Hawthorn had not been bluffing when he mentioned his rooms. His disregard for the suites were clearly understandable now that he saw the disparaging difference between his life and Hawthorn's. He did not just have rooms, he had more space to live in than a mess hall, with beautifully carved furniture, upholstered in real satin and plush cushions. He didn't have a bunk, instead a sprawling wide canopied bed, ordained with fresh flowers and vines. On his bed, fresh linens were laid out in a pale green that looked like a bed of moss with the way the craftsman had tailored the texture.

Not only that, but like the observation decks that sat at the upper levels of the ship, Hawthorn's quarters were even higher with a undisturbed view of the cosmos. The glass was mainframe windows and functioned much like a computer screen if one so desired, but in a snap of Hawthorn's fingers, he shuttered them with a landscape that made Hemlock's throat close like someone was pushing up against it.

Fields and fields of green lay before him, stretching endlessly into a blue horizon, with twin suns that loops slowly around each other, like two friends, swinging side by side. He'd only ever seen this type of landscape in old books, or fragments of clips that he'd managed to sneak glances of in the off-shift at the mess hall. His favorite was a 4 minute snippet of something originally called Planet Earth, in a place called the Ocean.

He must have been projecting because Hawthorn rushed to his side, taking hold of his waist, pressing his forehead to his as he blew through the emotions in deep breathes. "I'm sorry, should I change the view?"

He shook his head frantically. No. Please don't. It's beautiful.

For someone who'd lived his whole life either enclosed on the ship, only occasionally peering out into the endless void, or trapped in a 8 by 8 room with another person, seeing what Old Earth was like made him ache.

"I don't like when you're upset. Tell me what's wrong, so I can fix it." Hawthorn's persistence also ached in his bones because he did not deserve this. Not a single moment.

He couldn't be here.

This wasn't his place.

"I think it would be best if you spent your sync with someone who's… more like you." He'd only just barely whispered, but Hawthorn froze at his statement, the Force pulsing around him, as if tempted to strangle him and crush his entire body into a small compact disposable parcel.

It faded and Hawthorn stepped back from him, with only his fingertips holding Hemlock's elbows. "That would be a very dull life." Fatigue passed through Hawthorn's shoulders and he let go of Hemlock's arms. The absence left a memory in his skin, lighting up the mangled nerves of his burned side. Strange.

"How can you say that? When you have all this?" Hemlock swept his arm across the span of the room, which strained his arm a little. He used the wrong one in his haste.

Hawthorn looked at him with a level gaze, but said nothing, the weakened sloping of his shoulders saying more than any words could. Even the greatest have their weaknesses, he supposed guilt riding up his gullet.

"You could have anything, anyone, yet you pick the lowliest creature of them all." Hemlock muttered, relishing in the way self-deprecation washed a layer of armor around him. No one was better at insulting him than he was after all.

Hawthorn whipped around and the Force crackled around them, "Do Not Do That."

"Do what?" He swallowed hard as the vibrations snapped in small sparks around the room.

Hawthorn threw out his hand, bursting it open at him, "That thing!"

He frowned, despite having tried to train his muscles not to do so over the last few years, to look nicer, more approachable to people. Too no such luck as it seemed. Hawthorn glowered at him, pointing a finger in his face. "THAT."

Hemlock raised both his eyebrows, "I don't understand."

"When you take yourself and crumple yourself into something smaller. Something less you. It's infuriating." He hadn't noticed before, but there was a redness forming under each of Hawthorn's red eyes.

He was glad the exit was close by just in case something drastic happened. "Why?"

Hawthorn folded in on himself, collapsing into a chair that he summoned to him. "Why?... Why??" His tone should have been offensive, but Hemlock was used to that.

Hawthorn placed two fingers at his temple and shut his eyes. "You're so Loud. Like you're yelling in your head. Screaming for someone to tell you otherwise."

Hemlock didn't know how to answer. How could he. That wasn't anywhere close to the truth. Denying it would only worsen it. He only told himself the truth. The reality. This had to be a dream.

A glass shattered and Hemlock jerked away, hand flying to the door. Hawthorn slowly opened his eyes, "Hemlock. This is not a dream. I'm not a dream. And you are not something to be broken down into pieces and disposed of. You're so much more than that." There was something else on Hawthorn's tongue, but he did not press further. Hemlock flattened against the door. Why was Hawthorn doing this to him? What did he know? He doesn't even know him.

"I know you." Hawthorn's voice sliced through his thoughts deftly, deflecting his offense.

He resisted, shaking his head, "I'm just the guy who scrubs your flight deck clean. You don't know anything about me."

Hawthorn rose to his feet again, stalking towards him. "I know you find me attractive. You practically screamed it in the hallway. If I hadn't closed off Blackthorn's mind, he would have ripped yours to shreds for thinking that."

Hemlock shuddered at the thought of being destroyed from the inside, to match his exterior. Hawthorn's hand suddenly shot out and pressed against his temple and forehead. "If words cannot convince you, perhaps my perspective can."

He hurtled through a warping tunnel, catching glimpses of his face, familiar yet unfamiliar. There were other memories, far more than there should be, but they disappeared to fast for him to reflect. The tunnel ended with them back on the flight deck, except this time, he was looking at himself through Hawthorn's eyes.

Hawthorn's gaze lingered around the shape of his body, around his waist, towards the leaning stance where he favored his left. Then up to his face again, which was different than how he saw it in the mirror. His scars were like coiling patterns of vines, under his skin, as if the earth had become a part of his peat colored skin. The eyes traced over the sloping angle of his eyes and the thick brows of his untended brows. The feelings were as though he was admiring a painting or a marvelous piece of clever engineering. Mostly there was intrigue.

The tunnel hurtled him back out into the present reality and he gasped for breath, having forgotten how to do so in the vision. "Why?" He didn't have enough mental capacity to say much more. Too many things were passing through his mind. Too many questions.

"Because you are nothing like me." was the gentle answer, followed by a warm hand against his cheek. "Because where I would have decayed and rotted, you have grown sturdier and more resilient."

"Sturdier and more resilient compared to when?" He wondered outloud. Hawthorns eyes twinged but he didn't say much more. Hemlock couldn't remember a time when he wasn't a janitor, or some low pool scrounge. Though he had seen something in that tunnel that tugged at something unknown inside him. An image of himself, black eyed, no scars, peering out through what could only be the viewport of a ship. Perhaps Hawthorn had seen one of his daydreams. He had plenty of those.

It must be.