( his arms hesitate, the useless tree branches that they are, and he'd be ashamed to admit it. rhys is not the kind of man who's ever had the luxury of turning down a hug, and a lack of experience suddenly makes him feel wholly out of his depth with the affection. how can one touch put the pieces of newt back together again? he wants to, desperately. to fix the mess and put glue on the shards of newt's psyche, make him feel whole and happy again. how can he make all this better?

he can't. maybe the only person who could is the man in his arms now, he who seems so much smaller than he ever has. breakable, like frost collected in the dips and valleys of leaves. strangely undelicate, though, for all rhys has known he's been through. that he can stand on his own two feet, stand to wrap his arms around a man who almost killed him, speaks multitudes to strength. it's that strength that rhys embraces, one hand cupping the back of newt's skull to keep him cradled under rhys' chin — two oversized bat wings sprout quietly from his back, and quickly cocoon newt in either direction. a little reprieve, if he can't stand the thought of anyone else seeing him. )

Is my memory off? You have nothing to make up to me. I'm the one who pummeled you. And I'm the one who pushed that stupid promise onto you. If anything, I owe you for all my ... well. For being as I am.

( vile and violent. he gives newt a squeeze, pressing his cheek down to the top of his head. )

It means protection, now. These marks that join us. I swear by the stars, I will do right by you. I will see it through to the very end.