"But does he love you?"
"But does he love you?"
They always ask him at some point, and Eli N. Vanto can't say that this means he is prepared for it.
"Yes," he'll say, eyes locked with whoever dared to ask him that question. It's always the same eyes in different people; sad, haunted eyes that are so ready to assume the worst.
"You can talk to me," they'll reply, like they're letting him in on some secret suffering he surely must be a part of.
Eli has to stop himself from biting his lip. He can already taste the blood. Thrawn will notice later, and he will react with the heartbreaking helplessness Eli never wanted to see again.
"It's fine," he'll say. "They don't know you."
And sometimes Eli thinks that not even he knows Thrawn. The Chiss will look at him for a few more seconds, his brilliant mind trying to figure out what the people said, what upset Eli. But this is something Eli can't bring himself to tell. Not that he wants to lie.
He hates being dishonest. But it's easier to pretend like it doesn't get to him. Keep Thrawn out of it. He doesn't deserve it.
Thrawn loves Eli. It's something he knows, yet something he has to remind himself of over and over again.
Thrawn loves him.
Thrawn loves him the way he loves art and history and languages.
And even if he weren't capable of it - would that be so bad?
"But does he love you?"
One day, Eli N. Vanto will look at all of those people and ask, "Does it matter? He chose me. It's not about what he can give me."
Maybe that's why Thrawn stays. Because Eli doesn't ask anything of him. Because Eli doesn't blame him for making him fall in love. Because, for once, Thrawn can exist and talk and live alongside someone who isn't overly concerned with what he can do.
So, "Why cares? I love him."
It's what he tells Thrawn too, "I love you."
And Thrawn smiles at him and replies, "I know, Vanto."