He hadn't been able to relax at all when he'd first come to Balamb. There had been weeks where he'd go without sleeping until he collapsed and slept for two days at a time. Trabia, had been a little easier once he'd gotten used to Namur again, and the breathing of his nakama had comforted him a little. Here, though, it was hard not to be soothed by Marco's whistles. His birdie pettings and nuzzles and the soft blue fire that tingled but didn't burn. Even the small bed was tolerable.

He rubbed Marco's back, scratched at all his favorite places. Under the wing, under the chin, right at his jawline. He'd missed this and he hadn't even realized it. It was like coming home in a small way.

"Aye, you can guard my dreams, sweetheart," he said, stroking Marco's neck. "You know, Vista told me once that the best way to fight bad dreams is to think of something pleasant before sleeping."

Of course, being Vista, he'd suggested the Ballad of Erom, which was about five hundred pages too long and full of prose so purple, Thatch was afraid he'd dream about being a grape just from reading the first few lines. Not to mention 'Quivering Lances'.

But something pleasant... Something pleasant...

Oh...

"Remember that time on Swanboat Island when Pops came back with both ends of his mustache gone and no one would tell you why?"