through puberty. High pitched and squeaky. 

Elliott couldn't see it, but Tony held a warm smile. He was happy he could get Elliott to laugh like this. 

Tony ended up getting some tortellini. Whether he cooked it himself or not, Elliott had no clue. They ate in the lounge, talking about stupid things and having a good time. 

Afterwards, though, Elliott found himself walking back to his apartment alone. Not that he cared much, he was alone a lot of the time. It was dark outside now, and he stopped to peer out the windows a few times to admire the serenity of the sky. 

The sky in question was clearer than normal, showing her beauty to the people of New York. The city lights took away from her pretty scene, but he didn't mind too much. She still shined her stars with pride, as if they were trophies. Elliott picked a spot to stand at and just watched the calm, slow-moving clouds that remained. His gaze occasionally flicked down to the people on the streets, and he wondered what they were doing. 

Maybe some were taking small nightly strolls. Maybe some were homeless. Maybe some had night shifts– or maybe some were gazing up at the starry night in wonder like he was. 

Maybe, just maybe, out there somewhere, there was another person like him. Another person with ears like his, with a tail like his, with his hearing- or his smelling abilities. Maybe someone somewhere had gone through his pain, maybe he could find them. Maybe they could talk, and get each other, like many others failed to do. 

Maybe he wasn't alone. Not that he minded, though. He often found himself alone. 

Alone at his work, or alone in his home. Alone in his bed, or the lounge, even. The large room was made for the residents here, but upon his arrival it turns quiet and empty while he reads his book. 

When he is craving to see another's face- he is often alone. When he is craving touch, he is alone.  When he is craving just a sliver of recognition, of praise, even, he is left alone. 

Because he refuses it. He turns his back to those faces. He turns his head from the loving hands. He refuses the praise and recognition. He is his own problem, and he knows naught about how to fix it. 

He is his own downfall, and he doesn't know why he punishes himself for it. Does he deserve this? Is he not worthy of self-love? 

He hates himself. He hates that he cannot love himself like Tony claims to. He wishes he could see over his flaws, he has pleaded with himself to accept that he is not perfect, but he is a trained dog. He is trained to accept nothing but perfection. 

"Perfection, elliott."  he hears, and suddenly he is back. Back to the lab where he was created, the place he dreads the most. 

He glances up at the all too familiar fluorescent lights, heart starting to hammer in his chest. He looks around for the voice, finding nothing. 

"I will accept nothing other than perfection." It repeats, tauntingly smooth. It echoes through the hospital like Hall, bouncing off the walls and reaching Elliott's ears multiple times before dissipating. He can feel his body slowly start to ache, the feeling of the pain clawing its way out of the back of his brain where he had previously stuffed it. 

His ribs feel broken- which in this state, they probably are. He looks down at his hands and gasps. It has been many moons since he had remembered the fragile state he was in, in this hellish place. His arms, littered with cuts and bruises, are bony. He brings his hand down to feel his chest and torso, letting out a moan of pain at the agony that follows. 

it wasn't just his ribs that ached, but his ring finger, too. Was it broken? He decided to press the palm of his hand to his torso, avoiding putting pressure on that finger. Were his skin to shrink anymore, it would tear from the lack of muscle on him. His bones stuck out, and he bet he looked pale and slim in the face. 

It hurt to breathe. With each breath, his lungs expand, and taunt him with the pain of broken ribs. Shall he stop breathing, the pain will stop, and so shall his heart. Shall he continue to take air into his lungs, he shall feel pain with each torturous rise and fall. 

"Again. Sit." the voice echoes, and before Elliott can react, he is already sitting obediently on the floor. Fear flashes over his face as he is back in this mindset. 

"Good. Down." Again, before he can even think of the words, he is on his stomach, eyes low and ears flattened. 

"Roll." Elliott is now laid on his back in a matter of milliseconds, face unchanging from his fearful stare. A kick to his side makes him cry out in pain, a loud crack resonating through the room.

Elliott snaps out of his dream-like state, eyes wide and heart slamming against his ribs- pleading to be let out. His breaths are quick, and his knees wobbly. Sit, sit. He needs to sit. 

He plops to the floor, pressing his back against the cool glass. His breaths are now wheezes, the short intakes of air too little for his brain to function properly. He starts to get dizzy, and his limbs get heavy. 

"Breathe-" he wheezes out, trying to remind himself. He tries to take in the air, but his panicked state is too discombobulated to realize he needs it. He can still hear the sickening crack, and he can feel it too. 

He can feel all the cuts on his skin, and all the tender bruises he had poked at. He brings a hand to his ribs, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He can feel his muscles. He has to press down to feel his ribs, unlike- whatever that was. His ring finger has a dull ache, but his chest no longer hurts with each rapid intake of oxygen. 

He can feel tears forming, but he forces them back. He wouldn't like that. 

'He? He is not here anymore, you dumb dog!' Elliott yells at himself, but the words do not make the surface. He cannot move his lips, and his throat is too constricted to be able to talk, let alone yell. 

Bile rose in his throat. He was doing so well, he was doing so well. What had he done to deserve this? Was this because he hadn't eaten all day? Was it because he had eaten today? 

Every time Elliott thinks it's going better, that man plagues him, he reminds him what he was made for, and why. He swallowed down the disgusting taste in his throat, all the while still hyperventilating. 

His vision was narrowing now, turning black at the edges for lack of air. His mind races, trying to not pass out on the floor. He brings the trembling hand on his chest up to the pulse in his neck, feeling the rapid heartbeat. 

"Alive," He manages to whisper. Yes, he is alive. He is a living, breathing human being. He is alive, and he is away from that place. 

He closes his eyes, and puts his other hand on his chest, focusing on the rampant rise and fall, and his quick pulse. It takes a couple of seconds, but it starts to ground him. 

He feels his pulse slow, even if it's not much. It's progress nonetheless. His gasps for air are reduced to shaky, uneven breaths, but alas, it is still progress.

He waits until his mind isn't moving as fast, and his heart rate is normal again to really think about what he just envisioned. Elliott is thankful that this floor holds no residents, because he let's out a soft sob. It's a fairly quiet sound, merely a hiccup, but he loathes how weak he sounds.

He despises that he wishes for comfort like a child. He wanted a meaningful touch, not a handshake or a hug as if exchanging pleasantries, he wanted something real; he wanted to feel cared for.

He scoffed at himself through his slowing tears. He doesn't need affection. He is a grown man. It would be nice, though, to feel a gentle touch like that. 

Then, he laughs. It would be a pleasant sound for anyone not knowing the context. It makes his shoulders shake, and his head tilt back. He presses his knees to his chest, crossing his arms and laying them atop his legs. He continues to let out small chortles, mainly laughing at himself. A mess, he is. 

His eyes hurt, and are no doubt puffy and red. His ears, drooped to the side of his head in a sorrowful way, twitch at the sound from his phone. It vibrates in his pocket, and after a few more seconds of staring at the wall, he tugs it out. 

He's somewhat surprised that it hadn't cracked when he had practically thrown himself on the floor, but he was thankful nonetheless. He pressed his finger to the censor, unlocking his phone. Tony had sent him a picture. 

Head tilting curiously, Elliott sniffled and rubbed his nose. He then rubbed his irritated eyes, letting out a groan. He hated crying. Sure, it was good for you, but the aftermath was less than ideal.

It wasn't ideal for people to be asking if you're okay, nor were eyes rubbed raw. God, do not get Elliott started on runny noses. All in all, the cons outweighed the pros, so he stayed away from it the best he could. 

Trying to distract himself from his bothersome inner dialogue, Elliott clicked on the notification from Tony. He stifled a loud laugh when he sees the picture, instead substituting it for a low chuckle. 

The picture was a low quality, blocky Sims 3 seagull. Jarvis had no doubt informed Tony what was going on, and Tony sent the dumb picture in hopes to cheer him up. He was grateful for the thought, and foolishly hoped he would come down and comfort him. 

Elliott had been told many times he struck people as a hug hater, but it was quite the opposite. Of course, he never told anyone out of fear of being made fun of. Strangers were a no-go, and he was iffy about acquaintances; but if you were a good friend, hell, even just a friend? Bring it in. 

But then again– he also wanted to keep up the dominant facade he displayed. His mood fluctuated. Sometimes he felt strongly one way and sometimes he was the opposite. Then– every now and then– he felt both. Was that a bad thing? 

He liked it when people would admire his physique- and he definitely liked it when people saw him as brave and strong and intimidating. People saw him as one thing, when sometimes he was feeling the other. He had a role, and he didn't necessarily like breaking character- but sometimes he liked being soft. 

He liked being comforted, and he liked praise. He liked the way tony looked at him with a fatherly type love, and he liked the way Thor looked at him with a brotherly sort of look. He liked the brief moments of genuine, heartfelt comfort from those two specifically. They had cared so much- helping tend to his wounds and not asking about the scars he already carried. 

He liked having rough edges, and he liked having smooth ones, too. 

Elliott powered off his phone with his thumb, and set it down on his chest. From this position, it wouldn't slide off. His posture was slumped, and he sighed as he brought his hands up to rub his face. 

"Oh norns." Elliott whispered, the small feeling of happiness from the funny picture being smashed down by his own feelings. Oh how he wished he could tear himself apart for it. 

"Why me?" He asked, closing his eyes. The goddesses of fate had bestowed this Rocky road to him, for what? For their pleasure, or for him to grow stronger? He certainly didn't feel stronger. He knew it took time to heal wounds- especially gaping wounds that stretched across his back, but he didn't feel like scar tissue was even developing. Should he trust their judgement? 

"Why me," He repeated softer, not expecting an answer. He slowly stood, his mood resolving into a droopy, saddened mess. What was with him today? 

He didn't want to spend another hour sitting on the grimy floor, so he started to make his way to his apartment- if you could even call it that. Tony wouldn't take his money when he tried to pay rent, and even gave him money for things that were adequate for living. 

Putting his phone in his back pocket, he trudged back to his room, occasionally sniffling and rubbing his face.