#and I got one almost done

[ifyougochasingrabbits]

TW: Drug mention, alcohol, brief violence. Feat. Meloran Dowell

White slowly slipped between the currents of folks that filled the desert city, going to and from parties like she had before she came to a stop on the upper level of the Gold Court, several fulms away from sparrow. Her dress he sewed, she held its floor-length skirt bunch up in her hand while the other's hooked finger her heels she had taken off at some point during the party. She was drunk. The rich booze mixed with her sweets-eaten breath, easily smelled by her cheerfully greeting as she practically bounced over, "Hello! Hello~" She let go of her skirt, dropping an elbow down onto the railing where she propped her head up in her palm, giving him a grin. "I thought. I'd find you. Here. And I did! Have." The last of her words tumbled out between a giggle.

Meloran had been watching the festivities below. Rather, what remained of the sordid crowd that lingered well past the respectable bedtimes of working folk. He was perched upon the railing, chin in hand. Dour as always, this time of year. Practically scowling at the familiar voice that accosted his ears.

Dead, golden eyes slide their way lazily in her direction, a little more lost than usual. High, most likely. Much more, more often. His first thought was that she looked pretty, his second demeaned him for it. Of course she looked good, she was wearing the dress he'd made her. And, after another full glance of her figure, he'd already spotted areas he was keen to get at with a needle. Ways to make her look even lovelier. He eyed the shoes in her hand, sniffled idly, and knew at once that she was drunk. Another party. No doubt. He hated her then, abrupt and without warning. The bounce, the cheer; he was so tempted to simply trip her and watch her fall flat on her pretty little face--- giggles and all. "Yeah? Came looking for me after you've had your fun, did you?"

White was always pretty. But now she was a different kind. Something more sophisticated that’d trick anyone who didn’t know her into thinking she was by look alone, until she opened her mouth. The hair helped. It twisted in on itself all fancy-like, freeing the back of her neck and that slope of her shoulder for all to see. Lucky him. She silently watched him for a moment, just a little one. It might have been the lag from the booze. Or maybe she just wanted to stare at him a bit longer. “It’s. Not hard to spot you. Spar-row~” she played with his nickname between her grin, giving her head a little wiggle at each syllable. “You should. Be at a party. Headin’ back from. One.”

Meloran rolled his eyes at the nickname, uncertain if he was willing to put up with her shenanigans tonight. Alas, the fact that she'd been drinking and was likely headed home gave him pause. "Don't really feel like partying," he mutters coolly, frowning. "'Sides I'm better company by myself some days." He looks at her again, then back down to the court. "S'dumb of you to be walking around shitfaced as you are. Lookin' like y've got money."

White spoke up, "I do!" Wrong. "Did. Have. Money." Her mind circled back around at his first comment. "You keep. Sayin' that." Pushing off the railing she stood, swaying half a step back then forward again. "You. Walk around. With powder. In your nose." She reminded him, giving him a curious look at said nose before her eyes lifted to his. "Is that. Better? Smarter. Or worse?"

Meloran opened his mouth to speak, but paused. He actually considered her counterpoint for a moment. His brows knit, eyes casting off to the side with an open mouth. ". ..I can still fight a motherfucker if'n someone tries to start something, " he says, pointing to himself. Then, to her, "You, on the other hand. I could push you right over and take your shit." Wait, what? Do, did, have?

White swung her arms out to either side. "What— oh what. Would that be? Sparrow. My shoes? Are. You goin' to. Take my dress? Off." That was a thought, one that slowly pulled her lips into a smirk. Her arms dropped to her sides, her head giving a little tilt to one side. "I. Need a drink." Water, she meant water. Her mouth was dry, her throat was too. There was so much cheering at the party. She spun! And started heading off, boldly assuming he'd follow.

And follow her he did. "I wouldn't," he mutters sullenly, scoffing at the suggestion. Who knows, though. In his mind, there were loads of folks that would do far more ill than he'd anticipated. He found little use in trying to explain that to her. If anything, it'd be tossed back into his face now, wouldn't it? "What did you mean you 'did' have money?"

White let out a short chuckle, holding her tongue. She wasn't that drunk. "I mean. What I said. I did." Would it be easier to tell him she spent almost every single coin on a house? Yes. It would. But why do that when she could show him? Her wobbly pace showed the hidden commitment as she headed in the direction of it, away from her apartment. "It. Was a big party. A huge one. It was. Like there were. Three. Shoved into one." she started rambling on their way there.

It really hadn't occurred to him they were going the wrong way until he noted the lack of the usual landmarks on the way to White's apartment. He was also only half listening to her describe the party, and the rest of her idle chattering. To make any indication at all that he was listening was more or less a grunt in response, or perhaps one or two disinterested words. Were he in a better mood, perhaps he'd have listened a little harder, taken a keener interest in such a grand party. Maybe if this time of year or him wasn't such a downer, he could partake some Heavensturn. Really go wild with it. His face knitted, confused, as they began to grow closer and closer to their destination, his ears turning to her chattering now for any indication in regards to where they were.

White walked her drunken arse up to a pair of doors, grabbing one of the handles. "—and then. I told her. She could wash out. Her eyes. In the punch. She'd be able to. See better!" Fiddling on the inside of her sleeve she pulled out a key aimed for the lock. "She. Wasn't too happy. About. It." It took her a few times to get it in, no wonder men struggled, but she did it! And gave it a turn, letting her in first. She spun around, walking backward to see his face. She had to, the thought of missing whatever look he'd make almost hurt. Almost.

Meloran followed her in with nary a word said in regards to whether he could or not. He was simply lead by curiosity, wondering why the hells she was entering a house of all places. Ran looked at her, mouth agape, questioning. The way his brows knitted always had him looking angry, however. In the end, he stared at her with disbelief, confusion plainly writ on his face. He waited for a while, before gesturing to. .. everything. ". ..You gonna explain?"

White looked around, her entire body swaying each way. She could hardly believe it herself. Everything here was hers. Every wall, tile, floorboard— even the dust was hers.

Only hers.

She brought her attention back around to Ran, half smiling. "I bought it. I saved. And. I bought it." A short snirky chuckle shook her. "I bet. You didn't think. I could do. That." To the stairs she up, right on up to the kitchen. She did say she needed a drink.

Meloran made a noise in the back of his throat, half impressed and half horrified. "That's what you meant when you 'did' have money?" He questions, knowing full well it was a dumb question that'd already been answered by their conversation. His eyes took in the size of the house, observing it with some measure of awe. "It's. .. big." He mumbles, wondering if it felt that way simply because it was empty. "You aint got any stuff to put in here, or what?" He frowned, shrugging. "Don't really need to pay for much, do you? Got people that'll do that for you. 'Course you'd save a lot." Kind of a mean way to compliment someone. Undermining her achievement, actually.

White had turned on the sink, cupping her hand under the flowing water. That's right, running water. It wasn't just big. While he spoke she drank, listening to his not-compliment. If he only knew. It was blood money. Her blood. She looked at her palm, the scar. She took another drink, shaking off whatever drops clung to her sink as she looked back at him, smiling. "I. Haven't moved anythin'. Bought anythin'. Yet." Walking past him she headed through a doorway that led to a short set of stairs, a landing, then a much longer set. Down, down, down she went after gathering up her skirt, leaving her heels behind on the kitchen counter. "My. Apartment. It will be. My. Office." she joked. There were two doors. She passed the first one, opening the second that showed off her empty bedroom. It didn't even have a bed.

Meloran clicked his tongue. "So you spent all your gil on this place--- do you have enough to even put stuff in it?" He questions, watching her. The behavior was odd, and yet not, considering the fact that she was drunk. Maybe it was the mixture or pride, or something else he speculated. He wasn't entirely sure, never with her. He followed after her, making sure to have a hawks eye on the way she descended the steps. What a right shame it'd be for her to trip and fall down them. "What's this room then?" He asks, sounding curious.

White looked at him first, smirking a small smirk. Her body followed and she faced him again. Holding him in her gaze. Ignoring his first question she answered his second, telling it was, "A. Bedroom."

Meloran looks around the room curiously, wondering how she might set it up. Decorate it. It lead his thoughts down a figurative rabbit hole, like questioning if she'd also decorated her apartment back in Ul'dah. ". ..What about that room?" He points over to his left.

White followed his pointing. "Another. Bedroom." To the point, between a smile that lowered a little. Just a tiny bit.

"Why two bedrooms?" Meloran asks, quirking a brow. "Plannin' on having guests stay over?" He looked over to her face, blinking slow.

White stepped up to him. "If. I'm invitin'. Guests. Over. They can stay. In my bed." Looking up at the ceiling as if she was looking through it she added, "Or. On the seatin'. It's. Soft." She had already fallen asleep on it once.

"...So, why the second bedroom, then? You could turn that into something like... I 'unno. A closet. Storage."

White felt. Something. Her lifted brows tumbled into a puzzled look, the corners of her lips twitched as she parted them. "No. It's not. Storage." Was that disgust? Turning in her stomach. "It's. A bedroom!" she chuckled.

Meloran rolled his eyes, feeling them all the way in the back of his head. "Fine!" He gave in, huffing. His hands lifted and off to the sides. "It's a fucking bedroom. A useless bedroom. Aint gonna collect nothin' but dust if your guests are staying in the same bed, but fuck it--- ain't my house. It's your big, stupid house you spent all your gil on--- What'd you even get a house for anyway?"

White stared at him, whispering, her words catching in her dry throat, "It's. Not useless." It was the drink. That's why her stomach was upset. She had a lot of them. That many would make anyone's feel sour. Chrun. She smiled. Always smiling at him. His silly words. They were just silly, unlike the woman who used her's like a knife poking between his skin and scabs. "What. Do you have. Sparrow?" She took a step, hitting her stocking-covered toes against the tips of his sandals. "Tell. Me. Go on! What. Oh— what. Do you. Have?"

Meloran stepped right into her space as well, crowding in. He wasn't gonna let her try to intimidate him, or anything of the sort. "Nothing," he spat, nose scrunching, mouth curling. "N'that's the way I'll be keepin' it. I aint need nothing that's useless to me like a second bedroom. Or'a big house when I already got someplace to live." Maybe he's jealous. Mean, green beast of envy crawling into his ribcage and making a home of him. Her doing this instilled an odd feeling within him. Like, in some sense, she'd up and left him behind without a word. Or maybe he was just unhappy with his own misery he typically nursed this time of year, and was simply inflicting it upon her.

For whatever reason, her words stung, and he sought to hurt her back--- but that was the frustrating part. He never could. There was very little in the way of an emotional Achilles heel for her, and it was another thorn in his side. He was reminded suddenly then, of the way he'd felt like she was mocking him about Pearl. About the way she constantly invaded his space, made a fool of him for sport--- but, that wasn't the worst of it. He allowed it. Despite his protest, he still allowed her to do it... and for what reason? Why invite himself into her stupid, big house, only to give her the chance to turn around and mock him for having nothing? "...I can't fucking stand you," he muttered, feeling dark. Moody. Storm cloud.

White didn't move. She wasn’t going to. Her feet stayed planted right where she stood as she held her chin up high, staring right in his angry gaze. She wondered if he could burn folks with it. They looked like the sun. His eyes. Her own were a bit too wide, fighting against the threat of furrowed brows pushing them down into something narrowed. Angry? Her stomach was angry. She didn’t get angry. "And yet.” She began to remind him, repeating year old words that sharpened the twisting knife. “You're. Here." In her home. She didn’t believe him— he kept coming back, and he could too over, and over, and over again. If she wanted to she could twist the knife some more. Ask him why he didn’t want more space. Didn’t he? For his sewing at the very least. Or was all his coin spent on powdering his nose? It wasn’t for fun. She knew that. It wasn’t hard to see in his eyes. She kept staring back, holding the questions in her throat. He could break the silence.

Meloran rolled his eyes so hard, he may as well try to look into the back of his own head. His head turned, and with it his sharpened, burning gaze. A large breath filled his chest and left it with a big, rough huff. It had been a simple question, or so he thought, and the fact that she chose to play games with him never failed to rile him up. Not that he was aware that this likely wasn't a game. "Right," he murmured, feeling reality kick him in the teeth. Why was he here? Why follow her at all? Or humor her when she approached him? She was nothing but a thorn in his side. An annoyance. Stress he didn't understand, or need. It occurred to him how pathetic it must have seemed to follow her home. Never mind the fact that he felt he was doing it to protect her--- even that he felt seemed to get thrown back in his face.

"I'm gone, then," he says casually with a shrug of his shoulders and a turn of his heel. He didn't need to know the answers to all of his burning questions. After all, it's none of his business. There's nothing about knowing about this house that'd serve him in anyway, aside from only making him angrier. What, then? Did he believe she simply didn't deserve it? And why was that? Because she was annoying? Because, in some facet deep in the back of his mind, he felt life came too easy for her? If he stopped to truly think about it, he'd understand she'd likely worked hard to get what she needed--- wanted. Just as he does--- and, yet... Yes. Certainly some part of envy was at play here, jealousy. If she were down on her luck, suffering in some way or another; would he feel the opposite way? That was something to consider.

He stepped away from her slowly, an idea coming to mind. A pause. He drew close to the door the second bedroom the next moment, fingers wrapping around the handle of the door. Gone, but not before he'd take a look inside the useless bedroom, anyways.

White watched him. His face. How his expression evolved as he worked through whatever thoughts he thunk inside his pretty head. Her gaze lifted with the roll of his, dropping down when he turned his head, to his profile, giving him a soft, amused smirk. He could huff all he liked— she was right. Even with all his tongue flapping about wanting her gone, that she could keep walking instead of stopping, or any other combination of words he'd spit at her, there he was again. Standing where he didn't need to be. He chose it. She liked it.

If she could hear this thought she'd let him know she did work hard— using her body and mind to get those shiny coins. The dull ones too. She knew he worked too, but where did all his coin go? She could take a guess or two, no more than three. It went to feeling numb, was one. Buying the powder that filled his nose. How much did it work? He was always so angry. Anger wasn't numbness.

Her face twitched her smirk into something lower as she spotted his hand reach for the handle. Half a stagger into steps, from all the drink she had or the confinement of the dress, she wedged herself between him and the door! Bumping her side into his arm. A palm pressed firm against his shirt-covered chest as her gaze snapped up to his. Into his. "This. Doesn't look. Like you're. Gone." She stared. The corner of her smirk fought against an unseen weight, pushing her cheeks up into said stare.

Funny, that she thought she could come between him and the door--- That she even tried was funnier. "No, it doesn't," he remarked coolly. Callous, almost. He bent forward, pressing hard against the hand that tried to keep him away. He wanted to crowd her tight against the back of the door, pin her there so she'd have no other place to squirm away to. He stared down at her, gaze dead and hollow as always. The anger was present. Muted, however, beneath a thick veil of contempt and resignment. Gave way to apathy. Something about this door bothered her... unless this was another game to play. His hand at the door handle twisted in one sharp motion, snapping open the door. His other hand quickly found purchase on her shoulder, roughly shoving her back. He let the door swing open, watched and waited for her to inevitably go tumbling backwards. He stood there a beat longer, taking in the room before stepping back from the door frame.

"Now I am," he murmurs, trying to seem disinterested, unperturbed. But it was obvious he was still trying to stifle bubbling rage and irritation. Again he was turning on his heel, going finally. Making up the steps, not intent on stopping if he heard any noises from her. He, however, expected only laughter, and nothing else. And there was no reason to stay behind if all she was going to do was continue laughing at him.

The closer he got, the higher White tilted her face, getting awfully close to his— a reminder of how little he intimidated her. Which was to say, he didn’t. Not one bit. Her gaze flicked down from his eyes to somewhere else, quickly meeting them again. It was almost as if she didn’t look away. Until she did, his hand caught her attention before the door opening did. Shite.

The scene played out much how he expected—his shove made her tumble back, legs wrapped up in the dress that didn’t cushion her crash. It pulled a startled sound from her throat and the small rip of a seam. Her arm took most of the brunt of the fall. Her hip too. Even her horn got a hard tap. She was going to feel all that tomorrow, if not sooner. It'd probably be sooner. The dull ache radiated where she could feel bruises bloom, peeking out from under her scales.

She didn't break anything. He didn't. Would that anger him more, she would wonder if she could think. She couldn't think. Her head hurt. Stop lying there.

Her fingers draaaaagged across the cool tile, moving underneath her curled, fallen self before her floor-pressed palm slowly pushed her up, hunching. Her head lifted, weary gaze staring into the dim room. It was empty. Except for her.

That laughter he expected didn't come. Her fallen lips twitched into a line, then forced into a small curl, just a tiny one, halfway through her gaze, swinging over her shoulder as she sat there. Watching him leave.

Followed by the slam of the front door. Silence quickly claimed the inside, like it'd owned the place. That's when she knew he was gone, off to simmer somewhere. Maybe in the baths back at the brothel— he was angry enough that he wouldn’t have to warm it up.

For an unknown number of ticks she sat there, staring at the stairs that dipped behind the wall. Then she eased herself up, off the ground, gathered her skirt, and stepped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

[micamone]

hewwo

[badninken]

They're gonna sink ur ship

[itsthatlake]

“The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver.

HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY ACE!!

Support me on ko-fi! ♥

[shadowed-yet-vibrant]

It’s fascinating how little the US at large knew about Walz before this week, but at the same time… it makes sense. He wasn’t their governor. They haven’t seen the incredible work he’s done first-hand, and they haven’t had years to appreciate his authentic charm.

He’s never been a politician who sought out the limelight - everything Minnesota has done in this historic year of progressive legislation and policy has been relatively quiet. He’s not on the road jockeying for the latest sound byte on CNN or some podcast - he’s working to implement the policies people want. He’s tweeting about Mountain Dew. He’s at the state fair eating fried food and talking to his constituents. This is the governor we know. A man who cares deeply about the work he does and the people he represents, not the fame, not the clicks.

He’s genuine. Minnesotans know that. Now it’s time to sell that to the rest of the country.

[nekrosmos]

Once again getting inspired by @on-a-lucky-tide 's fic (I keep rereading this one, it's so good, go give it a read !!)

[killjoy-prince]

House M.D. but it's when Wilson says House's name

[ministarfruit]

day 26: apocalypse ♡

(femslashfeb prompt list)

[weekly-eons]

could i request a xenogender flag dragon type fakeon?

Apparently I didn't put this one in the queue lmao??

Surprise bonus design woo! Thanks for asking for one of my Fakeons!

[crazymecjc]

but can you imagine Jace from Act3 end up seeing Viktor from season 1 and BECOMING absolutely crazy, careful, obsessed with staying with him all the time/making sure he doesn't get evil/corrupted by the Hexcore and still with the knowledge that this man saved him countless times from death, that he chose him in all dimensions and possibilities and that Old jace from the past DIDN'T realize it.

HI ANON. IM IMAGINING ‼️‼️‼️‼️

(I’m taking jayvik drawing requests! send me an ask!!)

[skunkes]

all of february's chibis ^_^

[wvyld]

KotOR week: The Jedi Civil War (+ anemone)

[saeiken]

started rereading haikyuu :||

[obtusewafflee]

HAPPY!!! BIRTHDAY!!! UNDERTALE YELLOW!!!!!! It's still the 9th where I am so this still counts right guys right guys right gu

This silly little fangame. This silly little fangame man

I genuinely do not have the words to express my love of uty so I drew this instead and made myself cry several times while doing so in hopes that it gets the message across well enough

Long story short AGSUSGH. I LOVE YOU UTY

[itsthatlake]

Just had three days off work and spent the first basically just sleeping and the next two possessed by an art demon. Anyways, here's some screenshots from a scum villain animatic I'm working on

[cuubism]

Good Horses | dreamling | rated T | ~30k (Part 1)

teen au, young love, friendship, neurodivergent dream, myth & folklore, human/no powers au (kind of), coming of age. cw: abusive childhood, some violence

(sheltered rich boy dream/feral child hob, except it got a lot weirder)

A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip. But we are not good horses. ("Reverence", Sarah Manguso)

-

In retrospect, it was fitting that the first time Dream met Hob, he was breaking a rule.

It hadn’t been easy. Dream did not like to lie, and wasn’t very good at it besides. And breaking rules made him nervous. Broken rules carried consequences. But he’d needed to get out of the house, just for a moment. To clear his head. And just going for a walk was not a good enough reason to leave the house when he could be doing something more productive. Something better. Make some use of yourself, Dream. You do little enough as it is.

So Dream had crafted a little story of extra studying, extra work, and managed to slip out. Dream did not always tell the truth, could not, but usually he lived in the shadows left by omission. The outward lie was bitter on the back of his tongue.

But he’d been freed. And now he was wandering. He did not often get the chance to wander, untended, unobserved. Making his unsteady way down the winding road leading out of the estate, and then into town, where he’d never really walked before. It was just getting late, almost sunset on a Thursday evening, and the streets were fairly quiet, only a handful of people about. And Dream wandered, not quite knowing what to do with himself but enjoying the quiet in his head.

Possibly meandering about on his own was a bad idea. Possibly he’d be hit by a car or attacked by a madman. He didn’t think he much cared.

And that was when he met Hob. That first dip of his toes into freedom.

He was sitting on a bench in the park, watching the small scattering of pigeons pecking for seeds by the fountain. Dream had always liked birds, but it wasn’t often he had the chance to sit and just watch them. He studied their patterns, mentally tracking the shapes they traversed, their mathematical lines. He should have brought his sketchbook. It would have been nice to work from live subjects, for once.

He was deep in his thoughts, in the calming trickle of the fountain and the repetitive paths of the birds, when another boy about his age plopped down on the bench beside him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so depressed while feeding birds.”

The birds had fluttered up in disarray at the sudden motion, but settled down again quickly. Dream looked at the other boy askance, irritated at his rare peace being interrupted.

“Do you often speak with people who are busy feeding birds?” he asked, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone.

“Only when they’re broody and mysterious,” said the boy. He wasn’t wearing a school uniform, but he must have been in Sixth Form, like Dream. Dream was still wearing his school shirt and trousers, for his own part, though he’d thrown his favorite black jumper on over it, in deference to the chill.

Everything about this boy was looser, really, from his longish brown hair, to his jeans and t-shirt. It made Dream feel very uptight in comparison, which was not a fact about himself he needed reinforced. He already knew it.

“Do you often come and feed birds?” the boy asked.

“I am not feeding them,” Dream said. “They are eating what was there.”

“Just spying on them, then,” said the boy teasingly. Dream did not know what to do about being teased with what seemed like lightheartedness rather than mockery, and so didn’t respond.

“Seriously,” said the boy. “Are you okay?”

Then Dream did look at his face properly. He had very kind, very genuine eyes, was the first thing Dream noticed. It was not something he noticed about a lot of people. Perhaps it was not something a lot of people possessed.

Then the boy smiled at him, a soft, kind smile. It transformed his whole face from something merely pleasant to something lovely.

“Is that why you have come over?”

The boy shrugged. “You looked sad and alone. I’ve been sad and alone before, so I don’t think anyone else should.”

Dream bristled. “I am not sad and alone.”

“Just alone, then?”

Dream’s mouth popped open in affront, and then shut. Then he said, “Are you always so familiar and impertinent with strangers?”

“‘Familiar and impertinent,’” echoed the boy, with a laugh. “Sure. Are you always so snooty and aristocratic?”

“Yes,” said Dream, and he laughed louder.

“Honest though.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Hob.”

Dream nearly said, What kind of name is Hob? but swiftly realized the hypocrisy. Gingerly, he took Hob’s hand. “…Dream.”

“What kind of name is Dream?” said Hob, and Dream sighed. “And you really don’t have to shake my hand like a king deigning to touch the peasants. I’m not diseased.”

“I don’t like to touch people,” Dream said, taking his hand back. “Peasant or otherwise.”

“Peasant or otherwise,” Hob echoed. He didn’t seem offended. He was smiling.

“Are you here because you felt I should be taught a lesson? Is that it?”

“Nah. I just get bored easily.” Hob turned to watch the pigeons again, tapping his fingers restlessly against the bench. “I was out and about. You looked interesting. You wanna go for a walk?”

“…Why?” But Dream knew why. He had learned it as he’d wandered the streets, freed for the first time.

Hob shrugged. “Just to do it.”

Dream had stepped out of his comfort zone once today already. He supposed he could do so again. If Hob turned out to be an adolescent serial killer at least the end of his life would hold intrigue. “Very well.”

Hob grinned, so bright it struck some deep, static bell in Dream’s chest and set it ringing. “Come on.”

So they walked. Hob seemed to know his way down every street in town. Knew all the shops, and the alleyways, and about half the people they passed—restaurant owners just starting to bring chairs inside for the night, and old ladies gossiping in their front gardens, and even a gaggle of little kids, playing football in the street—Hob waved to them as they passed. Perhaps he didn’t truly know them, perhaps he was just friendly like that—either way, Dream watched with awe and some trepidation. He could not imagine such a life.

“Where do you live, anyway?” Hob asked, hands tucked in his pockets now. “Did you just spring up out of nowhere? Never saw you at school.”

“Not very far,” Dream said. He was uncertain exactly how far he’d walked; he frequently lost track of time in that way, though he was fairly certain he could at least find his way back. “I do not get into town much. Or. Ever.”

“Sheltered,” Hob said, with equanimity. Dream wanted to bristle, but it was true. His parents certainly liked to make sure their children grew up in a particular environment. Though Dream had to admit to himself that even if he had grown up in the center of town, gone to different schools, in a different family—he would not be like Hob. He would not have been playing games with other children in the street, or making spontaneous acquaintances of strange young men in parks. He did not know how to be like that, gregarious, welcoming, unselfconscious. Nature, and nurture. No set of different life circumstances could fix Dream’s fundamental nature.

He was well-aware that he had ‘missed out’ on most essential youthful experiences. Even Desire, coiled up in the same gilding as Dream, made no hesitation in reminding him what he hadn’t done.

“And you are what, then?” Dream asked. “Feral and wild?”

“Yeah, I live in the woods and eat bugs and stuff,” Hob said, with faux seriousness and a shrug as if this was totally normal.

“I would have thought squirrels better nutrition,” Dream said, realizing belatedly that this was an odd response, but Hob absolutely lit up with playfulness. Dream wondered, in a flash of surprising camaraderie, if people often shot down his stranger conversation topics too, or refused to engage. It happened to Dream himself frequently, although he usually came at his odd interests with utter seriousness, instead of play.

“No, squirrels are too hard to catch,” Hob said. “And there’s so little meat? Actually, if you do want to survive in the woods, fish are your best bet, and then plants, but you have to be real careful with mushrooms—”

Thus followed a several minute lecture on the specifics of wilderness survival, which Dream listened to with fascination. Hob was an engaging lecturer, an engaging storyteller, and it was rare that Dream got to simply listen to someone speak on what interested them, with no expectation of interjecting, of making small talk. Why was he spending his time at his family’s social events clumsily tripping through inane discussions of who was hosting so-and-so and how polo was this season—conversations truly more about interpersonal politics and tact and other things Dream fared poorly at than they were about content—when he could have been listening to a verbal dissection of edible insects? Something he knew little about, admittedly, but Hob seemed to know enough about it for the both of them.

“—and so that’s why you have to—” Hob was saying, and then broke off, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m totally running over you. You don’t care about this.”

“I was enjoying it,” Dream admitted, and Hob’s face softened in surprise. “However, I’m extremely dubious about your claim that crickets could possibly taste good, in any form.”

“Only when candied,” Hob said, and Dream was unsure if he was joking. He waited for Hob to poke at him for not knowing. It didn’t come. “Take it you’re not a fan of insects, then?”

“Not especially. I like spiders,” he admitted, “though they are not technically insects.”

“You like spiders?” said Hob incredulously.

“I’m also partial to birds, especially corvids, as well as cats,” Dream said.

“Oh, so all the Halloween animals,” said Hob with an understanding nod. “Yeah, that fits the all-black aesthetic.”

Dream surprised himself by laughing. Just a quick, breathy laugh, but more than usually passed his lips. Hob smiled in response.

“What d’you like about spiders, then?” he asked, bumping Dream with his shoulder.

“They are quiet. And precise. I recall being a child—” he was unsure why he was telling this story, but Hob seemed encouraging— “and one summer. When I spent a lot of time in my room. There was a spider that started to spin its web in the eaves outside my bedroom window. An orb weaver. I felt I should be afraid of it but… I wasn’t. It was outside the glass, anyway. Their webs are… quite beautiful. Very delicate and detailed. I find them very artistic. I don’t know if you know, but they spin new webs every night. In the daytime they tuck their silk away again for the next night. It seems exhausting, but, it’s what they must do to eat.”

This was the most Dream had spoken without being compelled to in… weeks, if not longer. Hob just nodded, gesturing him to go on.

“Sometimes,” Dream said, thinking back to those lonely and silent summer days, “I’d watch my spider spin for hours when I had nothing else to occupy myself with. I think perhaps I grew too invested.” There had been moments when he felt he had no friend in this world at all—but he had his spider. Even if it did not know he existed. “I began to shut the shades because I knew that if Mother or Father—or anyone else—saw a bug near the house they would knock the web down or kill it, never mind that it was doing no harm to anybody.”

He trailed off, then, still thinking back. Surely Hob would think he was stupid, for still remembering, still fixating on something so small. But Hob only said, “So what happened to the spider, then? Did someone find out?”

“Only because of me.” A critical mistake, to ever trust Desire—but he had been young then, and thought they were still friends. Dream sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “I showed my sibling a drawing I had done of it. They wanted to see the real spider, so I showed them. I suppose they saw it as an opportunity to gain Mother’s favor, which was hard to come by—” Dream still recalled their simpering young voice, Mummy, Dream’s playing with buuuugggs—“and of course she didn’t want spiders on her house. So she had our gardener knock it down, though I’d begged her not to.” That was the last time Dream had begged for anything from his mother. He had learned his lesson about its futility and would not make himself so pathetic again.

“Jesus.” Hob sounded disturbed. “That’s… horrible.”

Indeed it was no lighthearted story, though most people thought it a silly one. Not Dream, though. “However,” he added, and now a tiny smile tugged at his lips, “our gardener—his name was Gilbert—came to find me the next night. It turned out he hadn’t killed the spider as Mother wanted, but actually moved her to a far corner of the garden. He showed me.” Dream had held back from crying in front of Mother or especially in front of Desire, but he had cried and cried then, that night in the garden.

When Hob was silent for several moments, Dream realized that this was not, perhaps, the answer that he had wanted when asking such as simple question as why do you like spiders, and also that telling him such a strange and ridiculous story when they had just met was, as Desire would say, weird and off-putting, Dream, and that Hob would certainly not care for his company any longer.

But all Hob said, when he finally spoke, was, “I’m glad he saved your spider.” And he sounded sincere about it.

“I never saw it again after that night, it disappeared into the garden. But I didn’t mind, I only wanted to know that it was still out there and hadn’t been—” he broke off before he could say something even more self-centered and melodramatic, something like, hadn’t been killed for the crime of being near me.

“Yeah,” said Hob quietly, as if he knew, almost, what Dream had been going to say. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Does what?”

“Your mum being…. mean like that?”

Dream had never thought it was… mean, exactly. Rather, he had always assumed that it was simply that his feelings on the matter hadn’t factored into the decision at all. Like he didn’t exist.

But Hob, an outside observer, saw it as mean. If he was right, that meant that Mother’s decision-making had been at least partly driven by hurting Dream’s feelings. Intentionally. Dream did not know what to do with that.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I suppose.”

Hob bit his lip. “That’s tough.”

Dream did not know if he should ask about Hob’s own parents. The conversation seemed to have taken too negative a turn already. He did not want this to be how Hob thought of him. Indeed, he realized, with surprise, that he did wish Hob to think of him. He did not want them to go their separate ways and never see each other again, and this was such a rare feeling to have about another person, especially one he had met so haphazardly, that he stopped dead in the street.

Hob rubbed at his ear. He did that a lot, Dream noticed, those restless gestures, especially now that they had stopped walking. “I should get back before my own mum gets worried. Told her I’d be back around dinner,” he said, and Dream’s heart sank, though he had to admit that it was getting quite dark. Then Hob said, “Gimme your phone?”

Heart spiking with hope again that Hob was going to give him his phone number, and that this implied he wished to see Dream again, Dream unlocked his phone and handed it to him. He hoped Hob did not realize what an act of trust that was for him.

Hob put his contact info in and handed it back. “‘Case you want to get out of your enclosure again,” he said with a cheeky grin. It was a joke, but he could not have known how accurate it felt to Dream’s circumstances.

Dream put his phone back into his pocket carefully. “I will text you. Thank you, Hob. For your company.”

“Thanks for letting me ramble at you.” Hob’s smile was almost bashful now. How could he possibly be grateful for Dream’s company?

Their walking had taken them in a big loop, and they were just about back at the park where they’d started. Dream was fairly certain their respective walks home would take them in opposite directions. But he was hopeful that he might speak with Hob again. An outcome he could not possibly have predicted when Hob first plopped down on the park bench beside him.

Dream offered him as much of a smile as he could manage and, before he could do something stupid like follow Hob home like a stray cat, turned and walked away. He didn’t turn back to watch Hob leave, though he knew he must have done so.

When he got home, it was properly dark out. It had taken him longer to walk all the way back to the estate than he’d anticipated, he had not been properly paying attention when he left. He went inside, alight with nerves, but his father was not there and the only reprimand he received from his mother was a critical eye and a light warning, “You’re back late, Dream. Don’t make me worry about what you’re up to,” nothing more. So he crept quietly up to his room.

Once there, he sat down at his desk chair and took out his phone. He stared at Hob’s number, frozen with sudden uncertainty. He reminded himself that if he was utterly wrong about everything he would never see Hob again anyway. So he texted Hob.

Hello, it is Dream.

Dream wondered if he would have to wait, but Hob texted back with the same rapidity with which he seemed to do everything.

Glad u got back safe :] thought i mighta sent you into the woods alone to be eaten alive

To be eaten by which woodland creatures precisely? Squirrels? Trout?

Kelpie’ll get ya. You’d follow one I just know it

Those are only in Scotland.

Oh yeah? You’ve done a census have you?

Dream realized he was grinning at his phone, and forced himself to neutralize such a feral expression. It was never wise to get too invested in anything too quickly. Except that they had only just met, and he already felt more comfortable talking to Hob than he did with people he had known for years.

Perhaps I myself am a kelpie. You have fallen into my snare.

Tough luck on letting your prey get away then :) you must have liked me too much to eat me

I expect to be hungrier tomorrow.

I’ll just have to feed you something else then

Is that a promise?

Did Hob truly wish to see him again? Or was he only playing? Could he have enjoyed their unexpected meeting as much as Dream had? He waited in nervous anticipation until Hob responded.

Come find me in the park this weekend?

Dream bounced in his seat, then remembered himself and caught it again. Settling down, he replied:

Any time? Are you simply always in the park?

Yup :)

Dream doubted that was strictly true, but it was certainly true that Hob was out and about more than he was. Hob’s life was… strange. He did not yet know what to make of it.

I will find you, Dream wrote back. Truthfully it was uncertain whether he would be let out without a ‘good reason’. But he would manage it somehow. He must.

Setting his phone aside, forcing himself not to text Hob unending inane things or be pathetically desperate for his company, he pulled out his sketchbook instead. At last he began sketching the birds he had seen in the park. Their soft, rounded heads and stubby legs. The conglomerated patterns of their movement. How they’d fluttered up at Hob’s arrival.

He sketched Hob’s face, as best he could from memory. The soft fall of his hair. The upturned corner of his mouth when he was thinking. He wondered if Hob would let him sketch him in person. It seemed wrong to depict him still, unmoving. But maybe Dream could capture a bit of his energy if he was physically there.

He was getting ahead of himself again.

He sketched the kelpie Hob had mentioned. Elongated legs dripping with river water, mane tangled with reeds, looking back over its shoulder for the lured prey that surely followed it into the water. Intelligent eye. Mouth just this side of too long.

It was closer to the types of drawings he usually did, as he rarely had anything new to sketch live. Usually he drew fantastical creatures, myths and stories, relying on his imagination and the occasional anatomical reference text. It was comforting, to think of such things beyond mortal ken being out in the woods somewhere. Even if their inclination was towards eating children, at least in the stories, Dream still liked to think of such magic and horrors being real.

By the time he finished the drawing, it was very late indeed. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and was hungry, but he didn’t dare slip downstairs to find something. Instead he closed his sketchbook and slipped it carefully back into its spot in the drawer. Changed, and got into bed with a book, but found himself staring at Hob’s texts on his phone instead of reading.

It was not for Dream to have such friends. Outside of school, outside of his parents’ purview, just for himself. But he wanted it. He had had it for but a moment, but he wanted it.

He locked his phone and tucked it under his pillow. As long as he kept it a secret, he just might be able to keep it.