The Rise Of CuteGuy

Customer Service

Hels' POV

Three months. That’s how long Xavier had been in the hospital before they finally deemed him healthy enough to leave. Healthy being a relative term—he was still far too skinny, his hair hadn’t fully recovered, and he still flinched at sudden movements or loud noises. But at the very least, he was no longer at risk of collapsing just from standing. That was something.

Even with his release, there were still plenty of challenges. He didn’t know any earthly language, which made communication difficult outside of me, my brother, and Xisuma. We had learned to read his expressions, his body language, and the occasional gestures he would make to indicate what he needed, but it wasn’t perfect. Sometimes, he would lapse into whatever language he did know, speaking softly, his voice hesitant, only for frustration to flicker across his face when we didn’t understand.

When the doctors handed over his discharge papers, I half expected them to change their minds last second. Maybe to tell us he needed more time, more tests—something. But instead, they simply signed him over into my and Wels' custody, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

I didn’t miss the way Xavier clutched my hoodie in one hand, the same one he had been clinging to since the first night in the hospital. It was worn now, stretched and slightly frayed at the edges, but he refused to let it go. I didn’t have the heart to take it from him.

As we stepped out of the hospital for the first time, he hesitated just outside the door, his antennas twitching slightly. He tilted his head up toward the sky, red eyes narrowing at the brightness of the sun before he instinctively moved closer to me, as if seeking some kind of grounding.

I gently placed a hand on his back, careful not to startle him. “You good?”

He didn’t respond with words, just a slow blink and a barely perceptible nod.

Wels came up beside us, holding onto the bag of extra medical supplies they had given us. “Let’s get him home.”

Home. I wasn’t sure what that even meant for him anymore. But I did know one thing—he wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Once we got him home, everything changed.

The moment we started speaking in the language he did know, it was like a weight had been lifted from him. His shoulders relaxed, his expression softened, and for the first time in months, his words flowed freely. No more frustration at trying to make himself understood, no more hesitant gestures or defeated silence—he could speak.

He still struggled with his voice, though. After so long in the hospital, malnourished and weak, his words came out hoarse and strained at first. But that didn’t stop him. He talked—really talked—asking questions, telling us things we couldn’t fully understand but listened to anyway. He gestured to objects, trying to connect words to them, his antennas twitching rapidly as he took in everything around him.

His wings were still patchy, feathers growing back slowly but unevenly. Sometimes, when he thought we weren’t looking, he would run his fingers over the missing patches with a deep frown, his expression unreadable. We never brought it up, just made sure he had soft places to rest, that he wasn’t straining himself too much.

Adjusting to this world was slow. The sun was too bright for him at first—he often kept the blinds half-closed and flinched at the midday glare. Loud noises startled him, and unfamiliar technology confused him. But he was trying. He watched everything with sharp, curious eyes, antennas constantly flicking, absorbing as much as he could.

One night, as Wels was cooking, Xavier sat at the table, watching intently. He finally spoke, his voice quiet but clear.

"How... how do I help?"